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 WHAT NEVER HAPPENED 
 A Novel of the Revolution
 
 
 THE BORZOI 
 
 RUSSIAN TRANSLATIONS 
 
 I 
 II 
 
 TARAS BULB A. 
 
 By Nicolai V. Gogol 
 
 THE SIGNAL 
 
 By W. M. Garshin 
 
 III 
 
 CHELKASH 
 
 By Maxim Gorky 
 
 IV 
 
 THE LITTLE ANGEL 
 
 By Leonid Andreyev 
 
 V 
 
 THE PRECIPICE 
 
 By Ivan Goncharov 
 
 VI 
 
 A HERO OF OUR TIME 
 
 By M. Y. Lermontov 
 
 VII 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE 
 
 By Feodor Sologub 
 
 VIII 
 
 THE LITTLE DEMON 
 
 By Feodor Sologub 
 
 IX 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN 
 By Vikenty Veressayev 
 
 X 
 
 THE CRUSHED FLOWER 
 
 By Leonid Andreyev 
 
 XI 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF A LITTLE 
 MAN DURING GREAT DAYS 
 
 By Leonid Andreyev 
 
 XII 
 
 THE JOURNAL OF LEO TOLSTOI 
 Edited by V. Tchertkov 
 
 XIII 
 
 WHAT NEVER HAPPENED 
 
 By "Ropshin" 
 [Boris Savinkov'] 
 
 
 Other Volumes in Preparation
 
 WHAT NEVER HAPPENED 
 
 A Novel of the Revolution 
 
 By"ROPSHIN'' 
 
 [Boris Savinkov] 
 
 Translated from the Russian 
 By THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 ALFRED- A- KNOPF 
 NEW YORK • MCMXVII
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF 
 
 Fublithtd Novimbtr, 1911 
 
 PEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OT AMERICA
 
 NOTE 
 
 When I first opened my office in the summer of 1915, 
 and before I had actually issued a single book, I deter- 
 mined to publish an English translation of "Ropshin's" 
 great novel of the Revolution, What Never Happened. 
 But the time did not seem entirely opportune and so 
 temporarily I put aside the project and for two years 
 brought out in the Borzoi Russian Translation series 
 works by Andreyev, Gorky, Sologub, Tolstoi and others 
 which have been received with uncommon favour by the 
 American reading public. 
 
 What Never Happened has, however, never been out 
 of my mind for long — every now and again some en- 
 thusiast or other would call on me and suggest that I 
 let him translate it for me. But arrangements were 
 virtually made in June, 1915, with Mr. Thomas Seltzer, 
 who first called the book to my attention before either of 
 us had any knowledge as to the real identity of the 
 author. 
 
 We all knew that "Ropshin" was a pen name, and 
 that his book, which created a great stir in Russia and 
 even among the Russians in America, was so true to the 
 facts of the terrorist existence that many of his fellow 
 workers had condemned him for his frankness. Also 
 that he had paid a fleeting visit to New York. More 
 definite information about "Ropshin" no one seemed to 
 have. 
 
 Then in March of this year came the Revolution and
 
 Note 
 
 among those whose return to the fatherland it hastened 
 was Boris Savinkov, a Russian who had been fighting 
 with the French army in the West. This Savinkov was 
 a terrorist of long standing who, implicated in the assas- 
 sination of the Grand Duke Sergius and Von Plehve, had 
 been condemned to death at Sevastopol in 1906 but had 
 escaped to Switzerland and thence to France. He now 
 luirried to Petrograd and was promptly sent to the front 
 as head of the Commissary Department in General 
 Kornilov's army. In August the great retreat com- 
 menced and he was called to the capital by Kerensky and 
 appointed Minister of War. 
 
 Boris Savinkov is "Ropshin" and What Never Hap- 
 pened is thus the work of one of the most prominent 
 men in Russia today. One need scarcely point out how 
 thin the partition is which separates this literary produc- 
 tion from the actual life lived by its distinguished 
 author. 
 
 Alfred A. Knopf 
 Sans Souci, 
 28 October, 1917
 
 WHAT NEVER HAPPENED 
 
 PART I 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FROM the moment he crossed the frontier Andrey 
 Bolotov became a prey to the vague apprehen- 
 sion felt by a zealous property owner who leaves 
 some one else in charge of his estates. The vast revo- 
 lutionary Party extending throughout Russia was to 
 him a huge estate, the administration of which involved 
 untold labour. It demanded some one with untiring 
 vigilance to watch over its dynamite workshops, secret 
 printing presses, fighting squads, district and gov- 
 ernment committees, peasant brotherhoods, workmen's 
 circles, student groups, officers' and soldiers' organiza- 
 tions, and its plots, arrests, strikes, demonstrations, suc- 
 cesses and failures. He did not understand that his 
 comrades, old man Arseny Ivanovich, Doctor Berg, Vera 
 Andreyevna, Arkady Rosenstem, and the others — that 
 they had the same attitude as he, each one regarding the 
 Party as a flourishing estate belonging not to Bolotov, 
 but to himself. But even had Bolotov understood this, 
 he could not have uprooted that feeling, which alone 
 gave him courage to live and work as an outlaw, with- 
 out family ties, without home or name, unterrified by 
 the prospect of imprisonment or death. Only the lurk- 
 
 7
 
 8 What Never Happened 
 
 ing conviction that he, Andrey Bolotov, was the most 
 loyal, the most obedient, the most self-sacrificing mem- 
 ber of the Party, which to him was the mother of the 
 revolution — only the conviction that without him the 
 Party would fall to pieces, upheld him in his purpose. 
 
 When Bolotov finished the business that had taken 
 him abroad, and was about to return to Russia, his un- 
 rest mounted to a climax. He was quite sure that his 
 comrades had not paused in their work of distributing 
 prohibited literature, printing proclamations, arranging 
 strikes and manufacturing bombs. He knew that those 
 men and women who, impelled by the most varied mo- 
 tives, had united to create that live intricate mechanism, 
 the Party, never paused in their humble but, to them, 
 necessary labour, like the toiling of ants at their ant-hill. 
 And yet he was beset by a dread, which bordered on a 
 torturing certainty, that this time on returning home he 
 should find only the pitiful ruins of what he had left; 
 he should find the ant-hill demolished by a ruthless foe. 
 
 That oppressive period when he had been a prey to 
 fear for his own safety had passed long before. Just as 
 a mariner becomes accustomed to the sea and no longer 
 gives any thought to the possibility of drowning; just 
 as a soldier becomes accustomed to war and no longer 
 thinks of being killed ; just as a physician comes to lose 
 all fear of contagion ; so had Bolotov become accustomed 
 to his "underground" existence and had ceased to be 
 haunted by the thought that some day he might hang. 
 But somewhere in the depths of his soul, lulled though 
 it had been to unconsciousness, there stirred a dark and 
 restless feeling — that same feeling which never leaves 
 the mariner, the physician, or the soldier. And under 
 the control of this feeling Bolotov had unwittingly
 
 What Never Happened 9 
 
 grown into the ' * conspirator 's ' ' habit of secrecy. It was 
 not that he hid from his relatives and friends, but he 
 could no longer understand why one would visit friends 
 and relatives just for the pleasure of it. It was not that 
 he was silent about Party matters, but he could not 
 understand why one should talk about them to outsiders. 
 Nor did he avoid strangers, but he merely could no 
 longer understand how one can trust chance acquaint- 
 ances. He did not see that all his relations with people, 
 from his mother and father down to concierges and but- 
 lers, were guided by fear and by a keen desire to conceal 
 those details of his life which were of paramount in- 
 terest to him. And even had he seen this, he could not 
 have acted in any other way. He would have told him- 
 self that lies and concealment were justified by the fact 
 that the Party could be protected only by the strictest 
 secrecy and that hence they were essential to the revo- 
 lution. 
 
 The assassination of Plehve, Bloody Sunday, the dj''- 
 namiting of February Fourth, as well as Liao-yang, Port 
 Arthur and Mukden were still fresh in everybody's 
 mind. Old and young, government officials and work- 
 men, army men and students, adherents of the regime 
 and Socialists — all alike felt that something new was in 
 the air ; something that never was, unfamiliar and there- 
 fore alarming. The old habitual order, sanctified by 
 centuries, was rocking. But though everybody felt it, 
 they all continued to lead their usual life with its tri- 
 fling everyday interests. And so did Bolotov. He kept 
 on reading revolutionary pamphlets and writing in the 
 Party organs that ''the people have awakened," that 
 "the red flag is now proudly waving," and that "the 
 time is near when the shackles of autocracy will be burst
 
 10 What Never Happened 
 
 asunder." Not that he had grasped the significance 
 of contemporary events, but through incessant repeti- 
 tion it had become second nature with him to speak 
 and write in phrases of the kind. Being a man of keen 
 perceptions, he had long known that the Party was 
 steadily growing, and because of this he believed with a 
 firm faith that the revolution must come and that it 
 would come triumphant. He was confident that it was 
 impossible for the Government to gain the upper hand 
 because he believed the Russian peasants, hundreds of 
 millions of them, would join in the uprising. So, in 
 this belief, he occupied himself daily with the business 
 of his Party, and was really useful, as long as thus 
 occupied, to the revolution in which he had such firm 
 faith. 
 
 Before leaving Berlin for Russia he shaved off his 
 beard, selected an inconspicuous dark coat of English 
 cut, and changed his tell-tale broad-brimmed hat for a 
 derby. He made his preparations with the care and de- 
 liberation that were characteristic of him. He knew 
 that to avoid irritating espionage he must identify him- 
 self with the crowd. In the train he did not buy his 
 beloved Socialist daily, the Vorwdrts, but some unfa- 
 miliar capitalist sheet, which he read hiding himself 
 behind it, from force of habit. On the first page he 
 noticed printed in large type: ''The loss of the Rus- 
 sian squadron." 
 
 Bolotov had felt nothing but joy at Stoessel's surren- 
 der of Port Arthur and again when the news had come 
 of the battle of IMukden. He looked upon every war 
 as a crime, as senseless slaughter, something pernicious 
 and atrocious. However, had anybody asked him what 
 he thought of the Japanese war, he would have an-
 
 What Never Happened It 
 
 swered unhesitatingly that the Japanese "adventure," 
 though cruel, was nevertheless useful. He could not 
 have answered otherwise. He thought that the defeat 
 of Russia would be the defeat of autocracy, and the 
 victory of Japan would be the victory of the Party and, 
 hence, his own victory. He could see no contradiction 
 between these views, and neither could the audiences 
 that he addressed at meetings. 
 
 But now, as he read the news dispatch, he felt no 
 trace of that familiar, yet guilty, feeling of joy as at 
 his own victory. His brother, Aleksandr Bolotov, was 
 a naval lieutenant attached to Admiral Eozhestvensky 's 
 squadron. 
 
 "As soon as the smoke had cleared away," wrote the 
 German correspondent, "the battle was renewed with 
 redoubled vigour. All the Japanese ships had concen- 
 trated their fire on the battleship Osliabya, and the lat- 
 ter was soon enveloped in flames and forced to retire. 
 The battleships Suvorov and Aleksandr were also set 
 afire. Then the Borodino and others began to bum. 
 The Japanese fleet was at its full strength, and the bat- 
 tle lasted until 2:20 p.m. At 2:50 p.m. the Osliabya 
 went to the bottom. ' ' 
 
 Bolotov closed his eyes. He tried to picture a sink- 
 ing battleship. Once, on the French coast, he had seen 
 a sunken schooner with two forlorn masts standing out 
 of the water. And now, trying to imagine the Osliabya, 
 the picture of the unknown schooner rose before his 
 eyes. He was sure that several hundred young and 
 vigorous men had gone down with the battleship. As 
 a Socialist and revolutionist, he should have been re- 
 volted by the thought of this criminal slaughter. He 
 was not. He could not visualize the defeat of the fleet,
 
 12 What Never Happened 
 
 or the burning battleships, or the sinking Osliahya, or 
 even the simple and terrible death of a sailor. To him 
 the newspaper report was nothing more than a mean- 
 ingless collection of words. He read on: 
 
 "When the Suvorov and the Aleksandr retired from 
 action, the battleship Borodino became the flagship. 
 The Suvorov, though enveloped in flames, kept on fight- 
 ing until it lost its foremast and both smokestacks. Ad- 
 miral Rozhestvensky was wounded at the very outset 
 of the engagement and removed from the battleship 
 Suvorov to the destroyer Buyny. Admiral Nebogatov 
 took over the command. At seven o'clock in the eve- 
 ning a large fire burst out on the Borodino, and it soon 
 went to the bottom, all in flames and smoke. ' ' 
 
 Bolotov recalled his brother, a young officer, broad- 
 shouldered, of medium height, in naval uniform. He 
 seldom thought of his brother. He knew he was at the 
 front, in the Far East, and that he had no sympathy 
 with the revolution. That was enough for Bolotov. 
 He had no time to think of matters that had no direct 
 bearing upon his beloved Party. But now he felt sad. 
 
 ''Perhaps he has been killed. "Who? My brother? 
 Sasha? Perhaps Sasha has been killed there, in the 
 battle of Tsu Shima?" 
 
 And as it sometimes happens in dreams, he suddenly 
 saw a vivid picture of the battle in all its details. He 
 saw a huge black wounded battleship, the stacks rent 
 by shots, the guns shattered, the masts in ruins. But 
 the banner of Andrey was still floating in the air. And 
 he could see Sasha pale, in a torn uniform, all cov- 
 ered with blood, where he lay on his back, on the wet 
 bulging iron deck near the pilot-house. He even imag- 
 ined he could see how; the ship rocked to and fro and
 
 What Never Happened 13 
 
 the waves kept beating against the partly submerged 
 steering-wheel. He could almost hear the lashing of 
 the waves. 
 
 Without any longer grasping the meaning of the 
 words, Bolotov read on: "Admiral Nebogatov raised 
 the signal of surrender, and the four Russian battle- 
 ships Nicholas I, Orel, Apraksin, and Seniavin were 
 thus, on May 16 at 10 :30 a.m., surrendered to the Jap- 
 anese forces." 
 
 "Sasha killed. Is Sasha really killed?" And once 
 more he recalled his brother's face as he had looked 
 when he saw him the last time in St. Petersburg on the 
 Nevsky. It was a bright, cold autumn day. He re- 
 membered the quiet, light-blue eyes and ironical smile. 
 "Good-bye, Andriusha, we are not bound in the same 
 direction." He also remembered his own cruel reply. 
 And now he wished he could bring back that sunny 
 day, so that he might undo the evil of his biting words, 
 embrace, and forget the antagonism which now seemed 
 so futile. 
 
 The train came to a rumbling halt. Lanterns glim- 
 mered through the darkness. The grey uniforms of 
 gendarmes appeared. Voices speaking in Russian came 
 to Bolotov 's ears. They seemed strange to him. It was 
 the frontier. Aleksandrovo. 
 
 Bolotov threw away his newspaper. Trying not to 
 think of Tsu Shima, or Nebogatov, or his brother, or the 
 Osliabya, he made his way to the room where the lug- 
 gage was being examined. Tall, lean, clean-shaven, 
 with a cigar between his teeth, he looked like an Eng- 
 lishman; and, in fact, he had an English passport in 
 his pocket made out in the name of Henry Macmuir. 
 There was ei tedious wait in the hot crowded hall, full of
 
 14 What Never Happened 
 
 gendarmes, and his firm, good-natured face, with blue 
 eyes so like his brother's, expressed nothing but fastidi- 
 ous boredom. 
 
 When he arrived at Warsaw next morning, he tele- 
 graphed to Berlin: Alles bezahlt, which meant: ** Ar- 
 rived safely."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 BOLOTOV reached St. Petersburg on the morning 
 of the next day, and that evening he rang the 
 bell of the fifth floor of a big house in the Li- 
 govka section. While taking off his coat in the hall, 
 he could hear a voice, dry, sharp, crackling, the voice of 
 Arseny Ivanovich, and another voice answering ex- 
 citedly. 
 
 "Oh, no, what is there so terrible about it?" Arseny 
 Ivanovich was saying impressively. "I don't see any- 
 thing terrible about it, my benefactor. The water is 
 not working their mill, but ours. Two days ago it was 
 Port Arthur, yesterday Mukden, today Tsu Shima. Who 
 is ahead of the game? The Japanese? No, sir, not 
 only the Japanese. I 'm an old man and let me tell you 
 this: towards autumn the army will be ours. Do you 
 think we have none of our people in the army? We 
 have, my benefactor. Our boys will find a way to get 
 by anything. Sometimes they jump over, sometimes 
 they shove through, sometimes they slide under and — 
 crawl on their bellies, too." He finished with a hearty 
 laugh. 
 
 Bolotov had known Arseny Ivanovich for many 
 years. He was one of the founders of the Party, well 
 on in years, but still vigorous in spite of his white hair. 
 He was proud that his father had been a peasant and 
 that he himself had been close to the soil in his youth. 
 But now the only remaining signs of his peasant past 
 
 15
 
 16 What Never Happened 
 
 were certain quaint turns of speech, the continual use 
 of "benefactor" in his conversation, and a heavy 
 spade-shaped beard; also his air of authority arising 
 from the fact that he knew the peasant at first hand, 
 not from books. "My word is pewter," he often said, 
 and his word was respected and trusted. 
 
 "What do you mean? I am not talking about that," 
 answered the young unfamiliar voice, hotly. "I agree 
 with you on that point. But what I am asking is this: 
 how can one serve in the army? How can a Socialist 
 serve in the army? It's an anomaly. It is in direct 
 opposition to our principles." 
 
 Standing there, in the dim hall among an untidy 
 array of hats and coats, Bolotov again called up the pic- 
 ture of the inglorious battle to the minutest detail. 
 He saw the huge black battleship with its four smoke- 
 stacks ; near the pilot-house, Sasha on his back in a pool 
 of blood, and the waves lashing against the half 
 submerged steering-wheel. 
 
 He could hear Arseny Ivanovich repeating elementary 
 Party beliefs, the very things Bolotov might have said 
 in his place. But now it seemed to him that somehow 
 these stock phrases did not ring true, that they were 
 futile. 
 
 "Sasha! Where is Sasha?" 
 
 Bolotov recalled the forgotten verses of Pushkin: 
 
 "Then twice the angel blows his horn : 
 The earth reverberates with tliunder, 
 And brother from his brother is torn, 
 And son and mother hurled asunder." 
 
 " 'And brother from his brother is torn.' So Sasha 
 was torn away. And Arseny Ivanovich is laughing. 
 But what ails me? Isn't Arseny Ivanovich right?
 
 What Never Happened 17 
 
 Isn't it true that the army will soon be on our side? 
 Isn't it true that Tsu Shima will open the ej'es of the 
 soldiers? "What's the matter with me?" 
 
 He came to himself and pushed open the squeaking 
 door. 
 
 Arseny Ivanovieh, Doctor Berg, and comrade David, 
 a young man unknown to Bolotov, were enveloped in 
 a thick cloud of tobacco smoke. Vera Andreyevna, a 
 tall, middle-aged woman with a worn yellow face, was 
 pacing the room rapidly, as though in a prison cell. 
 
 Twice a week these people gathered to discuss their 
 daily Party work. It was this daily work that they 
 regarded as their great task of managing the organiza- 
 tion. Just as a mason does his humble but useful share 
 in building a house by digging the foundation, unload- 
 ing the brick, and passing the buckets of cement, so 
 did they patiently and humbly, stone by stone, build 
 up the Party. But the mason does not have it in his 
 power to destroy the house, or to prevent its comple- 
 tion, this power being vested in his master. And so, 
 neither were they the masters of the revolution, and 
 their attempts to direct it were alwaj's and invariably 
 futile. 
 
 After Bolotov had finished the report of his trip 
 abroad, Doctor Berg dryly acquainted him with the 
 most important purpose of the meeting. Comrade 
 David, an army organizer, a Party member doing propa- 
 ganda in the army only, had come to St. Petersburg to 
 communicate to them the fact that an infantry regi-^ 
 ment of the city of N was ready to revolt any min- 
 ute. The members of the local committee, including 
 David, had not cared to undertake an>i;hing without 
 the sanction of their older comrades.
 
 18 What Never Happened 
 
 They immediately began to discuss whether or not it 
 would be advisable to start a revolt. They carried on 
 their discussion convinced that the fate of two thousand 
 soldiers hung upon their decision. They seemed to for- 
 get that when people determine on murder, revolt or the 
 risk of their lives, they are not influenced by the fact 
 that five persons whom they do not even know consider 
 the step good, useful, or necessary, but by a multitude 
 of unforeseen and fortuitous circumstances. And, still 
 more important, the group who were discussing the 
 matter were oblivious of the fact that no man has con- 
 trol over another's life and that people in a moment of 
 mortal danger are guided neither by prohibitions, nor 
 by orders, nor even by a sense of duty, but by hidden 
 motives, which are intelligible to them alone. And it 
 seemed quite natural and proper to grey-headed Arseny 
 Ivanovich, to Doctor Berg, to worn-out Vera Andre- 
 yevna, and to Bolotov himself that comrade David, who 
 was in close touch with no more than a dozen soldiers, 
 should have come in the name of the whole regiment 
 to ask them, the unknown persons, what would be the 
 proper time for the whole regiment to begin killing 
 and dying. And to David, too, this seemed natural and 
 proper. 
 
 David was a sickly, weak Jew with a little blond 
 beard. He was standing in the middle of the room ges- 
 ticulating and stammering excitedly: 
 
 "Forty per cent, of the regiment's non-commissioned 
 officers," he said, "are class-conscious. There is a revo- 
 lutionary circle in each company. The whole training 
 command is with us — well — the regiment is dissatis- 
 fied — a revolt is quite feasible, and the most important 
 thing, you understand, the most important thing is
 
 What Never Happened 19 
 
 that the soldiers are demanding it. Our propaganda 
 has been carried on since the autumn. No arrests have 
 been made. The colonel is a beast. When I left, the 
 comrades, representatives of the companies, had been 
 unanimously for it. And even if you don't give your 
 permission, the soldiers will revolt anyway." He al- 
 most shouted the last words, not perceiving that they 
 made the whole discussion pointless. 
 
 Doctor Berg, rubbing his thin white hands, looked 
 up at him from under his glasses and said carelessly: 
 
 ''Allow me to ask, comrade, how large a garrison 
 have you in your city?" 
 
 "Garrison? What do you mean?" David seemed 
 embarrassed. "When I tell you — " 
 
 "In Party matters preciseness is essential," Doctor 
 Berg replied coldly. "Won't you tell us, please, how 
 large a garrison you have in your city?" 
 
 "Well, all right. We have Cossacks and a battery. 
 But what are Cossacks ? ' ' 
 
 "Will the battery join in the revolt?" 
 
 ' ' How funny for you to ask me ! How should I 
 know?" 
 
 "And the Cossacks?" 
 
 "The Cossacks? No. Probably not." 
 
 "Probably or certainly?" 
 
 "Oh, my God! Well, all right. Then certainly." 
 
 "That's all. I thank you, comrade," said Doctor 
 Berg, with a smile. 
 
 Closing his eyes, he threw himself back on the grease- 
 stained couch, as if to show that he, a man of business, 
 had already settled the question of the revolt and that 
 the rest held no interest for him. 
 
 "But what have the Cossacks got to do with it?" ex-
 
 20 What Never Happened 
 
 claimed David, now completely disconcerted, patches of 
 red staining his cheeks. "I tell you, the regiment is 
 sure to revolt." 
 
 At these words Vera Andreyevna ceased pacing the 
 room and stopped directly in front of David, 
 
 ' ' But if the regiment is sure to revolt, ' ' she said in an 
 irritated tone, *'why have you come to us? If the regi- 
 ment does not submit itself to this committee, what is 
 all this talk about? You kept on assuring us that the 
 committee has been working. What does its work con- 
 sist of? I can't see." 
 
 "That's not the point. Oh, my God!" David cried 
 in a wail. *'I am telling you. What am I to do? If 
 the soldiers revolt — well?" 
 
 "Here's my opinion," Arseny Ivanovich began in a 
 conciliatory tone. "Of course, if the boys want to re- 
 volt, it is difficult to restrain them, but not impossible. 
 There are Cossacks and a battery in the town. If they 
 don't join, the revolt will be unsuccessful again. And 
 we must avoid unsuccessful uprisings. We must — " 
 Arseny Ivanovich suddenly changed his tone and con- 
 tinued softly and soothingly. "We must have patience, 
 my benefactor ; we must restrain ourselves. The deeper 
 you plough the merrier you dance. So, my benefactor, 
 in the autumn things will be different, but now it's not 
 advisable, my benefactor, not advisable." 
 
 "What do you mean — restrain ourselves? How can 
 I restrain them? Show me how. Oh, my God, my 
 God ! It is certainly peculiar. How can I hold them 
 back? If they say they're going to revolt? You say 
 it's inadvisable. But what can I do? What can the 
 committee do? We've been working. For what pur-
 
 What Never Happened 21 
 
 pose? For a revolt. "Well, now they want to revolt. 
 So what can I do? Well? My God, my God!" 
 
 David began to pace the room in despair. Vera An- 
 dreyevna retreated into the corner by the window, and 
 crossed her arms over her breast. She did not want 
 to interfere in a matter that seemed hopeless to her. 
 Doctor Berg, leaning against the back of the sofa, kept 
 his eyes closed. 
 
 The discussion seemed futile to Bolotov, and it made 
 him uneasy, too. lie felt that David, on returning to 
 his city, would inevitably go to the army and would 
 inevitably perish. And it became clear to him that it 
 was not a question of whether David should or should 
 not die, for that was no longer in their power; 
 but the essential thing was that David should die with 
 the knowledge that his death was radiant and beautiful 
 and the Party had given him its blessing. And yet 
 not knowing why, Bolotov with unexpected tears in his 
 kind eyes, rose abruptly from his chair and kissed David 
 warmly. 
 
 "Go back, my dear boy. You are needed there more 
 than here. God be with you." 
 
 David went away beaming. 
 
 Doctor Berg, in his businesslike way, continued dis- 
 cussing Party matters a long time — the proclamations 
 had not arrived in time again ; a strike was in progress 
 in Koro\an's factory. Student Nikandrov was under 
 arrest; a letter had been received the day before from 
 the peasant brotherhood; tomorrow they would have to 
 prepare an editorial for the paper, Twilight.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 VANYA, a dark-haired youth of about twenty- 
 two, with high cheekbones and narrow Mongo- 
 lian eyes like slits, was waiting for Bolotov in 
 the dirty saloon. The Wave, in the Viborg section. The 
 place was smoky and hot. It smelled of beer. A sec- 
 ond-hand phonograph was squeaking. 
 
 ' ' Did you want to see me ? " 
 
 Vanya rose slightly from his seat. 
 
 "Yes — I asked — but I really don't know — where I 
 should begin. You see, I'm working here, in this fac- 
 tory." 
 
 "Are you a locksmith?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm a locksmith. I'm working here, in the 
 factory, but I absolutely can't stand it any longer," 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You'd better let me join the terrorists." 
 
 Bolotov had never taken part in terrorist "under- 
 takings" and never had killed anybody. That was not 
 because he saw in terror an act of murder, but because 
 of pity for the victim. He had never asked himself 
 whether it was permissible or necessary to kill. That 
 question had once for all been decided by the Party, 
 and often he wrote, and at meetings always emphasized, 
 that "the comrades were forced to resort to bloody 
 methods with the deepest sorrow." But he himself did 
 not feel sorry. On the contrary, whenever there was 
 a' successful bomb explosion, he would be very happy — 
 
 22
 
 What Never Happened 23 
 
 another enemy killed. He did not understand what a 
 man feels when he goes to kill, and he was glad, in a 
 simple-hearted way, that there were many people in the 
 Party who were ready to die and to kill. And because 
 there were many such people and because he looked 
 upon the Party as his estate, he gradually became used 
 to the fact that there are people in the Part}^ who kill ; 
 and little by little he began to look upon terrorism as 
 upon an}'- other Party **work." 
 
 "God knows I am speaking to you as I place a candle 
 before the Truthful One." Vanya was talking hur- 
 riedly, from time to time looking up at Bolotov bash- 
 fully with his black ej'es. "I'm opening my heart to 
 you as at confession. How can one do otherwise ? One 
 must approach such work with clean hands. It may be 
 that I am as yet unworthy to die for the revolution. 
 You can judge for yourself after I have told you all. 
 You must know that before this I was mostly a hooli- 
 gan. As my father was one of the Black Hundreds, 
 what could I see at home ? Nothing but cursing, drink- 
 ing, fighting. Well, so I started to drink and became 
 a hooligan. There's an ocean of wickedness in me. 
 And I don't know how to cleanse myself. If you deny 
 me the chance, what shall I do? Because I absolutely 
 can't stand it any longer." 
 
 "You can't?" Bolotov smiled. 
 
 " I can't. I stopped drinking, you know, and left 
 the Black Hundreds. I started to read different books, 
 about land, for instance, or the works of Mikhailovsky — 
 began to live quietly. Sometimes I would earn three 
 rubles a day." 
 
 "Why did you stop drinking?" 
 
 "How shall I tell you? It was so ugly. What am I
 
 24 What Never Happened 
 
 anyway? A good-for-nothing. "Well, so I quit, of 
 course. Don't doubt what I tell you. I don't touch 
 the stuff any more. IIow can a man belonging to the 
 Party drink? If he does, he had better drop out of the 
 work and become a hooligan again. I figure it this way : 
 if you stand for the people, for land and for freedom, 
 then you must keep a close watch over yourself and 
 always be ready to die. Well, so I kept on living like 
 this, and I even got married. Time went on, you know. 
 I was then working in Nizhny. A strike broke out in 
 our factory. The Cossacks came. We debated this and 
 that, turned this way and that way. We piled up 
 stones, tore down a fence and made a barricade. Every- 
 thing was ready. And the Cossacks, of course, began 
 shooting. My wife happened to come along. Well, 
 naturally, you know — the Cossacks killed her." He 
 ended in a husky voice and became silent. 
 
 Bolotov knew by heart these open-hearted confessions 
 of workers, as he knew the shy, sincere tales of stu- 
 dents, youths, girls and old men — of all those number- 
 less soldiers of terror who were dying for the revolution. 
 But now as he listened to Vanya and looked into his 
 trusting eyes, he felt uneasy. He thought: "He be- 
 lieves in me ; he is certain that at any moment I am 
 ready to do what he would do so simply and unhesi- 
 tatingly — that I am ready to die, of course. And I? 
 Why am I still living? Because," he immediately an- 
 swered in his thoughts, "because I am essential to the 
 whole revolution, to the whole Party, and also because 
 there must be a division of labour." But this time he 
 was unable to make himself believe these empty words, 
 which his comrades, Doctor Berg, with special empha- 
 sis had repeated so often. In the depths of his heart he
 
 What Never Happened 25 
 
 had wanted to agree with them. *'Vanya might argue 
 in the same way," his thoughts ran on, "Vanya, too, is 
 convinced that the whole Party needs him. Why am I 
 better than he? But he will not say so. His wife was 
 killed, and he will also kill, if he has not already done so. 
 And I?" "With an effort he rid himself of these 
 thoughts and turned to Yanya. 
 
 ''Well, what happened next?" he asked, filling the 
 glasses with beer. 
 
 "So they killed my wife. Well, after a little while 
 I said to the factory workers: 'You know, boys, I've 
 made up my mind to kill Gavrilov.' Gavrilov was our 
 superintendent, a chained dog, not a man. The boys 
 told me to quit it. ' What is Gavrilov anyway, Yanya ? ' 
 they said. 'He isn't worth soiling your hands on.' 
 'No,' I said, 'even a bug is meat. Why should Gavri- 
 lov live ? ' But they talked me out of it. So, of course, 
 I became very sad. My heart kept on aching and ach- 
 ing. I became restless, lost my appetite and sleep. I 
 went on thinking and thinking — I'm opening my whole 
 heart to you — and at last I came to this conclusion: 
 that man is a man who can act for himself. I had a 
 friend, Assistant Surgeon Yasha. So I went to him and 
 said: 'Yasha, my dear friend, please let me have some 
 poison.' 'Wliat do you want poison for?' 'Why, to 
 exterminate rats, of course.' 'Rats?' he said. 'So.' 
 He smiled, but he said: 'All right.' 'Please let me 
 have something strong,' I asked him, 'a sure thing and 
 no mistake.' 'All right,' he said, 'don't worry.' He 
 let me have some poison. I went home to my village. 
 Cossacks were then stationed in our village because 
 there had been an uprising of our peasants. My mother 
 wasn't living. My father asked me: 'Where is Av-
 
 26 What Never Happened 
 
 dotya?' meaning my wife. 'Avdotya?' I said, and I 
 told him everything. My sisters-in-law made some 
 cakes for Christmas. I said to my father: 'Invite a 
 few Cossacks to the house, father. I want to treat them 
 to some of our cakes.' Father was surprised. 'Have 
 you gone crazy, or what?' *You just ask them to 
 come,' I said. He looked at me and didn't answer. 
 The Cossacks came, four of them. They said their 
 prayers and then seated themselves at table. They took 
 some wine and then began eating the cakes. I told my 
 father: 'You'd better not eat those cakes.' So he 
 didn't. I looked on. What's going to happen? They 
 each had a cake. Nothing happened. 'Did Yasha fool 
 me ? ' thought I to myself. ' Impossible. ' I really don 't 
 know how to go on." Vanya stopped abruptly and 
 reddened. 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I committed a great sin." 
 "Don't mind. Tell me what happened." 
 "Well, all right." Vanya sighed. "I was sure some 
 mistake had been made. So it was all a comedy. But 
 then I saw one of the Cossacks sway and drop his head 
 on the table as if he were drunk. 'Then it's the real 
 thing,' I thought to myself. Next I saw another one 
 get dopey and turn quiet. I kept on offering them 
 cake and wine. 'Eat, my friends,' I said; 'we are glad 
 to have you with us. ' Well, all four of them died. ' ' 
 
 Bolotov looked at Vanya in astonishment. It was 
 hard for him to believe that this labourer with the ordi- 
 nary drab face of the Mongol and the trusting eyes 
 liad done such a terrible deed. It was still harder for 
 hira to believe that he alone, without an^-body's help or 
 advice, had conceived and carried into effect such a sly.
 
 What Never Happened 27 
 
 treacherous plan. "Were all to revenge themselves 
 like that, we should long ago have had no gallows, no 
 Cossacks, and no whipping rods. Can I be so revenge- 
 ful?" Bolotov asked himself, and immediately found his 
 answer : "I can 't take such revenge because it 's villain- 
 ous. It is neither revolutionary nor a terrorist act, and 
 I am a revolutionist and a member of the Party." But 
 even these thoughts could not reassure him. 
 
 **Well," Vanya went on, glancing sidewise at Bolo- 
 tov. "Well, I ran away, of course. A search was 
 made. A number of government officials came smell- 
 ing about. But they couldn't find me." 
 
 Vanya was silent. The saloon was crowded. The 
 phonograph kept up its incessant squeaking. The voices 
 of drunken, cursing men filled the place. There was a 
 clatter of dishes. Waiters were hurrying to and fro 
 between the tables. Bolotov, with his head resting on 
 his hands, was lost in thought. "Wliat am I to say? 
 What can I say? What right have I to talk to him? 
 Bah ! This is all nonsense. He 's waiting for my deci- 
 sion, and I must give it to him. Everything else is non- 
 sense and cowardice, and I must not think of it." 
 
 "So I may hope?" asked Vanya timidly. "I under- 
 stand perfectly what it is that I did. But, please, be so 
 kind, let me serve the Cause. I can't stand all these 
 outrages." He brought his fist down on the table 
 angrily. 
 
 Bolotov raised his head. He was going to tell Vanya 
 that the comrades appreciated his devotion and reso- 
 luteness. But instead, in total oblivion of these pre- 
 scribed words and of his duty towards the Party, he 
 turned pale and, without looking at Vanya, said: 
 
 "I don't occupy myself with terrorism."
 
 28 What Never Happened 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Bolotov repeated, raising his voice and speaking 
 sharply : 
 
 "I am not the person to speak to. I don't do terror- 
 ist work." 
 
 Giving Vanya no time to come to himself, he rose and 
 left the saloon. He felt it was, perhaps, the first time 
 he had dared to speak the truth. The unfamiliar feel- 
 ing was so strong that he halted. "Why did I tell him 
 that?" He was uneasy. "Am I not a terrorist? 
 Wasn't I in duty bound to listen to him? Am I not 
 responsible for bloodshed? For the blood of those Cos- 
 sacks whom Vanya killed? For Vanya 's own blood 
 that may be shed? Haven't I made matters worse? 
 He could not understand me. Why have I confused 
 him?" 
 
 He could find no answer to his questioning. 
 
 On his left flowed the deep waters of the Neva, silent 
 and majestic. Beyond he could see the black outlines 
 of the huge, unlighted Winter Palace. A light rain 
 was falling.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SINCE the day when Bolotov read the news of the 
 Tsu Shima battle, he had been weighed down by a 
 vague unrest. There were times when he could 
 not fall asleep until morning. He was not wearied by 
 the harassing life of a conspirator any more than be- 
 fore; he had long ceased to understand or appreciate 
 that secure, peaceful existence which he termed the 
 "bourgeois" life. But what had been sacred and posi- 
 tive, what had been determined, and firmly determined, 
 long ago, now seemed obscure and undetermined again. 
 The wide familiar highway had suddenly brought him to 
 a trackless wilderness. 
 
 Tonight again he could not sleep. It had been a busy 
 day full of troubles. The student committee had been 
 arrested, and Bolotov and Doctor Berg forced to seek 
 out new friends and to make new connections. He re- 
 turned home late at night and, without turning on a 
 light, undressed and got into bed. He tried not to re- 
 turn to those thoughts which had haunted him during 
 the last few days. "What nonsense!" he said to him- 
 self. "Isn't it true that the war is a government 
 war and not the people's war? Of course it's true. 
 Therefore, if the Japanese have won, whose defeat 
 is it? Obviously the defeat of the Government. Ex- 
 actly." The yellowish rays from a street lamp came in 
 through the window and stretching upwards like cob- 
 web threads faded into shadow on the ceiling. "The 
 
 29
 
 30 What Never Happened 
 
 Government is our worst enemy," he murmured, as he 
 tried to fall asleep. "Therefore, if the Japanese de- 
 feated the Government, who are the gainers ? But no, no, 
 I don 't wajit to think about it. " A heavy truck rumbled 
 over the cobble stones outside. Again disconnected 
 thoughts thronged to his mind. "We are the gainers. 
 Arseny Ivanovieh is of the same opinion. . . . Arseny 
 Ivanovich. . . . The water is working our mill. . . . 
 Exactly. Then we ought to be glad? . . . No, it isn't 
 so. Who is responsible for the death of those people? 
 For Sasha's death? 
 
 "And brother from his brother is torn, 
 And son and mother hurled asunder." 
 
 We ought to be glad? About what? But what's the 
 matter with me? A people deserves the government it 
 has. . . . Who said that? The words are meaningless. 
 . . . Are the people responsible?" 
 
 He thought of Bolotovo, his father's estate in the gov- 
 ernment of Orel. It was an old manor-house, where 
 he had been born and brought up. A house with a red 
 roof and with colonnades in the Alexandrine style. 
 Beyond the stream, lined with shrubbery, spread the 
 village — Noviye Viselky. He saw the village elder 
 Karp, and Tikhon the Lame One, a crippled little peas- 
 ant in a torn shirt, and barefoot Vanka, the shepherd. 
 He recalled a certain hot Sunday. He was standing 
 near the mill-dam. The sun was setting. In the dis- 
 tance showed spots of red and blue and yellow — ^the 
 women of the village. "So they are responsible. . . . 
 Inspector Karp, Shepherd Vanka, and the housekeeper 
 Malanya Petrovna. Responsible for what? For the 
 fact that we have such a government. For the war.
 
 What Never Happened 31 
 
 Inspector Karp responsible for our war with Japan, for 
 our defeat at Tsu Sliima ? How ridiculous. ' ' But a mo- 
 ment later he thought: "But if Karp had not wanted 
 it, we would have had no war? If the Karps had re- 
 fused to go to war, there would have been no Tsu Shima ? 
 Then why are they going? "Why are they the slaves of 
 Plehve and Stoessel? . . . But suppose Inspector Karp 
 should also not want a revolution? Nonsense. . . . By 
 God, what nonsense. . . . "What did Arseny Ivanovich 
 say the other day? The infantry regiment and David. 
 And Vanya . . . Vanya and Inspector Karp. . . . No, 
 I mustn't think, I mustn't think. ..." Bolotov closed 
 his eyes in utter weariness. The street-lamp flickered 
 and went out. 
 
 The sky began to pale in the east. The birds began 
 to twitter cautiously in the apple-trees. Far away, in 
 the Znamensky Church, the bells began to ring for morn- 
 ing prayers. Bolotov got up. Around him were the 
 familiar objects of his shabby room : the table with its 
 paper cover, on it the copper samovar, and on the walls 
 oleographs from the magazine Niva. For the first 
 time he felt sick of it all. The same objects, always the 
 same. The same thoughts, the same words, the same 
 Arseny Ivanovich, the same Berg, the same "work," the 
 same danger, the same enemy — the secret service. And 
 above all, the vagueness of everything. He was now con- 
 vincd that falsehood lurked somewhere in his life. On 
 the table strewn with cigarette butts lay sheets of paper, 
 on which was written in a fine hand the editorial for 
 the paper. The Dawn. He picked up the sheets and 
 read: ""We are concerned with political terror as one 
 of the methods in our fight, as one element in our party 
 tactics. Only a methodical system of terror, which eon-
 
 32 What Never Happened 
 
 forms to the other tactics and which is in harmony with 
 the aims and general conditions of our fight, can come 
 under discussion. ..." As he read these lines, they 
 seemed to him cold, indifferent and hypocritical. He 
 felt ashamed. ''Have I really written these words? A 
 methodical system of terror. ... A terror that arouses 
 . . . that disorganizes . . . that dominates. . . . What 
 childish arguments. And about what? About blood. 
 About Vanya. About the living man Vanya, who will 
 go and kill another man. . . . And we? And I? . . . 
 He will kill and I shall w-rite a profound and highly 
 scientific treatise on 'The revolutionary initiative of the 
 minority' and will try to prove that 'the terror of re- 
 venge, the terror of despair, the terror of fury is value- 
 less,' and I shall say other things that are false and 
 meaningless and futile, . . . And Inspector Karp will 
 read it. . . . "Will read it and will, of course, join us." 
 He smiled. He thought of Doctor Berg, a tall, erect, 
 bald-headed man, who always wore high collars. He 
 recalled his voice, so expressive of self -content and self- 
 assurance: "In party matters preciseness is essential, 
 comrade. ..." Then he recalled the flushed excited 
 face of David. "And David will die and so will Vanya. 
 . . . They will both hang. And I shall write in the 
 Party organ: *Our comrades went to the gallows hon- 
 ourably and courageously. . . .' Wherein, then, lies the 
 truth? It can not be in the fact that I rejoice, when 
 tens of thousands of Russians drown in the Japanese 
 sea, when Sasha drowns. . . . And it can not be in the 
 fact that Vanya faces death, while I praise or condemn 
 him, nor can it be in the fact that Inspector Karp rolls 
 cigarettes with the paper on which my lightly written
 
 What Never Happened 33 
 
 articles are printed. . . . Wherein, then, lies the 
 truth?" 
 
 Dawn was breaking. Beyond the Okhta the sky- 
 flamed red, and fiery golden rays poured into the room. 
 But the room only looked dingier, as when the sunlight 
 reveals the deepening wrinkles on a withered face. 
 
 Bolotov felt he was denouncing his own life, which had 
 seemed to him faultless. And for the last time he tried 
 to check his disturbing train of thoughts. "Why is 
 Arseny Ivanovich undisturbed? Everything is simple 
 and clear to him. The revolution is a mathematical 
 problem. Vanya goes forward and dies. Very well. 
 Hail to the Party! Arseny Ivanovich directs matters. 
 Very well. Hail to the Party ! Division of labour. . . . 
 And Berg, too, is undisturbed. But so are they respon- 
 sible for bloodshed. Or, perhaps, they're not? Per- 
 haps Vanya alone is responsible for everything? Then 
 who is in the right? . . . 'I'm opening my heart to 
 you' . . . Vanya opens his heart to me. . . . And how 
 about me to him ? How about us all to him ? To us he 
 is either a 'hero' or a 'fanatic of terror,' or — worst 
 of all — 'a worshipper of the bomb,' 'an unreasoning 
 bomb-thrower.' . . . Wherein, then, lies the truth?"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 LIKE Bolotov, David, too, was often a prey to 
 vague forebodings. But it was not the Party 
 that worried him. He knew very little about 
 the Party; only those sensational, but really insignifi- 
 cant, items, which are published in Party newspapers. 
 He knew that all over Russia there were people, beloved 
 comrades, who hated the things he hated and who de- 
 manded the things that he demanded. He also knew 
 that in every city there were committees, and he thought 
 that these committees were ' ' working ' ' under the super- 
 vision of distinguished, experienced and wise people, 
 who lived in St. Petersburg. He had faith in those peo- 
 ple. He would never have dared to ask who they were 
 and whence they obtained their unlimited authority. 
 It was enough for him to know that there were such 
 people as Bolotov, Arseny Ivanovich, and Doctor Berg, 
 and that they were constantly safeguarding the inter- 
 ests of the Party and would not let any harm come to 
 it. Since he knew nothing of the Party itself, he im- 
 agined it to be still stronger and purer and more pow^er- 
 ful than it actually was. But what he was chiefly con- 
 cerned with was his own town with his little revolution- 
 ary committee. He was not disturbed by the fact that 
 there were almost no revolutionists in his town. He 
 thought that this committee was an exception, that in 
 other more fortunate towns there were thousands of 
 devoted Party members. He also thought that were the 
 
 34
 
 What Never Happened 35 
 
 local comrades — the volunteer Seriozha, the private 
 Avdeyev and the midwife Rachel — replaced by men like 
 Bolotov or Arseny Ivanovich, the local work would have 
 been improved and hastened. He thought that instead 
 of three dozen soldiers the whole regiment could then be 
 induced to join the Party. And instead of a few work- 
 men's circles all the factory workers could be induced 
 to attend the lectures about Karl Marx. But even as it 
 was, there were many things to attend to. The days 
 were spent in petty propaganda, in printing the com- 
 mittee's proclamations, in running about in the inter- 
 ests of the Party. He was too much taken up by this 
 work to observe life around him — the wretched city- 
 dwellers, the dark unknown life of priests, merchants, 
 officials and peasants, of all those unseen and all-power- 
 ful forces upon which would depend the last victorious 
 effort — the outcome of the revolution. And he believed 
 that the Party was invincible and, like Bolotov, he had 
 faith that ' ' the stern day of judgment and wrath would 
 come. ' ' 
 
 On arriving home from St. Petersburg David went di- 
 rectly from the railroad depot to his friend Seriozha. 
 
 He crossed Moscow Street and the solitary Soborna 
 Plaza. His way lay along vacant lots, long vegetable 
 gardens and low, wretched houses. The sky was grey. 
 The wet birch-trees looked sad. Lilacs were abloom in 
 the park. It was a leaden day. Although it was June, 
 it looked like Autumn, like September. 
 
 David saw neither the rain, nor the dreary surround- 
 ings. ''How nice Bolotov is," he thought, trudging 
 along the wet pavements, ''and so is Arseny Ivanovich, 
 and all of them. And I, David Cohn, will now carry 
 out the will of God, will die for the revolution, for the
 
 36 What Never Happened 
 
 Party, for land and freedom. . . . How beautiful. . . . 
 How good. . . . And, of course, the revolt will succeed, 
 otherwise Bolotov would not have consented. . . ." It 
 now seemed to him that Bolotov had given his permis- 
 sion and that his permission was equivalent to law. 
 And it also seemed to him that only Bolotov knew that 
 he, David Cohn, would die and that only Bolotov pitied 
 and appreciated him. And though he could hardly im- 
 agine his own execution, the gallows, the hangman, his 
 last days in prison, and though death was only a mean- 
 ingless word to him, still he felt pity for himself. * ' But 
 oh, well, two deaths are impossible and one is unavoid- 
 able," and he shook his curly flaxen hair. "How beau- 
 tiful are thy tents, Jacob, thy dwellings, O Israel!" 
 
 "What's the good news?" was Seriozha's greeting. 
 
 "Hurrah! They gave their permission!" 
 
 Seriozha, a tall, bronzed soldier in an unbuttoned 
 white blouse with epaulets, looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "What are you so glad about?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" David struck his hands to- 
 gether. "That's funny. . . . Suppose, they had not 
 given their permission? Then what? Well?" 
 
 Seriozha took a cigarette from the table, slowly lighted 
 it and answered quietly: 
 
 "One doesn't carry timber to the woods." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean, they have come to a decision without St. 
 Petersburg 's permission. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Without Petersburg ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who decided? How?" 
 
 "The soldiers did." 
 
 * ' What ? What ? Speak up, for God 's sake. ' '
 
 What Never Happened 37 
 
 *' Nothing. Tomorrow." 
 
 "Tomorrow?" 
 
 "Yes, tomorrow." 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 Seriozha shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 And, as it always happens when something that was 
 distant and alarming suddenly becomes near and un- 
 avoidable, David felt that all his recent thoughts about 
 death were valueless, just as leisurely and irresponsible 
 words are valueless. He felt a strange and oppressive 
 weight, as though some one were bearing him down to 
 the ground. "Tomorrow. ..." he thought. "To- 
 morrow. . . . Not in a month, not even in a week, but 
 tomorrow. . . . God, give me strength. . . . God, to- 
 morrow. ..." 
 
 ' ' And the committee ? " he asked dully. 
 
 "What about the committee?" 
 
 ' ' Have the committee decided ? ' ' 
 
 "Of course, they have." 
 
 "That's strange." 
 
 "What's strange?" 
 
 "How could they, without me?" 
 
 "Without you? Officer Voronkov hit Avdeyev yes- 
 terday, while he was on sentry duty." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Avdeyev hit him back." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Nothing. Avdeyev will be executed." 
 
 David dropped weakly into a chair. The dying 
 samovar was singing noisily. 
 
 Looking out of the window, through the hazy mist, 
 one could see the green sad-looking gardens. 
 
 "And you?" David asked finally.
 
 38 What Never Happened 
 
 "What about me?" 
 
 * ' Are you in favour of a revolt ? Why are you silent ? 
 Well, why don 't you answer ? ' ' 
 
 "It's all futile," Seriozha answered in a low voice; 
 "people will die in vain. But we mustn't argue." 
 
 "We mustn't argue," David repeated after him. 
 
 "We must obey," Seriozha finished. 
 
 "We must obey," David repeated. 
 
 "Yes, we must obey. You and I will put on officers' 
 uniforms. Early in the morning, before the roll-call, 
 we will go down to the barracks of the fourth company. 
 I'm well known there. We will try to incite the soldiers 
 to an uprising. Unless they're lying, the soldiers ought 
 to respond. ' ' 
 
 "So . . . ." David began irresolutely. 
 
 "Do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, I understand. But listen." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Listen, I'm a Jew. ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Is it wise for me to disguise myself as an officer ? ' ' 
 
 "As you wish." 
 
 They were both silent. The samovar kept up its 
 singing. Suddenly David felt an intoxicating joy, as 
 though the thing he had wished for, had dreamed of, had 
 come true. "Yes, yes, I shall die for the Party," he 
 thought. His grey eyes darkened with excitement, 
 lie jumped up and began to pace the room. He stopped 
 directly in front of Seriozha and stammering and gestic- 
 ulating as usual he began to speak hotly, forgetful of 
 self. 
 
 "Great is the God of our forefathers. ... Do you 
 remember Nekrasov, Seriozha ? . . .
 
 What Never Happened 39 
 
 "In all the world there can be 
 But two roads only for the free 
 From which to choose. 
 Test what your strength of pride is, 
 Test what your force of will is, 
 Then go and choose." 
 
 "We have taken this road and we shall follow it until 
 death. . . . And our soul shall not repent, and our 
 hearts shall not be silent. Is it not so? Is it not so, 
 Seriozha? Last year I witnessed a pogrom. . . . Wo 
 had a self-defence squad of about twenty men. I be- 
 longed to the first division and on the first evening we 
 stumbled on some hooligans. It was dark. We could 
 hear them pillaging a house. People were crying for 
 help, children weeping. Sasha Goldenberg was there. 
 He ordered us to shoot. Bullets came back in answer. 
 Sasha ordered us to shoot again. The hooligans scat- 
 tered. Next day was Saturday. Sasha Goldenberg and 
 I were at headquarters. An attorney had volunteered 
 his house to us, so we were sitting there. The first 
 group went to the market-place, the second to the out- 
 skirts of the city, the third remained with us. Well, 
 we were sitting in readiness in the attorney's house. 
 We waited. We hadn't slept for two nights. We were 
 very sleepy. We felt tired and hungry. . . . We 
 couldn't go near the window for fear of the Cossacks. 
 So we dozed away, on chairs, on the floor, on beds. An 
 hour passed. Well, two. . . . Well, perhaps, three. . . . 
 Nothing happened. . . . Everything was still. ... It 
 was getting dark. We made no light, so as not to be 
 seen from the street. We had had nothing to eat since 
 morning. . . . The owner of the house would come in, 
 look at us and sigh. . . . We felt depressed. . . . Sud- 
 denly, towards night the telephone rang. A merchant,
 
 40 What Never Happened 
 
 by the name of Fishel, living on Kirillov Street, was call- 
 ing. And Kirillov Street, you know, is at the other end 
 of the town — not one of our squad was there. I an- 
 swered the telephone : 
 
 *' 'What do you wish, Mr. Fishel?' I could hear his 
 voice trembling: 'Is that you, David?' 'It's I,' 
 I said. 'David, dear David, the hooligans are com- 
 ing. . . .' 'Are they far away?' 'They just turned 
 into Kirillov Street.' Isaid:'Sh. . . . That's nothing. 
 . . . You wait.* I turned to the men: 'Up!' All 
 jumped up. In a moment all were gone, only the 
 house-owner remained sighing. The telephone rang 
 again. 'What do you wish?' 'David, for God's 
 sake, David. ... If you are a good Jew. . . .' I said: 
 'The self-defence have been sent out. Wait.' 'God 
 be blessed, I shall wait. . . .' In five minutes the tele- 
 phone again: 'David. . . .* 'What do you wish?' 
 ' David, where is the self-defence ? . . . The hooligans are 
 five houses away. . . . They're burning everything. . . . 
 I have children. . . .' I knew him well, this Fishel. 
 He was a stout, red-faced man, who gave us money once 
 in a while. I knew he was shivering there, the poor 
 man. . . . Well, what could you tell him? He had 
 children. ... I said: 'Hide your wife and children 
 somewhere, in the garret or in the cellar. . . .' I hung 
 up the receiver and thought to myself: 'Suppose the 
 boys come late? . . . What then?' A moment later 
 the telephone again: 'God, God. . . . Good, merciful 
 God of Israel! . . .' 'Where are the children?' I 
 asked. And he could hardly answer: 'The children 
 are in the ... in the . . . cellar . . . chil . . . 
 dren. . . .' 'Wait, I said,, and have faith. The self- 
 defence men are on their way.' But I thought to my-
 
 What Never Happened 41 
 
 Belf: 'Yes, on the way, but suppose they have met 
 Cossacks? . . . Well? What then? . . .' Again the 
 telephone: 'The pogrom is right near me, two houses 
 away. . . .' What could I do? I began to run about 
 like a madman, . . . And the telephone kept ringing, 
 ringing, ringing. ... I picked up the receiver: 'Well, 
 what?' I could hear him barking like a dog: 'Aa- 
 aah. . . . David. . . . Our God is great! . . . David. 
 . . . God. . . . Help! . . ."* 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, God saved him. They had almost got him. 
 Another minute, just one minute, and he would have 
 been done for. Our men came just in time. But, 
 you know, I shall never in my life forget those few min- 
 utes, when the telephone kept ringing and ringing and 
 our men were somewhere on the way. Even now I can 
 see that man Fishel as he stood pale and trembling at the 
 telephone, and the children in the cellar. . . . His wife 
 and four little children. ..." 
 
 David sat down at the table and emptied a glass of 
 cold tea. Immediately he jumped up again. He was 
 now sure that death was not terrible, but joyous, and 
 that to die for the Party would be a rare, enviable 
 honour. Now he was sure he had been born for this 
 one purpose — to give up his life freely for the Cause. 
 And eyes sparkling, he raised his voice to a shout in his 
 exaltation : 
 
 "I'm happy, I'm proud that tomorrow will see the 
 end! ... I'm proud! . . . Don't you think we shall 
 succeed? . . . You're silent again. . . . Why? . . . 
 Tell me, have you no faith in our success?" 
 
 "It's in God's hands, David." 
 
 "Oh, you're always that way. . . . What do you
 
 42 What Never Happened 
 
 mean in God's hands? I don't know of God. . . . My 
 forefathers did, but I don't. ... In my opinion: 
 
 "Test what your strength of pride is, 
 Test what your force of will is." 
 
 God won't order our life, we shall. . . . "We shall order 
 it, with our own blood. He can't help us, we must help 
 ourselves. He can't protect us, we must do it ourselves. 
 He will not down our foes, we must do it ourselves ! ' ' 
 
 Seriozha smiled. He had a kind smile, like a girl's. 
 
 * ' I think you have more God in you, than I, " he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "That's strange. . . . Why?" 
 
 "You saved Fishel, for instance." 
 
 "I saved Fishel?" 
 
 "Who else?" 
 
 " Not I ; the self-defence. ' ' 
 
 "It's all the same. . . . You love Fishel." 
 
 "I love Fishel? I?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "No, Fishel is not on our side. He's an enemy." 
 
 "You love even your enemy." 
 
 "What do you mean, love? Would you let him be 
 killed?" 
 
 "Listen," Seriozha continued quietly, "tomorrow we 
 are going to the barracks. You say we will die. Well, 
 if we have to, we shall die. But that 's not all ; we may 
 have to kill others too." 
 
 "There. . . . That's strange. . . . Well, of course, 
 we'll kill. Did you ever witness a pogrom? Did you? 
 I did. What is Fishel anyway? Fishel is still alive 
 and deals in coal and eats bread and butter and 
 contributes money to our self-defence. But I saw an
 
 .What Never Happened 43 
 
 old man. An old man lay naked, his legs were thin 
 and blue and hairy, his skin was all wrinkled, and a 
 nail was sticking out of his eye. . . . How's that? 
 What will you say to that? What? . . . Has God al- 
 lowed it? Your God? Was it His will? And I saw a 
 woman. She was young, her hair in wild disorder, and 
 her belly ripped up. . . . Shall we kill ? ... Of course, 
 we'll kill. ... I'll kill them joyfully. ... Do you hear 
 me? Joyfully!" 
 
 "Whom do you mean by 'them'?" 
 
 "Oh, what difference does it make? The ojBQcers, the 
 ministers, the gendarmes, the police officials." 
 
 "Joyfully? You?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes. ... I, David Colin! . . . One must 
 take revenge: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a 
 tooth." 
 
 Seriozha did not answer, but went over to the window 
 and threw it open. The warm damp night filled the 
 room. The rain was over and the clouds were gone. 
 The Big Dipper shone triumphantly in the sky ; and the 
 Milky Way twinkled with its myriad stars.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE army-barracks were situated outside of the 
 city limits, on a dusty, badly paved road. Sub- 
 dued rumours of a revolt had been circulating 
 in the regiment for the past three months. People had 
 been declaring openly that "the officers were stealing," 
 that ' ' all officers were dogs ' ' and that ' ' they ought to be 
 shot." This dissatisfaction, though secret, was rapidly 
 growing. Its causes could not be definitely pointed out. 
 Military' service had always been detested, but till now 
 the soldiers had been reconciled to it, as their grand- 
 fathers had been reconciled to whips and rods. Now, 
 however, it had become unbearable. And the awakened 
 members of the regiment were buzzing like bees in a 
 hive that has been disturbed. In the evening active 
 "volunteer-soldiers" would secretly enter the barracks. 
 There they delivered fiery, though ill comprehended, 
 speeches about "land," "Socialism" and "armed re- 
 volts." And it was easy to believe that at the first call 
 to revolt the soldiers would raise their guns and kill 
 the officers and unfurl the red flag of revolution in 
 place of the gold-trimmed regimental colours. But no 
 one knew when this would take place. The officers were 
 aware of the disturbance among the soldiers and they 
 were afraid of it. They were afraid when they found 
 a proclamation warning them of death, or when a self- 
 constituted spy informed them of the seductive prop- 
 aganda. And the ubiquitous and mysterious enemy, 
 
 44
 
 What Never Happened 45 
 
 the Party, rose in their esteem, and their hatred of it, 
 their powerless fury, increased. It happened that an 
 officer struck a soldier in the face. Though it had been 
 a customary thing, this time the event raised a storm 
 of violent protests and prophecies of revolt. The com- 
 mittee decided that the time was ripe and set the day. 
 
 When David and Seriozha left the house in the morn- 
 ing the sun was high in the heavens. The leaves, wet 
 with the night's rain, were whispering to each other. 
 The rays of the morning sun touched the pools that the 
 rain had left and turned them to silver. It promised 
 to be a hot cloudless day. 
 
 David felt uncomfortable in the uniform of an offi- 
 cer. He was particularly annoyed at the constant 
 knocking of the sword against his high boots, and he 
 had to hold it up with his left hand. He was self-con- 
 scious; it seemed to him that passers-by, the peasants 
 and the women going to market, guessed that he was 
 not an officer, but a Jew in disguise, and at any moment 
 a policeman might stop and arrest him. Seriozha on 
 the contrary walked with a swift, confident step. 
 
 David felt as if the sleepy streets and fences would 
 never come to an end. At last, however, they saw the 
 oppressive-looking brick building in the distance. 
 There was a sentinel on duty at the gate. *'Now, we'll 
 surely be halted," David thought, "he surely won't let 
 us pass." And again he felt as if a heavy load were 
 weighing down his shoulders. But the sentinel, a tall 
 soldier with a round kindly peasant face, raised his gun 
 and stood at attention. The sun could not be seen from 
 the paved four-cornered yard. Here and there a blade 
 of grass thrust itself up between the stones. To their 
 left in the furthest corner of the yard wash was drying
 
 46 What Never Happened 
 
 on lines. From the old walls of the building the dirty 
 windows looked down upon them. The steady buzz of 
 voices filled the yard. A private without a hat, in 
 patched trousers, with a pail in his hands, ran across the 
 yard. The sporty office-clerk saluted them and disap- 
 peared behind a door, on which "Office" was written. 
 Seriozha made his way confidently to the soldiers' quar- 
 ters. "Is it possible that they'll let us enter?" David 
 tliought. "Oh, what's the difference. ... I only wish 
 it would be over. ..." Even at the entrance to the sol- 
 diers ' quarters they were not stopped by the sentinel. 
 
 The long narrow room was crowded with soldiers. 
 Their guns were standing peacefully near the walls in 
 gun-racks. The sun glittered on the smooth barrels. 
 The crowded place smelled of food and tobacco. David 
 was suddenly gripped by terror. It seemed impossible 
 to escape from the place. At salute, his stout body 
 swaying as he walked, a sergeant-major was approach- 
 ing to meet them. "Here comes the end," David 
 thought. When Seriozha noticed the sergeant, he 
 frowned, but made a resolute step forward. He looked 
 straight into the sergeant-major's eyes and without giv- 
 ing him a chance to say anything, asked in an abrupt, 
 gruff manner : 
 
 "Where is your revolver?" 
 
 "My God, what is he doing?" David thought. "Now 
 it's surely all over, everything is lost. . . . He won't 
 give up his revolver. . . . And why are the soldiers 
 standing like statues?" But though he was certain that 
 all was lost and that they could escape only by a mir- 
 acle, he felt the contagion of Seriozha 's daring and re- 
 peated after him. 
 
 "Where is your revolver?"
 
 Wliat Never Happened 47 
 
 The sergeant evidently did not understand the ques- 
 tion. Standing at attention by sheer force of habit he 
 regarded the stranger officers with a perplexed gaze. 
 Silence reigned in the room. It was as quiet as a field. 
 
 ' ' I ask you, where is your revolver ? ' ' Seriozha raised 
 his voice. 
 
 "Your. . . ." 
 
 '^ Silence!" 
 
 Seriozha stretched his arm and began to unbutton the 
 string of the revolver-bag on the sergeant's breast. He 
 did it slowly and in cold blood. The string was caught 
 in the sergeant's epaulets, and he lowered his head 
 obediently and took off the revolver-bag. 
 
 ''And now lead the company out into the yard." 
 
 "Your. . . . Honour. ..." 
 
 "Silence! ..." Seriozha ordered, turning red in 
 the face. David saw a small black revolver glitter in 
 his hand. 
 
 The soldiers, without waiting for the command, picked 
 up their guns, put on their knapsacks and with their eyes 
 on the ground filed out into the yard. Seriozha was 
 standing at the door with his hands in his pockets and 
 his feet wide apart and, still frowning, let them pass 
 by. When the company was in formation near the wall, 
 he slowly advanced. The sun played on the pavement 
 and on the bayonets. It seemed to David that many 
 years had passed since that unhappy moment when he 
 had entered the barracks yard. He wished he could 
 turn back. He wished he could run — run from this 
 trap, from these stone walls and steel bayonets, from 
 the inescapable terror which, he felt with absolute cer- 
 tainty, was about to strike them. But he knew it was 
 impossible to run.
 
 48 What Never Happened 
 
 "Order!" Seriozha gave the command. 
 
 The company became silent and motionless, as if the 
 command had not been given by Seriozha, but by a 
 stern, cruel officer. Two rows of white shirts stretched 
 in an even line along the brick wall. Every soldier had 
 his gun raised at the same angle and had his cap pulled 
 down over his forehead, his head raised, and the same 
 pallor on every strained face. At the extreme right of 
 the company, not far from David, stood the black- 
 bearded sergeant-major, his forlorn eyes blinking un- 
 ceasingly. 
 
 ''Comrades! ..." 
 
 "Will they really let him speak?" David wondered. 
 "Will they really listen to him?" It all seemed like 
 a dream — tlie barracks, the soldiers, Seriozha. And 
 should he but waken, he would find himself in his little 
 cosy student's room with everything going on as usual. 
 
 "Comrades! . . ." Seriozha repeated somewhat 
 louder. 
 
 But suddenly they heard the sound of heavy steps. 
 David looked around; he saw people slowly advancing 
 past the wash-lines, from the direction of the office, to- 
 wards them. Seriozha immediately reached for his re- 
 volver. The company fixed their stony glances on him. 
 The row of white shirts remained unchanged. The caps 
 were still lowered over their foreheads. The black- 
 bearded sergeant-major kept his erect pose. The golden 
 epaulets of the advancing men sparkled in the sunlight. 
 
 Seriozha turned red in the face just as he had before 
 in the soldiers' room. He did not yet know why, but he 
 felt that the revolt would not succeed. And disregard- 
 ing the soldiers he turned around and directed his steady 
 steps towards the advancing officers. They were very
 
 What Never Happened 49 
 
 near now and David could see every one of them clearly. 
 At one end a stout bloated lieutenant with eye-glasses 
 was moving his stout legs rapidly. Next to him a tall 
 officer in a worn uniform and unshined boots was walk- 
 ing proudly. The others appeared to David as one 
 living mass. He could only see that there were many 
 of them, about ten. And with the realization that 
 they were many and that it was useless to resist them, 
 came that joy again which he had felt the evening be- 
 fore. *'I shall die. . . . For land and freedom!" he 
 thought, following Seriozha and feeling happy for no 
 reason. "Here it is . . . Here!" But he did not 
 dare to look b k. He did not dare to take a look to 
 see what the company was doing, what the black- 
 bearded sergeant was doing. "Only they must not 
 shoot us from the back. . . . Not from the back. . . . 
 Let them be honest . . . for the revolution. . . . Beau- 
 tiful are thy dwellings, Oh Israel ..." 
 
 There was a noise behind them. David winced and 
 closed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw 
 Corporal Georgy Gabayev, his comrade and adherent, 
 leave the ranks ^nd run up to him and his companions. 
 When he joined them, he was flushed, his black eyes 
 were burning and he was breathing heavily. They were 
 in the centre of the yard. They could hear the stout 
 lieutenant say something. But they continued their 
 rapid walk to the gate, which was still far off and seemed 
 almost beyond their reach. It was hard to walk. It 
 seemed to David that he had heavy weights on his feet 
 instead of boots. 
 
 "Shoot!" The command reached them indistinctly. 
 
 David did not hear the shots, but the bullets buzzed 
 over his head. A blue cloud arose from among the of-
 
 50 What Never Happened 
 
 ficers and vanished away in the air. Now he became 
 conscious that they were shooting at them. 
 
 Seriozha stopped. An unexpected shot whizzed past 
 David's ear. Gabayev was shooting with his gun. Then 
 without knowing what he was doing, David raised his 
 revolver and began to aim. The trigger was stiff and 
 the revolver was shaking in his hand. But when finally 
 he had taken aim at somebody's chest, he half closed 
 his eyes and pulled the trigger. This once done he could 
 not stop any more. He fired without aiming, not even 
 knowing why he did it until he ran out of bullets. Then 
 he saw the yellow fire from under his eye-lashes. The 
 air smelled of gunpowder. The stout lieutenant was 
 down on the ground, resting his right hand on the stones. 
 His hat had fallen off his head and at his feet a pool of 
 thick sticky blood was forming. David did not grasp 
 that he had killed a human being. 
 
 Seriozha went on without looking back or shooting. 
 Gabayev kept pace with him with his head down. David 
 ran to join them. At the gate the sentinel blocked their 
 way. The same tall soldier, who a little while ago had 
 saluted them, now threatened them with menacing 
 and furious countenance. Gabayev made a wide 
 motion with his hand and before David could grasp the 
 situation the sentinel swayed, tried to grasp the tri- 
 eoloured sentry-box, but fell face downward into the 
 soft dust. David felt and understood nothing; he only 
 knew that something terrible and irreparable had hap- 
 pened; and he was only anxious not to remain behind. 
 There was no committee, no uprising, no revolution. 
 There was only a soft ploughed field, in which their feet 
 were sticking and which they had to cross. Beyond 
 were the woods. In the woods, he believed, was safety.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AS Misha Bolotov, a red-cheeked eighteen-year-old 
 gynmasiast, who had just finished his disgust- 
 ing examinations, passed the station next to 
 Miatlevo early one morning, he was seized with a joyful 
 impatience. He put his close-cropped head out of the 
 car window and half closing his eyes to the sunlight 
 looked out lovingly at the old familiar landmarks. Be- 
 yond the Mozharovsky woods sparkled the gilded cross of 
 the Holy Trinity Church. Beyond the marshes he could 
 see the dark-green road to Orel. He caught a glimpse of 
 the village Chishmy. And at last came the little God- 
 forsaken village Miatlevo. A red tin-roofed station- 
 building, an iron water-tower, a long-haired telegrapher 
 and the country hotel of the merchant Blokhin. 
 
 A carriage with three horses with bells on was waiting 
 for him. Driver Tikhon, a red, bearded peasant in a 
 sleeveless shirt and a low hat with a peacock's feather, 
 was slowly fixing up the harness. He met Misha with a 
 smile. To Misha it seemed that it was not Tikhon smil- 
 ing, but the hot sun, the fields of oats and the white, 
 tender birch-trees. The stone city was no more. School 
 days were over. 
 
 ''Chaly is leading and where is Zviezdochka (Little 
 Star) ?" Misha asked in disappointment, going up to the 
 horses. Chaly, a heavily built strong horse, was bend- 
 ing his sweating neck so that his big silver bell tinkled. 
 Golubka, the bay mare on his left, her head raised, was 
 
 51
 
 52 What Never Happened 
 
 smelling the air, her rosy sensitive nostrils wide open. 
 Misha embraced her and laid his cheek against her warm 
 nose. He kissed her, inhaling the familiar acrid odour 
 of the mare's body, and whispered caressing words in 
 her ear. 
 
 "How are you, little one? Glad to see you, Golubka, 
 And where is Zviezdochka?" He turned to Tikhon. 
 
 * * Zviezdochka ? " Tikhon repeated in a sing-song voice. 
 "Zviezdochka is lame. We use Zolotoy in her place. 
 But he is not a horse, Mikhail Nikolayevich, he's a 
 rascal. ' ' 
 
 Kascal Zolotoy, foaming head bent down, was pawing 
 the ground. Misha looked at him sadly. Last summer 
 he had trained Zolotoy for riding, and he felt sorry to 
 see him in harness. He sighed and stroked his shaggy 
 golden mane. Tikhon guessed his thoughts. 
 
 "The stallion Zviezdochka of last year is now a fine 
 horse. He'd be fine for riding, Mikhail Nikolayevich." 
 
 They passed Vypolzovo, Chemodanovo, Sukholom. 
 All around them, as far as the eye could reach, stretched 
 an ocean of yellow unripe corn. Misha could see Tik- 
 hon 's back, the broad body of Chaly, the dusty road and 
 the blue sky. It was a hot day. Only a few tiny clouds 
 were scattered in the sky. The air smelled of grass and 
 fields. Chaly snorted. The horses' bells tinkled. 
 
 They passed the Mozharovsky woods and entered on 
 the Orel road. Chaly tossed his mane and immediately 
 began to run faster. His big ears kept swinging in time 
 under the harness-arch. The other two horses stretched 
 their bodies and their bells too were set swinging. Go- 
 lubka ran with short strong steps and Zolotoy tried to 
 keep up with her. Mile-posts and telegraph-posts 
 passed in rapid succession. "Tak, tak, tak ..."
 
 What Never Happened 53 
 
 Misha thought rhythmically, looking at Chaly and almost 
 dying in impatient expectation. "Faster, dear one ..." 
 But Tikhon pulled up the lines and Chaly reduced his 
 speed. The Bolotov estate appeared in the distance: a 
 red roof and a green garden. 
 
 Nikolay Stepanovich Bolotov, an old retired general, 
 was standing on the high whitewashed steps and was 
 looking out through the avenue of linden-trees with one 
 hand shading his eyes from the sun. The carriage 
 passed through the gate with its stone lions, and the 
 sun's rays began to fall through the leaves and played 
 on the horses' backs and Tikhon 's shoulders. Misha 
 could not wait any longer and jumped from the car- 
 riage and ran up to his father. He hardly had time to 
 greet him, when a pair of arms embraced him, and his 
 sister Natasha kissed him heartily. He heard light steps 
 in the hall and felt his mother was coming out. 
 
 After a long-drawn-out festive dinner Misha went out 
 into the garden. He was home again after a long ab- 
 sence. He had to see everything, greet every tree, every 
 stone, every shady lawn. In the garden and in the yard 
 everything was as of old. The round dog Sharik with 
 his shaggy tail and chocolate-coloured hair ran up to 
 Misha and smelled his boots. On seeing Misha the red 
 hunting-dog Vesta whined and licked him on his lips. 
 The same housemaids, Lukerya and Dasha, greeted him 
 with lowered eyes. The same housekeeper, Malanya 
 Petrovna, in her usual blue skirt, passed to the cellar for 
 currant-water. And as of old the garden paths were 
 overgrown with burdock, wild hemp and nettles ; and the 
 lilacs were abloom ; and the green gooseberries were just 
 as delicious as ever. And the horses were chewing their 
 oats peacefully in the stalls.
 
 54 What Never Happened 
 
 At one end the garden went out upon the woods, and 
 the woods were still there smelling of fallen trees and 
 resin, Misha sat down near a shady stream. Natasha, 
 breaking the long stems of ferns, moved up to her 
 brother and said timidly looking into his happy face: 
 
 "We thought Sasha had been killed. We had 
 had no letters from him. Papa was crying all the 
 time." 
 
 "And Mamma?" Misha asked with quick concern. 
 
 "Mamma, you know, keeps quiet." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Now we have a letter. He writes he was taken pris- 
 oner. Thank God!" Natasha crossed herself. "Why 
 do people make wars ? ' ' 
 
 Misha knew of the Tsu Shima battle. But he never 
 thought of his brother, of the fact that he might have 
 been killed. Natasha's words made no impression on 
 him. It made no difference to him whether his brother 
 was a prisoner or not. Under the influence of comrades, 
 pamphlets, newspapers and discussions Misha gradually 
 had come to look upon all Russian adversities with that 
 common indifference, which at that time was considered 
 proper and deserving. "That's just what they de- 
 serve," he thought, though he could not say who "they" 
 were and why "they" deserved to drown, or die, or to 
 be captured by the Japanese. Without answering Na- 
 tasha's question, he asked: 
 
 "And why is mamma in black?" 
 
 "Mamma is always in black now. Do you know any- 
 thing about Andriusha?" 
 
 "No, not a thing." 
 
 "Why doesn't he write?" 
 
 "I don't know."
 
 Wliat Never Happened 55 
 
 Natasha was lost in thought. A woodpecker was at 
 his work in the thick of the woods. 
 
 "Listen, Misha, tell me ... I have long wanted to 
 ask you . . . Misha, tell me, what's Andriusha doing 
 there? . . . Where is he? I know he's badly off . . . 
 He's very badly off . . . Misha, is it true that he is a 
 Socialist?" 
 
 Misha nodded silently. 
 
 Natasha was seventeen years old. She had blue eyes, 
 flaxen hair, and long slender hands. She studied at 
 home in winter in Moscow and in summer in their Bo- 
 lotov estate. About the Party she only knew by hear- 
 say. But she was accustomed to think of the revolu- 
 tionists as remarkable, self-sacrificing people. The 
 Party seemed like a mysterious monastery with a strict 
 monastic life. She was only troubled by the fact that 
 revolutionists kill people, throw bombs and fight at bar- 
 ricades. And it oppressed her now to think that And- 
 riusha, who was almost a stranger to her, Andriusha, 
 whose portrait was on her table, a tall, strong, unknown 
 man, her brother, that he too was a revolutionist and, 
 consequently, a martyr and a murderer. It became 
 clear to her why he did not write. She recalled the 
 words of her favourite evangelist Luke: "If any man 
 come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and 
 wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and 
 his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. ' ' 
 
 Misha was not oppressed, he was overjoyed by the fact 
 that his brother was a member of the Party and a revo- 
 lutionist. He knew very little about the Party, not 
 much more than his sister. He had secretly read a few 
 forbidden books in the gymnasium. According to these 
 books the life of revolutionists seemed a life of heroic
 
 56 What Never Happened 
 
 deeds and earnest sacrifice. He hardly understood the 
 aims of the Socialists, but he had faith that, whatever 
 their aim was, it must be just and good. He often heard 
 that the Socialists were the only honest people and that 
 every self-respecting human being in Russia must be a 
 revolutionist. And though he knew neither Party, nor 
 Socialism, nor the revolution, though he had no idea of 
 terror and did not even think of it, still in a youthful 
 spirit of inspiration he had resolved that he must serve 
 the people. And after he had come to such a resolve, 
 the strange and distant Party became near, beloved. 
 And he was sincerely ready to give his life not only for 
 the people, but for the Party, for Andriusha and for 
 the mysterious committee. 
 
 "Misha ..." Natasha called softly. 
 
 *'What?" 
 
 "Misha, and you . . . have you thought about it?" 
 Catching her meaning, Misha nodded again. 
 
 "Well, Misha?" 
 
 Misha did not answer. 
 
 "Misha . . ." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Misha, aren't you afraid?" 
 
 "Afraid of what?" 
 
 "Afraid ... to kill?" 
 
 Misha became excited. 
 
 "Oh, Natasha, to kill . . ." He rose from the grass 
 and began to talk excitedly. "Why do you ask? . . . 
 And they . . . Don't they kill? . . . Don't they hang 
 people? . . . Don't they shoot workingmen to death? 
 . . . How about the ninth of January? . . . Don't op- 
 pression and misery reign all about us? . . . Natasha, 
 I can't stand it ... I can't!"
 
 What Never Happened 57 
 
 "But, Misha, to kill ..." 
 
 ''And Andriusha?" 
 
 "What about Andriusha?" 
 
 "Doesn't Andriusha kill?" 
 
 Natasha was silent. She recalled the words of the 
 same evangelist Luke : * ' Love your enemies, do good to 
 them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and 
 pray for them that despitef ully use you. ' '
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 NIKOLAY STEPANOVICH BOLOTOY, a re- 
 tired general, was a man of iron principles. 
 To him the words "Fatherland," "Church," 
 * ' Czar, ' ' were not merely so many solemn words, but the 
 whole meaning of his life was contained in them, just as 
 to his son Andriusha the meaning of his whole life was 
 contained in their opposites "Republic," "Revolution," 
 "Socialism." Like everybody else, Nikolay Stepano- 
 vich felt that something new was astir in Russia, but he 
 could not grasp its significance. He knew his Father- 
 land was in danger. Every morning the newspapers 
 told of defeats in the theatre of war. But he never asked 
 himself whether this bloody war was not a government 
 scheme and who was responsible for it. Russia was at 
 war with Japan and Japan was winning. In the face 
 of such an unparalleled disgrace, all differences of opin- 
 ion ought to have been silenced. When a ship is sinking 
 we do not try the guilty parties, but we make an effort 
 to save the ship. When there is a fire we do not seek 
 the cause but try to extinguish it. He thought the re- 
 sponsibility for Russia's misfortune lay with those who 
 held the army up to ridicule, with those who in their 
 madness had begun the war and now led the armies so 
 blunderingly — with Kuropatkin, Plehve, Alekseyev, the 
 commissary, the students, the Jews, the Poles, the Finns 
 and in short with all Russian citizens. He did not see 
 that he was thus pronouncing judgment upon his 
 
 58
 
 What Never Happened 59 
 
 Fatherland, a judgment which was more severe than the 
 one pronounced by the Japanese at Mukden and Tsu 
 Shima. Yet, if Russia had been winning and Japan 
 losing, he would have rejoiced in the war. It never en- 
 tered his mind that every war is unjustifiable. He 
 looked upon war with the obedient eyes of the soldier, 
 a law sanctioned by ages, a law about which it was futile 
 and blasphemous to argue. If any one tried to contra- 
 dict him, he ansv^ered : ' ' There is no power that does 
 not come from God, ' ' and these words were full of mean- 
 ing to him. He was proud of his son Sasha. Sasha 
 was doing his honest duty to the "Fatherland" and 
 *'Czar." 
 
 The Fatherland was in danger. He knew it from the 
 fact that daily the newspapers brought disquieting re- 
 ports about murders, executions, strikes, agrarian upris- 
 ings, about secret party organization, about court-mar- 
 tials and bombs. He thought that even if there was 
 lawlessness in Russia, it was due to the fact that the 
 Czar knew nothing about it, and that if the Czar should 
 find out that it existed he would soon put an end to it by 
 his God-given right. When his second son Audrey Bo- 
 lotov was arrested for the first time, he accepted it as a 
 mistake, as a sad misunderstanding on the part of the 
 gendarmes, for whom he had a profound contempt. He 
 went immediately to St. Petersburg, intervened with the 
 minister and threatened the shameless secret service. 
 He could not admit that his own son, the clever, honest 
 Andriusha, could have become a ' ' criminal, ' ' a man who 
 was dangerous to the "Fatherland." But when And- 
 riusha without having asked his father's consent left the 
 Technological Institute and disappeared from St. Pet- 
 ersburg, he began to suspect the bitter truth. But he
 
 60 What Never Happened 
 
 stubbornly clung to the belief that his son would repent, 
 and he found solace in the story of the prodigal son. 
 ' ' ]\ry son was dead, and is alive again ; he was lost, and 
 is found. ' ' 
 
 To the wife of Nikolay Stepanovich, Tatyana Mikai- 
 lovna, it made no difference whether Russia was to be a 
 democratic republic, a constitutional monarchy or an 
 autocracy. Like her son Audrey she looked upon every 
 war as upon a bloody crime, a crime before God and 
 man, particularly so the Japanese War, perhaps, be- 
 cause her two first-bom were taking part in it and were 
 risking their lives. Her womanly instinct, the sharpened 
 instinct of a mother, made her feel that the most essen- 
 tial thing did not lie in what men thought but in what 
 they did. It seemed to her that it lay somewhere else, 
 but she could not very well express it, and when she tried 
 to, she simply spoke in a general open-hearted manner, 
 saying that "one must live according to the teachings 
 of love." She did not know herself what it meant. It 
 seemed to her that both of her sons lived according to 
 the teachings of Christ, though both were killing people. 
 Both did their useful work. Both were exposed to 
 danger. She remembered them as they had been years 
 ago when they had cried in her arms and sucked her 
 motherly breasts; and she humbly prayed for both that 
 their Lives might be spared. 
 
 When her j^oungest son Mikhail came home, she alone 
 noticed the change that had taken place in him. His 
 voice had become deeper, his youthful face thinner, and 
 his blue eyes sparkled with a restless fire. Though now 
 he was near her it seemed to her that her love for the 
 older children was greater; still she unconsciously sur- 
 rounded him with unceasing tenderness and hidden care.
 
 What Never Happened 61 
 
 She understood that he had already come to some de- 
 cision of his own, with his eighteen-year-old mind, and 
 his verdict would prove to be a source of new sorrow to 
 her. She knew that he, too, her third aud last son, was 
 gradually becoming a man, and, consequently, was going 
 away to his difficult, manly work, which she could not 
 understand. She could not hold him back, and to her 
 prayer for her older children she added a prayer that 
 his life, too, might be spared. 
 
 In the middle of July a letter came from Sasha. All 
 assembled in the billiard room; it was high and cool, 
 with tapestries on the walls and family portraits in 
 gilded frames. It overlooked the garden, and the leaves 
 of the old linden-tree, which had been planted by the 
 great-grandfather of Nikolay Stepanovich, brushed the 
 windows. Nikolay Stepanovich, a vigorous, old man, 
 clean shaven, with colour in his full cheeks, took Sasha 's 
 letter out from the side-pocket of his military coat and 
 unfolded it carefully. He put on his gold-rimmed 
 glasses, looked severely at his wife and children, as if 
 to make sure they were ready and willing to listen, and 
 began to read in a loud, solemn voice. Sasha wrote a 
 clear, short description of the Tsu Shima battle, with- 
 out complaining of faultfinding. His calm, precise 
 phrases reminded Misha of their author, a broad-shoul- 
 dered young officer, quiet and cold-eyed. And while 
 Nikolay Stepanovich was reading, Misha had the same 
 feeling as he had always had in the presence of his 
 brother, a mixture of love and respect and fear. 
 "When the Japanese officers boarded our ship" — Nik- 
 olay Stepanovich 's voice trembled — "they lowered the 
 flag of Audrey, raised their own flag of the rising sun, 
 and stationed their sentry. Our commander, who was
 
 62 What Never Happened 
 
 exhausted by the sleepless night and the battle, attacked 
 the kegs of wine. A lot of the men got drunk. I saw 
 one of our soldiers fall down intoxicated. A Japanese 
 sentry lay down his gun, went over to him, wiped his 
 face and returned to his post. ..." Nikolay Stepano- 
 vich stopped and covered his eyes with his white hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 "Thank God, Sasha isn't wounded," said Tatyana 
 Mikhailovna. She listened to the reading with her beau- 
 tiful grey head slightly bent, trying not to miss the 
 slightest word. The one thing she gathered, and that 
 sunk into her heart, was that Sasha was alive and out 
 of danger. 
 
 "What have they done?" Nikolay Stepanovich kept 
 on repeating in a voice tremulous with emotion. Misha, 
 who had been silent all this time, flushed a deep crimson. 
 
 "Who, papa?" 
 
 "Who?" demanded Nikolay Stepanovich angrily, 
 shaking the cherrywood cigarette holder. 
 
 "All are guilty . . . and those too . . . those long- 
 haired ones. They don't study, take up politics, start 
 a revolution, and give them a constitution ... as if 
 they were Germans, God forbid . . . and the Father- 
 land is perishing . . . They have lowered the flag of 
 Audrey and raised the Japanese flag . . . and we are 
 glad . . . that's the way . . . They don't understand 
 it's a dishonour. Shame! . . . shame," he shouted as if 
 everybody were contradicting him. Then he continued, 
 "They say that court-martials are cruel . . . Indeed, 
 cruel ? Here we are at war, blood is being spilled, here 
 are bombs, strikes and robberies of the landowners. The 
 papers say the peasants of the Saratov province are
 
 What Never Happened 63 
 
 burning the manor-houses . . . and they are to be par- 
 doned? No, they ought to be hanged . . . Hanged!" 
 He beat his cigarette holder on the arm of the chair. 
 
 Natasha, long since become accustomed to her father's 
 furious outbursts, did not attempt to answer him. She 
 was sorry for him. Those were not his own ideals, she 
 felt, and his threats were not very terrifying. But to 
 Misha the words of Nikolay Stepanovieh sounded like an 
 undeserved insult. It was his duty to prove his father 
 wrong and explain that Andriusha and the revolution- 
 ists were not those "long-haired" ones but those Minins 
 and Pozharskys who were destined to save Russia from 
 disgrace and dissolution. Glancing at Natasha, he said 
 in a voice bursting with excitement, "The ones you're 
 speaking of, they're not the only ones who ought to be 
 hanged, papa." 
 
 Nikolay Stepanovieh grew pale. "Here, here's how 
 you have raised them ! ' ' He turned to Tatyana Mikhai- 
 lovna breathless with anger. "A stripling has the 
 audacity to argue ! . . . and with whom ? With me ! 
 . . . with his father . . . He has the audacity to argue ! 
 . . . Take care, Mikhail, you too . . . Take care! . . . 
 and you, too. . . . Mikhail, you too. . . .! Take care." 
 He shook his finger at him. "I shall not allow it! I 
 shall not ! . . . I have had enough disgrace brought upon 
 me. . . . Follow the example of Aleksandr, not of the 
 others." He alluded again to the son the thought of 
 whom haunted him painfully. "They have no respect 
 for their parents, no love for their Fatherland, no rever- 
 ence for the Czar, no fear of God. . . . Scoundrels ! " he 
 shouted hoarsely and left the room slamming the door 
 behind him.
 
 64 What Never Happened 
 
 *'No, say what you will, I can't understand," Misha 
 began excitedly, trying not to look at his mother. 
 "Heroes are giving up their lives for the people, for 
 the happiness of all, and they say they ought to be 
 hanged. . . . The most abominable outrages are taking 
 place, and everybody stands for them . . . but when 
 more people want to fight against them . . . they ought 
 to be hanged? . . . What does it mean?" 
 
 Tatyana Mikhailovna looked at her son sorrowfully. 
 He was very handsome in his anger. Tall and blue- 
 eyed, like all her children, face flushed, he paced the 
 room with rapid strides. She sighed. 
 
 Misha turned to her. She was still sitting on the 
 couch, her head slightly bent and fingering her black, 
 woollen shawl. Misha suddenly felt ashamed, and was 
 impelled to explain that he couldn't stand it any longer, 
 that he loved the Party, believed in Andriusha and 
 wanted to serve the people and the revolution. But an 
 indefinable feeling held him back. His mother's bent 
 head, sorrowful eyes and mournful silence were eloquent 
 of the fact that she understood him, and words would be 
 futile. He walked slowly to the window and looked into 
 the garden. The linden-trees were rustling. Gardener 
 Kuzima was watering the beds of geraniums, petunias, 
 mignonette and gilliflowers — the beloved flower-beds of 
 Nikolay Stepanovich — with a long-necked green water- 
 ing can. The room was quiet now. Tatyana Mikhail- 
 ovna broke the awesome silence and said: *'Have you 
 thought about us, Misha ? ' ' 
 
 Misha made no reply, at a loss what to say. To hide 
 his tears, to his mind a sign of weakness, he covered his 
 face with his hands and ran out into the garden, down
 
 What Never Happened 65 
 
 to the river. As he made his way through the damp 
 grass by the shore, the smell of reeds and water came to 
 him. Directly above drifted creamy clouds of various 
 shapes. Their trackless drifting made him feel still 
 sadder and more restless.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE summer of 1905 passed with its assassina- 
 tions, strikes, demonstrations and that ominous 
 foreboding — the daring revolt on the battle- 
 ship Prince Potiomkin of Taurus. The autumn came 
 and with it the general strike. 
 
 Although Arseny Ivanovich and Bolotov, and Vanya, 
 and Seriozha and David and all the numerous comrades 
 ivho had been daily expecting the revolution, had be- 
 lieved in its irresistible nearness and had faith in a 
 regenerating victory, they did not understand that their 
 work was being brought to a finish and that the revolu- 
 tion was now under way. Only yesterday they had been 
 busily engaged in their secret Party work. They had 
 been busy on the committees, preparing books, organiz- 
 ing peasants, workingmen and soldiers, writing procla- 
 mations, and delivering fiery speeches. In a word, only 
 yesterday the solidly built machine had been humming 
 and nobody could have guessed that the revolution was 
 so close at hand. But not only the revolutionists 
 were taken by surprise, but even the gendarmes, the 
 spies, the officials, the ministers and all who feared it 
 and felt its inevitable approach. They could not believe 
 that these unprecedented events which were taking place 
 before their very eyes made up the dreadful revolution 
 they had tried in vain to forestall. Finally it came, 
 that long expected tomorrow. Like a bolt of lightning, 
 the great general strike burst down upon them. A 
 fantastic dream came true. 
 
 6G
 
 What Never Happened 67 
 
 How it came about no one knew and no one could ex- 
 plain. Just which of the Government's orders filled 
 the bitter cup to overflowing? 
 
 Just which revolutionist set the example of supreme 
 daring? Whose innocent blood warmed the northern 
 pole? Thus the Neva, the great, full-watered river, 
 sleeps in its stone cradle, till a vivifying April ray de- 
 scends from the bastion of St. Peter and Paul. The 
 snow now sparkles like diamonds, but the streams have 
 not yet begun to run and the ice remains immovable. A 
 second ray follows the first. Above the fortress the St. 
 Petersburg sun begins to shine — pale, feeble, yet all- 
 powerful. And unseen, secretly, down on the frozen 
 depths of the Neva washing the Alekseyev ravelin, gur- 
 gling streams begin to chatter. The murmuring waters 
 join them. At last with a mighty crash the Neva breaks 
 through, and the clanging, brittle ice carries all before 
 it. 
 
 When the Manifesto of the 17th October was pub- 
 lished, Bolotov did not immediately grasp its meaning. 
 He carefully read through the prophetic pages about the 
 convening of the Imperial Duma, about freedom of the 
 press, freedom of conscience, of unions and meetings; 
 but he could not assimilate the words. It was not until 
 he encountered a boy on the Nevsky selling caricatures 
 of Witte and bought one of them and read the cyni- 
 cally humorous legend ridiculing the all-powerful min- 
 ister, that he really understood that a change had taken 
 place in Russia, and whatever the new order might prove 
 to be, the old one, outworn and discarded, would never 
 return. For the first time he experienced a joyful 
 sense of deliverance. All the puzzling problems van- 
 ished, all those problems which had oppressed him of
 
 68 What Never Happened 
 
 late. He could now forget about terror, about Vanya, 
 about death, about his right to live. Everything was 
 clear. It seemed that the most important goal unques- 
 tionably the most important one, had been reached. The 
 road to the promised land was open — the road to the 
 just and free ordering of Russia. But the feeling was 
 not unalloyed. It was poisoned by doubt! How to 
 adapt himself to the new life, how to live not under- 
 ground, without the committee, without conspiracy 
 work, how to shake off the Party habits, how arrange, not 
 the world, but his own ant-like life? And for the first 
 time asking himself what he knew and what he could do, 
 Bolotov was surprised to have to admit that, except for 
 his revolutionaiy experience, he was without position, 
 and that except for adapting himself to the life of a con- 
 spirator, he had acquired nothing from the Party. The 
 life of privation of the millions of the people was to him 
 unknown, unintelligible and out of reach. He fairly 
 regretted that everything was over so soon, the revolu- 
 tion won, and he, like a discharged day-labourer, left 
 homeless and forsaken. With bitterness he recalled the 
 ingenious words of Arseny Ivanovich: *'The devil was 
 proud and he fell from Heaven. Pharaoh was proud 
 and he was drowned in the ocean, we are proud and we 
 are good-for-nothing." The other feeling that Bolotov 
 was experiencing and that called forth both hope and 
 wrath, was a deep-rooted distrust of the Manifesto with 
 its proclamation of liberties. He saw the face of Vera 
 Andreyevna, erstwhile exhausted, but now peaceful; 
 the self-complacent smile on Doctor Berg's face, as if he 
 were the one who had led the strike ; he heard the hoarse 
 voice of Arseny Ivanovich: "Now, benefactor, it's all 
 done for. You can't turn it out with a lever, you
 
 What Never Happened 69 
 
 can 't grind it with a stone. ' ' He saw and heard all this 
 and still could not throw off the bitter feeling of doubt 
 imbued in him through these years. He was not per- 
 plexed by the Government's capitulation, but by the fact 
 that capitulation had come so soon without a stubborn 
 fight, almost without victims. Seeing how suddenly, ir- 
 respective of his will or effort, the great strijie had 
 started, how rapidly it had spread, how deeply it affected 
 all Eussia, he understood and reluctantly admitted that 
 it was not the Party nor the committees that had or- 
 ganized it, and it was not in the Party's power to retard 
 or to hasten the triumphal course of events. This im- 
 potence of the Party, which must have been clear to all 
 Eussia, was to him a source of constant grief. 
 
 His doubts did not last long. One day as he was 
 hurrying to the editorial room of the Party press, which 
 the new law permitted to appear, he passed along the 
 Admiral Prospect decked in holiday trimmings. 
 
 Darkened by the autumn wind Neva's waters were 
 angrily rising in heavy, leaden waves. The air was 
 damp. The thick, yellow Petersburg fog was begin- 
 ning to lift. Crowds were filling the Aleksandr Park, 
 strewn with fallen leaves, the grey, silent crowds, which 
 seemed to be intent on some important work common to 
 all. They were streaming from the park to the Ad- 
 miral Prospect and thence to the Isaakieva Plaza. Here 
 and there red flags were hanging in tatters. On the 
 black branches of the trees and on the iron posts sur- 
 rounding the park, were perched hungry street-urchins 
 in heavy boots and with ragged hats pulled over their 
 ears. A young student from the Technological Institute, 
 with coat unbuttoned, was haranguing the crowd in a 
 thin, timid voice : Comrade ! . . . Manifesto ! . . . Lib-
 
 ,70 What Never Happened 
 
 erty!" Through the cold mist Bolotov could hear the 
 familiar words. He saw the crowds of people and above 
 them the young face of the speaker. He could not get 
 away. Everywhere — in front of him, behind him, to his 
 left and to his right, he was hemmed in by wet broad 
 backs, by shoulders, and breasts. Suddenly the student 
 shouted something that Bolotov could not make out. A 
 sudden tremor went through the crowd ; and then, after 
 a troubled moment, the wall of human bodies broke into 
 a wild stampede, madly, breathlessly trampling one 
 another like a herd of frightened beasts. Children 
 wailed, mothers wept, men turned pale and tried to push 
 their way through the crowd with clenched fists. There 
 was the sound of the tramping of hundreds of muffled 
 feet. Cries of fear awoke Bolotov to attention. On 
 the deserted Admiral Prospect, closing the exits from 
 the park, a solid mass of soldiery in wet, grey uniforms 
 were forming a barrier. Somehow these uniforms in 
 their oppressive monotony awoke an unreasoning panic 
 in him. *'Will they really shoot?" flashed through 
 Bolotov 's mind, but he immediately laughed away the 
 thought. "Shoot? But we have freedom!" He reas- 
 sured himself. At the same moment a strange, sharp 
 report unexpectedly cut the air. Bolotov saw a small, 
 ugly bundle drop from a bare, consumptive-looking lin- 
 den-tree. A boy of about ten lay awkwardly on the 
 dark, wet path, as quietly as though he had not fallen 
 from above, but had lain down of his own accord. 
 From afar one might have thought him sound asleep. 
 Bolotov bent over the child. From under his big hat, 
 which probably belonged to his father, showed a slender 
 neck, and a head covered with fair curling hair. His 
 shoulders were very narrow. A patched-up shirt stuck
 
 What Never Happened 71 
 
 to his narrow, childish back and frail little body. With- 
 out any thought of what he was doing, Bolotov touched 
 the boy's shoulder cautiously, but instantly withdrew 
 his fingers, got up and went slowly past the soldiers 
 towards the Nevsky, *' Shall I turn around? Or shall 
 I not turn? Shall I run?" He thought, feeling a 
 fevered trembling seize him. "What is it? Am I a 
 coward?" The thought was degrading; so, straight- 
 ening himself to his full height, he deliberately slackened 
 his pace and went along the Nevsky in the centre of the 
 pavement. He found he was alone. There was not a 
 soul near him.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 EARLY in December, when the snow had become 
 solid enough for sleigh-riding and the frost was 
 beginning to decorate the window-panes, they 
 began to say in St. Petersburg that barricades were un- 
 avoidable. Bolotov and his comrades knew that no or- 
 ders could force people to revolt, if they did not desire 
 to; but though they knew the futility of their delibera- 
 tions they considered it their duty to the Party to at- 
 tempt to solve this problem of countrywide importance ; 
 to decide whether or not a strike should take place, that 
 is to say, an all-Russian armed revolt, which they thought 
 was bound to be victorious. 
 
 The meeting was fixed for eleven o'clock in the eve- 
 ning on the Kamennoostrov Prospect, in the isolated 
 home of the merchant Valabuyev. At the entrance, 
 built in the Russian style, a butler opened the oak doors 
 noiselessly. The comrades removed their coats, shook 
 off the snow and ascended a marble staircase to the study 
 on the second floor. There they were met by Valabuyev, 
 a stout, over-fed man, the flesh of whose face hung in 
 folds and who wore his hair cut in pompadour fashion. 
 He was dressed in English style: tight trousers, a loose 
 black coat, and a coloured vest. Though unacquainted 
 with any of his prospective guests, he greeted them good- 
 naturedly, like an old friend. Arseny Ivanovich's pa- 
 triarchal beard filled him with awe and respect. 
 
 78
 
 What Never Happened 73 
 
 When Bolotov entered, all the comrades were as- 
 sembled except Arkady Rosenstern and a man from 
 Moscow by the name of Vladimir Gliebov, or, as he was 
 called in the Party, Volodya. 
 
 In a dim corner of the room sitting on a couch under 
 a life-size portrait of Tolstoy, Vera Andreyevna was con- 
 versing with an old Jew, with long, thick hair. Bolotov 
 knew him ; his name was Zalkind. He knew he had suf- 
 fered all his life in prisons and had served the revolu- 
 tion as well as he could. But Bolotov did not like him. 
 He was repelled by his greenish, sickly face covered with 
 red pimples, his little inflamed eyes, his untidy coat, and 
 his exaggerated friendliness and familiarity. Bolotov 
 was ashamed of this repugnance, accusing himself of in- 
 justice and prejudice. So, he tried to be particularly 
 cordial to the old man, who when he saw Bolotov, 
 greeted him affably, extending his wet hand without 
 rising, and saying: 
 
 "How are you? What news? How do you do?" 
 
 * ' Thank you. How are you ? ' ' Bolotov answered with 
 a forced smile, and immediately felt that mean, intoxi- 
 cating irritation which had tormented him the whole 
 summer. Looking at Zalkind with hatred he thought : 
 
 "What is he doing here? What does he know?" 
 His disgust was growing. 
 
 Vera Andreyevna, in her usual, plain, black dress, 
 lighting one cigarette after another, was telling a long 
 story. Bolotov heard her exhausted, monotonous voice. 
 She had been arrested and confined in the Poltava dis- 
 trict prison. Zalkind listened and sighed in sympathy. 
 
 "You know," Vera Andreyevna was saying, lighting 
 her extinguished cigarette, "few books, and those ex- 
 clusively religious. ... No visitors. . . . Boring. ..."
 
 74 What Never Happened 
 
 "Really how long were you confined?" Zalkind sighed 
 again. 
 
 "Twenty-one months." 
 
 Bolotov ceased listening. "My God," he thought, 
 "what are they talking about? Always the same, the 
 same, the same, and all about the same." 
 
 At the tea table, where a silver samovar stood, Arseny 
 Ivanovich, Valabuyev and Doctor Berg were seated in 
 arm-chairs. Bolotov went over to the table. Arseny 
 Ivanovich, stirring his tea with a spoon and looldng slyly 
 at Valabuyev, was talking in his bass voice : 
 
 "You need not worry, my benefactor. ... It's all 
 very clear. . . . What if they did arrest the Council of 
 Workmen's Delegates? Water will find its course. 
 Just wait, the constitutional assembly will give the 
 land to the people. Now we shall not compromise on 
 half -measures. No, sir, now it's either everything or 
 nothing." He smiled and put some preserves in his 
 tea. "If the people revolt, what then? What can they 
 do then ? No, my benefactor, now we have won, now we 
 are on top, now they can no longer resist us. Never ! ' ' 
 
 Arseny Ivanovich wanted to convince Valabuyev that 
 the Party was big and strong, but Valabuyev was silent 
 and shook his round, shorn head slightly; from which 
 it was impossible to gather whether he agreed or whether 
 he kept from arguing out of politeness. Doctor Berg 
 yawned, looked at his gold monogrammed watch, and in- 
 terrupted Arseny Ivanovich with a touch of annoyance 
 in his voice; 
 
 * ' The devil take it ! It 's half past twelve. Some one 's 
 always late. The eternal Russian tardiness." 
 
 Doctor Berg considered himself the most practical 
 and consequently the most useful and most valuable
 
 What Never Happened 75 
 
 member of the Party. In his opinion half the defeats 
 of the revolution were due to the inherent laziness of 
 Kussian and Slav and to their inability, as he put it, 
 to "write a simple business letter." He loved precision 
 and prided himself upon the fact that he never forgot 
 addresses, was never late at appointments and never 
 mixed up "passwords." '^Les affaires sont les af- 
 faires/' he always said, and he treated with contempt 
 those comrades who "had busy airs on" and who 
 "tempted danger." He was an old member of the 
 Party, but had never been arrested. He had thin, white 
 hands, wore high collars and coloured ties. 
 
 "So, my benefactor," Arseny Ivanovich resumed, 
 stroking Valabuyev good-naturedly on his back, "I will 
 tell you of a case. I remember, it was back in 1877 — no, 
 wait." He thought a moment. "No, not in seventy- 
 seven, but in seventy-eight." 
 
 He had no time to finish his story. The heavy cur- 
 tains parted and the door opened noiselessly. The 
 man who entered was about twenty-six, very tall, with 
 a black curly beard and heavily pock-marked face. He 
 wore a blue peasant blouse of some rough material, and 
 might have been taken for a clerk, or day-labourer, or 
 for a young merchant of the Orthodox church, but not 
 for a revolutionist. He was Gliebov, the legendary 
 Volodya, who was renowned along the Volga for his 
 desperate courage. Valabuyev glanced at the new guest 
 and then left the room with eyes averted. Volodya 
 made an awkward bow and sat down at the window, near 
 the statue of the Venus of Milo. Arseny Ivanovich 
 coughed : 
 
 "Well, shall we begin, benefactor?" 
 
 And in exactly the same way as a year ago, when dis-
 
 76 What Never Happened 
 
 cussing the question of military revolt, they now began 
 again in the full conviction that at least the beginning 
 of the revolution, if not the outcome, depended upon their 
 discussions. Bolotov listened, contemptuous, against his 
 own will. Unaccustomed thoughts thronged into his 
 mind. "Have they really not learned yet?" he thought, 
 unconsciously using the discriminating "they" instead 
 of "we." "Won't the example of David be suffi- 
 cient? Don't they know that the right to talk about 
 murder is given only to the man who himself commits 
 the murder, and the right to talk about death is given 
 only to the man who is himself ready to die, who has 
 seen death?" He looked at Gliebov. He had heard 
 him spoken of as a straightforward, courageous revolu- 
 tionist, and he feared that he too might deliver long, 
 futile speeches. But Volodj^a, with his black hairy head 
 sunk on his breast and his eyes closed, seemed indiffer- 
 ent, almost asleep. Bolotov suddenly felt like saying 
 aloud, so that everybody might hear him, the whole 
 Party, every comrade, that these discussions were child's 
 play and that nothing depended on them. He felt like 
 saying that should an uprising materialize, it would be 
 brought about by the will of those who would themselves 
 earrj^ the guns, by the will of those countless workmen 
 who, without asking an3'body's permission, would build 
 barricades. But he remained silent. He felt that he 
 would not be understood and that Doctor Berg would 
 say those significant words to which he would not have 
 the courage to reply. Doctor Berg would ask him in 
 his cold manner: "Do you deny the influence of the 
 Party, and if you do, why do you remain a member of 
 it ? If you do not, how can you treat its mandates with 
 contempt?"
 
 What Never Happened 77 
 
 Arseny Ivanovich was speaking with his usual author- 
 ity and imperiousness : 
 
 "Why should we deceive ourselves? . . . Our forces 
 are not united, but disorganized. . . . We have little 
 ammunition. The army has not been on our side till 
 now. The workmen are tired. To declare a strike now 
 would mean . . . what would it mean, benefactors? 
 ... It would mean issuing a call to revolution, to an 
 uprising of the whole people. . . . But are we ready for 
 it? You'd better listen to me. I'm an old man. Rye 
 bread is grandfather to the wheat roll. . . . We must 
 wait a while. Last spring a man came to see us, what 
 was his name? David? Or what? He kept gesticu- 
 lating and shouting: a revolt. . . . The regiment is re- 
 volting! . . . And he didn't take our advice." Arseny 
 Ivanovich looked reproachfully at Bolotov, whom he 
 considered responsible for David's failure. "Well, 
 what was the good of it ? There was no revolt and they 
 barely escaped with their lives. So my opinion is, let's 
 wait. Better a small field than a large marsh. The 
 time isn't ripe for revolts. . . . We must have patience. 
 . , . Wait till spring. Then we'll see, but now — we 
 mustn't, we mustn't, we mustn't." 
 
 Arseny Ivanovich spoke wisely and carefully. But 
 to Bolotov it seemed that he was wrong, and his 
 arguments concealed a lie that he could not, how- 
 ever, detect. He wanted to say something, but Vo- 
 lodya interceded. He rose slowly from his chair, as if 
 he had been dreaming, looked over the whole company, 
 smiled faintly at Doctor Berg's greenish-yellow tie, and 
 addressing Arseny Ivanovich, he began in a loud voice 
 and with a singing Moscow accent : 
 
 "You're talking nonsense, Arseny Ivanovich. . . .
 
 78 What Never Happened 
 
 "What have we assembled here for? Is it to weave the 
 philosophical problem of the fate of the revolution ? 
 If so, then it would be best for us to take our leave of 
 one another: the food is not for the horse. ... I haven't 
 come here for word battles. . , . The question is not 
 whether it's advisable or not to declare a strike — we are 
 not going to declare it anyway — but the question is this : 
 if an uprising should start in St. Petersburg, or in Mos- 
 cow, or anywhere else in Russia, what is the Party go- 
 ing to do ? I ask you ! What assistance can the Party 
 offer? There has been one general strike already. 
 "Where were we ? I say it 's a disgrace ! ' ' Volodya was 
 silent for a minute. *' We must provide money, ammuni- 
 tion, men . . . and we must go ourselves . . . and not 
 sit around in idleness." He finished resolutely and sat 
 down. 
 
 At his last words Arseny Ivanovich began to drum 
 on the table with his fingers. Vera Andreyevna blushed. 
 Zalkind winked his inflamed eyes and looked at Volodya 
 in indignant surprise. 
 
 "Then you mean to say, comrade," Doctor Berg re- 
 marked coldly, rubbing his white hands, "if I have under- 
 stood you rightly, that the situation is this: if anybody, 
 should anywhere, without asking the Party's permission, 
 on his own initiative, build a barricade, we must come to 
 his assistance? Have I understood you correctly?" 
 
 "Exactly," Volodya answered reluctantly and lighted 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "Very well, we must give him our assistance, in other 
 words exhaust the means of the Party? Is that it?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "And not only exhaust the means of the Party, but 
 kill ourselves, besides?"
 
 Wliat Never Happened 79 
 
 ''Yes, if necessary." 
 
 "Very well. That means, that should an uprising 
 break out in Moscow tomorrow, we must go to Moscow ? ' ' 
 
 "You must go to Moscow." 
 
 "And relinquish all our business in St. Petersburg?" 
 
 "The devil, what business are you in anyway?" Vo- 
 lodya shouted suddenly and jumped up from his chair. 
 "Tongue exercising? Arguing? Solving philosophical 
 questions ? In the devil 's name, what other business can 
 there be when there is an uprising?" 
 
 "Ah, youth, youth!" Arseny Ivanovich broke in in 
 a conciliatory tone. "Both here and there. . . . You 
 want an uprising , . . and you want speed . . . and by 
 all means tomorrow and it's none of your concern who 
 will untangle the mess. Wait till you're as old as I am, 
 then you '11 understand ! ' ' 
 
 "Of course, you know it all," Volodya answered with 
 a smile. "You're our fathers. But I haven't come 
 from Moscow for directions, I have come on business. 
 Are you going to give us money ? Yes or no ? Will you 
 give us ammunition? Yes or no? Have you got men? 
 Yes or no?" 
 
 When Volodya, still flushed with anger, was on the 
 carpeted marble stairs, and Valabuyev in his stylish 
 vest and English coat was shaking his head, Bolotov, 
 who had been silent all evening, came over to him ir- 
 resolutely. 
 
 "Listen, Gliebov— " 
 
 ' ' What is it ? " Volodya flung out in annoyance, as he 
 was going down the stairs. 
 
 "Wait, I'm going to Moscow with you." 
 
 Volodya stopped and looked at him suspiciously. 
 
 "You?"
 
 80 What Never Happened 
 
 Bolotov felt hurt. Though he failed to notice the con- 
 tempt in Volodya's words (he could not believe that 
 anybody could despise him, so thoroughly was he con- 
 vinced that his life was justified, important and full of 
 sacrifices) yet he caught that in Volodya's eyes he was 
 not the famous revolutionist Audrey Bolotov, a man 
 beloved by the whole Party, deserving of respect and 
 confidence, but a man whose courage and resoluteness 
 were still to be proved. He wanted to become angry, 
 but the other man's stern face was suddenly lighted by 
 a smile. 
 
 "Very well! Tomorrow? Exactly. If you want to 
 eat doughnuts, don't lie on the stove. ' ' Volodya laughed 
 and banged the heavy oaken door. 
 
 They left together from the Nikolayev station, by the 
 next train for Moscow.
 
 A 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 *' /^ NSWER me one question," said Bolotov, as 
 the train started; "why were you surprised 
 that I wanted to go to Moscow? Do you 
 really tliink we are unfit for things that any member of 
 your organization can do?" 
 
 Volodya did not answer immediately. He wrinkled his 
 brow in thought, which made his face lose its usual stern- 
 ness and become simple and kind, a plain Russian face. 
 
 "How shall I explain?" he began, as he took off his 
 shabby cap and put it up on the rack. "True, I have 
 very little faith in those who merely exercise their 
 tongues. Still, of course, there are exceptions. But 
 what irritates me most is this: if one can't keep pace, 
 let him drop out; nobody's pulling him on a rope, so 
 why all this talk ? Let them hold their tongues, and not 
 shout, 'We're going to do this and we're going to do 
 that, and we're the salt of the earth, we're the intelli- 
 gentzia, we're the Party, we're the Revolution, we'll 
 remake the world.' . . . There was one like that, for in- 
 stance, — I've read about him somewhere — so he just 
 used to hack away in this style: *We are the master- 
 builders, the solenesses, we build lofty air castles on stone 
 foundations.' How do you like that? That's what I 
 call shameless. Why, when we get down to action, to real 
 action, where will they be, those masterbuilders ? You 
 couldn't find them with a light in the daytime. And if 
 anything has been achieved, it was not by them, not by 
 
 81
 
 82 Wliat Never Happened 
 
 those who issue decisions and publish red-tape circulars. 
 It's all a fake. And a big one. I know, j'ou cannot 
 fool me, but the workman believes every word of theirs. 
 . . . And they? Bali!" 
 
 Volodya, sincerely affected, waved an emphatic ges- 
 ture and began to roll a cigarette with his heavy fingers. 
 
 "Just like Vanya and myself," flashed through Bol- 
 otov's mind, but the thought annoyed him. Isn't 
 Arseny Ivanovich ready to give his life? Or Doctor 
 Berg? Or Vera Andreyevna? Or Zalkind? Or he 
 himself ? In fact wasn 't he now on his way to IMoscow ? 
 
 * * Really, why am I going to Moscow ? " he asked him- 
 self, but found no answer; and said frowning: 
 
 "Are you not ashamed to think that they — that we," 
 he corrected himself, "are lying? If it should come to 
 it, we would give our lives as freely as the others." 
 
 "A turtle travels but never arrives. You'd better ex- 
 plain this to me," Volodya answered quietly, blowing 
 the smoke in rings. "I'm a poor philosopher and can't 
 understand these quibbles of yours. But what I do 
 see, I speak out. Does the Party recognize terror? 
 Yes? And who throws bombs? You? Indeed, not. 
 Not one of you has ever held a bomb in his hands. 
 Does the Party preach revolt? Yes? And who is 
 fighting on the barricades, in the army-barracks, on the 
 battleships? You? No, not you. Not one of you has 
 ever even smelt gunpowder. You heard how that Ger- 
 man of yours. Berg, was frightened — Let all our affairs 
 be in St. Petersburg! Ah, and oh, and ah, once more. 
 . . . Always the same thing. 'Affairs of national im- 
 portance' are for ever in the way. Why aren't they in 
 my way? What are those affairs of national im- 
 portance? If they really existed, very well, but it's
 
 What Never Happened 83 
 
 all mere talk. You say 'if it should come to it.' Of 
 course, I don't contradict, but how should it come to 
 it if you sit behind seven bolts, spend your life in per- 
 petual meetings, the devil take them? This is what I 
 think, that if you're a member of the Party, which 
 recognizes terror, you must be able to come out any 
 moment with a bomb in your own hands. But what 
 are the facts? Out of ten — what ten? Out of a hun- 
 dred one goes, but where are the others? You'll say, 
 propaganda, agitation, organization, and all sorts of 
 things. Very well. But tell me, in the devil's name, 
 what good is it to preach revolt when you yourself like 
 a coward keep away? Just think — you write articles 
 on terror, you harangue, you shout, but you yourself 
 don 't go in for terror, and yet you believe you 're right. 
 'We're the leaders of the Party, we're its brains,' or, 
 we have no 'special talents.' Special talents? — For 
 what? For dying? What the devil does one have to 
 have a special talent for dying for? Don't be a coward, 
 don't be a coward, and once more, don't be a coward! 
 That's all there is to it. It's disgusting to look on, by 
 God ! Some f ourflusher in a high collar and a tie, like 
 a peacock, sits and talks through his teeth — 'taking into 
 consideration' — 'inasmuch as' — or writes circulars that 
 nobody wants to read, or if they are read, they get 
 thrown into the waste-basket. And he has his justifica- 
 tions: 'I'm not going in for terror because "division 
 of labour" has been invented.' But where is justice? 
 Plehve was killed, for instance. The plain people were 
 wild with joy. That's their privilege. It's their lot 
 either to dance with joy or to curse. They are no heroes, 
 and we demand nothing of them. But how about the 
 eagles ? The Party ? Why, the dear comrades, the hon-
 
 84 What Never Happened 
 
 curable members of tlie Party, on reading the telegram 
 about Plehve's death, were intoxicated with joy. Each 
 one of them ought to die of shame that it wasn't he who 
 killed Plehve. He ought to be bursting with envy. But 
 not a bit. We are terrorists, of course, in words only. 
 So they took a drink, sang the ]\Iarseillaise, and that's 
 all. Let the Sazonovs create terror, and we shall write 
 books about terror, and have them printed across the 
 frontier. Well, if we're caught, they will put us in the 
 fortress for a year or send us to Siberia. That's all! 
 Nothing to worry about. Bah!" 
 
 "What do you think we ought to do?" 
 ''What you ought to do? Here's what. Every able- 
 bodied one of you ought to take a gun and fight, and 
 all the babies and weaklings, the cowards and talkers — 
 in the neck. Then something would happen. Now there 
 is no order. There is an all-Russian chancery, but noth- 
 ing more. Agitation, propaganda — very well. But is 
 this the time to exercise our tongues? There is a revo- 
 lution on. You understand, the revolution is here. Not 
 coming, but here, with us. It's not that we must get 
 ready, but we must act! It's just as if the Germans 
 would attack us and we should begin to teach the 
 soldiers the ABC, instead of defending our fort- 
 ress. You can't win a battle with books, but fists, not 
 by whining and praying but by bombs, machine-guns 
 and blood. Well, and now consider this: how many 
 members are there in the Party? Say ten thousand. 
 Throw your book into the fire, arm these men, let them 
 go into battle. That's a force, isn't it? And every 
 one of them talks about terror and barricades. But 
 what are we doing? What? It's a disgrace. A hun- 
 dred or two ready to go, and a hundred or two are going
 
 What Never Happened 85 
 
 — without your permission. And you put your hands 
 together and you urge them: go ahead, dear boys, fight 
 and we'll sit home, drink tea, and discuss philosophical 
 problems, or we'll call a conference, prepare some pro- 
 found reports, deliver a few ringing speeches, and what's 
 worst of all, nobody will know or see how shameful it 
 all is. It 's all very proper. It's just the thing. This is 
 the truth. Why, they even talk of morality. Our moral- 
 ity, they say, is high, above the morality of the bourgeoisie. 
 We are Socialists and so on. What a disgrace!" 
 
 As Volodya went on talking Bolotov began to feel an 
 unpleasant dizziness and a choking sensation. The be- 
 loved, snow-white Party was becoming dirty, soiled, as 
 if strange clutching fingers had passed over it. And 
 as the night before in Valabuyev's house, he had felt like 
 replying to Arseny Ivanovich, like shouting that his 
 words were a lie, so now he was seized by a malicious 
 feeling. "No, he's not right, he's not right," he kept 
 on saying to himself, trying not to look at Volodya, 
 "That's not true, no, it isn't." 
 
 "And what is most important of all," Volodya con- 
 tinued quietly, rolling another cigarette, "they bother 
 us. If at least they'd lie on the oven and keep still. 
 But no. They keep on butting in. They sentimental- 
 ize — don't do this, this is immoral, it's not permissible. 
 They would like to make a revolution with kid gloves. 
 They don't understand," he suddenly raised his voice 
 to a shout, "that blood is always blood, no matter how 
 you paint it, how you wash your hands, 'Less blood,' 
 they say. But that's hypocrisy. We are not going 
 to church: if you have no money, steal, or, as you say, 
 'expropriate.' I was on the Volga recently. My God, 
 what's going on there! It's a pitiful sight. A man is
 
 86 "What Never Happened 
 
 in liiding from the hangman; if he's caught, it's all over 
 with him, and he goes about without a passport, with- 
 out boots on, without anything to eat for three days at a 
 stretch. Well, what is he to do? If he robs a govern- 
 ment store, steals some money, he's saved. So accord- 
 ing to you, he mustn't, but if he does, he should see to 
 it that there are no victims, and particularly no private 
 victims! Why, of course! Do no harm to the bloated 
 bourgeois, to the captains of industry, Mr. Pocketrob, or 
 to the landowner, the benefactor of peasants, or to some 
 General Debauche, or to spider ]\Ir. Strangleall. Not 
 allowed, God forbid! They're private people. That 
 means — the man must hang. Nonsense!" lie brought 
 his fist down. *'In war, no parlour methods, but war. 
 What is there to be so nice about? They won't be nice 
 to us. They'll take us by the neck and put the necktie 
 on us in broad daylight, and we are trying to be good to 
 ourselves and to them — to acquire capital — and preserve 
 the innocence of a virgin. It's all silliness. You sit 
 around like statues and nurse your holiness for thirty 
 years, and in the meantime they beat you till you bleed. 
 Be daring! Dare anything. Then you are a man. 
 Worms ! 
 
 "There are no problems, everything is permissible, 
 you hear, everything. As long as we get what we're 
 after, as long as we win out. With all those problems, 
 with aU that philosophy, with kid gloves, the devil take 
 it, you won't get far. . . . Well, I've babbled a lot." 
 Gliebov checked himself abruptly. "I don't take much 
 stock in these talks — these intellectual talks. You 
 mustn't blame me. Tomorrow we'll do business in 
 Moscow, and we'll leave the discussion to the philoso- 
 phers in stiff shirts, damn them ! Good night."
 
 What Never Happened 87 
 
 Volodya took off his coat, rolled it up for a pillow, 
 turned to the wall, and fell asleep at once. It was 
 stormy outside. Mingling with the noise of the wheels 
 one could hear a faint pitiful wailing. Bolotov with 
 his head bowed in his hands stared at the shabby cov- 
 ering of the seats and sighed. ''Is Volodya right? 
 No, of course not. It isn't true. Then what is?" lie 
 asked himself for the hundredth time. ''Is every mem- 
 ber of the Party bound to be under arms in time of a 
 revolution? Yes, of course. That means that Arseny 
 Ivanovich, and Doctor Berg, and I, and thousands of 
 others like myself, are liars and cowards. But we are 
 not liars. I'm no liar and coward. I know I'm no liar. 
 I know I can be a soldier — yes, yes, yes — just an obscure 
 soldier of the Party. I know that every one of us is 
 ready to give his life. But mustn't the Party be man- 
 aged? It must. Then Arseny Ivanovich and I and 
 Vera Andreyevna and Doctor Berg are doing good and 
 useful work. But what are we doing? Isn't it true 
 that we are preaching murder, but are not killing our- 
 selves? Isn't it true that we talk, talk, talk, but when 
 it comes to action, we're not there? And does talk 
 mean managing?" So Bolotov thought, rocking his 
 body to and fro, in time to the motion of the train, feel- 
 ing that he was losing himself in a maze. "But then 
 Arseny Ivanovich and Doctor Berg and myself are liars, 
 and we ought to be thrown out like useless rubbish, we 
 ought to get a vagabond's passport." 
 
 "Your ticket, please," said a sleepy voice. A drowsy 
 conductor with a lantern hanging from his belt punched 
 the little yellow piece of cardboard and said, returning 
 it: 
 
 "Going to Moscow? It's dangerous there."
 
 88 What Never Happened 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Hope to God we get there. They say, it's not quiet 
 in Moscow." 
 
 The train stopped. The doors opened, and the frosty 
 air entered from the vestibule. The conductor's hat, 
 coat and boots were covered with snow. The storm 
 must have been at its height. Loud voices, distinct in 
 the stillness of the night, came from the station plat- 
 form. "Give the third bell." The locomotive whistled. 
 The station lamps began to move past the train. Bol- 
 otov, without undressing, threw himself at length on the 
 couch.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THREE men were standing at the gate of the two- 
 story stone house of merchant Brizgalov in 
 Dobraya Slobodka, Two were dressed in 
 peasant costume, and the third, a pale, sickly-looking Jew, 
 had on a light overcoat. About forty yards away from 
 them a few young workmen, engaged in lively conversa- 
 tion, were busying themselves with a hack-drivers' 
 sledge. Near them the street was littered with rub- 
 bish, rotting boards, a telegraph pole, a yellow chiffonier, 
 a window frame and broad sheets of iron, which rang 
 in the gusts of wind. The snow, which had fallen dur- 
 ing the night and was untouched by traffic, sparkled 
 in the sunlight. In the Church of the Resurrection at 
 Barashy the chimes were ringing for the noon service. 
 
 One of the men dressed in a fur jacket was watching 
 what was going on around the sledge curiously. He 
 was rather short, with high cheekbones and narrow slit- 
 like eyes, and his rough hands were callous from the 
 cold. 
 
 "Look at the fun, Seriozha. By God, he can't un- 
 harness it, ' ' he said with a laugh. 
 
 *'He'll unharness it," Seriozha said lazily. 
 
 "The driver is cursing. I'd better go and take a 
 look, ' ' the first speaker replied after a pause, and walked 
 slowly over to the group of shouting, cursing men. 
 
 "Well, comrades, what's wrong?" He raised his 
 voice, "What?" 
 
 99
 
 90 What Never Happened 
 
 The withered old driver, who wore a faded blue coat, 
 was pulling at his scraggy horse. On seeing a new man 
 coming up he let go the reins and began to stammer, 
 bowing low, and with tears in his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh, benefactor — excellency, please tell them 
 to let me go. The horse isn't mine. So help me Christ, 
 the horse belongs to my master, so does the sledge. The 
 master will take it out of me. Oh, oh, oh ! Show a little 
 mercy for God's sake. Let me go." 
 
 ' ' Shut up, you old radish ! And what are you stand- 
 ing around for? Hey, comrade, it's you I mean!" 
 
 Five or six red-faced factory workers and a youngster 
 in a fur coat were pointing laughingly to a lean gentle- 
 man with a pince-nez. This gentleman was making fu- 
 tile attempts to unfasten the harness. His thin, frozen 
 fingers would not obey him and he only succeeded in 
 making it still tighter. One of the onlookers covered 
 his face with his sleeve and tried to stifle his laughter. 
 
 "You see, he was boasting he would unharness the 
 horse." 
 
 "What a helpless creature ! Hands like meat hooks," 
 said the man in the fur jacket scornfully, as he removed 
 the harness quickly and easily. "Well, now take the 
 horse away." 
 
 The gentleman with the pince-nez took the reins awk- 
 wardly. The decrepit horse, breathing heavily, its 
 head drooping, took two steps and stopped short, mo- 
 tionless as a statue. The driver, looking on intently at 
 the disposition of his master's property, pulled off his 
 cap and threw it vigorously into the snow : 
 
 "Go to it. It's all up with me. Take it, boys, take 
 it. Take the horse, take the sledge. What's the use? 
 It's your business. God help you! And the Holy
 
 Wliat Never Happened 91 
 
 Mother!" He turned to the gilded church spire which 
 sparkled in the distance, and crossed himself with 
 trembling hands. 
 
 ' ' Vanya ! ' ' Seriozha called loudly. 
 
 *'What?'' 
 
 "Come here, Vanya." 
 
 ''What for?" 
 
 "Somebody's coming along the Mashkov Lane." 
 
 Vanya let go the shafts and turned back to the gate, 
 sinking in the soft snow as he went. After a whispered 
 conversation with his comrades, he ran to the Mashkov 
 Lane. Along the deserted sidewalk came two men. One 
 of them he recognized by his black beard and his height 
 to be Volodya. The other also looked familiar. He 
 was tall and shaven and blue-eyed. 
 
 ' * My God, is it you, Vladimir Ivanovich ? We 've been 
 waiting for you so impatiently." Vanya greeted them 
 joyfully, trying to recollect where he had seen those blue 
 eyes before. 
 
 Bolotov held out his hand. 
 
 "Don't you know me?" 
 
 ' * Pardon me. I can 't recall. ' ' Vanya blushed in em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 "What are you doing, boys?" Volodya shouted mer- 
 rily. "A barricade? That's good. They'll get theirs. 
 Ah David, you here?" He nodded to the Jew. 
 
 David began to talk hurriedly. 
 
 "Yes, yes — a barricade, Vladimir Ivanovich. You 
 know, in Paris, at the time of the commune — Ah, are 
 you with us, too, Bolotov? How wonderful! Ah, you 
 know, Vladimir Ivanovich? It's all so wonderful. We 
 were fighting yesterday. Since last night we have had 
 barricades in Moscow. It's revolution, Vladimir Ivan-
 
 92 What Never Happened 
 
 ovich! And what's going on in St. Petersburg? Noth- 
 ing? "What do you mean? No uprising in St. Peters- 
 burg? Well, as I was saying, yesterday, you know, we 
 repelled an attack not far from here in the Chistoprudny 
 Park. You don't believe me? So help me God, we 
 did. Ask Seriozha. And now I'm certain there'll be 
 a constitutional assembly, there'll be a republic. What 
 do you think, Audrey Nikolayevich ? Eh?" 
 
 The "attack" of which David spoke had been the 
 product of his imagination. He sincerely believed that 
 a battle had taken place the day before and that he had 
 emerged triumphant. But the fact was, that when the 
 revolutionists, passers-by, storekeepers, drivers, mes- 
 sengers and tramps had built the first barricade in Mos- 
 cow, and David, overwhelmed with joy, had raised the 
 red banner over it, a detachment of Cossacks, six men 
 in all, appeared on horses from Maroseyka Street. As 
 soon as they noticed the barricades and the armed 
 men, the Cossacks halted. They paused irresolutely for 
 a moment, looking at one another and then suddenly 
 turned around, as if at somebody's command, and rode 
 hurriedly away making the feathery snow fly. With- 
 out knowing why, merely because he had a revolver in 
 his hand, David sent several shots after them, but he 
 did not kill or wound any one. He was offended be- 
 cause Volodya was listening to him unwillingly. He 
 wanted to go on talking and tell Bolotov how he and 
 Seriozha had gone bravely to the army barricades, how 
 they had been shot at, how they and the soldier Gabayev 
 had walked away, how Gabayev was later arrested in 
 Odessa, and how they had gone to Finland, had found 
 the famous Gliebov, and had become members of his
 
 .What Never Happened 93 
 
 fighting organization. But he saw Volodya's serious 
 face and he sighed and kept quiet. 
 
 "Are you working?" Volodya asked the men who were 
 building the barricades. 
 
 "Working, Vladimir Ivanovich!" exclaimed several 
 voices. The youngster in a fur coat raised his face, 
 red from the cold, thought a while, scratched his back 
 and laughed. Volodya went over to the sleigh and, 
 with a motion that looked surprisingly light for his big 
 body, jokingly lifted it about a yard from the ground. 
 As if testing his great strength he held the sleigh for a 
 moment and then dropped it upon the rising barricade. 
 
 "So," he said with a broad smile. 
 
 Bolotov watched him with gi'owing agitation. The 
 deserted, snow-covered streets of Moscow, the shuttered 
 windows, the barred shops and stores, the complete ab- 
 sence of policemen and Cossack patrols, and the bar- 
 ricade that was being built here on Chistiye Prudy Street 
 made Bolotov feel that something of serious importance 
 was happening in Russia, something that did not happen 
 through his or any one else's individual will. He saw it 
 was not the Party's authority that had upset Moscow, the 
 rich, active, populous, peaceful city. Now the St. Peters- 
 burg conferences seemed insignificant and ridiculous. 
 He tried to understand what hidden force was moving 
 the people who had begun to build barricades on Lefor- 
 tov, Kozhevniky, Miiisy, and Arbata Streets, in all parts 
 of the city, and had resolved to risk their lives and 
 to kill. But it was beyond him. As he stood there 
 in the rays of the winter sun, on the white snow, 
 among joyous, healthy, armed men, who were skilfully 
 carrying out their unfamiliar, dangerous work, he felt
 
 94 What Never Happened 
 
 happy and invigourated. All Moscow seemed to him to 
 have risen as one man under the impulse of a Russian 
 force, stored 'through the ages, and he was stirred by a 
 sense of a new, heavy responsibility, not to the Party, 
 not to Arseny Ivanovich, but to all Russia, which was 
 shaken by the revolution. It also seemed to him that 
 he was chosen to be the leader who would carry the re- 
 belling people to victory. He turned to Vanya with a 
 warm smile: 
 
 ' ' How is it you have forgotten me so soon ? ' ' 
 
 **I had absolutely," Vanya smiled back. "Do you 
 remember how you frightened me?" 
 
 "Frightened you?" 
 
 "Yes. I thought you were a spy." 
 
 Bolotov laughed. ' ' So that 's how he understands me. 
 But what difference does it make? Is it important? 
 No, the sun is important, the men, the barricades, and 
 the fact that he and I are together at the barricades. 
 Are we really at a barricade?" he asked himself won- 
 deringly. "Yes, I am in Moscow. And there is an up- 
 rising in Moscow. There is an uprising in Russia. It's 
 splendid. Everything is splendid," he murmured al- 
 most aloud, as if trying to convince himself that he was 
 not asleep and everything was indeed splendid. Doctor 
 Berg suddenly came to his mind. "Oh, well, let him 
 solve his own problems there," he thought without any 
 ill will. 
 
 "Look here, boys," Volodya said, "the barricades are 
 finished. "What's the use of wasting our time any 
 longer? You, Vasily Grigoryevich, keep watch here, at 
 our fortress." He turned to the man with the pince-nez. 
 The man all this time had been watching Volodya with 
 loving, admiring eyes. "And we'll go into Brizgalov's
 
 What Never Happened 95 
 
 yard. Who are you ? " he said, turning to the youngster 
 in the fur jacket. 
 
 "Yes, you. Where have you come from?" 
 
 "I? I'm Brizgalov's porter." 
 
 "What are you doing here?" Volodya frowned. 
 
 "Please, your excellency," the porter stammered, re- 
 moving his cap, "it's very interesting." 
 
 "Interesting?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, the devil take you, stay here and keep watch." 
 
 Volodya opened the gate and entered the yard. 
 
 The narrow birch-lined yard had a neglected look. 
 The naked branches of the trees and the paths and the 
 lawn were covered with the silvery snow. It looked like 
 a beautiful carpet even more chastely pure than the 
 pavements outside. 
 
 When all were assembled, Volodya said ; 
 
 "Listen, boys, God owns the bold ones, while the 
 devil swings the drunks. A barricade is a good thing, 
 but we are not going to win Moscow by standing around. 
 We need not wait till the officials come, we must call on 
 them. What do you think, Seriozha?" 
 
 "What I think? There's nothing to think," Seriozha 
 answered, lighting a cigarette. "We must make ter- 
 ror. ' ' 
 
 "How? How? What do you mean? How make 
 terror?" David broke in hurriedly. 
 
 "How?" Volodya frowned again. 
 
 "Well, that's a minor matter. We'll see later how 
 to go about it. Have we all got revolvers? All right. 
 Are you with us, Bolotov?" 
 
 Though Bolotov did not know whither he was being
 
 96 IWhat Never Happened 
 
 invited by Volodya and though he could not tell what 
 it meant to make terror in revolutionary Moscow, still 
 he accepted the invitation unhesitatingly. He had lost 
 control over himself, he felt, and was an obedient serv- 
 ant to Volodya. Some higher immutable will, mastering 
 alike Volodya, and David, and Seriozha, and himself, 
 was forcing him to something terrible, and it was not 
 in his power to refuse to submit to that will. The sense 
 of not belonging to himself, but of being a plaything in 
 some one else's hands, was disagreeable to him. 
 
 The winter sky was darkening. The snow crunched 
 beneath their feet as they came out into the Chisto- 
 prudny Park. They walked by twos, and because they 
 were many and all armed, with Volodya leading, and 
 around them immense, dark, silent Moscow which had 
 risen for mortal combat, Bolotov had a stimulating 
 sensation of unspent strength and of approaching 
 blessed victory.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IT was six o 'clock in the morning and still dark when 
 Volodya stopped at the entrance to a small wooden 
 house on Gruziny Street. "Here," he whispered, 
 and finding the button of the electric bell, he pressed it 
 with a long, lingering ring. His comrades, cross and 
 sleepy, indistinguishable in the darkness, stood close to- 
 gether. The air was frosty and the bluish-dark Decem- 
 ber sky starry above their heads. The Big Dipper hung 
 up there resplendent. "Why am I here, with them?" 
 Bolotov thought in sudden alarm. He was no longer ex- 
 periencing that radiant feeling which had possessed him 
 the day before. It even seemed to him that Volodya 
 was doing something unnecessary, wicked, harmful. 
 But he did not have the will-power to leave. Behind 
 the glass door, in the hall, a light appeared, and a stout 
 porter, barefoot, in a long, soiled dressing-gown rattled 
 a bunch of keys. 
 
 * ' Who 's there ? " he grumbled, opening the door care- 
 fully and gathering the gown about him. Through the 
 lighted window-panes, Bolotov clearly saw nearsighted 
 eyes searching in the darkness, a swollen sleepy face, and 
 dishevelled hair. He heard Vanya behind him saying 
 in a low voice : 
 
 "God sends a visitor to the one he loves!" 
 "Are you deaf? Open up!" Volodya shouted, and 
 one of the revolutionists, Konstantin, a red, freckled 
 youngster of about nineteen, pushed the door with his 
 
 97
 
 98 What Never Happened 
 
 shoulder. The door gave way and the glass broke with 
 a crash. The porter raised his hand. But Konstantin 
 gave the man no opportunity to cry out. He threw his 
 whole weight upon him and seized him by the throat. 
 Bolotov saw the porter 's white scared face turn blue and 
 swollen. 
 
 "Bind him!" Volodya ordered abruptly. "Konstan- 
 tin and Roman Aleksieyevich, remain here. Povaren- 
 kov and Leizer — in the street. Don't admit anybody! 
 You understand? Nobody! ^Whoever rings — bind 
 him!" 
 
 Stooping his great lithe body and trying not to make 
 any noise with his boots, he ran up the stairs with easy 
 youthful steps. On the second floor, to the right, there 
 was a shield on the door: Yevgeny Pavlovich Sliozkin. 
 Volodya turned to his party: 
 
 "Look here," he said in a half-whisper, "you, Vanya, 
 you go to the kitchen and station yourself at the back 
 entrance. And, take care, you raven, or I'll get you!" 
 
 Without awaiting an answer, he rang the bell. All 
 was silent. In the stillness the breathing of many peo- 
 ple was audible. Bolotov was quite certain now that 
 they were doing something frightful and cruel. Again 
 he felt like leaving so as not to see what was about to 
 take place. But the same familiar force that had make 
 him happy the day before retained him now; and the 
 consciousness that he did not belong to himself, that he 
 was subordinate to somebody else's will, that he was a 
 mute, obedient soldier, was not only unpleasant, but 
 even shamed and frightened him. Not David, it seemed, 
 nor Volodya, nor Vanya had decided to attack this locked 
 house in the night like thieves, but the terror organiza- 
 tion, the Party, Moscow, all Russia. They had no right
 
 What Never Happened 99 
 
 to hold back, a retreat would be a grave disgrace, un- 
 pardonable treachery. He realized he would not leave, 
 but would unhesitatingly, without protest, do everything 
 Volodya might order him to do. 
 
 David, who was already shivering in the street, as 
 though in a fever, looked at him slantingly and sighed: 
 
 "They won't open the door? Eh?" 
 
 Bolotov shrugged his shoulders nervously. Down- 
 stairs in the porter's room all became silent, and the 
 lights went out. Volodya rang again. The bell 
 sounded harshly in the hall. 
 
 "Whom do you want?" an old woman's voice asked 
 from behind the door. 
 
 ' ' From the general ! ' ' Volodj^a answered immediately. 
 
 "From the general?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, yes. Very important. Open the door quick ! ' ' 
 
 The key creaked in the lock. The door opened, and 
 there stood an old woman, a nurse, probably, shrivelled 
 and unkempt, in a white nightgown. She raised her 
 head trustingly, when she saw the crowd of armed men, 
 she crossed herself, and opened her old toothless mouth 
 and bowed and swung her thin braid, and moved baek- 
 w^ards from Volodya. 
 
 Volodya entered, bringing in a smell of the frost, with 
 icicles on his beard and brows. He hesitated a moment 
 and pushed the closed door lightly. The door led into 
 a dark, stuffy room, evidently the living-room. He 
 searched the wall with his fingers and switched on the 
 electric light. Bolotov, moved by the same inexplicable 
 force, followed him in. 
 
 A heavy writing-table stood in the centre of the room. 
 In the right corner, under a simple image, on a broad 
 leather couch, a man was sleeping. He seemed to be
 
 100 What Never Happened 
 
 about forty years old. He had black hair, sprinkled 
 with grey, and black moustachios curling up at the ends. 
 He must have heard the steps in his sleep, or perhaps 
 the brightness of the light disturbed him. He opened 
 his eyes lazily and closed them again, as if he did not be- 
 lieve what he saw, or thought he was still dreaming. 
 But in another instant, as if somebody had struck him 
 on the head, he threw off the cotton quilt with a quick 
 motion and shoved his hand under the pillow. Volodya 
 seized him by the shoulder. 
 
 ''I'll ask you to get up." 
 
 The man looked silently at Volodya with darkened, 
 frightened, wicked eyes and tried to free his arm. He 
 did not see that Vasily Grigoryevich was aiming his re- 
 volver at him and that right at his very ear, David was 
 also holding his shaking revolver to his head. 
 
 ''Mister Sliozkin?" Volodya asked. 
 
 "Yes, Sliozkin," answered the man haltingly, in a 
 deep baritone, feeling he could not free himself. 
 
 "Colonel of gendarmes, Yevgeny Pavlovich Slioz- 
 kin?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, Yevgeny Pavlovich Sliozkin. Let go my hand. ' ' 
 
 Colonel Sliozkin put one of his bare hairy feet on to 
 the rug. He thought a while and put his other foot 
 down. Sitting like that on the couch, with his bare legs 
 hangir^ down and with nothing but a short shirt on, he 
 asked in a voice husky but loud : 
 
 "What do you wish?" 
 
 "You'll find out at the proper time." 
 
 Sliozkin began to dress. It was all like a dream to 
 Bolotov. It was so strange to see those bare legs, that 
 bare red neck with its protruding Adam's apple, that 
 middle-aged man, probably married and with a family,
 
 What Never Happened 101 
 
 dressing and surrounded by unknown, hostile people. 
 "Exactly like gendarmes," Bolotov thought. Sliozkin 
 could not put on his high patent-leather boots without 
 his servant's help, and everybody stood there in awk- . 
 ward silence while he fumbled with them, trying to pull . 
 them on and making the spurs click together and beat- 
 ing the floor with his heels. At last he got on his blue 
 trousers and boots, and sat down on the couch again and 
 shrugged his shoulders boyishly. Spreading his hands 
 helplessly, he sighed: 
 
 ''What does it all mean?" 
 
 ** Where's your revolver?" Volodya asked severely. 
 
 *'Eevolver?" Sliozkin passed his hand over his fore- 
 head. ''The revolver is under the pillow." 
 
 **Take a seat at the table." 
 
 Sliozkin did not move. 
 
 *'I want you to sit at the table." 
 
 "At the table? At the table? No, no, I don't want 
 to sit at the table," he murmured in a hardly audible 
 voice, following Volodya with his eyes. 
 
 **Mr. Sliozkin." 
 
 "No, no! For God's sake, no, I won't sit at the 
 table." 
 
 Bolotov saw David put his revolver to Sliozkin 's 
 temple. He saw David's fingers tremble and red spots 
 appear on Sliozkin 's nose and cheeks and his jaw 
 tremble. David, without taking his revolver away, be- 
 gan to talk rapidly, stammering and swallowing his 
 words : 
 
 "What do you mean? If you're told to — I mean or- 
 dered, then you must sit down, when you're told to — I 
 mean ordered." 
 
 Volodya made a grimace.
 
 102 What Never Happened 
 
 "Mr. Sliozkin." 
 
 Sliozkin got up and moving with an effort sat down in 
 a low, wicker armchair. As he sat at the familiar writ- 
 ing-table, with his back to the door, and saw the familiar 
 objects in their accepted places, always the same places, 
 the black morocco portfolios, the ink-bottle, the paper- 
 weight in the shape of a horse-shoe, he suddenly grew 
 quiet and said, trying to be firm : 
 
 "Well, what do you wish?" 
 
 "You'll find out at the proper time." 
 
 Volodya moved David's revolver away. 
 
 "Look here. Colonel Yevgeny Pavlovich Sliozkin, I 
 give you five minutes' time." 
 
 Volodya did not finish. Sliozkin looked at him a min- 
 ute with wide-open eyes, and suddenly, without taking 
 his eyes off Volodya 's face, he rose slowly from the chair 
 and began to move backwards to the door. He was tall, 
 straight, and white as a sheet. As he moved, he slowly 
 raised his hands as if begging for mercy; and when he 
 had raised them to the level of his shoulders, he covered 
 his face with them, spreading his thick fingers. Then Bo- 
 lotov heard something that he could not forget for long 
 afterward. The memory of it disturbed many a night 
 and woke him up in a cold sweat. He heard a broken, 
 wailing sound. It was impossible to believe that those 
 whining noises, so unlike a man's voice, were coming 
 from the throat of this strong, middle-aged man in blue 
 trousers and white shirt. Sliozkin with his fingers on 
 his face and his eyes still fixed on Volodya continued 
 to step backward with the same continuous whine, to- 
 wards the corner, as if there lay safety. Bolotov turned 
 away. 
 
 But suddenly another unexpected sound came from
 
 What Never Happened 103 
 
 the hall, and filled the low rooms, muffling the whine. 
 It was the shrill, heart-breaking cry of a woman, who 
 pushed past the men and threw herself upon them. 
 She was stout, but had a sickly complexion, and she must 
 have just got out of bed, for her hair was in curling- 
 papers. She did not seem to understand what she was 
 doing. She only knew that her husband was to die ; and 
 with a continuous cry she threw herself on her knees, 
 and clasped Volodya's legs, then Seriozha's, and then 
 Bolotov's and kissed their boots. And while kissing and 
 choking with tears, she repeated one meaningless word: 
 
 ''Help! Help! Help!" 
 
 Bolotov saw Vasily Grigoryevich bury his face in the 
 window curtain and David throw his revolver away and 
 run out with his face in his hands. Volodya, pale with 
 anger, went up to the woman resolutely. He picked her 
 up like a child and began to mutter glumly: 
 
 "Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself." 
 
 The woman continued to wail. Her soft fat body in 
 a long nightgown trembled. Freeing herself from Vo- 
 lodya's firm hold, she kept on uttering the same de- 
 spairing cry, as if she had forgotten all other words : 
 
 ''Help! Help! Help! Help!" 
 
 Bolotov could not remain silent any longer and was 
 on the verge of bursting into a sob. Fearing to show 
 tears, he turned to Volodya: 
 
 "Spare him!" 
 
 Volodya did not answer. Holding the woman fast 
 in his arms and stopping her mouth with a handkerchief, 
 he stepped out into the hall rapidly and firmly. 
 
 "They let her get by!" he said between his teeth. 
 "Ravens!" 
 
 Sliozkin was now standing in the left corner, near the
 
 104 What Never Happened 
 
 door, speechless and motiouless, with his back pressed 
 against the wall. He kept his dry, brilliant, unnatu- 
 rally wide-open eyes on Volodya uneasily, without miss- 
 ing a single step of his, a single motion of his big hands. 
 Volodya returned, locked the door, looked at him with a 
 fixed attentive gaze, and said in a loud, clear voice: 
 
 "Well, Mister Sliozkin, by the decision of the Moscow 
 terrorist organization you have been sentenced to death 
 by hanging." He added in a lower voice: "Hey, 
 whoa, there ! A rope here ! ' ' 
 
 No one moved. Volodya frowned. Bolotov, feeling 
 his legs were trembling beneath his knees, came over to 
 him again: 
 
 "Vladimir Ivanovich!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 * ' Vladimir Ivanovich ! ' ' 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Spare him, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 "What! The colonel of gendarmes, Sliozkin? Spare 
 him? Ah, you! Then what was all this child's play 
 for? What for? Faugh!" 
 
 "Spare him, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 Sliozkin did not move, as if Bolotov were not plead- 
 ing for him. He kept his eyes fixed on Volodya. Vo- 
 lodya 's face twitched. Under the heavy black beard, 
 his right cheek, near his tight-set lips, began to tremble 
 convulsively, and without looking at Bolotov, he shouted 
 hoarsely : 
 
 " Go to the devil ! All of you ! " 
 
 Bolotov left the room, without being conscious of what 
 he was doing. The hall was empty, save for a working- 
 man at the entrance door, whom Bolotov did not know. 
 He stood on watch with an expressionless face, a revolver
 
 "What Never Happened 105 
 
 in liis hand. When Bolotov caught the indifferent, al- 
 most bored look in the man 's eyes, he felt stifled, and was 
 certain now that Sliozkin would surely be killed, and 
 no power could save his life. "They won't be nice 
 to us, they'll take us in broad daj-light." He sud- 
 denly recalled Volodya's words. "And, really, what 
 VKis all the child's play for? Sliozkin is a scoundrel; 
 he has had dozens of people hanged, he has no con- 
 science, he's like a beast," Bolotov thought in an at- 
 tempt at justification, though that w^as as far as he could 
 go. Somebody was sobbing in a comer. It was David, 
 by the hall-rack, half -hidden by a gendarme's uniform. 
 The workman on watch looked at him, his lips curling in 
 contempt. 
 
 In Sliozkin 's room only Seriozha and Volodya were 
 left. "When Bolotov had gone out, he had touched Vo- 
 lodya's arm and said softly: 
 
 "Leave him alone, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 Volodya was lost in thought. "With head bent and 
 legs stretched wide apart he thought a moment. Seri- 
 ozha closed his eyes. Suddenly Volodya raised his 
 head: 
 
 "Cowards! They're all cowards!" he muttered and, 
 trying to avoid Sliozkin 's gaze, -with a quick motion, he 
 pulled out his small revolver and, setting his teeth, al- 
 most without taking aim, he sent a shot into the corner. 
 The room filled with smoke. On the rug against the 
 wall, with his head thrown back, lay Sliozkin mortally 
 wounded.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 DAY had already dawned when David came out 
 into the street. It was miserable weather. 
 Dark clouds were hanging low over the city, 
 over the white roofs and bare factory chimneys. The 
 snow was not crisp, but fell in wet flakes and clung damp 
 to one's clothes. Head down, shrinking into his light 
 overcoat, David walked rapidly and aimlessly along the 
 park towards Zamoskvoriechie Street. The Raush Quay 
 was deserted, as if all Moscow had died out. On the other 
 side of the river, beyond the Kamenny Bridge, the spires 
 of the Kremlin showed dimly through the falling 
 snow. After the sleepless night in the hall in the gen- 
 darme's house, after the sobs, cries and haste, after the 
 orders of Volodya, this lazy stillness seemed new and 
 unexpectedly strange. And so did the wet snow, which 
 fell on his cold neck, and the lowering sky, and the dim 
 cupola of Christ the Saviour. But strangest and most 
 unexpected of all was the indifference of passers-bj'. 
 Nobody knew, and perhaps nobody cared to know, that 
 something terrible had happened, that a man had been 
 killed, Yevgeny Pavlovich Sliozkin, and that he had been 
 killed by him, by David. 
 
 On Balchuga Street, near the only shop whose doors 
 were open, some trucks stood carrying flour, covered 
 with matting and stretching across the whole street. The 
 well-fed horses, heavy draught animals, stood in the deep 
 snow, the drivers nearby, their heads down like the 
 horses, just as frozen and snow-laden, waiting for the 
 
 106
 
 What Never Happened 107 
 
 next one to pass into the yard. One of the trucks had 
 got stuck at the gates, and the shop clerks in linen aprons 
 were pushing it, cursing as they worked. On the dirty, 
 trodden threshold stood the red-bearded proprietor, also 
 cursing as he looked at the clerks. David stopped in 
 front of the shop, and observed with mechanical curi- 
 osity the monotonous row of loaded trucks, the snow- 
 covered men, the cursing red-bearded merchant, as if 
 it were really important for him to know when the sledge 
 would be pushed into the yard. And even after the 
 sleigh at length disappeared creaking beyond the gates 
 and the whole train of wagons started after it, and the 
 clerks re-entered the shop, David remained standing mo- 
 tionless for some time, gazing in the same mechanical 
 way at the deserted street and the iron locks on the 
 shops. The cold brought him to himself. His face was 
 wet, his hands red, stiff, aching intolerably from the frost. 
 He thrust them deep into his pockets, put up his coat 
 collar, and crossed the Kamenny Bridge rapidly. On 
 Volkhonka Street, he stumbled on a barrel covered with 
 snow — it was part of a complete ice-covered barricade, 
 left by a terrorist band — and he nearly fell over it. 
 Rubbing his hurt knee, he turned into a side street, but 
 around the corner he saw another barricade and a red 
 banner fluttering over it. Somebody from behind the 
 barricade called him. 
 
 David glanced at the flag and, with a wave of his hand, 
 turned on his heels and walked back to the Borovichy 
 Gates. A young terrorist, the light of battle in his eyes, 
 with a driver's belt on, ran after and overtook him. 
 His breath was on David's cheek, he looked straight into 
 his face. David stopped and flushed and began to stam- 
 mer, his eyes full of tears:
 
 108 What Never Happened 
 
 "What do you want? Last night — the head of the 
 gendarme force — was killed — " 
 
 Feeling that he was beginning to sob and making an 
 effort to restrain himself, he shouted in a shrill falsetto : 
 
 "And I killed him!" 
 
 Then he took off his student's cap and ran off to the 
 Kremlin without looking back. The young workman 
 shiiigged his shoulders in perplexity, spit, and went 
 slowly back to the barricade. 
 
 The snow still laid a sheet over the world. All the 
 walks in Alexsandrovsky Park were covered with a white 
 carpet. David sat down on a bench and with the same 
 mechanical curiosity with which he had looked at the 
 trucks he regarded the flying snowflakes. They fell 
 silently on his shoulders, hands and knees and when they 
 made a big heap, he would brush them off carefully with 
 one finger. He was unaware of how long he remained 
 there. He felt cold. A great while passed. He 
 thought of nothing, neither of Sliozkin, nor of the up- 
 rising, nor of Volodya. He saw the snowflakes, the stone 
 wall of the Kremlin, and counted the strokes of the clock 
 on the Tainitzky Tower in feverish self-oblivion. But 
 suddenly with the same merciless dreaminess as the night 
 before, he heard the shrill wail, the very wail. Though 
 he had actually heard it, he could not believe in it. 
 "A-a-a-a!" he bellowed and raised his hands to his head. 
 "A-a-a-a-a!" he cried again and again, pressing his tem- 
 ples till they ached. His cap fell into the snow. He did 
 not pick it up. He could clearly see the darkened, un- 
 blinking, wide-opened eyes. He got up, with his head in 
 his hands, his wet coat unbuttoned and wandered on hat- 
 less to Arbatsky Plaza. On the plaza were scattered 
 the remains of a barricade. A bonfire was crackling in
 
 .What Never Happened 109 
 
 one corner, and men in dark uniforms were warming 
 themselves about it. There were many of them, and 
 David was feeling cold again. Without grasping the sit- 
 uation he advanced straight towards the fire. 
 
 "Who goes there?" he heard a hoarse cry. He did 
 not understand and simply quickened his pace; but 
 something sharp and hard stood in his way. A soldier 
 of slight build, with a hood over his ears and in awk- 
 ward-looking, snow-covered boots, confronted him. He 
 held his rifle in a menacing position, looked at David 
 closely, straightened up as though on parade, and said 
 in a monotonous tone : 
 
 "I caught a Jew, your excellency." 
 
 A few men, dressed in the same kind of hoods and in 
 grey uniforms, surrounded David. They all had rifles 
 in their hands and all looked at him with open antago- 
 nism. A young officer, with a pale frowning counte- 
 nance and a birthmark on his cheek, came up and also 
 looked David over from head to foot in a hostile man- 
 ner. The soldier repeated gaily: 
 
 "A Jew, your excellency." 
 
 ' ' Search him ! ' ' said the officer with a grimace of dis- 
 gust. 
 
 David felt strange, coarse hands begin to grope over 
 his body, his back and chest and under his arm-pits. 
 Their touch made him colder. He huddled and hid his 
 face in his collar. 
 
 "A revolver, your excellency." 
 
 David was not conscious of what was going on. He 
 could still hear the hare's wail, and it interfered with 
 his thoughts. But somehow he was convinced that the 
 search was a misunderstanding, and the misunderstand- 
 ing would be cleared up and he would be released. He
 
 110 What Never Happened 
 
 could not believe that he, David, who had just now been 
 a free man, who could walk freely about Moscow and go 
 freely to St. Petersburg or across the border, should be 
 suddenly detained by unknown men here, on Arbata 
 Street, and these men should have the right to do with 
 him as they pleased. It was so absurd and unthinkable 
 that he felt no fear or apprehension and watched the 
 hands searching his body indifferently. One of the sol- 
 diers, of a minor rank, with black moustachios, pushed 
 him slightly with the butt-end of his gun : 
 
 "Well, move along! March!" 
 
 Four armed men with expressionless faces, like the 
 terrorist's who had kept watch in Sliozkin's hall, led 
 him along Arbata Street. He followed obediently, swing- 
 ing his arms as usual. Suddenly he noticed he had lost 
 his hat. His flaxen hair was getting wet. It occurred to 
 him he might easily catch cold and strained his weakened 
 memory in vain to recall where he had lost it. It was 
 not until the soldiers stopped near a dirty-looking gov- 
 ernment building in an unfamiliar alley that he realized 
 he was being taken to a police station. At the door of 
 the first room, which was cold and had the smell of 
 barracks about it, stood two sentries ; and an old police- 
 inspector with silver medals on his chest lay dozing on 
 a bench. While he went to make his report, David 
 looked idly about the room. A black pool of melting 
 snow was forming at his feet. 
 
 The inspector returned in a minute. Again somebody 
 pushed David along by the shoulder. In a big light 
 room with white-washed windows, at an official red 
 table, under a portrait of the Czar, sat two officers in the 
 uniforms of the Hussars. One of them, an old wrinkled 
 colonel with long grey moustachios, was writing. The
 
 What Never Happened 111 
 
 other, somewhat younger, with the shoulder knots of an 
 adjutant, was looking over some pink papers. David 
 stood near the door with the inspector at hi^ side. The 
 room was warm. To the left a fir log was burning in 
 the stove, and to his pleasure he felt his wet, numbed 
 fingers beginning to thaw out. A long time passed 
 before the colonel raised his head and looked at him, his 
 ej'es blinking wearily. The adjutant bent over respect- 
 fully and whispered something in his ears. 
 
 "Yes, yes, — of course, of course," said the colonel, 
 without looking at the adjutant. Turning to David he 
 asked sternly in a commanding bass voice : 
 
 "Is that your revolver?" 
 
 David did not answer. 
 
 "Did you shoot with it?" said the colonel and laid 
 his white hand with rings on the revolver. "Your 
 name. Answer when you're spoken to." 
 
 But David could not have answered even had he 
 wished to. Suddenly with merciless certainty, with that 
 unshakable sureness which admits of no doubt, he real- 
 ized he would not be released, and his being there was 
 due to no misunderstanding. To the colonel, to the 
 adjutant, to the soldier who had arrested him, to the 
 police-inspector who had been sleeping so peacefully on 
 the bench, to those naked barrack-walls, he felt he was 
 not a living man, not David Cohn, with his beautiful, 
 immortal soul, but a soulless number, a nobody, one of 
 those nameless persons who were being arrested and 
 hanged or exiled to Siberia by the dozens. The colonel, 
 he now fully realized, could not understand, would not 
 care about it if he could, that it was not David's fault 
 that Moscow was in revolt, and there was fighting on the 
 barricades and Gendarme Sliozkin had been killed. He
 
 112 What Never Happened 
 
 foresaw he should be tried and sentenced on the basis 
 of the coincidence — of lying and insignificant trifles, 
 lie recalled that he had fired shots on Miasnitzka Street 
 and it was impossible to conceal it, because the revolver 
 was blackened and five bullets were missing. The next 
 second his whole weak, numbed, tired body awoke to the 
 comprehension that soon, in a few moments, something 
 terrible would take place in that police station, some- 
 thing that had never happened to him before, that ought 
 not, should not happen, that would be even more terrible 
 than the wail and the death of Sliozkin. An uncon- 
 trollable trembling shook him now and grew more violent 
 from moment to moment. He tried to check it, but his 
 teeth would not obey his will and chattered violently, 
 his jaw trembled and his fingers quivered on his breast. 
 The adjutant leaned over to the colonel again, the colonel 
 again looked at David, and motioned silently. 
 
 David had only a confused idea of what happened 
 after that. All he was anxious about now was to stop 
 that disgusting, cowardly trembling. As if in a dream, 
 he saw he was in the hall again and realized he was 
 being taken out into the yard. He saw the snowflakes, 
 the grey uniforms, the cracked yellow wall and the 
 shaven face of the adjutant. Something dry and hot 
 stuck in his throat. He swayed, but somebody sup- 
 ported him carefully. He came to himself when he 
 stood at the wall with his hands tied. , About ten yards 
 in front of him he could see a dark indistinguishable 
 mass. He knew it was made up of soldiers. To their 
 right stood the officer stooping. And as in a lightning 
 flash it came to David that the snow, the rifles, the patch 
 of grey sky, the shaven adjutant with the stern face, all 
 that was the unknown thing called death of which he
 
 What Never Happened 113 
 
 had been afraid his whole life. The trembling stopped 
 at once. He raised his head, but lowered it again im- 
 mediately. The snow tickled his cheeks and fell into 
 his eyes. He saw nothing more. A yellowish flame 
 leapt out. On the spot where David had just stood 
 against the wall a pitiful, shrivelled superfluous body lay 
 huddled up helplessly. The snow fell unceasingly.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 FOR many days fighting had been going on in the 
 streets of Moscow, and the issue was doubtful. 
 Neither of the opposing armies — neither the gov- 
 ernment nor the revolutionists — dared to make direct 
 attack in the open. Those few hundred Moscow work- 
 men, clerks and students who had been erecting barri- 
 cades, were not strong enough to take the Kremlin, nor 
 to force the army to lay down their arms. On the other 
 hand the few regiments whom the Government could 
 trust were quelling the uprising slowly and unwillingly, 
 as if they were performing some necessary but burden- 
 some duty. The industrial and business part of Mos- 
 cow, the Moscow of the bourse, the banks, the ware- 
 houses and shops, the million-peopled city of merchants 
 and priests, took no part in the struggle. It was wait- 
 ing in suspense to see which side would win and thus 
 gain authority. The soldiers kept on destroying and 
 burning the barricades abandoned by the terrorists; 
 but when the shooting began again they would return in 
 disorder to their barracks. In the place of the barri- 
 cades that were destroyed, the terrorists would set up 
 new ones and then abandon them light-heartedly when 
 they saw that their forces were outnumbered. Towards 
 the end of the week rumours spread over Moscow that 
 the Czar's guard was coming from St. Petersburg over 
 the Nikolayevsky railway, which had not been affected by 
 the strike. The isolated, impotent, irresolute uprising, 
 
 114
 
 What Never Happened 115 
 
 it was now clear, would come to an end as suddenly as 
 it had started. 
 
 But neither the terrorists, who were giving up their 
 lives at the barricades, nor the officials and merchants 
 who were hiding in fear, nor those ministers who were 
 dispatching the Semyonov regiment, nor the members 
 of the regiment themselves, foresaw this end. All Mos- 
 cow, all Russia, it seemed to them, was up in arms, and 
 only by the extremest measures, and at the cost of num- 
 berless victims could the raging conflagration, the great 
 victorious Russian revolution, be extinguished. 
 
 Bolotov thought so too. He had been fighting un- 
 ceasingly for two weeks. Not attacking, but on the 
 other hand not making any attempt to avoid skirmishes 
 with the army, Volodya's squad was slowly circling the 
 city along Sadovaya Street, from Chistiye Prudy Street, 
 across Srietenka, Drachevka and Samoteka Streets, 
 towards Priesna Street. The squad was naturally giving 
 way, as a beast does before a hunter, before the strong 
 soldiery, towards that part of Moscow which was en- 
 tirely in the hands of the revolutionists. Abandoned 
 barricades that had been demolished by the Cossacks 
 were immediately built up again by the others. 
 The squad kept moving about Moscow without any 
 preconceived plan, now drawing near to the Kremlin 
 and giving battle at the walls of the Strastny Mon- 
 astery, now receding into the remotest parts of the 
 city. The number of terrorists had grown during these 
 days ; but it was not that spontaneous, powerful growth 
 which signifies a popular revolution. Volodj^a had now 
 about thirty men, almost all of them factory workers. 
 Among this armed mob was Brizgalov's porter, Pronka, 
 who had joined them on the first day of the upris-
 
 116 What Never Happened 
 
 ing. This Pronka, a lively chap with a broad face 
 and enormous hairy paws, hardly understood who was 
 fighting and why. Had Bolotov spoken to him about a 
 republic, about a constitutional assembly or Socialism, 
 he would have scratched his head and answered with 
 a silly smile that it was not his affair, but the affair of 
 the aristocracy and they ought to know what was good. 
 But as soon as he joined the terrorists he could not leave 
 them again. He saw they were killing government of- 
 ficials, and since all officials, from the minister down to 
 the policeman, were treacherous, unnatural creatures, 
 he decided they were doing a good, useful thing. Be- 
 sides, it was so unusual, hence so entertaining — "amus- 
 ing," as he said — to walk about the deserted streets of 
 Moscow with a revolver, tear down fences, upset trolley 
 cars, chop down posts and trees, hunt Cossacks and bring 
 terror with his long-bored revolver to the weak-hearted 
 wuves of the merchants of Khamovnik, Lefortov and 
 Pliushchikh Streets. In the beginning the terrorists 
 looked at him distrustfully, as at a stranger, a carnal 
 man. But once Pronka, by order of Volodya, undertook 
 to slip by the army lines to Tverskaya Street and suc- 
 ceeded in getting and bringing back five hundred rubles 
 from the committee; and after that he came to be con- 
 sidered a comrade, a full-fledged member of the organi- 
 zation. 
 
 "When the rumour spread that the guard had been sent 
 from St. Petersburg to IMoscow, none but Volodya un- 
 derstood the full import of the situation. He grasped 
 that the uprising would be crushed, the Semyonov regi- 
 ment would sweep the unstable timid barricades before 
 them without the slightest difficulty ; and the cheap vic- 
 tory would be a mortal blow to the revolution. So he de-
 
 What Never Happened 117 
 
 eided at any cost to prevent the Semyonov regiment 
 from coming to Moscow. The only way to do this, he 
 resolved, was to dynamite the railroad tracks. Without 
 asking anybody's permission or advice he left for Tver 
 with that in view, resigning the command of his body of 
 men to Seriozha, not to Bolotov. 
 
 During that one week the change in Bolotov was so 
 great that Arseny Ivanovich would surely not have 
 recognized him. He had grown thinner, his blue eyes had 
 shrunk, and his cheeks, pale and unwashed, were cov- 
 ered with a rough, heavy beard. The smart winter coat 
 in which he had come from St. Petersburg had been torn 
 to pieces the very first day, when he had had to break 
 down Brizgalov's fence, carry empty barrels on his back, 
 and cut telephone wires. As it also felt heavy and un- 
 comfortable he discarded it. He put on, instead, 
 a jacket with a sash, and exchanged his shoes 
 for felt boots. For the first time in his life he 
 knew, not from talk or books, what an uprising, bar- 
 ricades, murder, death meant. To his surprise he saw 
 it was all much simpler, plainer, easier than the novels 
 made it appear to be. But it was also far more terrible. 
 For the first time also he experienced what are usually 
 termed privations and what had always seemed oppress- 
 ive and unbearable to him. He got at first hand an idea 
 of what it means to go without food for two whole days, 
 without a bath, to sleep in one's clothes somewhere in a 
 cold, uninhabitable shed. But the unfamiliar sensations 
 of cold, hunger, and uncleanliness of body did not em- 
 barrass him. On the contrarj'- it was agreeable. With 
 childish pride he looked at his cut, calloused hands, 
 happy in the thought that he was like the rest of them, 
 like Vanya, Konstantin, or Pronka, and he could per-
 
 118 "What Never Happened 
 
 form any labour, no matter how common — chop wood, 
 fetch water for the barricades in the frosty weather or 
 fan to life a fire going out in the wind. It delighted him 
 that the men were gradually becoming accustomed to 
 him and ceased to look upon him as a gentleman, a mem- 
 ber of the mysterious committee, a possessor of white 
 hands, which knew nothing of labour. He tried to 
 strengthen this comradeship, not the artificial comrade- 
 ship of a propagandist with his disciples, nor the super- 
 ficial, meaningless attachment that is born of a secret 
 perusal of pamphlets and talks on "the condition of 
 the working class," ''autocracy," or the "Erfiirter 
 Programm." In workingmen's circles, among half illit- 
 erate factory hands, he had always felt himself to be an 
 intruder, an unwanted pedant, not a comrade or friend. 
 But here, at the Moscow barricades, where all did their 
 share of hard labour alike, where all were freezing alike, 
 hungry and exposed to danger alike, the insulting bor- 
 derline was wiping itself out. Unknown to himself 
 Bolotov had become an inseparable part of the work- 
 ingmen's troop, as valuable as any other member. 
 
 In the first naive days of the barricade he had be- 
 lieved sincerely that the time would come when he, the 
 experienced revolutionist, would lead the people. But 
 as the uprising grew, his dreams of self-reliance turned 
 more and more insignificant. He came to see that there 
 was no government in Moscow ; and should Volodya die, 
 the barricades would not be abandoned, nor would the 
 bitter civil war that Volodya had proclaimed end ab- 
 ruptly. He came to see that to "lead the people" was 
 ridiculous and unnecessary, a fit subject for discussion 
 in committees, but here, where streets were full of fight- 
 ing, such thoughts were futile and meaningless. No
 
 What Never Happened 119 
 
 words, he now realized with full force, could make people 
 kill if they did not want to kill and no authority could 
 prevent a man, once his mind was made up, from sac- 
 rificing his life. Three of the troopers attracted him. 
 Vasily Grigoryevich, a pharmacist whom he pitied for his 
 narrow shoulders, weak arms, the earthly pallor of his 
 sunken cheeks and his impersonal obedience, not only to 
 Volodya, but to eveiy one of the comrades, even Pronka. 
 The locksmith Konstantin, a lad of nineteen, freckled 
 and curly-haired, who surprised him by his bold, truly 
 Russian audacity, and Roman Aleksieyevich, a middle- 
 aged man who spoke and shot very seldom but when he 
 did shoot, placed his bullets where not one was lost. 
 Pronka annoyed him because he could not shoot. In 
 a retreat Roman Aleksieyevich was sure to be the last 
 to leave the barricade, and, no matter how strong the 
 fire, he never forgot to take the flag along. 
 
 Bolotov could not have explained why he had not left 
 Yolodya after the killing of Sliozkin, but he knew he had 
 acted wisely, and it would have been mean and wrong 
 in him to leave the fighting squad. That same affinity of 
 blood which he had felt at the first barricade, binding 
 him not only to Volodya but to all revolutionary IMos- 
 cow, that force which had brought him to Sliozkin 's 
 house, that feeling of responsibility which had possessed 
 him that night, all prompted him to remain, yet he 
 could not explain his own resolve, or penetrate its hidden 
 motive. 
 
 On Saturday, December the ninth, the men under 
 Seriozha's command abandoned the barricades on Miiisy 
 Street, retreated beyond the Presnensky Ponds and occu- 
 pied the Deep Upper and Lower Predtechensky Alleys. 
 They built several small barricades across Prudovaya and
 
 120 What Never Happened 
 
 Presnenskaya Streets. Their right wing was at the ob- 
 servatory, their left at the Church of Johann Predtecha. 
 In the rear they fortified a two-story school-house, bar- 
 ricaded all the windows and doors and posted sentries. 
 The barricades they had abandoned on ]\Iiiisy Street were 
 immediately occupied by a neighbouring band of stu- 
 dents from the Institute and the University. Sounds of 
 occasional revolver shots came from that direction. 
 
 "Gee, the gentlemen students are firing away!" 
 Pronka winked with one eye and laughed. 
 
 "Look out! You're endangering your own com- 
 rades the way you're waving your pitchfork," said 
 Konstantin sternly, climbing up the barricades and 
 fastening the red banner, which waved and fluttered 
 in the wind. 
 
 The day was cold and cloudy. The snow rose in a dry- 
 powder. Konstantin jumped about on the barricade a 
 while, then went off a way and looked at the steep, slip- 
 pery, ice-coated bulwark and said proudly: 
 
 * ' Fine ! A frog is not afraid of the cannons. ' ' 
 
 About fifty paces behind the barricades, almost at 
 the entrance to the school-house, the men had made a 
 bonfire. None but the sentries remained at the bar- 
 ricades. Pronka walked lazily along the bulwark, halt- 
 ing every few minutes to cast a look of envv at the 
 crackling fire. But suddenly he became all attention, 
 turned his face to Prudovaya Street, stood still a few 
 seconds, and then shouted gleefully: 
 
 "The little Cossacks are coming!" 
 
 Bolotov had become accustomed to false alarms, yet he 
 jumped up and ran to the barricades, taking out his 
 loaded revolver as he ran. Pronka was down on the 
 ground already, standing on tiptoe and holding on to the
 
 .What Never Happened 121 
 
 bulwark with one hand, with the other pointing some- 
 thing out to Seriozha. On Koniushkovskaya Street, be- 
 yond the Presnensky Ponds, one could distinctly see 
 the horse-mounted dragoons with their dark-brown uni- 
 forms and their rifles. Bolotov began to count. The 
 dragoons were circling the ponds in rows of three and 
 were heading for the observatory at an even trot. Bo- 
 lotov counted ninety-six men. 
 
 "Positively less than two hundred j^ards," remarked 
 Vanya. *'It would be nice to take a shot at them." 
 
 *'Let them come nearer," Roman Aleksieyevich re- 
 plied nervously and coughed in his dry, consumptive 
 way. 
 
 "There, look, look! The high and mighty mister of- 
 ficer!" Pronka laughed again, pointing his finger at 
 the mounted officer, who had left his men and was en- 
 tering the street on his black horse. ' ' Ah, the devil take 
 him, how bold he is! Just look at him, Sergey Vasily- 
 evich ! Let me take a shot at him, ' ' he said to Seriozha 
 smiling. 
 
 Seriozha made no reply, looking attentively at the 
 dragoons. They turned the ponds and began to form 
 into close formation, 
 
 Pronka jerked his head impatiently : 
 
 "Sergey Vasilyevich, so help me God, it's the best 
 chance." 
 
 Bolotov looked over Pronka 's shoulder. There seemed 
 not a moment to lose ; the very time to fire, he thought, 
 was while the dragoons were dismounting. He was al- 
 ready accustomed to look upon armies with indifference 
 and await their attack without excitement. He had al- 
 ways been sure that no infantry in JMoscow could with- 
 stand the fire from a barricade and no officer could force
 
 122 WHat Never Happened 
 
 his soldiers to advance to certain senseless death. Per- 
 haps for that very reason the hunter's lust had awak- 
 ened and gi'own in him, a wolfish feeling, which he had 
 never known and of which he was secretly ashamed. 
 By Pronka's straining face and sparkling eyes, and by 
 the concentration of his comrades he could judge that the 
 same feeling possessed them all, that they were all 
 waiting impatiently for Seriozha's command to shoot 
 and all hoped to kill the officer. Bolotov was not afraid 
 for himself. That he could be wounded or killed had 
 never even occurred to him. During the many days of 
 the uprising they had lost only one man, with the ex- 
 ception of David, and that because he had gone out into 
 the street and begun to shoot in sight of the soldiers. 
 Seriozha was silent, as if trying the obedience of his 
 men. Finally he gave the command unwillingly : 
 
 ' ' One — two — shoot ! ' ' 
 
 The last word was scarcely out of his mouth when 
 Pronka and Konstantin, having guessed that his permis- 
 sion was coming, shot simultaneously. Then all the 
 revolvers and rifles went off one after the other. 
 Bolotov was also shooting. He selected a red ser- 
 geant with moustachios, who was first man in the first 
 row, and took aim long and carefully, trying to calcu- 
 late the distance and make sure of his man. He 
 gave no thought to it that he was aiming at a human 
 being. In his eyes, he was not that, not even an enemy, 
 but an inanimate object, a target, at which he had to 
 shoot and which he must not miss. At last he pulled 
 the trigger, and when the smoke had cleared away, he 
 saw that the dragoons were mounting their horses 
 and turning back in disorder. The sergeant was not 
 wounded. The men on the barricade were now shooting
 
 What Never Happened 123 
 
 at them continuousl}^ without doing any harm. On the 
 trampled snow lay two human bodies and near them the 
 officer's thoroughbred horse was jumping about on three 
 legs, bending her fourth one, which had been struck above 
 the knee, Konstantin exclaimed triumphantly: 
 
 "Comrades, the officer is killed! So help me God! 
 I'll run and take a look," He jumped over the bul- 
 wark and made his way slowly to the dead soldiers with- 
 out paying any attention to the dragoons, who had 
 stopped beyond the Presnensky ponds. Pronka leaned 
 over the barricade and shouted in a thin, frightened 
 voice : 
 
 ''Kensentin, come back; Come back, Kensentin!" 
 
 Bolotov returned to the bonfire.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE evening passed quietly. The dragoons did 
 not disturb the barricades again. The ter- 
 rorists retreated to the school-house and spent 
 the night in the uncomfortable unpainted class-room, 
 on the floor among the desks. A lamp diffused a dim 
 light. The room was stuffy and smelled of kerosene, 
 cheap tobacco, damp sheepskin, and the odour of 
 men sleeping in their clothes. Bolotov could not rest. 
 About three o'clock in the morning he rose, picked his 
 way over his comrades, and went out into the street. 
 
 Towards morning it became frostier. The heavens 
 were starry. In the east shone the Big Dipper, its 
 handle pointing downwards. A motionless shadow 
 loomed up from the dark bulwark of the barricade. 
 Konstantin was on sentry duty. The fire was dying out, 
 but a thin trembling bluish flame was still fighting the 
 night. At the fire Seriozha was squatting on his heels 
 with his hands clasping his knees and his eyes fixed on 
 the red coals. Every now and then the fire lighted up 
 his hands and heavy peasant boots. His shoulders, 
 chest, face and blond curly hair were lost in the dark- 
 ness. Bolotov came near him. Seriozha moved in si- 
 lence and was immediately, as if by magic, swallowed 
 up in the darkness. 
 
 Bolotov 's face and feet felt hot at the fire, but his back 
 and neck were freezing. He threw his cigarette butt 
 into the fire and said : 
 
 124
 
 What Never Happened 125 
 
 "I can't understand it, Seriozha. We are being shot 
 to death, hanged, strangled. We hang others, strangle 
 and burn. But why is it, if I kill Sliozkin, I am a hero ; 
 but if he hangs me, he is a scoundrel? That is fit for 
 Hottentots. Either one must not kill, in which case 
 both Sliozkin and I are criminals, or killing is permis- 
 sible, and neither he nor I are heroes, nor scoundrels, 
 but merely men and enemies. 
 
 "Volodya says," Bolotov continued to think aloud, 
 "that's all sentimentality and when one's at war one 
 must kill without mercy. A la guerre comme a la 
 guerre. Well, of course, one must. So we are killing. 
 But tell me this, may we assume that Sliozkin persecuted 
 us out of principle, not for gain? May we assume that 
 he considered it his duty to fight us, in the interests of 
 the people, not his own? May we assume it? Yes? 
 It's possible, isn't it? It's possible that one out of a 
 hundred or a thousand Sliozkins should be like that, 
 isn't it? It's possible, eh? Well, then, where is the 
 difference between him and me? It's my opinion that 
 either murder is always permissible — or never." 
 
 Konstantin climbed down from the dark barricade, 
 and passed them yawning, looking red in the firelight. 
 Seriozha followed him absently with his eyes and said: 
 
 "Where are you going, Konstantin?" 
 
 "Relief, Sergey Vasilyevich. " 
 
 "Relief?" 
 
 "Exactly, relief." 
 
 "How many times have I told you," Seriozha re- 
 marked indignantly, "not to leave the barricade without 
 permission? Whose turn is next?" 
 
 ' ' Roman Aleksieyevich 's. ' ' 
 
 Roman Aleksieyevich, tall, slim and stooping, looking
 
 126 What Never Happened 
 
 like a strange long-legged bird in the night, was cough- 
 ing on the porch. The revolver clicked in his hands. 
 
 "Roman Aleksieyevich ! " Seriozha called in a kind 
 voice. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "You ought to get some sleep. I'll take your place. 
 I'm not sleeping anyway." 
 
 ' * "What do you mean ? How can I ? It 's no hardship 
 to me." 
 
 Coughing and groaning, he climbed painfully on to 
 the bulwark and moved about in the snow. When he 
 became quiet at last, Seriozha shook his head : 
 
 " He 's at the edge of the grave. What a pity ! ' ' 
 
 Bolotov felt slighted that his thoughts, which seemed 
 so deep and significant should be so rudely interrupted. 
 He was silent for a while and then began again pensively : 
 
 ' ' Then it must not and ought not be ? Then where is 
 the law? In the Party program? In Karl Marx? 
 In Engels? In Kant? But that's all nonsense," he 
 whispered in agitation. "Neither ]\Iarx, nor Engels, 
 nor Kant ever killed people. You hear? Never, no- 
 body. Then they can not know what I know, what you 
 or Volodya know. Whatever they may write, it will 
 remain a mystery to them whether or not it is right to 
 kill. We alone know it, we, those who have killed. I 
 for instance, know it was not right to kill Sliozkin, what- 
 ever he might have been, whatever I might have been, 
 whatever I might have thought of him. ' ' 
 
 As Bolotov went on, he felt greater and greater sur- 
 prise at himself, at his boldness, at his audacious ques- 
 tions. Those weak beggarly thoughts which had been 
 born on that unfortunate night had never before been put
 
 What Never Happened 127 
 
 into words; and now, as he was saying them aloud, he 
 felt frightened; he felt he was lying to himself. But 
 he could not see where the lie came in. 
 
 "But we did kill him," he finished in anguish and 
 was silent. 
 
 "Sliozkin ought not to have been killed," said Seriozha 
 in a bored tone as if half asleep, "and may a dragoon 
 be killed?" 
 
 "A dragoon?" 
 
 "Yes, a dragoon. "Why speak only of Sliozkin?" 
 
 "A dragoon also — " 
 
 "There! But you would kill him like a fly and still 
 your conscience would be clear. Who killed the officer 
 yesterday? You? I? Konstantin? Why doesn't that 
 affect you? Certainly the officer wasn't guilty of any- 
 thing. He was merely carrying out orders. Then why 
 kill him?" Seriozha continued in a voice of anguish, 
 new to Bolotov. "Is it because we were all shooting 
 and we can not establish whose bullet killed him? Is 
 it because the officer was not wailing, or if he was, w6 
 could not hear him? You say, we must not kill. Per- 
 haps, you really are of that opinion. But you could not 
 feel the dragoon's death, you could not see his death. 
 He merely fell off the saddle, as far as you are con- 
 cerned. But at Sliozkin 's his wife was crying." 
 
 "You're right." Bolo+ov was lost in thought. He 
 was not surprised that Seriozha divined and even dis- 
 puted his thoughts. "But that's still worse. I can't 
 understand a thing then. You know, before I had had 
 occasion to kill, I thought it was all very simple. The 
 Party gives orders to kill, and you kill. And the man 
 that does the killing is a hero, he sacrificed his life.
 
 128 What Never Happened 
 
 That's the way I thought for a long time. But now I 
 see it's a lie. One must not and should not kill. Ex- 
 plain it. I can't understand it." 
 
 "Ah, explain!" Seriozha smiled bitterly. "How can 
 I explain? How do I know? How can we know? I 
 know one thing, if you go anywhere, go to the end, or 
 don't go at all. And I also know," he added in a softer 
 voice, "whoever raises his sword shall perish by the 
 sword." 
 
 The door on the staircase creaked. Vanya ap- 
 proached the fire slowly, and stuck his hands over it and 
 raised his narrow, slanting Asiatic eyes up to the sky. 
 
 "Can't you sleep?" Seriozha asked. 
 
 "No," answered Vanya, yawning and slapping his 
 hand to his mouth. "It must be about six o'clock. 
 Look how many stars are out." He sat down in the 
 snow and began to roll a cigarette. "A frost is surely 
 coming. Konstantin was looking at the dead officer 
 last night," he went on, removing a hot coal from the 
 fire. "He says he was refined and young, well-fed. 
 The bullet must have gone through his heart. A dog 
 may have good teeth and still be cheap, ' ' he added scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 "You see," Bolotov said pointing to Vanya, "he sees 
 no problem at all — well-fed dog. Kobody." 
 
 It was dawning. Pale, greyish streaks appeared in 
 the east, and the stars began to dim and fade away. The 
 fire flashed up for the last time. A handful of red-hot 
 lumps of coal illuminated the half -circle of melted snow 
 around it, the black earth, which was freezing off, and 
 Seriozha 's face, which remained expressionless, as if 
 carved in stone. 
 
 "Of course, a dog. What else?" Vanya yawned.
 
 What Never Happened 129 
 
 **But it's not a dogr, Vanya, it's a human being." 
 
 **0f course, I know. But what else can we do? 
 Should we look out for their safety ? ' ' 
 
 *'But killing's a sin, Vanya." 
 
 "I know it is," Vanya replied after a pause, without 
 raising his eyes. * ' Only what 's to be done ? If you call 
 yourself a mushroom, get into the basket. And as to 
 sins, God shall judge." 
 
 ♦'God?" 
 
 "I don't care for any of those words," Vanya cried 
 suddenly, indignant and flushed. * ' I know ' for land and 
 freedom!' That's all and no more. Yes, for land and 
 freedom ! " he repeated in a quieter tone and turned to 
 Seriozha. 
 
 *'Have you an idea, Sergey Vasilyevich, when Vladi- 
 mir Ivanovich will be back?" 
 
 Seriozha did not answer. He turned his head to- 
 wards Prudova Street and began to listen. In the dawn- 
 ing he appeared all grey — a grey face, a grey cap, a 
 grey jacket and boots. On the barricade Roman 
 Aleksieyevich began to cough and move about. One 
 could see how he got up, put his broad palm to his ear 
 and listened. A dry frosty December morning was 
 dawning. Every sound was distinct and resonant in the 
 pure, cold, transparent air. The sound of wheels could 
 be heard somewhere at a distance, beyond the Presnen- 
 sky Ponds. Bolotov trembled. A moment later one 
 could distinctly hear the sound of hoofs in the churned 
 snow and a ringing clatter of iron. Vanya was the first 
 to come to himself. 
 
 "It sounds like artillery, Sergey Vasilyevich. " 
 
 Sleepy-looking Konstantin ran out from the school- 
 house and began to whisper something to Seriozha.
 
 130 What Never Happened 
 
 Then he went over to the barricade, thought a while, 
 and suddenly jumped over the bulwark and slid rapidly 
 and silently along the walls of the building. The 
 men, sullen, puzzled and shivering from cold, were 
 gathering around Seriozha. 
 
 ''Undoubtedly the Semyonov Regiment," Vanya said 
 loudly. 
 
 * ' That means Volodya is lost, ' ' Bolotov thought. For 
 the first time that week he was seized by terror. He was 
 not trying to grasp the meaning of the word "Sem- 
 yonov," but he felt vaguely that what had been till now 
 was not the worst, but the bloody, hopeless events were 
 still to come. He had a sensation that all around him 
 was not Moscow in an uprising the life of which he was 
 sharing, but a mass of pitiful ruins, a burned desert. 
 St. Petersburg had betrayed them, the Moscow revolu- 
 tion was left to her own small strength, the fighting 
 squad, hence himself, had been deserted by the Party, by 
 all Russia. The instant he fully grasped the situation a 
 feeling of pride and indignation took hold of him. 
 
 **We shall not surrender," he thought, and all his 
 previous reflections about murder, death, Sliozkin and 
 dragoons seemed futile and valueless. "What do we 
 know?" He recalled the striking words of Seriozha. 
 And when ten minutes later Konstantin returned all 
 excited and told in broken whispers that Povarskaya 
 Street was full of infantry and artillery, Bolotov listened 
 without misgivings. "If you go, go to the end," he re- 
 called again. And he felt no terror, but joy at the 
 thought that the early, glorious end was inevitable.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE sun rose, and a cold, pale red set the white 
 snow a-sparkle. Bolotov could see two can- 
 nons beyond the Presnensky Ponds, where the 
 dragoons had dismounted the day before. Their burn- 
 ished bodies and wrought-iron wheels glinted in the sun- 
 light. There was not a soul on Prudovaya Street, and all 
 the shutters were tightly closed. Only in the many- 
 storied brick box — the house of merchant Chizhov, with 
 a saloon on the ground floor — soldiers' caps and 
 gleaming bayonets appeared in the windows. Bolotov 
 was fully aware they could expect no mercy this time. 
 "We shall not surrender," he repeated to himself, set- 
 ting his teeth, and looking back at his silently expectant 
 comrades. All their faces, even Pronka's, were sombre 
 and severe. Seriozha alone was as usual. To judge by 
 his slow motions and low, self-assured tones, one would 
 have thought he had foreseen everything, and nothing 
 terrible could happen, and the army would be defeated. 
 Bolotov looked at him in admiration. He had long 
 ceased to regret that not he, member of the committee 
 and famous revolutionist, was in charge of the barri- 
 cade, but this youthful army-deserter; and that the de- 
 voted revolutionists, from the impenetrable Roman 
 Aleksieyevich down to the scatterbrained Pronka, were 
 not obedient to him, Bolotov, the idol of the Party, but 
 to the unknown Seriozha. 
 
 The mechanics were busy at the cannons. The gun- 
 
 131
 
 132 What Never Happened 
 
 ner, illuminated by the slanting morning rays, was giv- 
 ing orders, waving his hands. He was standing to the 
 right of the cannons and nearby a little behind them 
 sparkled the golden buttons of an officer's uniform. A 
 sporty lieutenant was examining the barricades with a 
 binocular. Konstantin raised his revolver rapidly and 
 aimed a short, solitary shot that broke the silence of the 
 morning. 
 
 Bolotov clearly saw the bullet hit the wall without 
 touching the gunner and a bit of the red brick wall fall 
 to the ground. He also saw the lieutenant remove the 
 binocular from his eyes indifferently, step aside and bow 
 his head and examine the fragments curiously. It was 
 strange to see those people so quietly engaged in their 
 work. It was hard to believe that the dandified officer 
 and the tall kind-faced gunner wanted to kill, 
 and perhaps would kill him, Bolotov, and that their 
 business was to kill and to shoot almost unarmed 
 men with machine-guns. "Will they kill?" Bolotov 
 thought, as he aimed his revolver. "Yes, of course, they 
 will." He did not notice himself pull the trigger; but 
 from the recoil on his shoulder and the wailing sound, he 
 realized he had fired a shot. 
 
 "Don't quarrel with God," Vanya said ironically. 
 "Sergey Vasilyevich, what are you waiting for?" 
 
 Sergey nodded in silence. 
 
 A thin disorderly volley of shots filled the frosty air. 
 Pronka was shooting last and apart from the others, 
 with his eyes half closed and a frightened look on his 
 face, as if drowning in icy water. Bolotov smiled, so 
 unrecognizable was the man's round, large-jawed face, 
 which always wore a look of industriousness, but was 
 now distorted by fear. The gunner fell to the ground,
 
 AVhat Never Happened 133 
 
 but even before the smoke lifted from the barricade, 
 a white wavy cloud from the cannons arose into the 
 frosty air. Above Bolotov's head the first shrapnel 
 whizzed warningly. He had never heard the sound be- 
 fore, and did not grasp the threatening significance of 
 it and smiled again. Pronka and Vasily Grigoryevich 
 ducked down into the snow as if at command. 
 
 ''What are you bowing for? Are you being intro- 
 duced?" Konstantin said gruffly. 
 
 Then came what Bolotov would never have believed 
 had he not lived through that day. Not one of the bit- 
 ter skirmishes with the troops, not one of those cavalry 
 attacks which the squad had been repulsing daily had 
 even a remote resemblance to those short, rapidly pass- 
 ing moments. Bolotov had become accustomed to seeing 
 the men after the first few shots abandon the dead and 
 retreat in disorder to the barricades. Though he had 
 known that revolvers were mere playthings and artillery 
 would swamp the barricades and their own squad was 
 powerless, still in the bottom of his heart he could not 
 believe that the Semyonov Regiment would not retreat. 
 He could not believe that all the efforts and sacrifices 
 and sleepless nights had been in vain, that the uprising 
 was crushed and that Moscow was again in the hands 
 of the army. He could not believe that the Party had 
 not and could not come to their assistance, that St. 
 Petersburg had really betrayed them and that what had 
 been true the day before was now, on this winter morn- 
 ing, in front of the warring cannons, an untruth, a 
 monstrous lie. "They will retreat — will retreat," he 
 kept repeating in an attempt to convince himself, now 
 shaken by despairing anger, now hoping against hope. 
 But a quarter of an hour passed, and still the rifles rang
 
 134 What Never Happened 
 
 out, and the hand-grenades whizzed past and showers 
 of shrapnel rained about him. The second shot fell 
 about ten paces in front. The explosion split the ice, 
 exposing the roof of an overturned car and bending the 
 sheets of iron that covered the barricade. But after the 
 third shot one of the men, a watchmaker's apprentice, 
 Leizer, a dark Jew with curly hair, whom Bolotov had 
 noticed at Sliozkin's house, sighed, dropped his revolver 
 and clutched at his breast. He retreated slowly from 
 the barricade, lowered his head, stood a while, as if in 
 reflection, and dropped slowly, face downward, into the 
 snow. Thick red foam gathered at his mouth. Soon 
 after, the whole alley, the barricade, the troopers, the 
 Presnensky Ponds, the saloon and the cannons were 
 all enveloped in heavy white smoke. Bolotov heard the 
 incessant bursting of bullets, saw the wall of smoke, 
 and without aiming, unconscious of what he was doing, 
 he kept on shooting. He made up his mind to the fact 
 that he would be killed, and this, once established in 
 his mind, he was seized by an oppressive indifference. 
 He gave no thought to the revolution. It was of no im- 
 portance whether or not St. Petersburg had revolted and 
 whether or not Moscow was captured by the govern- 
 ment forces. Only one thing was important, he knew 
 he must shoot and must not leave the barricade, must 
 defend the Party banner to the last moment even at 
 the cost of his life. But he did not dare to look behind 
 him. He could judge by the sound of falling bodies and 
 the suppressed groans that many of his comrades 
 had been wounded or killed. He was afraid to look, 
 afraid he might lose courage and run without looking 
 back. His revolver grew hot and the steel burned his 
 hand, but, heedless of the pain, he kept on discharging
 
 iWhat Never Happened 135 
 
 the bullets that were left. Suddenly the short rapid 
 rifle fire and the heavy cannonading were augmented by 
 a new sound, also short and rapid, but deeper and more 
 distinct. 
 
 "Dear me, machine-guns!" Pronka shouted desper- 
 ately at the top of his voice. He threw his revolver 
 away and dropped down into the snow. Bolotov looked 
 at him sideways. He lay prostrate, his face buried in 
 the snow, his hat over his brows. From under his hat, 
 his neck with the hair cut in a semi-circle was visible. 
 Bolotov concluded that Pronka had been killed. But 
 Pronka moved and tugged at Bolotov 's belt. 
 
 "Lie down," he whispered. 
 
 "Are you wounded?" Bolotov asked. 
 
 Pronka raised his unkempt head and shook it violently. 
 There was fear in his eyes. To his right Vanya, gloomy 
 and black from the smoke, was standing at the barricade, 
 his whole attention concentrated on shooting. He turned 
 at Bolotov 's words, looked attentively at Pronka, and 
 poked him in the side with his boot. 
 
 "Absolutely not wounded! Ah, you bastard! Get 
 up, get up, you scoundrel!" 
 
 Pronka cautiously raised himself to his knees and 
 with a dirty forefinger pointed out to Bolotov a soft, 
 wet, formless mass lying near him. Bolotov bent down. 
 He saw fragments of clothing, blood-covered feet, black 
 laced shoes and a red stain on the melting snow. By 
 the sheepskin hat and the broken tortoise shell pince-nez 
 he knew it to be Vasily Grigoryevich. He was not 
 frightened — not even surprised. It was all as it should 
 be, there was nothing terrible in one of them having 
 been killed. Vanya began to shout again, and Bolotov, 
 walking around Pronka, went over to him. In the lift-
 
 136 What Never Happened 
 
 iug gusts of smoke, through a narrow strip of light, 
 appeared the familiar street, and the same cannons and 
 the same party of officers in the same position near the 
 saloon. Bolotov raised his revolver to fire at the officers, 
 but somebody struck him on the shoulder : 
 
 "Bolotov, can't you hear? Retreat!" Seriozha 
 shouted in his ear. 
 
 The school-house could be seen again as the smoke 
 lifted. In the space between the school-house and the 
 barricade, the snow was littered and ploughed up with 
 shrapnel and bullets. They had to run across this 
 stretch. Pronka, without rising from his knees, shel- 
 tered by the barricade, glanced around like a cat, and 
 was the first to run, in a zig-zag, to the steps of the 
 school-house. But when he was still far from his goal, 
 he threw up his hands feebly and fell face downwards 
 into the snow. The trooper who had been watching him 
 run wavered. But Konstantin started and disappeared 
 safely behind the door. After Konstantin, Vanya crept 
 out stealthily. 
 
 Bolotov and Seriozha kept on shooting. They un- 
 derstood each other without words and decided not 
 to leave until all the comrades were in the school-house. 
 When the last man had run up the school steps, Bolotov, 
 feeling that all eyes in the school-house were turned 
 upon him, straightened up and deliberately slackening 
 his steps advanced. His heart was beating. Those 
 forty-five yards seemed longer than as many versts, but 
 not once did he feel the desire to run, or any concern for 
 his life. Much later, when he recalled those moments, he 
 could not explain whether it had been courage, a quiet 
 contempt for danger, or that simple indifference which 
 one experiences when he has no fear of death because
 
 What Never Happened 137 
 
 it is inevitable. When he mounted the steps he looked 
 around. The alleys were still enveloped in heavy smoke. 
 On the ruins of the demolished barricade shreds of the 
 flag were waving on a pole. Near it a bent, dark figure 
 was moving. Bolotov recognized Roman Aleksieyevich. 
 He grasped the banner and jumped down awkwardly, 
 but the next instant, like Pronka, he threw up his hands 
 helplessly and dropped into the snow. 
 
 Then Konstantin suddenly moved away from the 
 gloomy revolutionists, whose number had thinned down. 
 Hunching his shoulders, as if it were raining, he jumped 
 over prostrate bodies and ran over to Roman Aleksieye- 
 vich. Bolotov saw him raise the banner high over his 
 head. 
 
 "He will come back," he thought indifferently, but 
 Konstantin was already running up the stairs, pressing 
 the red tatters to his breast. 
 
 A cold wind sprang up and began to drive the smoke 
 away. At the other end of the alley the grey uniforms 
 of the soldiers stretched along the houses and moved 
 slowly in an endless, ominous chain towards the deserted 
 barricades. They passed it and suddenly stopped at a 
 distance from the school-house. Bolotov raised his re- 
 volver. 
 
 "Don't shoot," Seriozha held his arm. 
 
 Suddenly Bolotov saw Vanya with a triumphant in- 
 dignant face and frightened Asiatic eyes lean out of the 
 window, raise a shining box over his head, and hurl it 
 into the crowd. There was a terrific explosion, which 
 drowned the roar of the cannons. Yellowish smoke rose 
 funnel-shaped from the ground. AVhen it cleared away, 
 the snow was covered with rifles, uniforms, caps and 
 torn, mangled, unrecognizable human bodies. Dark-red
 
 138 What Never Happened 
 
 spots were growing into pools among the loose stones in 
 the road. Some three dozen soldiers were running in 
 disorder back into the alley. 
 
 Among the revolutionists no one said a word. Revol- 
 vers were fired still more rapidly. Bolotov could not tell 
 how long the firing lasted. He had lost all sense of time. 
 The same sharp thought, the same insistent desire in 
 spite of will and reason were in complete control of him. 
 He could not have gone away even had he wanted to. So 
 far was any thought of saving himself from his mind 
 that he was not asking himself whether or not he should 
 run. In fact, he was sure he would die there, in the 
 school-house, under the torn red flag. As if through a 
 mist he remembered afterwards that he had kept on shoot- 
 ing incessantly, that his bullets had kept on striking the 
 tables and walls and doors, and the air smelled of powder 
 and it was difficult to breathe. He also remembered that 
 as he aimed at the artillery officer from the cover of the 
 window frame something fell behind him and threw him 
 to the floor. When he scrambled to his feet, the room 
 was filled with bluish-white rings of smoke, and he 
 realized that some shrapnel had fallen into the room. 
 He remembered how the school-house had been set on 
 fire, how it became still more difficult to breathe, and how 
 crackling streaks of fire had swept the walls. And he 
 remembered how Seriozha had caught his arm and how 
 Seriozha, Konstantin, Vanya and himself had leapt 
 do"WTi a charred, smoke-filled staircase. Below was the 
 quiet empty school-house bathed in sunshine. But how 
 they climbed over the stone fence, and how they made 
 their way into distant streets and finally reached the sub- 
 urbs of Moscow and the Sokolnichaya Grove, Bolotov 
 could never recall.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MISHA spent the summer on the estate. To- 
 wards the end of August, when the young 
 birches were turning yellow and the fields of 
 buckwheat red, at the touch of the first hoar frosts, he 
 started preparations for his trip to the university in 
 St. Petersburg. For weeks a fine autumn rain had been 
 falling almost continuously. In the intervals when it 
 stopped, the sun would shine hot through fleecy clouds 
 and draw mist from the frosty air, and turn the spider- 
 webs flung over the serene fields into silver. The woods 
 had long since undergone a change. The falling leaves 
 lay rotting in the hollows in the ground amid patches 
 of sweet-smelling grass. The birds were silent. Some- 
 times a wind sprang up and swayed the naked branches 
 and whirled the fallen leaves. The orchard and the 
 vegetable garden were radiant with colour — rosy-cheeked 
 apples, blue-green cabbages, and yellow cucumbers. 
 The air was redolent of hops and dill and mint. 
 
 The country roads were covered with deep black mud. 
 The patient horses panted as they struggled tugging 
 along the ancient lumbering travelling-coach. The 
 autumn had set in early and was already on the wane. 
 
 Misha had been lonely all summer long. Duty, he felt, 
 called him to St. Petersburg, where Andriusha needed 
 him. He feared he would be late at the barricades and 
 every day spent in the country — wilderness, he called it 
 — was wasted. Chafing under the unpleasant experi- 
 
 139
 
 140 What Never Happened 
 
 ence of enforced idleness, he evaded his mother's annoy- 
 ing questions and his sister's attempts at conversation, 
 and though he was sensitive to the degradation, the pain, 
 the fruitlessness of controversy with his father, he en- 
 tered into irritating disputes with him. 
 
 On the day of his departure Misha rose at dawn and 
 went to the stable right away to remind Tikhon it was 
 time to harness the horses. Kain had fallen during the 
 night. Eemnants of tattered clouds were drifting in 
 the sky. The wet branches of the half-naked birches 
 drooped helplessly. Trudging through the mud and 
 jumping over pools, Misha made his way to the stalls. 
 Tikhon was not there. The place smelled of manure, 
 saw-dust and straw. At the sound of his light steps, 
 Golubka turned her finely shaped head and slanted her 
 black, sparkling expressive eyes. In the neighbouring 
 stall Zolotoy, scenting Misha 's presence, pawed the 
 ground. Misha embraced Golubka, and instantly his joy 
 vanished. He became sad. His approaching depar- 
 ture no longer seemed desirable. Golubka snorted 
 and pressed her side against the wooden partition, and 
 turned her head, and pranced. Misha left her and ran 
 out of the stall. On the wet, black ground trampled up 
 and washed out by many rains, lay bundles of straw and 
 a rusty horse-shoe. Misha picked it up for luck, as he 
 always did. Across the yard, on the other side, were 
 the servants' quarters of red brick. Beyond stood the 
 green gloomy fir-trees. Misha, twirling a stick thought- 
 fully, went slowly back to the house. There seemed to 
 be no reason now for his leaving. In the house, in the 
 semi-darkness of the hall, stood Nikolay Stepanovich 
 smoking a cigarette and conversing with the manager, 
 Aleksey Antonovich, who stood with his bald head bent
 
 What Never Happened 141 
 
 slightly to the side, his paunch protruding, and his soft 
 hands folded behind his back. He listened to his em- 
 ploj^er with a hardly perceptible smile, now and then 
 putting in short, casual remarks. 
 
 ' ' The Kurbatovsky Woods, ' ' Nikolay Stepanovich was 
 saying angrily, ' ' contain only twenty-five acres. So how 
 would it pay me to sell them for four hundred? Fancy ! 
 A nice price!" 
 
 "But it is all aspen, your excellency," said Aleksey 
 Antonovich, raising his eyes to the ceiling and sighing. 
 
 ' * Well, what if it is aspen ? The Mozharovs sold theirs 
 at four-fifty. Why should our property go for noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 * ' Very true, ' ' Aleksey Antonovich sighed again. 
 
 **So tell him that. Tell him the general doesn't agree 
 to the price." 
 
 "Of course, I can tell him that. Why not? But—" 
 
 **Ah, Misha," Nikolay Stepanovich turned to his son. 
 **go into the billiard room, Misha, there is a letter from 
 Sasha." 
 
 Misha frowned. His brother's letters were always the 
 cause of violent, undignified quarrels. The house sud- 
 denly became uncomfortable and gloomy, and the talk 
 about woods, prices, IMozharov and sales seemed out of 
 place and petty. The desire to leave awoke in him again. 
 He crossed the lofty, columned salon, threw himself on 
 the couch and waited sullenly for his father, paying no 
 attention to his mother and sister. 
 
 A moment later the door opened, Nikolay Stepanovich 
 entered, seated himself in his favourite soft arm-chair 
 with the carved back, took out the letter and began to 
 read it aloud in a solemn voice. The letter was from 
 Kioto, and Sasha, with a soldier's exactness and without
 
 142 What Never Happened 
 
 comment, quoted a speech made by a Japanese general 
 to the Russian prisoners of war. 
 
 '* 'While you are here,' " Nikolay Stepanovich read, 
 ** 'you must treat each other in a friendly way and be 
 restrained in your behaviour, because good behaviour 
 enhances the dignity of a soldier, and you must remem- 
 ber that by good behaviour the prisoners do a serv- 
 ice to their Fatherland. Meanwhile we must await 
 peace.' " 
 
 Nikolay Stepanovich dropped the letter, shaking with 
 anger. 
 
 "What, what, what! A Japanese, a Japanese," he 
 kept repeating, flushed and choking, "has the audacity 
 to instruct — to instruct — officers of the Russian navy! 
 Has the audacity to instruct! Has the audacity! Oh, 
 my God, my God!" 
 
 Misha was not affected by the speech of the Japanese 
 general, but it was unpleasant and a bore to witness his 
 father's excitement. 
 
 "Why such solemnity, why such indignation? Sasha 
 is a prisoner of war. Well, of course, it's not a pleasant 
 situation. The Japanese don't respect their prisoners. 
 But the prisoners themselves are to blame. They should 
 have known where and for what purpose they were go- 
 ing and for whom they would fight. Besides, why 
 shouldn't the Japanese give instructions? Didn't our 
 fleet at Port Arthur and Tsu Shima prove it's not worth 
 a cent? Aren't the Japanese cleverer, more educated, 
 more civilized than we ? Are any of the other things we 
 do daily in Russia going on in Japan ? And why doesn't 
 papa think of those who perish for the revolution?" 
 
 Thus Misha meditated as he listened in irritation to 
 his father, the while thinking also of his own affairs —
 
 What Never HapiDened 143 
 
 that he had staid in the country so long, but, thank 
 the Lord, was leaving today and would surely find An- 
 driusha in St. Petersburg. 
 
 "My God, what a disgrace!" Nikolay Stepanovich 
 said suddenly with tears in his voice. Misha could not 
 hold himself back. 
 
 "A disgrace? Where's the disgrace? Don't our of- 
 ficers deserve it?" 
 
 Tatyana Mikhailovna looked at Misha reproachfully. 
 Those irritating quarrels had cast sadness upon the whole 
 summer and had magnified instead of diminished the 
 stubborn family misunderstandings. Tatyana Mikliai- 
 lovna never asked herself who was right. She was sorry 
 for her husband and afraid for her son. Foreseeing that 
 even the last day would be darkened by a dispute, she 
 said timidly: 
 
 "Do not judge, that you may not be judged yourself, 
 Misha!" 
 
 But Nikolay Stepanovich was already on his feet. 
 
 "No, no, no! This is unthinkable! I can't stand it 
 any longer. You, mother, don't interfere, and you, my 
 dear sir, you have not yet come out of your swaddling 
 clothes. The mother's milk is not yet dry on your lips. 
 "Where's the disgrace? You can't see it? Take care, 
 Mikhail." 
 
 Natasha went over to her father and pressed her face 
 to his unshaven, sticky cheek and kissed him: 
 
 "Father dear, with God's mercy, Sasha will soon be 
 here," she whispered tenderly. 
 
 "Sasha will come. He will come," Nikolay Stepan- 
 ovich muttered, as he quieted down. "A shame ! A dis- 
 grace ! A dishonour ! ' ' 
 
 The hour of leaving came. A heavy wind was blow-
 
 144 What Never Happened 
 
 ing in gusts, shaking the tops of the lindens and raising 
 the decaying leaves from the ground. It was cold out- 
 side. When all seated themselves before the leavetaking, 
 according to an ancient custom, and Misha for the last 
 time looked at his mother 's shawl and at her tearful face, 
 Natasha's blue eyes, his father's aged face, the blackened 
 portraits on the walls and the couches covered with 
 checkered cloth; and when for the last time he heard 
 Nikolay Stepanovich 's gruff but loving voice admonish- 
 ing him not to enter into friendship with the long-haired 
 ones, but to study, so as to be able to serve his ' ' Father- 
 land," and when he caught his sister's stolen glances, 
 full of suppressed worry, he felt sorry again that he 
 had to leave it all, even though it had long since become 
 annoying to him — his mother, father, Natasha, the gar- 
 den, the grove, the stream, the stalls, all that simple 
 country life. He felt sorry for his father, old, grieved 
 and forlorn, and for his mother, resigned and obedient. 
 A thought entered his mind for a moment, that he was 
 launching upon a dishonest, unkind venture and there 
 was no one awaiting him in St. Petersburg. But the 
 thought died out immediately. 
 
 "If I am a Socialist and a revolutionist," he said to 
 himself, convinced that he was really both, "then I must 
 feel no sorrow. It is my duty to give my life boldly 
 and ungrudgingly." 
 
 He got up and went over to his mother. Tatyana 
 Mikhailovna embraced his curly head with trembling 
 hands and looked long into his youthful eyes, unable 
 to tear herself away. Then raising her hand, she crossed 
 him rapidly. Nikolay Stepanovich turned away and 
 said in a trembling, tearful voice:
 
 What Never Happened 145 
 
 "Well, farewell, Mikhail. God be with you. We are 
 not parting for ever." 
 
 The wind died down. The three-horsed carriage was 
 at the perron. Tikhon in a brown frock-coat was sitting 
 on the driver's seat. The maid Dasha, picking up her 
 skirts and trying not to wet her feet in the pools of 
 water, went over to the carriage to button the leather 
 apron. Misha waved his handkerchief and the horses 
 started. Llarshes, mile-posts, groves, and black ploughed 
 fields began to roll by the carriage. They turned the 
 horse-shoe shaped road and came into the ]\Iozharov 
 woods, which had turned dark-red. From the leaves of 
 the hazel-trees, which were still green, big cold drops of 
 water began to fall. The Bolotov estate disappeared. 
 And as soon as it disappeared from sight, Misha with 
 the light-mindedness of youth forgot about those he had 
 left behind. He gave a sigh of relief and began to think 
 carelessly of how he would be a student, an independent 
 man, how he would come to St. Petersburg and would see 
 Andriusha. The many wonderful surprises that the fu- 
 ture had in store for him now filled his mind; and by 
 the time the carriage had arrived at the station of 
 Miatlevo, he felt no regret for anybody or anything.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IT was not until the beginning of December that 
 Misha succeeded in locating the Party headquar- 
 ters. During the intoxicating days of the strike he 
 had been in a joyful revolutionary state of mind, and 
 under the influence of the short-lived freedom, had run 
 from meeting to meeting, applauding the speakers vig- 
 orously, singing the Marseillaise, shouting "Hurrah," 
 and demanding a constitutional assembly. He had 
 learned the catch phrases and could talk fluently about 
 the Party, about ''progressive minimum," "labour re- 
 public," the "socialization of land." But deep in his 
 soul he did not believe that the excitement and turmoil 
 were the revolution. In his eyes the "real revolution- 
 ists," the people destined to build a bright, just life 
 were Andriusha and the mysterious committee. But he 
 did not know how to find them. At last a casual ac- 
 quaintance, a bearded, long-haired student at the Insti- 
 tute of Technology undertook to take him to the head- 
 quarters. ;Misha was overcome by the profoundest 
 gratitude, as if the student were granting him the dearest 
 wish of his life. He made ready for the solemn event a 
 week in advance. 
 
 ' ' Suppose they say I 'm not fit ? " he asked himself in 
 alarm. But it seemed so insulting, so unjust, so un- 
 deserved and cruel, that he rejected the idea and began 
 to dream of that long-wished-for moment when he would 
 see Andriusha and the committee. 
 
 "I shall enter and say: 'Comrades, I'm ready to die 
 
 146
 
 Wliat Never Happened 147 
 
 for the revolution,' and nothing more. They'll notice 
 me and will ask me my name and age. My age is not 
 important, I'll say, because I've decided to die any- 
 way. Or this way : I '11 enter and say : ' Take me into 
 the fighting organization.' Or better still: 'Though I 
 am young, my youth will not hinder me from dying for 
 land and freedom.' And I shan't say a word about 
 Andriusha being my brother. He will be in the next 
 room, and they will go to tell him about the young 
 student. He will wish to meet him and will come out to 
 shake hands with him. And he will see me." 
 
 On the appointed day Misha dressed himself with 
 sophomoric diligence. He used a wet brush to smooth 
 down his refractory chestnut-coloured curly hair. He 
 thought first of putting on his uniform with gilded but- 
 tons, then decided they might not take him for a revolu- 
 tionist, but for a ''mother's son," and after some de- 
 liberation put on a blouse that Natasha had embroidered 
 for him, with his student's jacket over it. In the audi- 
 toriums he had noticed that many students went about 
 like that with bare necks, and on examining himself in 
 the mirror, he thought he looked both elegant and 
 democratic. Though the appointment was for the eve- 
 ning, he was on the Nevsky Prospect by six o 'clock. He 
 turned slowly, as if he were going to church, to Peskaya 
 Street, where the headquarters were located. 
 
 At Misha 's timid ring, an elderly flat-chested girl in 
 glasses opened the door slowly and said without asking 
 anything: "Come in." In a small room, looking very 
 much like a physician's anteroom, several men were 
 waiting. Misha sat down in a corner and timidly ex- 
 amined his Party comrades. At a round table covered 
 with a cloth sat a slim, gloomy gentleman with a lemon
 
 148 What Never Happened 
 
 complexion and long straight hair, yawning as he looked 
 through the magazine, Niva. Two men with a bored 
 expression lounged on a velvet couch, one of them 
 young and heavy-set, a workingman, to judge by his 
 shirt and boots; the other a wrinkled old man dozing 
 with his head resting on his hand. The room was quiet. 
 The turning pages made a dry rustling. Misha wanted 
 to smoke, but he did not dare to light a cigarette. 
 
 In about twenty minutes a curtain-covered door 
 opened, and a shaven comrade appeared, dressed ac- 
 cording to the rules, including the high coat collar. He 
 was followed by a sporty student in a frock coat, who 
 was pulling on his gloves. Misha turned his bare neck 
 and was sorry he had not dared to put his frock coat on. 
 
 **Then I'm depending on you," said the shaven com- 
 rade, offering his hand to the student. Glancing around 
 the room, he said in the indifferent voice of a physician 
 receiving visitors: 
 
 ** Comrades, who's next?" 
 
 The gloomy gentleman rose, buttoned up his coat, and 
 went into the next room. The young workingman 
 lighted a cigarette, tossing the match on the floor. His 
 rough calloused hands, torn cap and dishevelled hair in- 
 spired Misha with awe. He was strongly impelled to 
 start a conversation, but the man paid no attention to 
 him: "That old man," thought Misha, as he listened to 
 his care-free snoring, "must be a famous revolutionist, 
 or a terrorist, or one who has served in the Schliissel- 
 burg Fortress. If the two of them knew why I am here, 
 they would certainly feel surprised and would want to 
 know me better. " In a distant part of the house some- 
 body began to bang on the piano. The noise seemed
 
 What Never Happened 149 
 
 indecent, like an affront, to Misha, just as a loud con- 
 versation would seem in a church. The old man stirred 
 in annoyance and muttered something under his breath. 
 The workingman stretched himself, yawned and spat 
 out: 
 
 "I wish they'd get through soon. What are they 
 dragging it out so for?" 
 
 Finally, after many hours' waiting, Misha was asked 
 to enter. At the massive writing table he saw the same 
 comrade in a high collar — Doctor Berg. A shaded lamp 
 threw a dim light on the green cloth of the table. Vera 
 Andreyevna paced back and forth on the soft rug un- 
 ceasingly. Misha, observing the impressive ministerial 
 working-room, the cold look on Doctor Berg's face, and 
 tall and dry-looking Vera Andreyevna iu her simple 
 monastic dress, became utterly embarrassed. He forgot 
 the little speeches he had so lovingly prepared, and was 
 at a loss how to begin. He would gladly have left, had 
 it not been too late. Doctor Berg, irritated by Bolotov's 
 departure for Moscow, worn by sleeplessness since the 
 night meeting at Valabuyev's, and annoyed by the num- 
 ber of visitors, looked at him lazily from under his 
 glasses, and asked dully: 
 
 "What do you wish, comrade?" 
 
 Misha had not come to himself yet. He was still 
 embarrassed and looked at Doctor Berg with frightened 
 eyes. It seemed like unpardonable insolence, almost a 
 crime, for him to dare to disturb people who were taken 
 up with affairs of such national importance — the highly 
 responsible affairs of the revolution. 
 
 Doctor Berg, playing with his silver pencil, repeated: 
 
 *.*What do you wish, comrade?"
 
 150 What Never Happened 
 
 Misha, conscious of the necessity of saying something, 
 flushed deeply and stammered, without looking at Doc- 
 tor Berg, forcing out the words : 
 
 "I — I — I — would like to do some work." 
 
 * ' Yes ? " said Doctor Berg. ' ' Well ? ' ' 
 
 •*I— I— would Uke to—" 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 "I would like to — in the fighting organization," 
 
 Vera Andreyevna paused in her pacing. Doctor Berg, 
 still fingering his pencil, and not a bit surprised, no 
 more than if the matter were a daily occurrence, fa- 
 miliar and tiresome, said drily: 
 
 "Why particularly in the fighting organization?" 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. The gloomy comrade 
 with straight hair like a deacon's, whom Misha had 
 seen in the anteroom, entered. He beckoned silently to 
 Doctor Berg, who gave his shoulders a shrug of annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 "I'll be back at once. Pardon me, comrade." 
 
 Misha remained alone with Vera Andreyevna. He 
 felt she had him under observation. The affair now 
 seemed not only criminal and audacious, but even 
 absurd. He could not comprehend how he had dared 
 to hope that he was worthy of serving the revolution, 
 how he had dared to overlook tlie fact that it was 
 ridiculous for an eighteen-year-old boy to ask admit- 
 tance to the fighting organization. Besides, he did not 
 feel at ease. He was ashamed of his embroidered 
 blouse, fearing Vera Andreyevna might think it out 
 of place. 
 
 "Are you a student?" Vera Andreyevna asked after 
 a pause. 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' Misha almost whispered.
 
 .What Never Happened 151 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "Flunked," flashed through Misha s mind, and he 
 answered in a barely audible voice. 
 
 "Going on my ninteenth year." 
 
 Vera Andreyevna looked at him thoughtfully. His 
 fresh ruddy face was so youthful, his blue eyes so fine, 
 and he was so full of young, unspent energy, that she 
 felt sorry. With unwonted, almost motherly tenderness, 
 she sat down on a chair near him and said gently: 
 
 "Listen. Why do you want to work in the fighting 
 organization? Is there no other work? You can be 
 useful anywhere. There is oppression and poverty 
 everywhere," she sighed, "poverty everywhere. Take 
 an interest in the workingman, go to the peasants, come 
 to know them. The fighting work will not run away 
 from you." 
 
 Misha was touched. He almost felt like crying, and 
 looked gratefully at her haggard face. 
 
 "Well, of course, I will obey the committee." 
 
 Doctor Berg entered the room quietly : 
 
 "The devil take it! Barricades in Moscow! Some 
 one must go doAvn there," he said angrily to Vera An- 
 dreyevna, as if she were responsible for the Moscow up- 
 rising. Suddenly he turned his attention to Misha. 
 
 "All right. We will investigate. We're too busy to- 
 day. Come in Saturday. ' ' He nodded as if to indicate 
 that the interview was at an end. Misha rose. 
 
 "Barricades in Moscow. That's where the revolu- 
 tion is, ' ' flashed through his mind. * * He says somebody 
 must go down. My God, if only I could! Why 
 shouldn't I?" In a guilty, pleading voice, embarrassed 
 and afraid of a refusal, he said : ' 
 
 "Pardon me. I should like — "
 
 152 .What Never Happened 
 
 "What?" 
 
 * ' Perhaps — I could go to Moscow ? ' ' 
 
 Doctor Berg looked at him attentively and thought a 
 while. 
 
 "You? Ahem. AVliat's your name?" 
 
 "Mikhail Bolotov." 
 
 "Bolotov? Are you a brother of Andrey Nikolaye- 
 vich?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, indeed, I'm his brother," Misha replied 
 hastily. 
 
 Berg and Vera exchanged glances. 
 
 "When could you go?" 
 
 "Go? When? Now— this minute." 
 
 Vera Andreyevna sighed and said irresolutely: 
 
 "Why he? Do you think Andrey Nikolayevich will 
 approve? We could find some one else." 
 
 * ' No, no. Please. Andriusha will be very, very glad. 
 Oh, please. I will go," Misha interjected. 
 
 An hour later Misha received his Party pass-words, 
 and was entrusted with a secret mission to his brother. 
 When he came out into the street, the night was well 
 advanced. On the lively Nevsky Prospect blue electric 
 lamps were throwing a dazzling light. Above them the 
 sky was as black as ink and the stars were hidden. 
 
 "In Moscow there are barricades," Misha repeated 
 fervently. "In Moscow there's Andriusha, and I'm go- 
 ing to Moscow — on a mission from the committee. Yes, 
 on a mission from the committee. How splendidly 
 everything had turned out. Here it was, the great revo- 
 lution ! " He looked at his watch and ran to the Niko- 
 layev railroad station.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 AT Doctor Berg's advice, Misha, in the interests 
 of "secrecy," left his train at the Likhoslavl 
 station and took the Viazma train. After a 
 wait of five endless hours in Viazma, he left at night for 
 Moscow. Early in the morning the train stopped sud- 
 denly at Golitzin. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, the train is not going any 
 farther. All out, please," announced the snow-covered 
 conductor, going through the coaches. 
 
 "Why isn't it going farther?" Misha demanded, 
 blocking the conductor's way. The thought that he 
 might not reach Moscow that day sent a chill through 
 him. 
 
 "Because it won't go," the conductor replied and 
 turned the handle of the door. 
 
 "For God's sake, I really must get there," Misha 
 pleaded. 
 
 The conductor looked around timidly. 
 
 "The strike committee has ordered us to stop." 
 
 The drowsy passengers were leaving the cars, grum- 
 bling and cursing. Their breath formed a white cloud 
 of steam in the frosty air. In Golitzin everything was 
 as usual, as peaceful as though there were no barricades 
 in Moscow. There was a clatter of dishes in the sta- 
 tion buffet. At the window the telegraph operator 
 worked tirelessly at his apparatus. The young station- 
 master paced the platform, plucking his little beard. 
 Misha ran over to him : 
 
 153
 
 154 What Never Happened 
 
 "Please — how can I get to Moscow?" 
 
 The station-master waved his hand irritably. 
 
 "How do I know? Don 't bother me. Is it my fault ? 
 There was a telegram along the line. The whole road 
 is on strike." 
 
 ' ' AVhat shall I do ? " Misha thought despairingly. He 
 pushed his way to the buffet, where he gulped down a 
 glass of tasteless, scalding-hot tea. "I must get to 
 Moscow. 1 can't turn back. It would be a shame. The 
 comrades, Andriusha, are fighting in Moscow, and I must 
 stick here, in this damned Golitzin. No, impossible ! I 
 must go. But how? Surely not on foot? Why not 
 hire a team ? ' ' 
 
 He paid his bill hurriedly, ran outside, looked for the 
 station-master's cap with its red band, saw it, and ac- 
 costed him again. 
 
 "What do you want? I've told you already — '' 
 
 "But it's extremely important. For God's sake, tell 
 me what to do. Can I get horses? I will pay — " 
 
 The perplexed station-master flung out his hands. 
 
 "Horses? To Moscow? I don't know. Wait." He 
 became sympathetic. "There is a locomotive on the 
 emergency track. It's going to Moscow. Ask them. 
 Perhaps, they'll take you along. But I doubt it." 
 Turning on his heels, he went into the station-master's 
 room. 
 
 Misha ran to the emergency track, jumping over the 
 rails and leaving footprints in the downy snow. A 
 heavy freight locomotive was getting up steam. Two 
 men, black with soot, were working on the platform. 
 "My God, they won't take me!" Misha thought appre- 
 hensively. 
 
 "What do you want?" asked the black fireman in
 
 What Never Happened 155 
 
 an unfriendly tone, as Misha stopped breathlessly near 
 the locomotive. 
 
 ''Gentlemen, is this locomotive going to Moscow?" 
 
 "If you know too much, you'll get old too soon." 
 
 "But — I was told — " Misha began timidly, with tears 
 in his voice and raising his excited ruddy face. * ' I must 
 go to Moscow on very important business. Very. My 
 only hope lies in you." 
 
 "What's your business in Moscow?" 
 
 Misha was embarrassed. He did not dare to entrust 
 to a stranger the fact that he was a member of the Party 
 and was going on a revolutionary mission, and it was 
 difficult to find an innocent reason. The fireman was 
 looking at him with a fixed unfriendly gaze, waiting for 
 a reply. 
 
 "Oh, well, I'll take a chance. There's no way out 
 anyway." Misha tossed his curly head and said in a 
 choking voice : 
 
 "There is an uprising in Moscow." 
 
 "WeU, have you got a godmother there?" 
 
 "For Christ's sake, take me along." 
 
 "Take you along? You're too simple. Get out of 
 here while there's a piece of you left." 
 
 The whistle blew shrilly. The locomotive would start 
 in a second. In a panic at losing his last and only hope, 
 he caught on to the handle of the platform. 
 
 "For God's sake! I — I — I'm from the fighting or- 
 ganization. ' ' 
 
 The middle-aged engineer with his grey moustache 
 looked down and observed Misha curiously. 
 
 "From the fighting organization?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "You? Have you a revolver?"
 
 156 What Never Happened 
 
 "A revolver?" Misha asked, dazed by the question. 
 
 "Yes, a revolver." 
 
 "No, I have no revolver." 
 
 The engineer smiled deri«ively. 
 
 "A fine revolutionist! Well, God be with you, climb 
 up," he added suddenly in a kindly tone and offered 
 Misha his hand. Misha could hardly believe his ears, 
 as he climbed into the locomotive and sat down unob- 
 trusively on a heap of coals. Now he had no doubt that 
 the locomotive belonged to the committee, and the engi- 
 neer and his helper, as well as the station-master and the 
 conductor, were excellent folks, revolutionists, terrorists, 
 perhaps. 
 
 "They shall see that I, too, am a devoted member of 
 the Party," he thought, impatiently waiting for the 
 whistle to blow. The fireman bent over the lever. 
 
 "Shall we start, Yegor Kuzmich?" 
 
 "What else shall we do? Plant cabbages?" 
 
 The whistle blew again shrilly. The locomotive 
 started slowly, as if unwilling to be on its way. Golitzin 
 passed, the red cap, the platform, the station buffet and 
 the operator bending over his apparatus. Ahead of 
 them, between blue-white snow-drifts, stretched the nar- 
 row roadbed. The air began to smell of hot smoke. A 
 frosty wind beat against their cheeks. Misha was cold, 
 but suffered in silence, afraid of irritating the engineer. 
 "How surprised Andriusha will be when I tell him 
 about my trip, and how glad he'll be that the road has 
 gone on strike! How splendid, and what a fine man 
 Yegor Kuzmich is," he thought, swinging his arms to 
 warm up. 
 
 "Are you cold?" the fireman asked, smiling.
 
 What Never Happened 157 
 
 **No, that's all right," Misha replied bravely, though 
 his teeth were chattering. 
 
 *'Sit down near the tender. We. are not cold." 
 
 Misha moved over to the tender and soon warmed up. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, to the accompaniment of 
 the thundering wheels and intermittent whistle, Misha 
 was relating all the Party secrets known to him, who he 
 was and why he was going to the committee in Moscow. 
 
 "It's nothing that I have no revolver," he explained 
 with a serious face. "I shall be on the barricades just 
 the same. I've made up my mind to, and when I make 
 up my mind to a thing, I do it. I think one must first 
 decide what one can and what one cannot do. The revo- 
 lution is no joke. If you can't do fighting work, you 
 needn't undertake it. I think it's dishonest to." 
 
 Yegor Kuzmich, with his eyes fixed on the running 
 rails, only lifting them to glance at the monometer oc- 
 casionally, gave Misha close attention ; and it was impos- 
 sible to tell whether or not he approved of all he said. 
 Misha very much wanted to ask why the locomotive was 
 going alone, with no cars behind it, to Moscow. Deep in 
 his soul he had no doubt that Yegor Kuzmich was also 
 hastening to the barricades. 
 
 The locomotive rushed along at full speed, gave one 
 last despairing whistle, and suddenly came to a stop 
 in the fields, half a verst from Moscow. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, young man." And Yegor Kuzmich 
 slapped Misha on the back, "Take care, don't put your 
 head in the noose before father does. We're here. Get 
 out." 
 
 Misha was sorry to part with his friends. Secretly, he 
 dreaded solitude. But he jumped out into the snow-
 
 158 What Never Happened 
 
 drift, fell on his hands and all wet and dirty, black with 
 soot and covered with snow, he made his way past the 
 Vagankov Cemetery to the deserted Zvenigorod Road. 
 To his great disappointment, there were no barricades in 
 sight. 
 
 The weather was very cold and he met few people. 
 But the stores were open and he saw no patrols. In 
 spite of Dr. Berg's directions, he was unable to find the 
 Gargarin Alley. He did not dare to ask anybody the 
 way, and wandered about aimlessly for a long time, sur- 
 prised and indignant that he saw no revolutionists and 
 no red banners. It was already growing dark when he 
 came to Sivtzov Vrazhek Street. After wandering about 
 for another half hour he suddenly came upon the house 
 he was looking for. 
 
 He rang the bell, and waited a long time, but all was 
 silent. He rang again. Still silence. After ringing a 
 third time and waiting, he had about given up hope when 
 a pert maid in white cap and apron appeared on the 
 threshold : 
 
 **Gone. They're all gone. You needn't ring.'* 
 
 Misha's heart fell within him. Who was gone? 
 Gone where? How could that be? These were the 
 Party quarters. How would he find Andriusha? Im- 
 possible. He looked at the maid irresolutely. 
 
 "It's impossible. I have important business." 
 
 ''Indeed? That's no reason. I told you, they're all 
 gone. A good many of you are wandering about now." 
 
 She banged the door indignantly. Misha walked away 
 slowly and sadly. "What shall I do now?" he thought 
 in despair, as he wandered aimlessly about Moscow. In 
 the park, the birches — those fairy trees — ^were glistening 
 with snow crystals in the sun. Misha, crushed by his
 
 Wliat Never Happened 159 
 
 failure, kept looking for at least the remains of a bar- 
 ricade, for at least some trace of an uprising. 
 
 "The road has gone on a strike. Surely there is an 
 uprising in Moscow," he kept repeating, almost at the 
 point of tears because he had not fulfilled his mission, 
 could not find Andriusha, and saw no fighting in Mos- 
 cow. But on turning into Tverskaya Street he heard to 
 his right, from the Srietenka Street side, a distant, barely 
 audible crackling. He did not believe his own ears, and 
 stopped to listen, holding his breath. But again, this 
 time more distinctly, as if just around the corner, he 
 heard a short volley of shots. " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Our 
 sins!" said a passing merchant, took off his hat and 
 crossed himself. A Cossack patrol rode by at top speed. 
 
 ''Thank God, here they are, the barricades," Misha 
 concluded without hesitation, and ran happily to 
 Srietenka Street. On Petrovka and Dmitrevka Streets 
 there was not a soul, and the stores were locked. He 
 hurried along the middle of the road over the snow, 
 afraid he might come too late, and the shooting would be 
 over and he would not find the barricade and would be 
 unable to help in saving it. Crossing a wide boulevard, 
 he ran into the Golovin Alley and stopped like a statue. 
 About twenty yards away a handful of men in fur jackets 
 were clinging to a snow barricade and shooting towards 
 Srietenka Street. Forgetting he had no anus and was 
 a stranger to the comrades, thinking of nothing except 
 that in front of him was the red banner of the revolution 
 he ran forward along the alley. Suddenly, as if at a 
 command, the men on the barricade ceased shooting. 
 Misha saw people running in a close mass. He looked at 
 them in surprise and fear, not understanding their flight. 
 
 "My God, they are retreating!" the terrible thought
 
 160 What Never Happened 
 
 flashed through his mind. Ignorant of the cause of 
 their retreat and of what he himself was doing, conscious 
 only that the barricade was being abandoned to the 
 army, he shouted in a ringing voice : "Forward! For 
 land and freedom!" And shouting steadily he ran to 
 meet the revolutionary squad. Without looking back 
 to see whether anybody was following him, he climbed 
 up the barricade. A few shots rang out from the direc- 
 tion of Srietenka Street. One of the running revolution- 
 ists looked back. He saw a rosy-faced young student, 
 bareheaded, lying against the ruined barricade, his face 
 up-turned, and his wide-open blue eyes gazing fixedly 
 and wonderingly at the sky. The man did not stop to 
 find out who the stranger was, but turned the corner and 
 ran to join his comrades.
 
 PABT II 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE Moscow uprising was crushed. The dele- 
 gates of the Workmen's Council had been ar- 
 rested, and the soldiers' revolts drowned in 
 blood. The Government was the victor. But faith in 
 the revolution was still so strong, and distrust of the 
 Government so deep-rooted, the feeling that significant 
 events were about to take place so acute that neither 
 Party members, ministers, members of the fighting or- 
 ganization, workers, soldiers, nor any one of those who 
 had participated in the furious merciless battle, had 
 any doubt that on the morrow the last and 
 most tremendous wave would break ultimately, a na- 
 tional armed revolt of all Russia, The death of Plehve, 
 Red Sunday, the explosion of the 4th of February, 
 the revolt on the battleship Potiomkin, the general strike 
 of the 6th of October, and the Moscow barricades seemed 
 only a majestic beginning, a solemn prelude to those 
 inevitable, triumphant events which were bound to come. 
 And the Government was secretly devising ' ' means of 
 action," was gathering the army, was buying spies, fill- 
 ing the prisons and erecting gallows; while the revolu- 
 tionists were openly printing pamphlets, preparing 
 bombs, distributing arms, organizing a peasant army, 
 and demanding a constitutional assembly. Nobody con- 
 sidered that the revolution had already been crushed, 
 
 161
 
 162 What Never Happened 
 
 In the autumn months the Party committee had writ- 
 ten and printed a proclamation and sent out agents all 
 over Russia. These agents, distinguished revolutionists, 
 explained at many meetings the significance of the Party 
 convention that had been called to decide the fate of the 
 revolution, and invited the comrades to elect delegates. 
 Though the Party was united by a committee and bound 
 together by bloody ties, still it lacked that internal unity 
 which instils strength into a secret organization. Three 
 factions were continuously wrangling, and this was the 
 source of exasperating outbursts. 
 
 One of the factions, which had made a study of the 
 peasant and labour questions and the industrial condi- 
 tions in Russia, demanded the socialization of land. 
 Another faction, supporting itself upon the same learned 
 books, demanded the socialization of shop and factories. 
 The third demanded neither one nor the other, but an 
 obligatory redemption of the land. And the right, 
 the left, the committee, the Party, Arseny Ivanovich, 
 Doctor Berg, Vera Andreyevna, all looked upon these 
 differences as of decided importance. They did not see 
 that the revolution had been defeated and that they were 
 not destined to gain the upper hand, nor, even if they 
 should gain the upper hand, that the rearrangement of 
 Russia would not depend on their conscious will, but on 
 a thousand unknown, unforeseen and inevitable causes. 
 They sincerel}^ believed that the Party discussions as to 
 how to divide the land equitably and reconstruct Russia 
 would hasten and strengthen the revolution and decide 
 the future of a land of a hundred million inhabitants. 
 
 The convention that the Partj'- was convoking at the 
 cost of untold sacrifice, labour and danger, was to decide 
 the all-Russian land problem, much as if the crew of a
 
 What Never Happened 163 
 
 ship in a storm should abandon the steering-wheel, lower 
 the sails, extinguish the lights and forget the plight of 
 the ship, and plunge into a heated discussion as to what 
 port to steer their boat to after the wind had died out 
 and the waves had quieted down. But no one of the 
 comrades understood the fruitlessness of their senseless 
 discussions. In great hope and impatience, all awaited 
 that historic event — the Party convention. 
 
 It was to assemble secretly in the Party hotel in one 
 of the suburbs of St. Petersburg. A large room papered 
 in pink and pervaded by a sour smell of dirt was the 
 ofifice, presided over by Zalkind and two assistants, young 
 men with severe-looking faces, who busily examined the 
 delegates' credentials when they arrived and made up 
 the "itineraries" for their secret return. In the woods 
 outside the hotel an armed guard kept vigil day and 
 night, for protection against the police. When Bolotov, 
 tired and frozen, wearing the same fur jacket in which 
 he had fought in Moscow, entered the cold hall, he 
 paused involuntarily. From oil lamps, hanging on 
 the black ceiling, a dim light fell on the big, crowded 
 room. In the intermissions between sessions voices 
 buzzed simultaneously, filling the stuffy air with a thick, 
 hea'V'y rumbling. In the left corner a little consumptive- 
 looking bald gentleman with a curly beard was engaged 
 in a heated discussion with Doctor Berg. Bolotov recog- 
 nized the famous Party agitator, Gennady Genna- 
 dievich. On the right side of the room, at a decrepit 
 piano, sat a very young blond comrade striking the worn 
 keys with great fervour, head thrown back. 
 
 "We shall fill our cartridges, 
 To the guns attach the bayonets " 
 
 sang an uneven chorus of many voic6s. Bolotov noticed
 
 164 What Never Happened 
 
 a pale, slender girl with black hair. Looking straight 
 ahead with dark, rapt eyes, she sang the hackneyed 
 words with all her might. To her they had not lost 
 their vivifying force. 
 
 "Into the happy land of freedom 
 We shall boldly make our way." 
 
 The pianist finished with a passionate gesture and 
 arose noisily from his chair. In the next room a bell 
 was ringing unceasingly. The intermission was over. 
 The session had opened. 
 
 Immediately a few dozen men, representing a few 
 hundred other revolutionists like themselves, began to 
 discuss problems that they knew to be insoluble, oblivious 
 of the fact that self-denial, readiness to give their lives 
 and devotion to the revolution gave them no right to 
 direct the destinies of Russia, just as this right was not 
 given by machine-guns, prayers for the autocracy and 
 faithfulness to it. They were oblivious of the fact that 
 their decision, if not upheld by the people, would in- 
 variably remain on paper only, just as the orders of the 
 ministers would, if they were not upheld by bayonets. 
 And most important of all, they were oblivious of the 
 fact that they were not called upon to direct the revolu- 
 tion, that they were not its masters, but its obedient, 
 impotent servants. And having gathered together from 
 over hundreds and thousands of versts away, they were 
 naively convinced that the majority of votes cast at their 
 convention, the defeat of the left or the victory of the 
 right, could change the fate of Russia, or retard the lofty 
 course of the revolution, or dry up its sources. Not one 
 of them saw they were as powerless to do this as words are 
 powerless to change life.
 
 What Never Happened 165 
 
 The question of an uprising was in order. Though 
 everybody could see that the question was futile and 
 that neither the convention, nor the Party, nor the com- 
 mittee could order a popular revolution, or appoint the 
 time for it, and though every one of the delegates knew 
 from his own ant-like work that the people did not want 
 or did not dare to revolt, still all began to argue heatedly, 
 and the convention was immediately divided into two 
 factions. The comrades sincerely believed that their 
 arguments, discussions, votes, and general excitement, 
 were of inestimable service to the Party and to Russia. 
 
 The first speaker was Gennady Gennadievich. He 
 straightened himself up to his full height, which made 
 hirp. taller and more erect, and began in the firm voice 
 of a man who knows his carefully thought-out words to 
 be true: 
 
 * ' Comrades ! We are called upon here in this author- 
 ized convention to decide a momentous question. We 
 must ask ourselves, what would be the fate of a delib- 
 erately planned uprising if such should take place. I 
 think we are faced with both, chances of success and rea- 
 sons to be pessimistic. Let us get down to the concrete 
 situation. The government machine is entirely disor- 
 ganized, the bourgeoisie is partly organized, partly dis- 
 organized; the great masses of the people are dissatis- 
 fied; the impoverished peasantry is famished and des- 
 perate. On the one hand a weakened power of resist- 
 ance, on the other a readiness for decisive action and an 
 immense power for offensive action." 
 
 Gennady Gennadievich paused and continued in an 
 excited voice, bringing each word out distinctly. 
 
 "But, comrades, we must not overlook the negative 
 side. For the organization of a movement to be sue-
 
 166 AVliat Never Happened 
 
 cessful it is necessary to comprehend all its problems. 
 The peasantry is waiting for an agrarian upheaval, and 
 we, the conscious minority, have the right and the power 
 and the obligation to exert all our creative ability on 
 the ground that has been prepared by a powerful move- 
 ment. "We must immediately begin practical prepara- 
 tions for the organization of a popular armed uprising. 
 This is the most important, the essential problem of the 
 moment." 
 
 A youth of about twenty, a delegate from the Volga 
 region, a ruddy, round-faced seminary student, who was 
 standing next to Bolotov, punctuated the speaker's 
 words with loud applause : 
 
 "Bravo! Exactly! Immediately!" 
 
 Gennady Gennadievich coughed, and, heartened by the 
 applause, certain of his usual brilliant success, raised 
 his voice and began to gesticulate animatedly: 
 
 "Our first practical aim must be* the acquisition of 
 special military knowledge by the greatest number of 
 our comrades. Our second practical aim must be the 
 organization of local military cadres. The purpose of 
 these cadres is the following: first, to teach." 
 
 Gennady Gennadievich spoke sincerely, and every- 
 thing he said was clear and important to the partici- 
 pants of the convention. Bolotov believed that Gennady 
 Gennadievich himself, and Vera Andreyevna, and 
 Doctor Berg, and the ruddy seminary-student, and 
 every one who listened to the words about an armed up- 
 rising, were ready at any moment, with arms in their 
 hands, to defend a barricade and to die defending it. 
 And yet he was bored. Somehow he recalled the talk of 
 the Austrian military staff and the scientific discussions 
 of Pfulil: "Die erste kolonne marschiert." Had Mos-
 
 What Never Happened 167 
 
 cow been defeated because the revolutibnists had not 
 known how to fight? Had the army been victorious be- 
 cause he was not a military man? Had Pronka been 
 killed because he had been ignorant of tactics and 
 strategy? Must Konstantin be taught special sciences? 
 Was the truth there in that hotel, in the fact that they 
 were going to compose the best recipe for making a pop- 
 ular revolution and were going to formulate instructions 
 for fighting at the barricades ? Only a few hundred had 
 fought. Why hadn't the w^hole of Moscow revolted? 
 Because there were no cadres? 
 
 "Fourth, these cadres must take upon themselves the 
 initiative of an uprising and must form a military- 
 revolutionary staff. Then, on the one hand — 
 
 Die zweite kolonne marschiert, Bolotov thought, smil- 
 ing sadly to himself. His shoulders drooping, he walked 
 out into the narrow, dusty, carpeted hall. The head of 
 the office, Zalkind, old, wrinkled, sickly looking, yet all ex- 
 cited and happy, was pacing the hall. 
 
 "Well, quite a convention! Don't you think so?" 
 
 Bolotov looked at him silently. "Don't you think so? 
 Don't you think it's excellent? And Gennady! He's 
 an orator ! A. Danton ! ' ' 
 
 Zalkind opened the door part way and listened 
 greedily. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo! Wonderful!" He turned to Bo- 
 lotov. 
 
 Bolotov went out into the street, his shoulders still 
 drooping. The snow sparkled like silver and weighted 
 down the fir-trees. A tired man on guard was asleep in 
 front of the door. Up in the frosty heavens the Big 
 Dipper sparkled indifferently.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DURING the conversation Andrey Bolotov ex- 
 perienced the alarm that a member of a united, 
 loving family experiences when he knows that 
 his brothers have been lost in the dark of the night. 
 The iMoscow bamcades had made a deep, indelible scar, 
 as if in the scattered bodies on the snow Bolotov had left 
 a part of his self, of his double life. The zealous con- 
 cern of a property-owner, which he had felt abroad, the 
 severity of a man with power, the cautiousness of a 
 careful owner, had all gone for ever. It was strange now 
 to recall that naive period, when the Party with its con- 
 ventions, barricades, committees, excitements and alarms 
 appeared to him like a flourishing estate ; when he 
 had looked upon himself as the most devoted, most use- 
 ful, most self-sacrificing of its numerous members ; when, 
 he now had to admit, he sat in judgment and rendered 
 decisions and verdicts. It was strange to believe that 
 he had calculated his forces lil^e a miser and guarded his 
 own life in the name of the cause. But strangest of all 
 was what he saw at the convention. He saw that the 
 delegates, young and old; terrorists, rank-and-filers, 
 moderates, extremists were doing what he had been doing 
 all his life and what he now considered mistaken and un- 
 necessary, making decisions, passing judgment, being 
 merciful, conserving their strength in the name of the 
 Party, and trying to divert the revolution in the name 
 of the people. He could not see any value in their 
 
 168
 
 What Never Happened 169 
 
 labour. It was as if the rifles and machine-guns, the 
 bombs and the blood had opened his eyes. 
 
 Like the others, he did not realize that 'the Govern- 
 ment had come out victorious, and believed that tomor- 
 row an all-Russian conflagration would break out and 
 the final glorious battle take place. But while he shared 
 these rosy dreams, he did not close his eyes to the painful 
 fact that the Moscow barricades had taught him a truth 
 at which he had previously guessed only vaguely. 
 Now he comprehended it and felt it with his whole soul. 
 He had learned what it means to kill and to die. When 
 he had entered the Party, he "had been at a loss to solve 
 the problems of violence. The Party dogmas gave the 
 answer that stilled all doubts and satisfied him, as they 
 had Volodya, Doctor Berg, Arseny Ivanovich and Vera 
 Andreyevna. He did not ask himself what terror was. 
 Terror was being discussed in the newspapers, was being 
 urged by proclamation, was approved by the Party pro- 
 gram. As a member of the Party and a revolutionist 
 he could not and thought perhaps he had no right to re- 
 examine a problem that had long been decided. Be- 
 cause of this he had not been able to grasp the meaning 
 of terror, the hidden, terrible meaning of permissible 
 violence. And now he felt sorry for himself, sorry for 
 those who, without understanding what it meant to kill, 
 were calling to a "bloody battle." The barricades had 
 also taught him that it was impossible to direct the revo- 
 lution, that those who were directing it were only obedi- 
 ently following the mandates of the people. "When he 
 had been giving secret orders, when he had seen the de- 
 votion of his subordinate comrades, and had not doubted 
 their willingness to give their lives, he had gradually be- 
 come accustomed to the thought that he, Audrey Bolotov,
 
 170 "What Never Happened 
 
 and in his person the committee, and in the personnel of 
 the committee the whole Party, were directing the all- 
 Russian revolution. He had believed that he was the 
 builder of the radiant future and that the revolted peo- 
 ple would hear his voice and would take the road that 
 he would point out. Now he felt depressed that he had 
 been so egregiously led astray. 
 
 He had grown thinner, rougher, and had discarded 
 collar and coat. A similar change had taken place in 
 his inward being. Witnessing the solemn convention, 
 hearing the impassioned speeches of Gennady Genna- 
 dievich, the cold discussion of Doctor Berg, the tearful 
 complaints of Vera Andreyevna, he knew firmly, un- 
 waveringly that those discussions were a trackless way. 
 He knew that his comrades would discuss either the 
 revolutionizing of Russia, a thing that was not in their 
 power, or unimportant Party details. Those noisy de- 
 bates, speeches and elections, he was now aware, would 
 not build up the Party nor crown the revolution with 
 success. He thought of Volodya and did not deem his 
 words worthy of consideration, perceiving that Volodya 
 too did not understand death nor appreciate the grave 
 responsibility of violence. And if Arseny Ivanovich, 
 Doctor Berg and Vera Andreyevna confined themselves 
 to martial words, then Volodya, despising the chatter of 
 the "Intellectuals," did not shrink before blood. 
 
 However, in spite of such thoughts as these and 
 though he felt sorry for his comrades, Bolotov at the 
 same time experienced a sense of joy, of a soul at peace, 
 as if he had finally found the key of the solution of the 
 eternal, insoluble problem. 
 
 Bolotov spent the night in the hotel in which the con- 
 vention was taking place, in a little room with a plank
 
 What Never Happened 171 
 
 partition for a wall. The room smelled of lamp-oil and 
 some other sour, indefinable odour that choked. Through 
 a slit in the door a yellow ray of light leaked in from the 
 hall. In the next room a slow conversation was going 
 on. Bolotov listened instinctively. A slow dull voice 
 was speaking in a monotonous, uninteresting strain. 
 
 *'The thing is this. Hm. The election for the Duma 
 is approaching. Hm. Wliat do you think, Sanka, will 
 they permit the election or not?" 
 
 "To the devil," the unseen Sanka replied scornfully. 
 ** They '11 elect head hostlers." 
 
 ''Head hostlers?" 
 
 "Well, don't you think they will?" 
 
 A bed squeaked behind the partition. Some one 
 sighed and moved in his bed. A moment later the same 
 slow voice drawled: 
 
 "The thing is this. Hm. And I, you know — think 
 ■ — that the peasants will elect membcx's of the Left ! ' ' 
 
 " The Left? Nonsense." 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Why do you think so?" 
 
 "Because." 
 
 "Because? You're a wise man, by God! Well, if 
 they will, the Duma will be disbanded. ' ' 
 
 * ' Disbanded ? The thing is this — this. Let them shoot 
 all the members of the Duma. The more, the better. 
 Hm." 
 
 Some one sighed behind the partition. 
 
 * ' What are they talking about ? ' ' Bolotov opened his 
 eyes lazily. 
 
 "Let them shoot them. The more, the better. 
 What's better? Better if they hang all the Duma mem- 
 bers. Then the peasants would understand — the peas-
 
 172 What Never Happened 
 
 ants would understand. One cannot fight single- 
 handed. ' ' 
 
 Two comrades' passed noisily along the hall, talking 
 loudly. Bolotov heard their voices distinctly in the still- 
 ness of the night : 
 
 "Arseny Ivanovich knows, I tell you. You listen to 
 me. He says an uprising — " 
 
 *'When?" 
 
 "In the spring, of course." 
 
 *'In the spring?" 
 
 *'And what did you think? Over in our parts they're 
 just waiting for it. I tell you, among us! By God! 
 Just let the committee give the order." 
 
 ' ' Will the committee accede ? ' ' 
 
 ''Arseny Ivanovich says why not? Listen, in our 
 place — 
 
 "An uprising in the spring — the committee give the 
 order." Bolotov smiled involuntarily. "And sup- 
 pose a revolt does break out?" he went on with his 
 thoughts. "Military-revolutionary cadres. Staff of of- 
 ficers. Die erste holonne marschiert. If an uprising, a 
 popular revolt, were to break out, then we shall be super- 
 fluous in all probability. We urge others to spill blood 
 — and we ourselves ? ' ' 
 
 The light in the hall went out. Bolotov raised him- 
 self in bed, threw back the soiled quilt and looked into 
 the darkness in alarm. Suddenly those annoying 
 thoughts which had been ripening within him and of 
 which he had been secretly afraid, burst upon his soul 
 again with irresistible force. Clearly it was not his 
 vocation to lead the Party, he had no right to spare his 
 own life. The blood that had been spilled at the bar- 
 ricades, the blood of Skedelsky, of Pronka, of Roman
 
 What Never Happened 173 
 
 Aleksieyevich, of Sliozkin and the officer of dragoons, 
 of those nameless soldiers whom Vanya had killed with 
 his vengeful bomb, did not demand a miserly grudging 
 sacrifice, but an inspired, enlightened one. So far as the 
 committee and the Party and even Russia was concerned, 
 he had a right to live, to await the inevitable uprising, 
 had a right to "prepare the revolution" and dispose of 
 Party matters, to argue, make decisions, and cast his 
 vote ; but if there was a higher and truer judgment ; not 
 the judgment of Arseny Ivanovich, of Doctor Berg, of 
 the Party convention, if there was an untold, grateful 
 sense of responsibility, then he must be a servant of the 
 revolution and offer himself to the people. Offer his im- 
 mortal life. As soon as this became clear to him, he 
 felt a reverent rapture, as if a heavy load had fallen 
 from his shoulders, as if he had found salutary freedom. 
 
 ' ' Let them await the uprising. Let them hope for the 
 dissolution of the Duma," he thought joyfully. "I 
 know what to do. I can't and have no right to live. Be 
 it terror. Be it murder. Be it crime. Be it blood. If 
 there is truth on earth, if everything in life is not sense- 
 less and false, then there will be a phantom of truth, a 
 shadow of justice in my voluntary death. ' ' Turning his 
 face to the thin partition, which smelt of glue, he soon 
 slept, a care-free happy sleep. 
 
 At the other end of the hall, in a dirty room with 
 muslin curtains at the windows and a double bed with 
 down pillows, the "plenary" meeting of the committee 
 was taking place. The only one missing was Arkady 
 Rosenstern, who had not arrived in time for the con- 
 vention. For the last few months Rosenstern had been 
 "working" on the Volga and had been coming to St. 
 Petersburg only occasionally. Arseny Ivanovich and
 
 17-1 What Never Happened 
 
 Doctor Berg complained loudly of his long absence. Be- 
 loved by the Party, Rosenstern upheld the weighty 
 significance of their decisions and enhanced the effective- 
 ness of their words. 
 
 After they had gone over several pressing matters — 
 the purchase of arms, the report of the international 
 congress, the government "expropriations," the publi- 
 cation of a new paper and the assassination of the gov- 
 ernor of Moscow — the comrades at midnight took up the 
 question that was last on the order of the meeting, the 
 incident that had occurred between the military organi- 
 zation and the Union of the Army. This incident inter- 
 ested the higher circles of the Party and gave food for 
 endless discussion. Its substance was that the military 
 organization had printed a proclamation without the 
 knowledge of the Union of the Army, while the right to 
 edit all "military" proclamations belonged, according to 
 the regulations, to the Union. The significance of the 
 affair was a matter of principle and lay in a question of 
 jurisdiction. Has the military organization the inde- 
 pendent right to issue proclamations without preliminary 
 censorship ? 
 
 When Bolotov knocked on the bolted door the repre- 
 sentative of the military organization, a young, hand- 
 some student with curled moustachios, was timidly but 
 heatedly justifying his action before Arseny Ivanovich. 
 
 "But Arseny Ivanovich, it's so simple. Let me ex- 
 plain. Why should we have no right to issue proclama- 
 tions? The organization office has the right, the Union 
 of the Army has the right, any district committee has the 
 right. So why shouldn't we have the right? Let me 
 explain. Did our proclamation contain anything con- 
 trary to the Party? Please do me the favour to look it
 
 What Never Happened 175 
 
 over yourself. It is very bad if the comrades begin to 
 find fault with every little thing." 
 
 **Ah, my benefactor," Arseny Ivanovieh was reply- 
 ing expressively, ' ' if you like gooseberries, you must also 
 like setting your teeth on edge. Let's see. What does 
 the constitution say? 
 
 ' * What is the constitution ? No, I mean, what has the 
 constitution got to do with it? I am talking common 
 sense. ' ' 
 
 "Pardon me, Arseny Ivanovieh," interrupted Doctor 
 Berg, fixing his yellow-green tie and not looking at the 
 student, "if you refer to the constitution, I must tell 
 you, the paragraph in point may have a double com- 
 mentary. According to the sense of the notes to the 
 seventh article — " 
 
 "My God, is all this really so important?" thought 
 Bolotov, as he looked over the crowded smoke-filled 
 room. In the corner at the window he noticed to his 
 pleasure a friend of his from the South, Aliosha Gruz- 
 diev. Gruzdiev was also a member of the committee, 
 but seldom took part in their meetings. He "worked" 
 in the village, like one of the ranks, a Party worker, and 
 shunned no sort of work, not even the petty, dirty la- 
 bour. He was tall, had thick light hair and an open 
 Russian face, and he avoided heated discussions. Bolo- 
 tov knew him and loved him. 
 
 Bolotov did not hear the commentaries on the seventh 
 article. Arseny Ivanovieh saw him, smiled at him in 
 greeting, and said to the student: 
 
 ' ' See here, my benefactor, we will think it over. Yes, 
 yes, we will think it over. We can't come to a decision 
 so quickly. In due time we will notify you. Every- 
 thing, my benefactor, must be done slowly and wisely,
 
 176 What Never Happened 
 
 very wisel3^ We have a great deal to do. We can't 
 take care of everything. You know the proverb: 
 Wheat feeds the select few, while rye goes to everybody. ' ' 
 
 From the instant it became known that Bolotov had 
 been fighting at the barricades, he had grown in the re- 
 spect of his comrades. Even Doctor Berg, who had been 
 frankly indignant at his going to Moscow, made no effort 
 now to conceal his pleasure. Bolotov 's manliness, his 
 boldness and the surprising coincidence that had led 
 him to risk his life on an equal footing with the name- 
 less members and students, gave the comrades a legal 
 right to convince themselves and others that even if the 
 committee had not been directing the uprising, still it 
 had taken part in it. The members of the committee 
 had no doubt that not only had they allowed Bolotov to 
 go to Moscow, but had even authorized him to do so in 
 the name of the Party. And had Bolotov claimed that 
 this was not so, that he had gone without their permis- 
 sion, even against their wish, they would have been sin- 
 cerely surprised and even incredulous. 
 
 Bolotov now felt that his proud thoughts would sound 
 strange to Arseny Ivanovich and to all the comrades 
 that had not faced death. No one would understand 
 him, his words w^ould sound dishonest and insulting. 
 The killing of Sliozkin, the defeat of Volodya's squad, 
 the desperate battle for the school-house, the days of 
 cruel, yet hazy reality, would sound to them, who had 
 not taken part in the uprising, like nothing more than 
 an interesting tale of the barricade, the brief account of 
 a casual observer. He felt he lacked the fiery words to 
 tell about his shaken life and make them feel what he 
 had felt with the same acute force. He wanted to re- 
 main silent. But his old habit, inbred for years, of not
 
 What jSTever Happened 177 
 
 concealing anything in the committee, overcame his 
 doubts. All were waiting for him to say something. 
 Paling slightly he said with his full voice ; 
 
 "Arseny Ivanovich." 
 
 "Yes, my benefactor, yes?" 
 
 **Arseny Ivanovich, I want to announce — " 
 
 Arseny Ivanovich turned right round and began to 
 nod his head with a kind, tender, urging expression on 
 his face. 
 
 *'I want to announce that I — that I — have decided to 
 join the fighting organization." 
 
 Doctor Berg raised his narrow eyebrows and looked 
 at him in surprise. Vera Andreyevna frowned. Zal- 
 kind blinked his inflamed eyes. There was a painful 
 pause. Arseny Ivanovich broke the silence: 
 
 "Well? That's good — very good. Terror is neces- 
 sary, and people like you are wanted for terror. I can- 
 not disapprove of your decision — that is, of your desire 
 — but — but, my benefactor, who of us does not want to 
 go in for terror, does not long for it?" Arseny Ivan- 
 ovich 's voice suddenly shook with emotion, and his long 
 white beard trembled. But we don't go in for it, we 
 don't. "Why, my benefactor? Because if you put too 
 much salt into your soup, you won't eat it. Because we 
 have taken the responsibility upon ourselves, we have 
 taken the heavy load. Because the Party must be man- 
 aged." Arseny Ivanovich sighed. "Ah, my dear Aud- 
 rey Nikolayevich, your ambition is excellent, but — ^but 
 listen to me, to an old man. This is not the time. One 
 must wait, my dear man. Yes — yes — one must wait." 
 
 It was late at night. The candles were burning their 
 last in fetid tongues of flame. Shadows were gathering 
 in the corners, enveloping the comrades. A warm
 
 178 What Never Happened 
 
 bluish tobacco smoke filled the air. Bolotov felt an- 
 noyed. 
 
 "Has the committee the power to prevent me? The 
 power to say: thou shalt not kill? The power to say: 
 thou shalt not die?" 
 
 He rose slowly, looking tall and slim, pale, with burn- 
 ing blue eyes, and advanced to the table covered with 
 dying candles. 
 
 "Arseny Ivanovich, I have come to a decision on this 
 point. ' ' 
 
 "No, no, no! What do you mean? Allow me!" 
 Gennady Gennadievich broke in, in excitement. "What 
 do you mean, you've come to a decision? My dear man, 
 there are Party interests that are above yours. You 
 have no right to come to your own decisions. It is a 
 question that has to be discussed. How can you act 
 that way?" 
 
 "You'll excuse me — " 
 
 "I shall not excuse you, my inestimable one, I shall 
 not excuse you, my diamond. There can be no talk 
 about this. Just think! The highest interests of the 
 Party are affected! Caveant consules. Yes! And I 
 tell you beforehand, I do not agree with you. You are 
 wanted in the committee. What is it going to come to? 
 Today you will leave, tomorrow Arsenj^ Ivanovich — the 
 next daj' — I. Everybody would like to go. Who will 
 remain? No. How can you? How can you pos- 
 sibly?" 
 
 "I would suggest that the question be put to a vote," 
 said Doctor Berg drily, rubbing his thin hands. "I 
 presume you will obey the decision of the majority?" he 
 turned to Bolotov.
 
 .What Never Happened 179 
 
 Bolotov made no reply. ' ' Will they really put it to a 
 vote? A vote? On what? On whether I should live 
 or die?" The thought appeared so ridiculous and al- 
 most unseemly that he did not even feel angry. But 
 Doctor Berg was already counting the votes. 
 
 Bolotov did not believe his own eyes. ' * Then the com- 
 mittee has really got the power to allow or to forbid? 
 Then it's true that death and murder can be decided 
 upon by a majority?" 
 
 Brushing aside Doctor Berg's hand, he turned on Ar- 
 seny Ivanovich with an angry stare. 
 
 "You'll excuse me. I shall do as I have decided." 
 
 "Nonsense, my benefactor, nonsense," Arseny Ivan- 
 ovich laughed. "Will you not obey the committee?" 
 
 "A violation of discipline entails — " Doctor Berg 
 began didactically, but Bolotov did not wait for him to 
 finish. Without saying another word, he strode from 
 the room. In the empty, half-lighted hall he was joined 
 by Gruzdiev, who was very much confused. 
 
 Bolotov turned on his heels abruptly. 
 
 "Have you cast your vote, Gruzdiev?" 
 
 "Of course. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 And though Gruzdiev had been silent throughout the 
 evening and was not to be blamed for the voting, still 
 Bolotov turned on him with sudden rage, quite unusual 
 in him. Giving vent to all the sufferings of his dark 
 days, he began to reproach him with hypocrisy. 
 
 "But do you — do you understand what you are say- 
 ing? Do you understand what you've done? Do you 
 understand or not? Why are our comrades dying? 
 And you? Why are you, Gruzdiev, still alive? Who
 
 180 What Never Happened 
 
 needs your life? And I. Why am I alive? Have I 
 no shame? No conscience? Are you not ashamed of 
 yourself?" 
 
 Gruzdiev shrugged his shoulders. His good, open face 
 flushed with a sense of insult. He smiled bashfully. 
 
 "Oh, well. It's all so—" he said. 
 
 "It's all so what?" 
 
 "But terror is not the essential thing. Is it difficult 
 to die?" He flushed a still deeper colour. "Do you 
 believe me? Yes? Well, then, you know there is work 
 that perhaps is still more difficult. Propaganda among 
 peasants, among workers, among soldiers, among the 
 masses. Isn't that necessary? Is he the only revolu- 
 tionist who comes out with a book in his hands? Who 
 is fighting at the barricades? Don't I serve the revolu- 
 tion? Is not my work useful? Tell me, isn't it?" 
 
 "Ah, Gruzdiev, that's not the point." 
 
 "What is? Listen, Bolotov, I'll tell you. Arseny 
 Ivanovich is an old man. One must not be angry with 
 him. As for Doctor Berg, oh, well, what is Doctor 
 Berg? You know me, eh? I can't understand you. 
 Terror is only a means, one of many good means. Glory 
 and respect to the man who walks that road. But I 
 don't. And shall not. You hear? I shall not do it 
 consciously, because it does not matter whether or not 
 one dies. What is important is how to be of the greatest 
 use. We are so few — so few people who know what 
 they want and know it firmly, people for whom the rev- 
 olution is not merely an uprising, but a deep upheaval 
 of ideas. And now you're leaving us. Listen, come 
 along with me to the peasants, into the village. There 
 you will find live work. There you won't waste your
 
 What Never Happened 181 
 
 words." Gruzdiev was silent and looked into Bolotov's 
 eyes with little hope. Bolotov smiled. 
 
 "You don't understand me. Wliat you're doing is 
 useful work. I have done it all my life. Only — " 
 
 ''Only what?" 
 
 Bolotov did not answer. He raised his hand hope- 
 lessly and went slowly to his room. The committee, 
 perplexed by his action, were still talking about him.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 VOLODYA had no success in Tver. He had de- 
 cided to dynamite the railroad tracks in order 
 to give new life to the dying uprising and to 
 stop the Semyonov Regiment. But he could get no 
 dynamite, and without any definite reason he returned 
 to Moscow. The fighting squads had been defeated, the 
 last barricade shot to pieces. On the Kudrinskaya 
 Plaza, near bonfires, one could find the pitiful traces of 
 the crushed uprising — burned posts, still smoky, up- 
 turned fences, barrels, boards, window frames. Priesna 
 Street was occupied by the army, in Gruziny Street the 
 artillery was still shooting, and at the Strastny Monastery 
 concierges were exhibiting the traces of rifle shots to 
 merchants. Volodya understood that the battle had been 
 lost, and he left the same evening for St. Petersburg. 
 
 The Moscow failure made him feel indignant. Faint- 
 heartedness seemed to him to be the cause of it. He was 
 indignant at Zalkind because he had refused money, at 
 Arseny Ivanovich because he had not supplied ammuni- 
 tion, at Doctor Berg because he had not organized Party 
 troops. He accused the committee of disgraceful aloof- 
 ness, the Party of negligence. He believed sincerely 
 that the workmen could have won St. Petersburg, but 
 that the comrades had become frightened. If Seriozha, 
 he thought, had been furnished with five kilograms of 
 dynamite, he would have taken possession of Moscow, 
 and had other people, more farsighted and daring, been 
 
 182
 
 What Never Happened 183 
 
 in charge of affairs, instead of Arseny Ivanovieh, or 
 Doctor Berg, or Vera Andreyevna, the fate of Russia 
 would have been changed. He was incapable of perceiv- 
 ing that the success of the uprising did not depend on 
 their conscious will and that every member of the Party 
 was right in his own fashion. Pronka was right in 
 dying at the barricades; Vanya was right in throwing 
 the bomb ; Berg was right in caring for the committee ; 
 Bolotov was right in defending Moscow. Every one did 
 what he could and should have done in accordance with 
 his ability. And if their weak powers were not suffi- 
 cient, if the uprising was crushed, it was not the fault 
 of individuals, not the fault of Bolotov, or Berg, or 
 Arseny Ivanovieh. But Volodya did not see this. In 
 his indignation over the painful defeat, in his convic- 
 tion that the committee was guilty, in his anger over the 
 futile sacrifice, he bitterly repented his credulity. He 
 did not go to the convention. Party conventions, con- 
 ferences and councils seemed a useless pastime, the prat- 
 tling of the idle ''intelligentzia." He had long since 
 solved all problems. He thought there was nothing to 
 talk about, nothing to decide, no time to hesitate. He 
 felt it was time to take revenge, not to babble, also that 
 the revolution was bound by no laws, that terror was no 
 crime, and that one man had an undeniable right over 
 the life of another, just as he, Volodya, had the power 
 over his squad of men. And like Bolotov he was op- 
 pressed heavily by a feeling of lonesomeness. 
 
 "Cowards! Miserable cowards!" he kept repeating 
 through his teeth, as he walked along the Izmailovsky 
 Prospect. A fresh wind was blowing from the sea, a 
 light mist was falling. The thin snow was melting. 
 The copper column of Victory receded in the misty fog.
 
 184 What Never Happened 
 
 It was not yet four in the afternoon, but the electric 
 lights were already turned on. Volodya, with his black 
 curly head stuck into his coat collar, was hurrying along 
 the slippery sidewalk. In the Fifth Section of the city, 
 in a "secret" lodging selected by him, lived Olga, his 
 comrade and friend; and as he neared the place, his 
 thoughts quieted down. He was now thinking of Olga, 
 of her knowing eyes, of how in ten minutes he would 
 hear her friendly voice, would press her beloved hands. 
 He had come to St. Petersburg for Seriozha, for Vanya 
 and Konstantin, but he could not explain why he had 
 not gone directly from the railroad station to the Party 
 quarters. And had anybody suspected him of being in 
 love, he would have laughed in disdain. 
 
 He located the familiar gloomy five-story house, 
 crossed the dirty yard, and walked up the stairs. Olga, 
 a tall woman with smoothly combed hair and clad in a 
 simple black dress, opened the door herself. Although 
 they had not seen each other for a whole month and she 
 had been waiting and weeping for him and worrying for 
 his life, they met as if they had parted only the day 
 before. 
 
 Volodya, enormously tall and broad-shouldered, sat 
 down on the couch, without even greeting her or taking 
 off his coat. 
 
 "Olga." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Olga." 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 "Olga, what is to be done now?" 
 
 Olga cast her eyes down. He shrugged his shoulders 
 impatiently. 
 
 "What do you think, Olga?"
 
 What Never Happened 185 
 
 "What do I think?" 
 
 *'0h, my God, don't drawl." 
 
 Her round, almost elderly face suddenly became cold 
 and unpleasant. 
 
 "Volodya, this is what I say. You ask me what is to 
 be done. I don't know what is to be done. But listen, 
 there are people — they are the great majority. They 
 don't do anything, they don't dare to do anything, they 
 don't understand anything, they despair at misfortune 
 — weak children — " 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 "*'WelI, and then there are others — " 
 
 She suddenly leaned towards him and embraced his 
 neck with an elastic, almost cat-like motion. 
 
 ** Listen, Volodya, tell me. If a man has resolved on 
 everything, if he has borne everything, has understood 
 everything, has gone through everything, if he has looked 
 do'v\Ti into the deepest of the deep, into the black abyss, 
 into the horrifying darkness, and if he has felt no terror, 
 if he has looked into it all and felt no dizziness, tell me, 
 do you think he is like all the rest ? Is he a weak child ? 
 Or has he, perhaps, a power over people ? A power over 
 life and death?" 
 
 Volodya looked at her perplexed, not understanding 
 what she meant. She pressed him softly to her breast, 
 and her knowing grey eyes became attractively and un- 
 usually near. He sighed. 
 
 *'One must not fear, beloved. To a man like that all 
 is permissible. You hear, all. For him there is no sin, 
 no forbidden thing, no crime. Only one must be daring. 
 People tell lies and then are afraid. People say blood 
 and are afraid of blood. People are afraid of words. 
 Let there be an abyss below, but is there no abyss above ?
 
 186 What Never Happened 
 
 Happy is the one who has come to know both. I think 
 that is the way it is. Here we have resolved on some- 
 thing great, on something terrifying, and how terrify- 
 ing ! We have resolved on terror, on murder, on death ! 
 One who can stand it all, shall stand it. And he shall 
 stand lies, and blood, and his own suffering. And one 
 who can't, shall — he shall perish, of course. And so he 
 should!" she ended harshly, with contempt in her 
 voice. 
 
 Volodya scarcely listened to her. Because of her near- 
 ness, and because her tresses were falling in disorder, 
 and the lamp was burning with a dim light from under 
 the shade, and because of the quiet in the room, he did 
 not feel big and strong, the famous Volodya, but like a 
 small boy being petted. Guessing this feeling of his, 
 Olga whispered in his ear : 
 
 * ' Beloved, how tired you are ! ' ' 
 
 And as soon as she had said it, Volodya for the first 
 time in many months understood how utterly exhausted 
 he was, exhausted by his homeless life, by the bitter 
 struggle. He closed his eyes, lowered his head with its 
 long thick hair and, forgetting about the Party, the 
 fighting squad, the revolution, and even Olga, he gradu- 
 ally relaxed into a short but well-deserved restfulness, 
 where there was no life, no blood, no death, no barricades, 
 no terror, no gendarmes and no committee, but only a 
 dark, blissful, boundless feeling of repose. Olga looked 
 smilingly into his face. Unkempt and unwashed as he 
 was, with pockmarks on his face and a long, curly beard, 
 he seemed attractive and handsome to her. He did not 
 rest for long. As if in slumber, he shook his hair and 
 repeated his question : 
 
 *'Then what is to be done now?'.'
 
 "What Never Happened 187 
 
 "What's to be done now?" Olga raised her brows in 
 discontent. "I am not the one to decide that, Volodya, 
 but you." 
 
 Volodya remained silent, fingering his cigarette. 
 
 "Listen, Olga," he began at last. "This is all non- 
 sense. I'm no philosopher. I don't know any abysses. 
 But I do know that I can't reconcile myself to it. No, 
 I can't. I hate them. You understand, I hate them. 
 There are two roads. One is with the Party, with Doc- 
 tor Berg, the road of conventions, statutes, programs, 
 committees, and red tape, the devil take it! That's the 
 road I have been walking. Where has it brought me to ? 
 The uprising is crushed, terror is at a standstill. Per- 
 haps the Party is growing, but the revolution is dying, 
 yes, dying. But there is another road, Olga. Listen to 
 me, Olga. War should be war. You understand ? I 've 
 made up my mind. I may be alone today. Tomorrow 
 we shall be many. I don't want any white hands, any 
 good advice. I don't want any threats on paper. I 
 can't and I won't forgive — " 
 
 He pushed her hand away and got up. He was no 
 longer tired. He felt that exciting, nervous resolve 
 which had been aroused in him in the house of Sliozkin 
 and which had later sent him to Tver in search of dyna- 
 mite. Now it seemed to him that there was no death- 
 sentence, no sacrifice, no suffering that could hold him 
 back. It also seemed to him that such was the divine 
 will of the people, that it was only he, the revolutionist 
 Gliebov, who was uttering those exalted words, and his 
 mouth was expressing the will of the people, the poverty- 
 stricken, humble, liberty-loving, awe-inspiring Russian 
 people. 
 
 "And money?"
 
 188 .What Never Happened 
 
 "What money? What is money? The committee 
 ■will give money.'* 
 
 Olga shook her head thoiaghtfully. 
 
 "The committee will not give any money." 
 
 "It won't? All right, the devil take them!" Vo- 
 lodya brought his fist down on the table. "I will find 
 money! I will." 
 
 "But where, Volodya?" 
 
 "Where? If you have no money — ^kill! I'll get mil- 
 lions! I will open the gratings of the banks, I will 
 break iron chests! With weapons in my hands I will 
 obtain money. You hear? Will you believe me ? What 
 does the Berg committee mean to me? I can battle all 
 alone in a field. Oh, they shall get their deserts. The 
 nobles' nests shall Tdc set aflame! They'll know Stepan 
 Timof eyevich ! Indeed they will ! ' ' 
 
 Bearded, curly-headed and black, with eyes sparkling 
 like fire, Volodya stood before her, stretched to his full 
 enormous height. She looked straight into his eyes with 
 her own eyes full of pride and exaltation. She had 
 faith that he would do as he said. She had faith that his 
 will was an indomitable will like hers. There was no 
 need of the Bolotovs, the Bergs, the Zalkinds and the old 
 weaklings. There was no need of the slow, deliberative, 
 calculating Party. All was permissible ! All ! For the 
 good of the people there was no hesitation, no lawless- 
 ness ! And he, her black knight Volodya, was the ruling 
 leader. He would show the people the road to liberty, 
 he would save perishing Russia. Full of happiness, with 
 burning cheeks, she clung to him silently.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 VOLODYA located the committee and informed 
 them of his decision. The persuasions, the 
 pleadings, even tears of Arseny Ivanovich were 
 of no avail. Volodya left for the South ; from the South 
 he went to the Volga, and two months later he was at 
 the head of a newly organized "iron" fighting squad. 
 Seriozha and Vanya did not join him. They categori- 
 cally refused to leave the Party. Bolotov also refused, 
 though Volodya pressed him urgently. However, he 
 gained a new recruit in a notorious St. Petersburg stu- 
 dent, who had been expelled from the university for par- 
 ticipating in the revolution. 
 
 Ruvim Epstein considered himself a very talented 
 scholar. He criticized the platform adopted at the gen- 
 eral Party convention passionately and, as he thought, 
 scientifically. He believed that its unfortunate mistakes 
 mutilated the whole significance of the revolution. A 
 democratic republic in his opinion, was an obsolete half- 
 measure ; the Party should renounce its advocacy of any 
 form of government, and should demand the institution 
 of free anarchist communes ; with this great goal in view 
 all means were permissible, and he advised the robbing 
 of merchants, the burning of the landed estates, and ex- 
 propriation of private property in favour of the people. 
 The most dangerous enemy of the revolution, he as- 
 serted, was not the government, but the "bourgeoisie." 
 So, the "contemptible bourgeois" should not be spared. 
 
 Epstein's dark-blue eyeglasses and pale, greenish 
 
 189
 
 190 What Never Happened 
 
 cheeks could be seen at all gatherings, meetings and con- 
 ferences. He spoke fluently, debated hotly, and invar- 
 iably closed his speeches with a thunderous "call to 
 arms." When he heard that the famous Volodya had 
 thrown over the committee, he went to him full of joy 
 and tried to persuade him to enlarge his squad, so as to 
 create an aggressive, "really revolutionary" Party. 
 He explained the details of his scientifically constructed 
 program and the workings of his faultless plan of 
 battle. Volodya yawned, looked at his weak hands and 
 flat chest, listened indifferently to his harsh voice — • 
 Epstein delighted in the sound of his own voice — and 
 waited patiently for the end of his school-boy speech. 
 
 "A woodcock is not big, but he makes a big noise," 
 Volodya decided to himself. But because Epstein ex- 
 pressed familiar thoughts and could "wag his tongue," 
 and, consequently, defend the "platform" of the fight- 
 ing squad when necessary, Volodya accepted him. 
 Epstein was happy. He thought Volodya shared his ex- 
 treme convictions, and a new shining page would be 
 written into the history of the old, hackneyed, heretical 
 revolution by the entrance of a new party built accord- 
 ing to his theory, a party that undoubtedly would march 
 to victory. 
 
 Volodya had faith in his own star. He felt an abun- 
 dant source of unspent forces in himself, forces of dar- 
 ing, hate, inspiration and faith, and never doubted that 
 the lonely road he had chosen was prudent and inevi- 
 table. But after he had laboured two months to create a 
 strong organization and was preparing for the first ac- 
 tion — a big and difficult "expropriation" — he began to 
 experience occasional fears that the first undertaking 
 might be a defeat. While a member of the Party he
 
 What Never Happened 191 
 
 had had no such anxieties. Hundreds of comrades were 
 there ready to take up the work where he had left off; 
 no matter that those comrades were Doctor Bergs, so 
 long as the seed, once sown, would not die, and the field 
 would bring a harvest. But now as he looked at his re- 
 bellious "fighters" — at Epstein, Konstantin, the gym- 
 nasiast Mitya, the blacksmith Prokhor, the clerk Yelizar, 
 all the people who had been attracted by his daring, he 
 perceived to his sorrow that should he hang tomorrow, 
 there would be no one to take his place at the steering- 
 wheel. He tried to stifle these thoughts, in an effort to 
 convince himself that there could be no defeat, and he 
 listened eagerly to Olga's inspiring words, but he could 
 not kill the anxiety in his heart. 
 
 In Odessa there was much talk about a revolutionist, 
 "The Fly," a sailor who had deserted and who had ex- 
 perienced solitary confinement. After some hesitation 
 Volodya decided to meet him. He had furtive hopes 
 that he would finally find a worthy friend. The meeting 
 was to take place in Moscow. He gathered together his 
 men, who had been scattered all over Russia, into Tver, 
 told them to await his return and, without asking Olga 's 
 advice, left for Moscow, which was already quiet. 
 
 In Sokolniki the scent of spring was in the air. The 
 white snow was swelling and melting, laying the ground 
 bare. The soft, damp, black spots seemed to be drained 
 by the thirst of coming spring. In the air, which was 
 still cold, but fragrant, the sparrows were twittering fes- 
 tively. The Fly, a young chap of about thirty, slen- 
 der and well-built, as if cast in steel, with a pewter 
 ring in his ear, was walking slowly and swinging slightly 
 on his strong legs. Volodya, who looked even heavier 
 and clumsier beside of him, was splashing along in
 
 192 What Never Happened 
 
 the melting snow, watching his companion with sidewise 
 glances. The Fly was relating the story of his life. 
 He spoke quickly and easily, obviously showing off an 
 artificial indifference. He looked upon Volodya as upon 
 a daring chieftain, a hunter after wild game. 
 
 *'And I began to live quietly. I had a little house, a 
 wife. But soon I began to notice — my wife, my better 
 half, so to say — excuse me — sh-sh-sh — with mister village 
 inspector. And it was hard to make out whether it was 
 anything political, or purely amorous. "Well, I did not 
 wait too long. What for? It was in the autumn. A 
 dark night. Pitch dark. I took my double-barrelled 
 gun down from the nail and went out into the street. 
 It was dark in the street, lights in the windows. My 
 wife was sitting inside, sewing on a Singer sewing-ma- 
 chine. There was a lamp on the table near her, and I 
 could see her very plainly. Well, with God's blessing, I 
 raised the gun to my shoulder, aimed, stood still a mo- 
 ment. One, two. The bullet hit her right on this spot. " 
 He pointed to just above his temple. 
 
 ''Did you kill her?" 
 
 "Exactly. I killed her." 
 
 Volodya frowned. 
 
 "And why were you assigned to the disciplinary 
 battalion?" he asked a moment later. 
 
 "To the disciplinary?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I struck the quartermaster in a fit of rage," the Fly* 
 answered with contempt, spat out, and lighted a cigar- 
 ette. A thin ring of smoke curled up into the blue air. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Go on."
 
 What Never Happened 193 
 
 "What's to go on about, Vladimir Ivanovich? My 
 tale is short, but the rope is long. Well, if you want to 
 know, I was flogged, in the disciplinary — ^by our merci- 
 ful officials. That's what I was." 
 
 ''Flogged?" 
 
 "Certainly. Twice." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 "For tobacco — smoking cigarettes contrary to rules.'* 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I? What about me?" The Fly smiled, exposing 
 his milk-white teeth. His sharp face, with a nose like 
 a vulture's, became still sharper. In his narrow hazel 
 eyes rapid fires flashed up and died down. "I suppose, 
 I paid them back for it. I guess they haven 't forgotten 
 me yet." 
 
 "Did you kill? 
 
 "Exactly. Killed. His Excellency, the commander 
 of the battalion." He threw away the butt. "Well, 
 then I began to lead an underground life. With the 
 committee, excuse me, I was not on good terms. 'You're 
 a murderer, ' they said. That is, the noble gentlemen of 
 the district committee, the students, said so. 'Exactly, 
 I replied, a murderer.' 'We don't want men like you.' 
 ' Just as you please, ' I said. ' I 'm not very keen on men 
 like you. ' And I left them. ' ' He smiled again. * ' Per- 
 mit me another smoke." 
 
 While he was lighting the cigarette, Volodya looked 
 at him curiously, at his sheepskin cap pulled to one side, 
 his short fur jacket, and the swift, rounded motions of 
 his small hands. 
 
 "Do you drink?" Volodya asked suddenly. 
 
 "Yes, sir. I drink," the Fly answered unhesitat- 
 ingly, raising his eyes.
 
 194 What Never Happened 
 
 Volodya remained silent a while. 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 "Well, one can't tell everything. I went away. 
 Lived in Odessa. Once I found out that the owner of a 
 tobacco store, Mikhail Efimovich Zhizhin was a spy. 
 'Oh, you, scoundrel!' I thought. 'You just wait.' I 
 picked after dinner, when he would take a nap. And 
 then I went there. To the store, I mean. His wife 
 came out. 'Let me have Golubka cigarettes for five,' 
 I said. 'We have no Golubka,' she said. 'How's that? 
 Impossible. I just bought some here. Look and see if 
 you can't find them.' She began to hunt. 'No,' she 
 said, 'I can't find an3\' 'Wake your husband up, then.' 
 She went behind the partition, and I locked the door. 
 The store-keeper came out. 'You want Golubka?' he 
 said. 'Yes, Golubka, please.' He turned his back and 
 began to search over the shelves. I took my revolver 
 out. I had a government model. One — ^two. Very 
 simple — " 
 
 ^'You killed him?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "And then—" 
 
 ' ' And then ? Then I went after the spies. ' ' 
 
 'The spies?" 
 
 'Exactly. I mean the secret service agents." 
 
 'And did you get many of them?" 
 
 ■'About eight, maybe more." 
 
 'Nothing but spies?" 
 
 The Fly winced and shook his head. 
 
 "There were all sorts — " 
 
 "Go on, tell me." 
 
 "No, what for? I'm not at a confession, Vladimir 
 Ivanovich. What's the use of recalling the past? And
 
 What Never Happened 195 
 
 what's the difference? They're all the same. A .gen- 
 darme, a merchant, a landowner. What's the differ- 
 ence ? That 's my opinion. And yours ? " He looked at 
 Volodya with a bold, ironical expression in his eyes. 
 
 Volodya made no answer. The Fly stuck his hand 
 carelessly into his pocket and, after waiting a while for 
 an answer, continued: 
 
 "Then there were the wine shops. They give a lot 
 of trouble." 
 
 "Did you rob them alone?" 
 
 "No. Not alone. I had comrades. But it's not 
 worth talking about. What sort of business is it? It's 
 mere play. Dirty work. It soils one's hands." 
 
 "What did you do with the money?" 
 
 "Money? There wasn't much of it. And must I 
 live or no? What do you think?" he added, laughing 
 derisively. * ' I used to give it to the Party. ' ' 
 
 Volodya hadn't the least doubt the Fly was lying 
 and had never given a kopek to the Party. But he kept 
 silent. The Fly looked at him sidewise. 
 
 "Let's sit down a while, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 They seated themselves on a damp cold stump. The 
 Fly was lazily rolling a cigarette. 
 
 "A murderer, a real murderer," Volodya thought. 
 "But oh, well, I mustn't be too long choosing. I cer- 
 tainly couldn 't cook a meal with Berg. Supposing he is 
 a murderer, at least he won't betray." Water was 
 noisily dropping from the naked branches. The Fly 
 threw his head up and sat for a long while lost in thought, 
 looking up with half -closed eyes at the transparent 
 clouds. Suddenly he heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 "It's fine, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 "What's fine?"
 
 196 What Never Happened 
 
 "The Spring." 
 
 When an hour later they were bidding each other 
 good-bye at the Triumphal Gates, the Fly held on to 
 Volodj^a's hand, pressed it hard, and said: 
 
 "Vladimir Ivanovich?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Let me go with you." 
 
 "With me?" Volodya hesitated, not knowing why. 
 
 "Yes. I want to join you. I'm bored to death 
 tramping around the world. Please do take me." 
 
 "You may be the leader of the gang, but you're just 
 as much of a murderer as I am," said his mocking eyes. 
 
 Volodya understood him. A flush of anger coloured 
 his cheeks. He wanted to withdraw his hand, but in- 
 stantly changed his mind. 
 
 "Well, after all, what is there to spit upon? War is 
 over. 'Love us even if we are black.' He is right," 
 Volodya thought, and gained control over himself. He 
 ordered the Fly to go to Tver.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 TOWARD the end of the following February the 
 fighting squad grew and gained in strength. 
 Volodya decided to make a terrorist attempt. 
 There was a choice of two undertakings. One of his 
 men, Mitya, a student who had been expelled from the 
 gymnasium, the son of a banker, informed him that on 
 Saturday, the second of April, five hundred thousand 
 rubles of government money would be delivered from 
 the vaults of the bank to the Warsaw railroad station. 
 Mitya furnished complete details of the size of the Cos- 
 sack guard and the route the government coach would 
 take. Volodya was dazed by the boldness of the 
 plan. He did not doubt that one well-thrown bomb 
 would be sufficient, but the bomb had to be thrown in 
 broad daylight in a St. Petersburg street. That meant 
 that it would be difficult, almost impossible, to avoid 
 victims. 
 
 The other undertaking would be much simpler, but 
 the money to be gained was scarcely worth the effort, 
 only twenty thousand rubles belonging to the merchants 
 Voronin, whose office was in Moscow near the Khopil- 
 ovsky Pond. Volodya was told of this "beggarly" 
 chance by Yelizar, a clerk in the Voronin factory. The 
 Khopilovsky ''kopeks" tempted Volodya. On the de- 
 serted outskirts of Moscow the squad could retire without 
 losing a single man. The one drawback was that the 
 first enterprise, as Volodya saw it, was nothing more 
 than a plain, unadorned robbery. Since he had placed 
 
 197
 
 198 What Never Happened 
 
 himself at the head of a terrorist band and had become 
 master with dictatorial powers, a change had taken place 
 in him. His belief had not changed, that in the name 
 of the people everything was permissible, and he agreed 
 as he always had, with Epstein, that the merchants 
 should be robbed and the landed estates destroyed. But 
 a deep-seated, latent instinct, an indefinable feeling of 
 responsibility, restrained him from rash measures. He 
 became cautious, M^eighed every word, looked over every 
 plan time and again, and sometimes glancing at the 
 Fly's hawk-like face, he would be seized by a strange 
 fear. 
 
 He changed also in his relations to the Party com- 
 mittee. Arseny Ivanovich's senility, Doctor Berg's 
 frugality. Vera Audrey evna's lack of ability, he fully 
 appreciated were merely petty, transient trifles, and the 
 committee members really deserved credit for their im- 
 memorial services, their shouldering of the responsi- 
 bility for the Party. In the past, when fighting at the 
 barricades, when arresting Colonel Sliozkin, and when 
 planning to blow up the Semyonov Regiment, Volodya 
 had naively thought that as a soldier he was not re- 
 sponsible for the shedding of blood. The whole Party 
 was accountable, the whole revolution, every one who 
 shared his conviction. To his surprise he saw that his 
 break with the committee had brought him nearer to it, 
 nearer to its organization and interest, and had filled 
 him with a sense of duty to the scjuad of which he was 
 leader. And he who never hesitated was now uncertain, 
 unable to decide how to act. From this difficulty he 
 was rescued by Olga. She said that to sacrifice human 
 lives in St. Petersburg for the sake of a brilliant, profit- 
 able act, was no mistake but an enviable deed and an
 
 What Never Happened 199 
 
 honourable one ; and should he rob the Voronin office, he 
 would soon after, willy-nilly, decide upon a larger "ex- 
 propriation." Her arguments persuaded Volodya. He 
 called his men to St. Petersburg, detailed Prokhor and 
 Yelizar to buy horses and wagons and began to make 
 ready for the attempt. 
 
 Two days before the second of April he made an ap- 
 pointment to meet Epstein at Olga's room, and also a 
 comrade and assistant of his whom he jokingly called 
 "Chief of Staff," a student of engineering, Herman 
 Freze, the son of a Baltic landowner, who had been about 
 to graduate from the Institute when to the horror of 
 his parents he suddenly disappeared from St. Peters- 
 burg. He came to Volodj^a and asked to be accepted for 
 the fighting squad. He did not go to the committee, 
 or to Bolotov, or Arseny Ivanovich, but to Vladimir 
 Gliebov, because he had decided in cold blood as he 
 thought, that it was worth while to risk his life only for 
 something big, something really useful to the revolution. 
 Like Epstein, he had a blind faith in terror, and be- 
 lieved that the bourgeoisie could be frightened by bombs. 
 He knew Bakunin by heart, but did not like to voice his 
 opinions. He himself could hardly tell by which high- 
 ways and byways he had come to irreconcilable anar- 
 chism, why he, a man of independent means, had con- 
 ceived such a hatred for the bourgeoisie. He really 
 hated it, was really ready to die for his unwritten symbol 
 of faith. He was a silent German, correctly dressed to 
 the minutest detail. He had a long pale face and 
 sharply chiselled chin. Judging by his student uniform, 
 his gold rings, and his correctly parted hair, nobody 
 would have dreamed that he believed firmly in expro- 
 priation and terrorism.
 
 200 What Never Happened 
 
 Always prompt, he arrived at the same time as Ep- 
 stein, before Volodya. Taking off his hat and gloves, 
 without seeming to pay any attention to Olga, he un- 
 rolled a complete map of St. Petersburg. Olga, her face 
 propped on her fists, and leaning against the table, 
 looked at Freze in silence a few minutes. From the very 
 first days, there had been established a peculiar, half 
 comradely, half tender relationship between her and the 
 men. Epstein, Mitya, Konstantin, Prokhor, Yelizar, 
 even the Fly felt pleased that among them, in the squad, 
 was a young woman with a strong body and womanly 
 face, who was their comrade and friend. In her pres- 
 ence, even when she was silent, they felt cheerier and 
 more at ease, and were no longer haunted by the fear 
 of being hanged. 
 
 Freze, conscious of her keen, fixed glance, which he 
 thought was full of meaning, today also felt this joy 
 that she stirred in them. 
 
 "Frezushka, aren't you afraid?" asked Olga smil- 
 ingly, without taking her eyes from his thin face. 
 
 Freze raised his eyes and wrinkled his white forehead, 
 from which the hair was beginning to recede. He 
 wanted to answer truthfully and precisely, as truth- 
 fully and precisely as he was accustomed to answer not 
 only Olga, but every one, whatever the question. 
 
 ''Afraid of what, Olga Vasilyevna?" he said, with 
 but a slight accent, after a little pause, as she slowly 
 poured a glass of tea for him. 
 
 ' ' If you ask me whether I am afraid for my life, I will 
 tell you no. I am not, not in the least. But if you 
 mean that the thing for which I fear is the success of 
 our enterprise, then I must answer yes, I am afraid. ' ' 
 
 Olga sighed.
 
 What Never Happened 201 
 
 *'0h, you Frezushka, Freziishka, always with your 'if 
 and 'about that.' Everything so carefully thought out 
 and sensible, so German ! But I am a Russian, I am not 
 afraid of anything." She laughed but only with her 
 eyes. ''You know," she lowered her voice, "I was try- 
 ing to tell fortunes today. I spread the cards and it 
 came out that everybody would be wonderful. You 
 don't believe it, do you?" 
 
 "I don't believe in fortune-telling," answered Freze, 
 seriously, without smiling. Though Freze and Epstein 
 and even Olga herself knew that what she said was ridicu- 
 lous, still they liked it, so anxious were they to believe in 
 their success. 
 
 "You don't believe in it, but I do," Olga sang out. 
 "You know, Frezushka, what I wanted to ask you." 
 Her face grew cold and ugly, as when she spoke to 
 Volodya. "Is it permissible, in your opinion, to join 
 the secret service, or is it not?" 
 
 Freze wrinkled his forehead again and looked at her 
 in astonishment, with his short-sighted, protruding eyes. 
 Convinced that this time Olga was not joking, he asked 
 slowly, as if to make sure : 
 
 "Join the secret service?" 
 
 "Yes. "Wliy are you so scared ? " 
 
 "I don't quite understand. What do you mean, join 
 the secret service?" 
 
 "Oh, my God, just that. It's very simple. Epstein 
 says it is permissible for the furthering of terror." 
 
 Epstein, gloomy and vexed with Olga, because she was 
 not talking to him, began to speak loudly and angrily: 
 
 "A man was asked, 'What do you do with money?' 
 He answered, 'I divide it in three parts. One third I 
 lock up in my trunk; one third I bury in the ground,
 
 202 What Never Happened 
 
 and one third I permit to circulate. ' Well, we too, have 
 only a third in circulation. Why may they deceive us 
 and not we them ? Why should we allow others to shear 
 us like sheep? I ask you, for the sake of terror every- 
 thing is permissible, isn 't it ? Do you agree? You may 
 also agree that everything beneficial to the revolution is 
 good, and harmful to it is bad? Isn't that so? Well, 
 I say the only question is, whether there is any advantage 
 to be gained or not. Is there any advantage if you bury 
 your money in the ground? Is there a doubt about it? 
 Is it not clear that if you or I were active in the secret 
 service we should know everything that is going on 
 there? Well, then, is it clear? Is it?" He finished 
 like a teacher speaking to stupid, indifferent pupils, to 
 whom the simplest things have to be repeated. 
 
 Freze, tall and severe in his student uniform, sat up- 
 right, motionless, glancing from Epstein to Olga, with 
 a look of perplexity, as though not trusting his ears. 
 Olga's rounded face was calm and wore a thoughtful 
 smile. 
 
 "For the sake of the revolution?" Freze finally 
 came to himself. "It is funny; for the sake of the revo- 
 lution, of course; could there be any other reason?" 
 Epstein became excited. 
 
 "Is it necessary to make terror or not? It's only 
 silly people say, this is not allowed, that must not be 
 done, this is not good, that is bad, this is immoral. What 
 does it all mean? Just talk ! I am a free human being, 
 I don't recognize any authority, and I repeat, why 
 should we allow ourselves to be sheared like sheep?" 
 
 "I never thought of that before," said Freze, hesitat- 
 ing and drawling. "But it seems to me you are wrong. 
 If a man enters the secret service — "
 
 What Never Happened 203 
 
 "Again if," Olga interrupted jokingly. "In my 
 opinion, it is permissible. But not for everybody. No, 
 it isn 't everybody that can do it. You can 't. But there 
 are some who can," she ended smiling shrewdly and 
 avoiding Freze's eyes. 
 
 "What can one do?" 
 
 On the threshold stood Volodya, big and black in his 
 fur coat. Freze breathed more freely, as if Volodya had 
 just saved him from danger. 
 
 "I mean," said Epstein, becoming confused, "that for 
 the benefit of terror, it is right to join the secret service. ' ' 
 
 Volodya contracted his brows gloomily. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I agree with Kletochnikov — " 
 
 "Beginning his nonsense already!" Volodya jerked 
 his head angrily. Turning to Freze he asked: 
 
 ' ' Have you seen Yelizar ? ' ' 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "And the bombs?" 
 
 "The bombs are ready." 
 
 "And the Mausers?" 
 
 "They all have Mausers." 
 
 Volodya nodded his head. He was sure of success 
 now. What gave him this confidence he could not tell, 
 but somehow during the last troublesome days a feeling 
 of joy — a feeling that defeat was impossible had arisen 
 in him. Never before, whether on the barricades at 
 Moscow, or organizing his squad, or breaking with the 
 Party committee, had he been so conscious of overflow- 
 ing vigour. It was as if the muscles of his massive body 
 had all hardened and strengthened and become more 
 flexible. He knew the face of things had not changed — 
 the same Konstantin, the Fly, Mitya, Prokhor, Epstein
 
 204 What Never Happened 
 
 would go out armed the next day. It would be just as 
 difficult as it had always been to lift money in the St. 
 Petersburg streets, and it was just as easy as it had al- 
 ways been for his squad and himself to be ruined with- 
 out resulting gain. Yet he felt no fear. He smiled at 
 Freze. 
 
 "Freze has provided for every contingency, and has 
 verified everything. He has not forgotten a single de- 
 tail. He is not a mere man, he is pure white and gold, ' * 
 Volodya thought. 
 
 Freze, his close-cropped head bent over a map, was 
 making careful calculations with a compass. 
 
 "Great Podyacheskaya, a hundred feet wide; Tomal- 
 ovsky, two hundred and twenty-five feet. The shortest 
 distance from Kriukov Canal to Podyacheskaya Street, 
 through Sadovaya Street. That means that Prokhor 
 ought to stand at Sadovaya Street with the cab and 
 Yelizar on Nikolsky Street. Do you hear me, Vladimir 
 Ivanovich? The first bomb thrower, Konstantin, is to 
 meet the coach behind the Ekaterinovsky Prospect. 
 The second bomb thrower, Mitya, is to stand thirty feet 
 away from him. Isn't that so, Vladimir Ivanovich?" 
 
 They all listened attentively. It was so quiet, so 
 peaceful in the room. The clock struck as usual. And 
 Freze spoke with such certainty that the matter might 
 have been some trifling, everyday event. To judge by 
 Volodya 's broad back, or Epstein's dark glasses, or 
 Olga's feminine face, or the polish of the swift compass, 
 nobody would have had the faintest suspicion that Volo- 
 dya, Freze, Epstein, Olga might kill the next day, or 
 that all of them might perish. Not one of them, to be 
 sure, was thinking of death. Everything had been de-
 
 What Never Happened 205 
 
 cided and settled, they felt. Killing was permissible, 
 and the only question was, who would be victorious. 
 For the sake of victory, each of them was ready to give 
 his life without hesitation.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ON the second of April, Volodya went out on the 
 street at seven o'clock in the morning. Prok- 
 hor was to await him at Fontanka Street. The 
 day was coming to life. A steamer tooted mournfully 
 on the Neva, the first tram-cars clanged by, the side- 
 walks were deserted, and the stores closed. 
 
 "Walking along the Nevsky Prospect, still lifeless, 
 Volodya felt as though there would not be any assault, 
 the money would not be transported, Konstantin would 
 miss the coach, Mitya's bomb would not explode, and 
 the whole carefully worked-out plan was merely a boy- 
 ish prank. This uneasy feeling, hitherto unknown to 
 him, was so strong that he could scarcely realize that 
 that very day, near that very spot, the solemn, dreadful 
 thing he so audaciously desired was to be enacted. 
 
 He walked slowly, idly, as if out for a stroll, and al- 
 most in a trance. He reached Fontanka Street, and did 
 not notice when he turned toward the river. From the 
 crystalline sheen of the water, it was borne upon him 
 that it was a clear sunny spring day. It grew warm. 
 He unbuttoned his heavy coat and began to look around 
 indifferently in search of the cab. When he finally 
 discerned it, he could hardly believe that that stout 
 coachman, all tidied up, was the same Prokhor he had 
 known in the Ural and had brought along to St. Peters- 
 burg. 
 
 "Why is he here? Nothing will come of this," he 
 
 thought superstitiously. 
 
 206
 
 What Never Happened 207 
 
 Prokhor stood in his blue cloak with his back turned 
 to Volodya dusting the sledge sheet. His dappled grey- 
 thoroughbred was snorting and pricking his ears as if in 
 alarm. Volodya knew the horse. He and Prokhor had 
 selected it at the horse-market Konnaya. It was fit 
 to carry off the stakes as a racer. 
 
 ''Driver!" 
 
 "Here, gentleman, a playful one." Volodya drew 
 near to Prokhor and looked straight into his face. He 
 noticed the bright concerned eyes of a peasant and a hesi- 
 tant smile, and knew Prokhor was afraid. He himself 
 now was set at rest, as he was in Olga's house. It was 
 useless to doubt, Freze had not worked in vain, Prokhor 
 was not a whirlwind driver for nothing, the bombs were 
 prepared, and the Mausers distributed, and now it was 
 too late for hesitation. He sighed deeply from the ful- 
 ness of his heart. 
 
 "Olga will soon be here. Don't miss her." 
 
 Ptokhor did not answer. Volodya took out his watch. 
 Long after he remembered that the sun had sparkled 
 like gold on the glass. It was a quarter past seven. 
 Calculating his time he turned to the Kriukov Canal. 
 Now, after the meeting with Proklior, he rejoiced to find 
 a headstrong determination taking possession of him. 
 He knew the feeling. In such moments he feared no- 
 body, and success always followed. Quickening his pace, 
 afraid of arriving too late, he went to Podyacheskaya 
 Street. At the open town-tavern, on the sidewalk under 
 the lantern, he noticed one of the bomb throwers, Kon- 
 stantin. The freckled, red-haired lad stood motionless in 
 his officer's black mantle, as if on duty. Volodya went 
 forward, but only five steps, when behind him horseshoes 
 clanged repeatedly and loudly, and before the set time
 
 208 What Never Happened 
 
 he caught sight of the bank coach. Volodya remem- 
 bered it well : the dark sorrel horses, the driver with his 
 large, bushy beard, and, beside him, the saintly faced 
 bank messenger. 
 
 On each side close to the wheels, raised a little in their 
 saddles, jogged the Cossacks. There were six of them. 
 Volodya stopped. He could not see Konstantin. The 
 coach hid him. But he knew Konstantin was there at 
 the tavern door, with the bomb in his hand. And not by 
 knowledge, nor reasoning, nor feeling, but by intuition 
 sharp and sure felt by the whole of his tense body, 
 Volodya perceived that now, half a minute later, there 
 on Podyacheskaya Street, there would occur that for 
 which he dared not hope. 
 
 For one second, for one painfully long moment, he 
 felt afraid. He wished the assault would not occur, 
 that Konstantin would spare the coach, and everything 
 would go on today as it had yesterday. But now, amid 
 the tranquillity of the street, amid the peaceful clatter 
 of horses' hoofs, which disturbed the stillness of the 
 morning, rang out an immense, deafening explosion. 
 Something was being thrown with a report more violent 
 than the boom of cannon or a peal of thunder. From 
 the earth a yellow column, black at its upper end, rose 
 and spread in a brown haze, reaching the roofs and fill- 
 ing the whole street with the acrid odour of smoke. The 
 pillar spread so swiftly, so suddenly and reached such 
 lieights, the rumbling was so loud, the sidewalks quaked 
 so violently, and there was such a crash of glass that 
 Volodya had to hold his breath. But gaining control 
 over himself, he ran to Konstantin. 
 
 While he was running, he noticed Epstein on the other 
 side of the deserted sidewalk, running from the coach,
 
 Wliat Never Happened 209 
 
 not to it. Epstein was in a long torn coat and without 
 his hat and glasses. He was pale and waved his hands 
 agitatedly. Afraid that the coach would start again and 
 the escort would defend the money by arms and still not 
 believing that the thing had been done, Volodya, pale as 
 a sheet, stopped at the spot where the explosion had 
 taken place. The bloody horses entangled in the ruins 
 were struggling feebly on the sidewalk. One of them, 
 scarcely more than a colt, had its rump half torn through 
 and its flesh burned. It fell down on the stones con- 
 vulsed, its sides heaving. The other, trying to rise and 
 falling back, stretched its long neck and made efforts to 
 get to its knees. The blood was running in hot streams 
 from its belly. The coach remained undamaged. The 
 driver was gone. To the left about ten feet away lay 
 a killed Cossack. He had on a grey cloak and patched 
 blue breeches. His finn, sunburned face framed in a 
 little dark beard was as calm as though he had been caught 
 unawares and had had no time to grasp what had hap- 
 pened. All round lay pieces of cloaks, splinters of glass, 
 broken shafts, a ripped-up saddle, and something else 
 wet and large. Without looking around Volodya pulled 
 open the carriage door. In the corner among the can- 
 vas sacks piled up to the top sat a bank messenger, a 
 young man of about twenty-five with a small dark mous- 
 tache. He was sitting as if nailed to the cushioned 
 seat. He looked at Volodya with frightened, pitiful, un- 
 comprehending eyes. "There is the money," flashed 
 through Volodya 's mind. He seized one of the bags and 
 flung it on the ground. At that instant he heard the 
 short report of a shot back of him, at his very cheek, 
 burning and deafening him. Volodya turned round 
 frightened. The Fly, with a rapacious face like a
 
 210 What Never Happened 
 
 hawk's, his thin lips compressed, shot at the bank mes- 
 senger at very close range. The carriage filled with 
 smoke. ** What's he doing that for?" thought Volodya. 
 The messenger did not budge. Only his head with the 
 caracal cap dropped on his chest. Volodya and the Fly 
 threw out the bags silently, jostling each other in their 
 haste and clumsily bumping against the messenger. 
 There were ten bags. One bulky one, evidently filled 
 with silver and copper coins, they left on the seat. 
 When they had thrown out the last bag, Volodya looked 
 around. There were no police. Prokhor's dappled grey 
 was galloping away at full speed down Podyacheskaya 
 Street, and from behind the top of the cab a lady's hat 
 showed. It was Olga, Volodya knew, Olga carrying 
 away the money. "Thank God," he thought, "thank 
 God." Two persons were running toward Fontanka 
 Street. Volodya recognized Freze and Mitya by their 
 gait. The Fly, his face distorted and evil-looking, seized 
 Volodya by the shoulders. 
 
 "Go away, Vladimir Ivanovich," he said. 
 
 Volodya turned obediently after him. But now he 
 noticed something he had not observed before. Within 
 a few feet of them, on the dusty sidewalk, almost at the 
 door of the saloon, Konstantin was resting, leaning the 
 back of his head against the cast-iron lantern. His 
 round, freckled face, always so full of colour and so alert, 
 now looked bluish grey. His eyes were muddy. His cap 
 lay on the sidewalk. Konstantin had been wounded by 
 his own bomb. 
 
 "Go away," repeated the Fly. 
 
 Volodya pushed him away violently and went up to 
 Konstantin with firm steps. He bent over him. His 
 white chest was uncovered, and his eyes stared vacantly.
 
 Wliat Never Happened 211 
 
 "Killed," thought Volodya, but Konstantin, with a 
 great effort, slowly raised his eyes and sighed deeply. 
 Volodya bent closer to him. And there, after the suc- 
 cessful assault, amidst shattered bodies and wounded 
 horses, over the dying Konstantin, he suddenly felt a 
 pain convulsing his throat and his eyes moistening with 
 tears for the first time in his life. He intended to leave, 
 but from behind him issiied a loud, shrill cry : 
 
 "Stop! Stop!" 
 
 The next instant strong hands were seizing Volodya, 
 His life was in danger. At the realization of this, his 
 wonted stern determination came to him again. No one 
 would dare to arrest him, Vladimir Gliebov, Squaring 
 his massive shoulders and with muscles taut, he made a 
 dash forward. On his strength depended his safet}^ and 
 with no doubts in his soul as to his ultimate safety, he 
 took out his revolver. He did not see Konstantin, or the 
 Cossacks, or the panting horses on the sidewalk. All 
 he saw was unknown men in short fur coats who were 
 retreating and moving backward toward the wall. He 
 was sure the comrades had gone and he could not ex- 
 pect help. But this did not make him afraid. 
 
 For some reason he was specially interested in a par- 
 ticular man among his pursuers, a fat flour-dealer with 
 a scared lymphatic face and clipped military moustache. 
 Biting his underlip Volodya, long bearded and massive 
 with his head lowered like an enraged bull, fired at him 
 almost mechanically without taking aim. The man 
 rushed forward, bent backward and fell to the ground. 
 But the police were already coming up, their whistles 
 were blowing, the Cossacks were galloping close, and a 
 minute later an unbroken chain of steel surrounded 
 Volodya. Afterwards, he, himself, was hardly able to
 
 212 What Never Happened 
 
 tell how he escaped from the circle. He remembered 
 that he ran, ran as never before in his life, and that his 
 pursuers were overtaking him. He knew that at Nikol- 
 sky Street Yelizar ought to be waiting for him with a 
 horse and carriage. Without admitting it to himself, 
 Volodya hoped Yelizar was still there. At the half-open 
 gates he met a porter in a cap and a white apron who 
 tried to bar his way with outstretched arms. Volodya 
 did not lose his presence of mind. Not looking at the 
 porter, but circling around him, he fired twice. The 
 porter fell. Afterward Volodya as in a dream saw 
 Yelizar 's frightened face and the black horse. He saw 
 Yelizar grasp the revolver and heard a report. Then 
 came the jogging of the carriage and the gleam of a 
 street-lamp, and the houses began to flash by. It was 
 not until they reached the Nevsky and the exhausted 
 thoroughbred, snorting and foaming, slackened his mad 
 pace that Volodya realized that Yelizar had saved his 
 life.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WITHOUT awaiting the closing of the con- 
 vention Bolotov left secretly for St. Peters- 
 burg, taking a roundabout route through 
 Gatchina. In St. Petersburg he sent a code message to 
 Arkady Rosenstern for an appointment with him at 
 Ikonikov, the lawyer's house on Sergeyevsky Street. He 
 looked forward to the meeting with impatience. Rosen- 
 stern, who had already been an active terrorist, would 
 understand and approve of his course, and help him with 
 advice. 
 
 Ikonikov, fat and bald, with a weary, smooth-shaven 
 face and blue veins webbing his cheeks, received Bolotov 
 like an old acquaintance. 
 
 "I am veiy glad, very glad indeed. Are you still in 
 good health? Arkady Borisovich has not yet come. I 
 hope, my dear sir, you will dine with me ? He spoke in 
 a hoarse, short-breathed voice, grasping Bolotov 's hands. 
 "News flies quickly," he said lowering his voice. 
 * ' Rumours are afloat that you performed wonders at the 
 barricade. You deserve the iron cross. There, you are 
 angry already — quite a character! I won't say any- 
 thing like that again, I really won't. Excuse me for 
 being curious,- but what was decided at the convention ? 
 Not over yet? Indeed! You know we live like moles 
 in court and at Madame Dudu's on Kreskovsky Street. 
 That is our whole life. Ha-ha-ha ! Have a cigar?" 
 
 Bolotov smoked and listened with pleasure. After the 
 
 213
 
 214 What Never Happened 
 
 awful days at the barricade, the noise of the Party con- 
 vention, the dust and suffocating heat of the train, it was 
 pleasant to be in a clean room, see a neatly dressed per- 
 son, who exuded the odour of cigars and wine and was 
 so remote from Party matters. Ikonikov was a wine- 
 bibber and a gambler, but he had connections and con- 
 tributed generally to terrorism. He was a surprise to 
 Volodya, this elderly half-drunken being, exhausted by 
 various diseases, living under the constant threat of 
 exile, and yet in spite of that menace never refusing to 
 help. 
 
 Evading his indiscreet questions, Bolotov smiled and 
 said idly: 
 
 * * How is it you are not afraid ? ' ' 
 
 "Who told you I am not afraid?" laughed Ikonikov, 
 adjusting his gold pince-nez. "I am afraid, my lad. 
 How can I help being afraid ? If they should catch me, 
 they would not consider the fact that I am a respectable 
 member of the bar. They would send me away 'where 
 Mokar never chased his calf.' I am afraid of every- 
 body, of the porter, the policeman, even of you. Ha- 
 ha-ha ! What can I do ? Let things take their course. ' ' 
 
 * ' Then why do you receive us ? " 
 
 "Why? My God, what can I do? Sit by the fire- 
 side and grow thin brooding over my inviolability? Or 
 shall I defend the sixth larceny at the district court? 
 Or recover bills? Or make liberal speeches at the ban- 
 quets? We do make liberal speeches, my dear man, 
 we do make them. Our tongues are flexible. We in- 
 vestigate and analyse, we make a revolution — ^in the 
 club. You know in Glebuspensky 's book one merchant 
 says, 'We lie from morning to night.' That's what our 
 business is, too. We move our whole life long to and
 
 ^What Never Happened 215 
 
 from the dog knows what. Now we are lying too. Let 
 them arrest us." He became silent, and adjusted his 
 pince-nez again. "Ah, my dear man, je m'en fiche, and 
 that's all. "We are going to be there. Ah, there is his 
 excellency, Arkady Borisovich." 
 
 Rosenstern was about thirty-two years old, of small 
 build, with a thick rough beard and black eyes flashing 
 youthfully. He was dressed with the sporty taste of a 
 foreign commercial traveller, in a long light grey over- 
 coat and striped trousers. His appearance was very 
 mild, typically Jewish, though the strong short neck and 
 the broad round shoulders gave the impression of ob- 
 stinacy and power. He held out his hand to Bolotov, 
 then turned to Ikonikov, and said jokingly, with a 
 forced accent: 
 
 ^'Cher maitre, please leave us alone. You under- 
 stand, a meeting of friends after a long separation. 
 Something unusual. Yes?" 
 
 But Ikonikov was already gone. 
 
 Rosenstem stopped smiling, went to the door and 
 turned the key in the lock. 
 
 "Well, Bolotov, I heard you could not come to an un- 
 derstanding with the committee. Tell me, is it true?" 
 
 "Yes, it is true." Bolotov was confused. 
 
 "May I know why?" 
 
 "I want to work with the terrorists." 
 
 "Hm, terror?" said Rosenstern pulling at his beard 
 and looking at Bolotov attentively. "Terror? "Why 
 exactly terror ? ' ' 
 
 Bolotov rose. The same wearisome agitation that he 
 had experienced in the committee took hold of him again. 
 He realized he would not find simple words to express 
 what had troubled him for a whole year. Rosenstern sat
 
 216 What Never Happened 
 
 calmly in the soft chair with his knees crossed looking at 
 him fixedly and piercingly, with his head inclined on one 
 side. 
 
 ''You asked — " Bolotov at last began, excited and 
 flushing. "Very well, I'll answer. Have you reflected 
 whether one can be on the committee and not work for 
 terror? You see, the committee disposes of others' 
 lives. It sends men to death? But when they sign 
 death-warrants — how can it be right? There's Arseny 
 Ivanovich, does he get his right because of his age ? Or 
 Doctor Berg, because of his ability? Or Vera Andrey- 
 evna, because of the years she has spent in prison, or 
 Gruzdiev because of his work? Why should David, 
 Vanya, Seriozha, some locksmiths from the Putiovsky 
 factory go to their death unquestioningly with a bomb 
 in their hands? Our blessings upon them. But the 
 priests are the ones to give blessings, and we are not 
 priests. Tell me, have I a right on the committee when 
 I don't sacrifice my life, when I never shed blood? I 
 am always, always afraid of bloodshed. Tell me, now 
 can I ? Where is my right to look on in cold blood while 
 others are dying? Tell me, what right have I?" 
 
 He became silent, and lit his cigarette with trembling 
 fingers. Eosenstern would not understand, he felt sure, 
 any more than Doctor Berg or Vera Andreyevna. 
 
 "You see, my brother — my brother was killed at the 
 barricades, ' ' he went on in a broken voice. ' ' The Party 
 created a future, a happy, glorious future, the kingdom 
 of God on earth. Isn't that so? Every one of us 
 creates it. There lies the meaning and justification of 
 the countless sacrifices. But in our work lies a false- 
 hood. Some do the commanding. It's a government 
 and the governed ; soldiers and generals. The committee
 
 What Never Happened 217 
 
 command and the others die resignedly. A certain law- 
 yer Ikonikov, even he searched for the truth. But we ? " 
 he finished indignantly, suprised by the harshness of his 
 own words. 
 
 Rosenstern listened quietly. "When Bolotov was done 
 he asked quickly: 
 
 "Well, how should it be, according to your conception 
 of the matter?" 
 
 "How should it be? I don't know. I don't under- 
 take to decide for the whole Party. I can decide only 
 for myself. I don 't, I won 't do what is bad in my eyes. 
 I am not going to send people to their death." 
 
 "I will not do what I think is bad," repeated Rosen- 
 stern slowly, weighing every word. ''Very well. But 
 is to kill good or not?" he asked suddenly, and smiled. 
 His face became strong and sharp, and Bolotov felt as 
 if a different person were confronting him, not a com- 
 mercial traveller, but a powerful sovereign who knew 
 his own right. 
 
 ''To kill? It's bad to kill, too." 
 
 "So." Rosenstern smiled again. **But you have 
 made up your mind to work for terror. That means, 
 you have decided to kill. You see, the problem is not so 
 simple. It is very easy to say; that is bad, and one 
 ought not do it. Sometimes a thing is bad, but has to be 
 done anyway. It is necessary and even good to do it. 
 Sometimes it is good to do bad, which is not a paradox. 
 You say to kill is bad? You do, don't you? But to 
 make terror is good. Can you dispute it ? of course not. 
 Well. You see — you know, I used to work with the 
 terrorists. I left and now I am active on the committee. 
 Do you think I did wrong?" 
 
 "With you it is a different matter. You were in
 
 218 What Never Happened 
 
 terror. You have a right to be on the committee." 
 "I? A different matter? Why different? Why do 
 you think I am ready to die at any time ? And if I am 
 not ready ? Well, suppose I am not ready. That means 
 I am wrong ? Listen to me one minute. What do we do ? 
 We make a revolution. An all-Russian revolution, a 
 mass revolution. Well, then, there must be somebody 
 to write books, print them, carry on the propaganda, 
 organize the masses, must there not?" 
 "Of course there must." 
 
 "Very well, then. Must the Party be managed or 
 not?" 
 
 "The Party?" 
 
 "Yes, I said Party, but not the revolution." 
 "Oh, yes, it has to—" 
 
 "Maybe it not only has to, but what it does is even 
 good? How should things be arranged? You say it is 
 not permissible to manage the Party if one cannot him- 
 self be active — kill. But you also say it has to be man- 
 aged. Who is going to manage it? The terrorists? 
 But a terrorist lives a week, and not everybody can 
 serve on the committee. I am speaking very seriously 
 for I know. I myself was active in terror. It is hard, 
 nobody knows how hard, to give away one's life. It is 
 still harder to kill. But, believe me, it is immeasurably 
 harder than anything else — " Rosenstern paused and 
 looked Bolotov straight in the eyes — "to dispose of the 
 fate of others. That requires tremendous power, much 
 more than for terror. One has to be heroic, to take the 
 responsibility for bloodshed, for the bloodshed of his 
 comrades. Yes, it is a necessary work to watch people go 
 to death and not go oneself. You say the committee 
 sends people to kill. Who can send you ? You dare to
 
 What Never Happened 219 
 
 send another? Is it that a terrorist goes because you 
 send him? Because the committee sends him? No, he 
 goes freely. He and his conscience send him because 
 he cannot do otherwise, because he ought to go for the 
 sake of the people. Think over why you go to terrorism. 
 Isn't it because you have not sufficient strength?" 
 Rosenstem again looked sharply into Bolotov's eyes, 
 smiling a little. But now Bolotov was not confused. 
 He knew where the error lay. 
 
 ' ' Let us drop the question of killing ; we are both un- 
 able to solve it. To kill is a sin, but in killing there is 
 no falsehood. One kills and one is killed. Straight 
 and clear. But here lies the untruth. If one is a 
 school-teacher, he ought to teach the alphabet in school, 
 but not ask people to unsheathe the sword. If one never 
 saw death one ought not to command others to slaugh- 
 ter. I don't talk about you, about Arseny Ivanovich, 
 about Doctor Berg. I talk about myself. Only those 
 make the revolution and create the future who are ready 
 to sacrifice their souls for friends. Do you hear me? 
 Souls! All that you were saying is very true, very 
 sensible, but my conscience refuses to take your word 
 for it. Do you understand? My conscience. One has 
 to acquire the spirit of giving. Death is the only val- 
 uable sacrifice." 
 
 "But we make every sacrifice," Rosenstem answered 
 quietly. 
 
 "You, but not I. I never risked my life before." 
 
 Rosenstem shrugged his shoulders angrily. 
 
 "You know, Bolotov, your point of view is bad, yes, 
 bad. It is the point of view of a man that's been con- 
 quered, the point of view, I should say, of a romanti- 
 cist."
 
 220 WHat Never Happened 
 
 "Let it be the point of view of a romanticist. Listen, 
 Arkady Borisovich, really, what is it that you are say- 
 ing? You are saying that for the sake of the Party 
 everything is permitted." 
 
 Kosenstern rose and walked the room with Bolotov. 
 
 ' ' Yes, if you will have it so. But after all, not every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Not everything? Well, what is not permitted? 
 Expropriation of private property?" 
 
 "Yes, for one thing." 
 
 "But you say such expropriation is not permitted not 
 because it is a bad thing to kill people, but because it 
 lowers the dignity of the Party, impairs Party discipline, 
 exposes to the temptation of money, in a word, is bad 
 for the revolution. Tell me, is that so?" 
 
 Rosenstern stopped short in his walking. He bent 
 his head. His neck became tense and his broad shoul- 
 ders stooped. He was not pleased that Bolotov opposed 
 him so stubbornly, and used words he thought unworthy 
 of a Party member. Looking down at the carpet he said 
 with evident irritation: 
 
 * ' Well, not at all so, of course — " He was interrupted 
 by Ikonikov's hoarse voice at the door. 
 
 "Let us eat, gentlemen eomspirators. Dinner is 
 served." 
 
 When Bolotov left and went to the Dvorzhaya Quay, 
 the bugler was playing the hymn Ad Gloriam at the 
 port. It was cold and dark.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A WEEK after the encounter with Arkady Rosen- 
 stern, Bolotov was informed by Arseny 
 Ivanovich about the meeting place. He went 
 to Moscow, and in an alley near the Piatnitza- 
 Paraskeva Church he found the popular fighter in 
 the Party, Ippolit. There were many legends going 
 about concerning him. Rumour had it that he was the 
 son of a member of the senate, a student of the military 
 academy, and devoted his millions solely to the commit- 
 tee, and none but Volodya's cool daring could be com- 
 pared to his. Slender and thin, delicate in build as a 
 girl, Ippolit gave a hint in unfinished phrases that the 
 assassination of the chief army prosecutor was being ar- 
 ranged. Not mentioning one word about the squad, he 
 asked if Bolotov would undertake to be on watch in St, 
 Petersburg in the disguise of a driver. Bolotov, though 
 offended by his excessive secrecy, agreed nevertheless. 
 Ippolit made an appointment with him for a month later 
 on the corner of Gorokhovaya and Sadovaya Streets. 
 Bolotov left Moscow by the next train. 
 
 When he came out of the Nikolayevsky station in his 
 high boots and short coat and saw the crowded Nev- 
 sky Prospect sparkling in the sun, he realized for the 
 first time the importance of his decision. As long as he 
 was drawing up reports for the committee, disputing 
 with Gruzdiev and disagreeing with Rosenstern, as long 
 as he only talked idly about terror, he could not realize 
 
 what awaited him. It seemed as though the only thing 
 
 221
 
 222 What Never Happened 
 
 that mattered was that he was sincere to the bottom of 
 his soul, ready to sacrifice his life, and everything else 
 was a mere trifle, unworthy of consideration. The an- 
 ticipation of an unavoidable death was so keen, gripped 
 him so strongly, so filled all his thought, that he was 
 unaffected by the nuisance of the daily disagreeable 
 tasks. But here, on the noisy Nevsky, among the gay, 
 satisfied crowds utterly indifferent to terror, he knew 
 there was nobody to help him and fully comprehended 
 for the first time what a burden he had taken up. For a 
 moment he was frightened. He had become accustomed 
 to privations in Moscow, but at the barricades he had 
 had the consciousness of not being alone. Side by side, 
 shoulder to shoulder with him were Seriozha, Pronka, 
 Roman Alekseyevich, the whole squad, and back of the 
 squad, the whole of Moscow, awakened by the revolt. 
 He had a vivid picture of it all — Pronka firing, the 
 dragoons falling back, the shops closed with rattling 
 bolts, the barricades of snow being erected and the peo- 
 ple assembling in wild mobs. Perhaps the fraternal 
 feeling, the consciousness of even death being beautiful 
 in company, buoyed him up and gave him the strength 
 of calm to defend the Party banner to the last shot. 
 Here in St. Petersburg, on the Nevsky, lost in the crowd, 
 torn away from his habitual affairs, half noblemen and 
 half peasant, neither a member of the committee nor a 
 driver, he had no sense of the inspiring ties of comrade- 
 ship and lost faith in them. He knew that somewhere 
 the committee was working. Arseny Ivanovich was 
 commanding, Aliosha Gruzdiev was teaching the peas- 
 ants, and Doctor Berg was printing pamphlets. But 
 that was a faraway, irrevocable past. Nobody was 
 around, neither comrades, nor friends, nor acquaint-
 
 o 
 
 What Never Happened 22 
 
 ances, and he had only himself to depend upon. He 
 tried to convince himself that this was not true ; that he 
 was a member of the squad, that the squad was a part 
 of the organization, and that every comrade, every 
 soldier of the revolution was in sympathy with him, and 
 grieved over his misfortunes. But the party program 
 did not satisfy him. It was as if a transformation had 
 taken place" and he was not the revolutionist Audrey 
 Bolotov, but as was written in his passport, the peasant 
 Aleksey Maxinov Jurkov, who had come to the capital 
 to work. Standing in meditation on the Nevsky, un- 
 certain where to go, he crossed the square and turned to 
 Goncharnaya Street. At the comer an old mole-eyed 
 driver was dozing. Bolotov came near to the worn-out 
 horse and touched the bridle lightly. The horse 
 straightened up. The old man grumbled without mov- 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, don't cut capers, countryman." 
 
 "Grandfather, ah, grandfather," said Bolotov, and 
 lifted his hat. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Listen, grandfather — " 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "It's like this, grandfather. I came, you see, to Piter 
 (St. Petersburg) — " He ceased, at a loss how to con- 
 tinue. The old man looked at him, mumbling the while. 
 
 "I came to Piter — " 
 
 "What did you come for, eh?" 
 
 "Well, for the same thing. We are drivers — " 
 
 "I cannot hear you. Speak louder. Eh?" 
 
 "Drivers, I said — " 
 
 "Drivers?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 224 What Never Happened 
 
 "So, so, so. That is good." 
 
 "You see, a driver," continued Bolotov uncertainly, 
 "you see, I don't know — everything is wrong. I cannot 
 find my way in Piter. I have nobody here. I tried to 
 find my countrymen. But they were gone, God knows 
 where. How can I find them? And I don't know what 
 to do. Do me a favour, grandfather, oblige me — " 
 
 The driver again mumbled. 
 
 "So, so, so. And where do you come from?" 
 
 "From Moscow. I worked in the tavern of Ya- 
 kovliov. ' ' 
 
 Bolotov, feeling he ought to give some explanation of 
 the good luck by which he, the servant, had turned 
 master, stammered for a minute, and said carefully, 
 looking aside: 
 
 "My father died — in the village. "Well, a cottage — 
 this and that. I sold everything. 'Let us go to Piter,' I 
 thought." 
 
 In spite of being used to lying for the sake of his work, 
 Bolotov blushed suddenly. The old man believed in 
 every word so naively, without reasoning, was so trust- 
 ful and ready with his whole soul to help, shelter and 
 advise, that Bolotov was ashamed of his unavoidable lie. 
 But the driver did not notice his confusion. 
 
 "Your father died? Too bad! Do you hear, coun- 
 tryman, is it time to go home?" He yawned and 
 blinked his watery eyes. "If you care to sit down at 
 home Pavel Petrovich will tell you all about driving in 
 Piter. He will instruct you. Don't hesitate. Al- 
 though Pavlovin Petrovich drinks a little, yet he is such 
 a good fellow. You are from Moscow, aren't you?" 
 
 "From Kaluga." 
 
 "Kalutzky, then. Well with God, let us go. [Why
 
 What Never Happened 225 
 
 not help? One can always oblige a good person. 
 Damn!" He smacked his lips, pulled the reins, and 
 they crept back along the Nevsky. The old man sighed, 
 groaned, and seemingly forgot about Bolotov. They 
 travelled along at a jog-trot and stopped at the Baltic 
 railroad-station, at a lonely almost empty alley. The 
 yard was muddy, the trampled straw sodden. A flock 
 of fat pigeons were flying about with a flapping of their 
 wings. The air was acrid with odours of dung and hide. 
 At the right appeared the mournful-looking, dilapidated 
 barns, and from the open door of the stall there came the 
 rhythmical clatter of hoofs. At the left was an un- 
 painted stone wing. At the threshold stood a bare- 
 headed peasant woman scolding volubly. In the comer 
 near the stall a swarthy, unkempt peasant was squatting 
 on his heels cleaning a cab. Paying no attention to the 
 woman he continued cleaning, gloomily, stupefied as if 
 after a drunken bout. 
 
 ''Drunkard, devil ! He sold the harness and spent the 
 money in drink. There is no getting rid of you. Even 
 the devil wouldn 't take you, you unbaptized murderer ! ' ' 
 
 "What harness? Where? Well, keep quiet. Could 
 you ride with such a gentleman? You cannot under- 
 stand that, fool." 
 
 Pavlovin Petrovich, striking his chest, said with con- 
 viction : 
 
 "Don't mind her. She is a good woman. Well, I did 
 drink a little. Can't a man even drink? A poor man 
 is like a fly. Where there's a gate, there's a house; 
 where there's a drink, there's a bed. But we will settle 
 your affair, don't worry. If I say so, if I, Pavlovin 
 Petrovich, say it, it is true. Just as if it were down in 
 writing. We'll buy a horse, a cab and a sledge, too.
 
 226 What Never Happened 
 
 You will be a first-class coaclunan. Yes, yes, tomorrow 
 we 11 go to the horse market and attend right to it. The 
 horse-dealer — nothing, not one penny. For you, kind 
 soul, the master's eye makes the horse fat. Isn't that 
 so ? Ah, what a mare I had ! "What a mare ! What a 
 gentleman she used to pull! 'Driver, to the Islands!' 
 'How much?' 'Whatever you please.' And a fifty 
 ruble note was in his pocket. Don't you believe it? 
 In Christ's name let us have a drink, Aliosha. What? 
 Domina Vasilye\Tia may scold. What, am I not a hu- 
 man being? I shouldn't even drink? My God, how's 
 that ? What, a man is not even to drink ? ' ' 
 
 Bolotov drank the brandy down in disgust, and lis- 
 tened to Strelov's drunken babble. He was glad he had 
 found shelter so quickly, and would go to the horse- 
 market on the morrow, buy a horse and begin the stren- 
 uous life of a driver. But the feeling of guilt did not 
 leave him for a moment. He told himself that circum- 
 stances had forced him to dissemble, and one word of 
 the truth might ruin him. Nevertheless, he could not 
 feel at peace. 
 
 Pavlovin Petrovich, red, sweaty, and hardly able to 
 stand on his feet, tried to kiss him with his sloppy lips. 
 
 "Kiss me, friend Aliosha. So, so — kiss. Well, I see 
 what kind of a person you are. But you can depend — 
 depend upon me. I will fix everything. Well, we 
 drink, Aliosha, yes?" He rested his head in his hand, 
 and fell asleep at once. 
 
 Bolotov looked around. It was hard to distinguish 
 anything in the smoke. How strange, Bolotov thought, 
 that he, the revolutionist, should be sitting there in that 
 fetid tavern, and should just have been speaking with 
 that snoring sot, and at night would be returning not to
 
 What Never Happened 227 
 
 his hotel but to the driver's house. When he lay down 
 on the hard, vermin infested camp-bed and heard old 
 Porfirych praying in the corner near the ikon, and saw 
 him bowing and crossing himself; and heard Strelov, 
 through the thin partition, hiccoughing loudly, and at 
 his side saw an unknown peasant stretched out asleep, 
 he again felt that he had been left completely to his own 
 resources. But he was no longer afraid. He was even 
 pleased that there was nobody to help him. He fell 
 asleep and dreamed of the tavern, The Friends, of 
 the tumbledown stables and the flock of pigeons that 
 flew about flapping their wings.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 TWO months elapsed. Bolotov had become ac- 
 customed to the life of a driver, or as Doctor 
 Berg called it, the life of a servant. lie no 
 longer noticed the drunkenness and the dirt and the 
 scoldings, and he did not complain about the exhausting 
 work. He was happy he was not like the others, happy 
 his hands were toil-hardened and happy he was not afraid 
 of work, and did not live the easy, idle life of the rich, but 
 shared the burdens of the common people. He rose at 
 four in the morning, and stumbled through the darkness 
 to the stable, yawning and shivering with cold. Squab- 
 bler, the black stallion that Strelov had selected at the 
 market, old but still strong and sleek, would recognize his 
 tread and neigh joyfully, tossing his head and pawing 
 the ground. Bolotov would feed him, pat his smooth 
 sides, and run back to the house through the frozen snow; 
 The house was stuffy, the sleeping drivers snored and 
 a smoky night lamp cast a dim uncertain light. Bolotov 
 would lie down in his clothes between Porfirych and the 
 young labourer Senka and sleep until dawn. Early in 
 the morning he would go to The Friends and slowly and 
 seriously drink his hot tea. He became quite at home 
 in the place, and was known as a sober, well-to-do ex- 
 emplary man. Domina Vasilyevna set him up as an 
 example to the "murderers and drunkards." Senka 
 took his hat off to him, Porfirych talked about God, and 
 Paviin Petrovich occasionally "borrowed" a "green- 
 
 228
 
 What Never Happened 229 
 
 back," without his wife's knowledge. Even the stout 
 head concierge, Supritkin, would offer his hairy paw in 
 greeting and inquire how "business" was and what he 
 was making. 
 
 As had been agreed, Bolotov met Ippolit on the corner 
 of Gorokhovaya and Sadovaya Streets. Contrary to the 
 underground rules, Ippolit informed him that there were 
 four drivers in the squad, Bolotov, Vanya, Seriozha, and 
 the Vilna tanner Abram, and along what streets "His 
 Excellency" the prosecutor drove as a rule. Every 
 week he would invariably go to the Tzarskovelsky Sta- 
 tion, and take a special train to Tzarskoye Selo. But in 
 none of Bolotov 's frequent watches on Fontanka and Za- 
 gorodnaya Streets did he ever see the prosecutor. Once 
 he thought he caught a glimpse of the long, withered, 
 well-known face on the platform of a street-car. But 
 Ippolit decided Bolotov had been mistaken. His Ex- 
 cellency always went in a closed carriage, driven by his 
 own horses. 
 
 Bolotov could not accustom himself to the constant 
 keeping on watch. He had no fear of being arrested. 
 In every kind of weather, in rain and slush, fog and 
 frost, he would stop his cab at the places designated by 
 Ippolit, and keep his eye on the Tzarskovelsky Station. 
 It became his steady occupation. He now saw that the 
 fighting terrorist "work," to which he had so passion- 
 ately striven to attain and which he had valued so highly, 
 consisted of ordinary spy-duty. Often as he sat on his 
 driver's seat he would reproach himself for living like a 
 spy; but then he would tell himself it had to be. Suc- 
 cess could not be obtained otherwise, a "terrorist act" 
 could not be accomplished. And doing violence to his 
 conscience, feeling that it was undignified, disgraceful
 
 230 What Never Happened 
 
 to spy, but to leave the squad would be still more so, he 
 allowed his thoughts to turn in anguish to his family, to 
 luddy Misha who had been slain, to Sasha in his naval 
 officer's uniform, to his father Nikolay Stepanovieh, and 
 particularly to his mother. "What would she say?" he 
 thought, as he stood in the rain, watching the street in- 
 tently. "Would she understand?" At such moments 
 he felt a passionate desire to look upon his mother's kind 
 face, her affectionate blue eyes, her silken shawl, embrace 
 her and whisper a confession of his life into her ear. 
 But he knew he was dreaming. With head bent, curbing 
 his horse, tired and impatient from long standing on one 
 spot, he would return at a quick pace to the hotel, where 
 he greeted Senka jokingly and went with Strelov to the 
 restaurant to hear the "machine." 
 
 One day, toward the end of March, when the con- 
 cierges were clearing away the discoloured ice, and 
 streams of melting snow were beginning to run in the 
 yards over the rotten straw, and the air began to smell 
 of manure, Bolotov went to keep an appointment with 
 Seriozha. They saw each other seldom and then 
 stealthily and only with the knowledge of Ippolit. It 
 was already past seven, but the setting sun was still 
 shining over the sea. Bolotov quickly passed the 
 Ismailovsky armoury, turned into Fontanka Street, and 
 stopped at a hack-driver's cafe near the church of the 
 Holy Mother. He tethered his horse, entered the main 
 room, and after looking around for some minutes, at 
 last found Seriozha in the pushing noisy crowd. 
 Seriozha, tall and blond, with close-cropped hair, was 
 arrayed in a long dirty coat, and bore little resemblance 
 to the fearless fighter whom Bolotov had obeyed at the 
 barricades. He now reminded one of a village youth,
 
 ' What Never Happened 231 
 
 a mere boy, just arrived in St. Petersburg from the dis- 
 tant steppes. 
 
 "Have you seen him?" Bolotov asked in a low voice, 
 as he seated himself at the table, covered with a torn 
 cloth. "I haven't seen him once." 
 
 "Neither have I." 
 
 "What does it mean?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Perhaps we don't know how to watch?" 
 
 Seriozha shrugged his shoulders. Bolotov leaned over 
 to him, and lowered his voice to a whisper. 
 
 "Listen. Do you remember, we had a talk one night 
 in Moscow? You do remember? Yes? Now we are 
 killing again, or at least we want to kill. Why, I live 
 for murder, only for murder. I stand and stand, and 
 wait and wait, to see whether he'll go by, whether I'U 
 see him. What for? We think of it when we get up 
 and when we go to bed. I have a friend in the tavern, 
 driver Strelov, a drunkard and a tramp — he beats his 
 wife. But perhaps he leads a finer life than we do. 
 What are we doing? We lie. You may say, a revo- 
 lutionist always lies, and his lying is right. Of course 
 he does and of course it's right. But still it's lying. 
 And particularly, have you noticed? it's difficult to tell 
 a lie to a man like Strelov, He may be a drunkard and 
 a knave, but he has an open soul and will believe any 
 story. And then what? We are keeping watch. But 
 so do secret service spies. We say it's abominable to 
 spy; we say spies are scoundrels. And we ourselves? 
 You'll say again, spies sell themselves, but we do it out 
 of revolutionary conviction. Of course out of convic- 
 tion, but still — still — we're spying. It's not important 
 that I feel troubled. Something else is important; we
 
 232 What Never Happened 
 
 are fighting for liberty, for justice, for truth. And we 
 lie, lie at every step. When I joined the Party, I thought 
 I had solved everything. " Almost everybody thinks so. 
 Violence? For the people even violence is permissible. 
 Lies? In the name of the revolution even lies are per- 
 missible. Deception? In the name of the Party decep- 
 tion is permissible. But now I see it's not so simple. 
 Does the end really justify the means ? Is it really tiiie 
 that everything is permissible? I thought so. Every- 
 body says so. Do you know Rosenstern ? Even he says 
 so. But it's a mistake. Yes, we must lie, deceive, kill, 
 but we must not say it's permissible, justified, good; we 
 must not think we are making a sacrifice when we lie, 
 that we can redeem our souls by killing. No, we must 
 have the courage to say this is bad, cruel and terrible, 
 but it is inevitable. Yes, inevitable. The People's 
 Freedom Party has left us a heritage, Zheliabov, Presvo- 
 skaya, Khibalchik, Mikhailov, heroes, of course, heroes; 
 but why did they hide the fact that terror is not only 
 a sacrifice, but also a lie, stained with blood and shame ? 
 I once had a talk with Ippolit. He wouldn't even 
 listen." 
 
 Bolotov stopped, tremendously wrought up. Seriozha 
 lighted a cigarette and said : 
 
 "With Ippolit? WeU, even if Ippolit thought so, he 
 wouldn't say so." 
 
 "He wouldn't? It's all right when one's conscience 
 is clear; all right, when one has decided that terror is 
 necessary and therefore lying and murder are permis- 
 sible. But if I feel disgusted when I tell a lie, if it 
 hurts my soul? You'll ask, why am I working for 
 terror? Oh, my God, that's the point. I can't desert 
 terror. I can't wash my hands of it. I have no right
 
 What Never Happened 233 
 
 to say: 'you do it.' He who has committed murder once 
 cannot be saved. He must give his life." 
 
 Seriozha was lost in thought. 
 
 "Why must he?" 
 
 "Ah, Seriozha, you ask. But tell me, what do you 
 think? Don't you think one must go the limit? And 
 don't you hate this spying? Didn't you say: 'It's not 
 given to us to know ? ' Why are you silent ? ' ' 
 
 Seriozha hesitated, as if afraid that Bolotov might 
 not understand. Then he began softly and quietly. 
 
 "I will say it again. It's not given to us to know. 
 Yes, I think just as you do. We lie, we kill, we spy. 
 Yes, it's a sin. But you try to explain why we kill, 
 why we lie. And I say, it's not given to us to know. 
 But that is no vindication. What would be the vindica- 
 tion ? Of course, it is not in our program. But I '11 tell 
 you — it may seem strange to you, so don't be angry. 
 This is what I think. I think, you won't solve it, and 
 nobody will solve it. How can any one decide what is 
 allowed and what is not allowed? How can one say, 
 kill? And how can one kill? And how can you say: 
 No, one must not fight, one must not spill his blood? 
 Why mustn't one? In the name of what? And 
 wouldn't it be a still greater sin? I think this way: 
 one who has faith will not take up the sword. And one 
 who does take up the sword can have no profound faith. 
 He does it from weakness, not from strength." 
 
 "Have you faith?" Bolotov interrupted. 
 
 "I? Why, I have taken up the sword." 
 
 "Goodness, what has faith to do with it? Faith in 
 God, you mean?" 
 
 "Yes, faith in God." 
 
 "In the Christian God?"
 
 234 What Never Happened 
 
 "Yes, in the Christian God." 
 
 "In Christ?" 
 
 "Yes, in Christ." 
 
 Bolotov looked at Seriozha in surprise. His words 
 about Christ and God seemed so obsolete and meaning- 
 less, so reminiscent of hypocritical sermons, that he was 
 ready to believe Seriozha was joking. But there was no 
 smile on Seriozha 's face. Near them at a wet, dirty 
 table was a drunken-driver, his head propped on his 
 hand, singing noisily. The place smelled of beer and 
 vodka. 
 
 "Well, even so," Bolotov thought to himself, "Christ 
 does not justify murder? The Testament does not bless 
 terror ? Then why are you silent again ? ' ' 
 
 Seriozha raised his eyes unwillingly. 
 
 "Christ said: Thou shalt not kill. But people 
 keep on killing. Christ said, Love thy neighbour as 
 thyself. Well, is there any love in the world? Christ 
 said: I have not come to judge, but to save. Who of 
 us has been saved? You may not listen to me, but I 
 say: It is not given to us to know. You ask whether 
 I have faith. Do you remember this? One of the con- 
 demned murderers blasphemed Him and said; If thou 
 art Christ, save thyself and us. Another, on the con- 
 trary, reproached Him and said: Art thou not afraid 
 of God, if thou are convicted, as we are? And we are 
 justly convicted, we get our deserts, but He had done 
 nothing. And he said to Jesus, Eemember me, oh God, 
 when thou comest into thy kingdom. Do you under- 
 stand? No?" 
 
 It was growing dark. The lights were lit in the cafe. 
 Seriozha was silent, lost in thought. Bolotov paid the 
 bill and went slowly to the stalls. In the yard a turkey
 
 What Never Happened 235 
 
 was strutting up and down, its tail spread out proudly. 
 A stout woman was doing her washing in a trough. The 
 loafer Padliekha, was currying one of the horses. 
 '* Christ— Testament— Thou shalt not kill," Bolotov 
 thought, as he climbed up on his driver's seat and 
 wrapped his long coat about him. "What a religious 
 fog! But still Seriozha is right; one should not, and 
 must, yes, must. But why that should be the vindica- 
 tion I am unable to see. And no one can see it." He 
 gathered up the reins and drove to Fontanka Street. A 
 harmonica was playing somewhere. The white Peters- 
 burg night was falling.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN the begmning of April, about two weeks before 
 the opening of the Imperial Duma, Ippolit made 
 an appointment to meet Bolotov at Imatra. Bolo- 
 tov left for Viborg at night, intending to return the 
 same day. At the Viborg railroad station he unexpect- 
 edly met Vanya and a tall, broad-shouldered man of 
 about thirty in the third class buffet. Bolotov guessed 
 him to be Abram. Vanya, black-haired, with high cheek- 
 bones and dressed in a shabby faded coat, smiled with 
 his narrow, slit-like eyes and nodded. When the train 
 started and the snow-covered forests emerged in the dim 
 morning light, he cast a furtive glance at the passengers 
 and said in a low voice: ''Where there's the needle, 
 there is also the thread. To Ippolit, Audrey Nikolaye- 
 vich?" 
 
 "Yes, to Ippolit. Why?" 
 
 "Nothing. Business is bad. His Excellency the 
 Prosecutor absolutely refuses to show himself. He hides 
 in his palace and does not make a sound. The cat knows 
 whose meat it has eaten." 
 
 "Wait. He won't escape. Ha!" Abram replied 
 quietly and yawned. 
 
 "The other day Seriozha saw him, thank God. Seri- 
 ozha was driving his cab without a passenger along 
 Liteiny Street, and suddenly he saw a carriage with the 
 master himself inside. You know, Audrey Nikolaye- 
 vich, Ippolit would give us the devil." 
 
 236
 
 What Never Happened 237 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ''Because we are sitting in the same coach. "We are 
 breaking the underground rules of the Party. Oh, this 
 underground business! I can't get used to the tricks. 
 Day in, day out, you keep lying. And never a bit of 
 rest. The other day a man asked me : ' Where do you 
 come from, fellow ? ' I 've got sick of it, to tell the truth. 
 Everybody bothers one with: Who? Where from? 
 What for ? So I said : * From Port Arthur. I was an 
 adjutant to General Stoessel.' He looked at me. 'To 
 General Stoessel?' 'What did you open your jaws for? 
 Yes, to Stoessel.' He twisted his beard and said: 
 'Well, brother, you're a daisy.' 'And you're positively 
 a fool,' I said. 
 
 Vanya laughed and lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "So he is oppressed by the deception, too," Bolotov 
 thought, looking into his companion's eyes searchingly. 
 He wanted to ask Vanya what he thought about sp}"-- 
 ing, but Abram produced a newspaper from his pocket : 
 "Have you read it, comrades? An expropriation on 
 Podyacheskaya Street." 
 
 The day before Bolotov had learned at The Friends 
 about this brilliant coup. When Strelov, unkempt, 
 drunken, beat his chest with his fists, and told 
 bow they had stolen a "million and had killed five hun- 
 dred people," Bolotov experienced a bitter feeling — a 
 feeling of jealousy, anger, and indignation. The same 
 feeling possessed him now. He was jealous of Volodya's 
 success, was indignant at the "villainous" murder, and 
 was angry because of his own wrath. He read the 
 description in the newspaper, folded the paper, and 
 turned to the window. Vanya touched him on the shoul- 
 der.
 
 238 What Never Happened 
 
 * * Audrey Nikolayevich. ' ' 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 ' ' Well, what do you say to it, Andrey Nikolayevich ? ' ' 
 
 **What should I say? It's highway robbery," 
 
 "Absolutely. I think it will do the Party tremendous 
 harm." 
 
 "Harm?" Abram asked sulkily. "What do you 
 mean, harm? Will the money be used for sweetmeats? 
 A queer way of talking! If we are going to be shy 
 about it, what will happen? Ha! Robbery! And 
 aren't we being robbed and exploited? Aren't mothers 
 weeping and daughters walking the streets? And how 
 about pogroms? Have you forgotten the pogroms? 
 "Well, I have not. Why do you say robbery? Are we 
 to be the judges? Oughtn't we be ashamed to sit in 
 judgment? And what can be done without money? 
 Tell me— what?" 
 
 Bolotov did not answer. Vanya flushed up, but also 
 kept silence. 
 
 "And do you remember, Vanya, you once said: *A 
 great sin was committed'?" 
 
 "You mean the Cossacks?" 
 
 "Yes, the Cossacks." 
 
 "Absolutely, a sin. Ah, Andrey Nikolayevich, how 
 many sins do we take upon our souls? They're not to 
 be counted, not to be forgiven." He smiled a weak, 
 forced smile, unfamiliar to Bolotov. "But what's to be 
 done? It's not for ourselves. It's for the Party, for 
 land and freedom. We ourselves need nothing." 
 
 * ' There, Vanya says the same thing, ' ' Bolotov thought. 
 "Then am I mistaken? Are my doubts merely the 
 leisurely thoughts of the 'Intelligentzia'? Is every- 
 thing really permissible in the name of the people, and
 
 What Never Happened 239 
 
 does the truth lie with Ippolit, Rosenstern and Vanya? 
 Surely the truth is not in Seriozha's words? Not in the 
 ten commandments?" 
 
 The day dawned in the east. The sun rose, a flaming 
 red ball, and began to gild the tops of the trees and 
 cast a rosy glow over the snow. Bolotov opened the win- 
 dow. A damp invigourating breeze blew in from the 
 woods. The locomotive gave a shrill whistle. Houses 
 built in the Finnish style passed by, then the platform 
 and station. 
 
 "Imatra," the conductor shouted. 
 
 Sinking in the deep snow-drifts, Vanya, Bolotov and 
 Abram made their way along a narrow path to the water- 
 fall. From a distance they heard the dull, heavy roar, 
 like the pounding of breakers. Bolotov, slipping over 
 the wet stones and holding on to the wind-lashed fir- 
 trees, descended carefully to the river. Clinging to the 
 face of the cliff, he looked down at the rushing water, 
 and shuddered. The muddy, yellow stream flowed so 
 rapidly, that it looked as smooth as metal. Bolotov, 
 sprayed by the icy foam, forgot about spying, stables, 
 Strelov and the hack-drivers' yard, and listened to the 
 deafening roar, to its wordless, ominous message. For 
 a moment he lost consciousness. There was no Imatra, 
 no fir-trees, no spray, no moss-covered stones, no wor- 
 ries, misfortunes, annoyance, no Bolotov, no squad, no 
 Abram, no Ippolit. There was only life, powerful, eter- 
 nal, indivisible and blessed. 
 
 ''We kill. What for?" He thought in agony, then 
 suddenly recalled a poem he had learned in school : 
 
 "And with a great and secret sorrow 
 I thought: How pitiful is man! 
 What is he after ? See how clear the sky is,
 
 240 What Never Happened 
 
 And under it there's room for all. 
 But ever vainly 'gainst his fellows 
 He battles and contends. What for?" 
 
 At the Little Imatra, where the swirling stream be- 
 comes smoother and quieter, Bolotov saw Ippolit, Seri- 
 ozha, and a girl he did not know in a sheepskin cap. 
 She sat at the edge of the bank, her back turned to the 
 jDath, and did not hear his approach. When Abram 
 called, she turned around reluctantly. Bolotov was sur- 
 prised. He did not know that there was a woman in 
 the squad, and felt annoyed that Ippolit had concealed 
 something from him. 
 
 After the first words of greeting all became silent, 
 yanya raised his keen, clever eyes. 
 
 ''Well? Let's get down to business, Ippolit Alekseye- 
 vich." 
 
 "Yes, to business," Ippolit said thoughtfully. "We 
 must decide an important question. Anna, are you lis- 
 tening? The committee has determined that the Prose- 
 cutor must be assassinated not later than the opening 
 of the Imperial Duma. Whether the committee is right 
 or wrong, is not for us to judge. I suppose we must 
 abide by its decision. So we have only two weeks to do 
 it in. Our work has brought no results. I intended to 
 make the attempt on the street, but it's impossible. Who 
 can guarantee that there will be no slip? Besides we 
 must take into consideration the last expropriation. 
 The police is on the guard, and it's more difficult to 
 work now. So I say, can't we change our plans and 
 carry out the committee 's order by killing the prosecutor 
 at once?" 
 
 The more Ippolit spoke, the harsher and abrupter his 
 voice grew. His pale face with its fine features and
 
 What Never Happened 241 
 
 deep-set eyes showed signs of his not having slept all 
 night and his words, so exact and emphatic, showed they 
 were the result of careful thinking. Bolotov listened, 
 and felt he was beginning to understand Ippolit — his ex- 
 traordinary "secrecy," his hatred of talk, his reserve 
 and deliberation and cold aloofness. He now knew that 
 he had neither love, nor joy, nor doubts. His whole 
 existence lay in the "work," in terror. He had fallen 
 in love, yes, yes, fallen in love with terror. Bolotov 
 thought these things over, and was ashamed of himself 
 for having been annoyed by Ippolit. 
 
 Seriozha broke the silence. "I think there is a pos- 
 sibility." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The prosecutor goes to Tzarskoye Selo every Friday. 
 I think he can be killed at the station." 
 
 "At the station?" Ippolit asked. 
 
 "Yes, at the Tzarskovelsky Station." 
 
 "And the secret service?" 
 
 "What about it? The secret service is everywhere." 
 
 "Listen, Seriozha. We have stationed guards who 
 have worked unceasingly for three months, and what has 
 been our object if not to make sure of winning? To 
 prevent what risk? Certainly not the loss of our lives. 
 But I am convinced that even if it should be possible to 
 enter the station, the secret service will prevent us from 
 throwing the bomb. And then, of course, the thing will 
 be lost. And it will be our own fault. You understand 
 — our own fault." 
 
 "When one is afraid, he'd better stay at home," said 
 Abram angrily. 
 
 Somewhere in the woods, a twig snapped. A squirrel 
 ran up the trunk of a tree, and almost directly above
 
 242 What Never Happened 
 
 them, in the pale blue, cloudless sky, the sun was shining 
 with blinding brightness. And though Seriozha's and 
 Ippolit's words dealt with murder and death, Bolotov 
 felt no fear. ' * He battles all alone. What for ? ' ' passed 
 through his mind again. 
 
 "That's right. If you're afraid of wolves, don't go 
 to the woods," Vanya said in confirmation of Abram. 
 "We must finish, Ippolit Alekseyevich. " 
 
 Ippolit, frail and delicate, with his white face and 
 golden hair, looked attentively at Seriozha, as if he hoped 
 to guess whether or not the attempt would succeed. 
 
 "Yes, of course, of course," he said dully, "but 
 how?" 
 
 "Leave it to me, Ippolit," Seriozha said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Will you go?" 
 
 "Yes, I." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll go alone." 
 
 "No. I can't permit it." 
 
 "Ah, Ippolit Alekseyevich," Vanya began indig- 
 nantly, "we have spoons but nothing to eat. We'll be 
 going on all our lives this way, waiting for good weather 
 at sea. I am ready to go to the station. To the sta- 
 tion? Even to the devil, to hell! If there is no other 
 way, then we must break our heads. That's the way I 
 feel about it." 
 
 Abram listened approvingly, and when Vanya had 
 finished said sulkily: 
 
 "The committee makes decisions. Well, that's their 
 business. Ha! And I say the same as Vanya. Load 
 me into a cannon and shoot! I'll put on my coat and 
 will be ready. But we are not at a Bundist meeting to
 
 "VYliat Never Happened 243 
 
 keep on talking for ever. Comrade Ippolit, what's go- 
 ing to be done? We won't be in time for the Duma, 
 and after the Duma meets, the committee will disband 
 us. So we must go, willingly or not, we must go. If 
 Seriozha won 't, I '11 go. And we must get through with 
 it." 
 
 After long hesitation, Ippolit gave his consent. It 
 was decided that Seriozha go to the Tzarskovelsky rail- 
 road station. Bolotov heard the decision, but did not 
 believe it. He had become accustomed to the thought 
 that he himself would kill the prosecutor and was so 
 prepared to die, so calm about it, that his comrade's 
 words made no impression upon him. It was not until 
 later, in the evening, when he was going back to the 
 station, that he realized it was not he who was destined 
 to perish in a week, but this tall, fair-haired youth, with 
 the imperturbable face, who was walking at his side. 
 The sun was setting beyond the woods, Imatra was 
 roaring, and the snow was beginning to melt. Bolotov 
 stole a glance at Seriozha. "He fought at my side 
 at the barricades and now is to die. Remember me, 
 God, when Thou comest into Thy Kingdom." Driven 
 by a fiery impulse, he stopped suddenly and embraced 
 Seriozha as if he were his brother and kissed him on his 
 lips.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE rumours about Ippolit had some foundation 
 in fact. He really was the son of a senator 
 and a student in a military academy, and he 
 had donated everything his father had left him to the 
 cause of terrorism. He was tall and slender, with deli- 
 cately formed hands, was always well dressed, and had 
 all the distinguished marks and refined manner of a 
 well-educated man. These qualities made Arseny 
 Ivanovich indignant. Besides all that, he spoke French 
 fluently. He had joined the Party when still a boy just 
 out of school, and had insisted upon being attached to 
 the terrorist organization. At the time a plan had been 
 under way to assassinate the governor-general at St. 
 Petersburg, and since terrorists were few, he was ac- 
 cepted without difficulty, even without the usual rigid 
 preliminary investigation. In the two years of his 
 **work," almost all the terrorists had been hanged, and 
 the effect of their execution upon him was a certain 
 aloofness, a certain restrained obduracy. The memory 
 of his lost comrades drove him on to "work" with 
 double zeal, and to place no reliance on light promises 
 and vain words. Though he knew Bolotov to be a mem- 
 ber of the committee, he met him with the same hidden 
 suspicion with which he met Seriozha and Vanya. Sev- 
 eral montlis passed before he came to place full con- 
 fidence in him. 
 
 Ippolit was never troubled by doubts such as haunted 
 
 244
 
 What Never Happened 245 
 
 Bolotov. "When he joined the Party, he resolved irre- 
 vocably that it was his duty to kill and to die, and never 
 afterwards touched upon this troubling problem. The 
 death of his comrades, his preoccupation with bombs and 
 gallows and bloodshed made him insensible to the tor- 
 tures Bolotov suffered over the rights and wrongs of 
 the matter. The fighting work forged him into an 
 "iron" terrorist, inspiration gave jilaee to calmness, 
 fiery daring to courage, variability of mood to self-con- 
 trol, inefficiency to rigid efficiency, love of argument to 
 indifference to the opinion of others. But he retained 
 the blind faith in the Party that he had had for two 
 long years. He believed the Party program to be sane 
 and right, and all the members to be self-sacrificing, 
 honest and courageous. He felt a reverent love of the 
 Party, without discriminating between Doctor Berg, 
 Arseny Ivanovich, Rosenstern, and Aliosha Gruzdiev. 
 In all of them, Rosenstern, Arseny Ivanovich, Doctor 
 Berg, and Vera Andreyevna he saw the personification 
 of a Party's will, of its brains and its soul. But lately 
 his devotion had begun to waver. He could not take in 
 the committee's "directions" to curb terror. These 
 strange directions seemed like an infringement upon 
 the inalienable rights of the fighting organization, upon 
 the sanity and dignity of the revolution. But with an 
 aching heart, recognizing his duty to give unquestion- 
 ing obedience to the Party, he submitted even to this. 
 The committee knew of his dissatisfaction with their 
 directions, and valued his soldierly obedience highly. 
 
 Neither Arseny Ivanovich, nor Doctor Berg, nor Vera 
 Andreyevna ever questioned what sort of life Ippolit 
 was leading. They had become so accustomed to his 
 modesty, patience, obedience, firmness and readiness to
 
 246 What Never Happened 
 
 die, that it never occurred to them to give a thought to 
 the unfortunate circumstances under which this frail, 
 girlish, shy, unpretentious man was "working." They 
 were oblivious of the fact that every month some one of 
 his comrades and friends was dying, and that in his eyes 
 every new member was a consecrated victim, whose 
 death he was to outlive. They were also oblivious of 
 the fact that day in, day out, every minute, his thoughts 
 were poisoned by visions of murder and bloodshed, and 
 that to him even a successful assassination was a source 
 of boundless agony. His life of martyrdom seemed no 
 more oppressive than their own. They sincerely be- 
 lieved that they as the masters had a perfect right to 
 hand him advice and give him instructions, direct his 
 life, reproach him or approve of him. And he recog- 
 nized their supreme right, and no one perceived the 
 cruelty of the relationship. 
 
 Ippolit left Imatra tired and excited. For the first 
 time he had broken his far-sighted rule of going slowly 
 and avoiding unnecessary risks. Instinct, born of the 
 experience gathered in his extensive "work," not rea- 
 son, gave him a premonition of something that none of 
 the comrades who had argued with him, neither Seriozha 
 nor Bolotov, could foresee. He had a premonition that 
 the prosecutor would not be killed, and the attempt 
 would result in failure. However, he gave his permis- 
 sion, not because Abram and Vanya kept urging him so 
 persistently, but only because, according to Rosenstern, 
 all Russia, the whole Party, the whole nation desired 
 the assassination, and desired it before the convening 
 of the Imperial Duma. But in the very act of giving 
 his consent to the attempt, he felt a deep-seated fear 
 that the thing was unwise. It was as if he were killing,
 
 VThsLt Never Happened 247 
 
 and uselessly killing, Seriozha with his own hands, a 
 man whom he considered the most daring and cour- 
 ageous of all his comrades. Ippolit's usual composure 
 deserted him. In the train on the way from Imatra to 
 St. Petersburg, he resolved — something he had never 
 done before — to find the committee and try to per- 
 suade Rosenstern that the delay was inevitable and the 
 prosecutor could not be assassinated at that particular 
 time. From the Finland Station he took a hack and 
 went to the committee headquarters without first going 
 to his hotel, the Belvedere. 
 
 The committee was meeting at Valabuyev's, in his soli- 
 tary house on the Kamennoostrov Prospect. As he was 
 ascending the inig-covered marble stairs, he suddenly 
 paused in thought. His unexpected call seemed like an 
 act of insolence. The committee had ordered the assas- 
 sination of the chief military prosecutor. Ippolit's ex- 
 clusive business was to carry out the order without dis- 
 cussion, and not to offer proofs by way of dissuasion or 
 entreaty. But then recalling that Seriozha would per- 
 ish, he opened the oaken door without further hesitation. 
 
 In the room with the costly paintings on the walls 
 and the Venus of Milo in one corner, where Volodya 
 had quarrelled with Doctor Berg, sat Arseny Ivanovich 
 and Rosenstern in leather armchairs. Valabuyev was 
 not present. Arseny Ivanovich was talking in his dry, 
 raucous bass about the elections to the Duma. 
 
 "Is it not a mistake, benefactor, that the Party has 
 decided upon a boycott? A boycott may be all right, 
 but see who is being elected. Labourites and Cadets. 
 Didn't I warn them of it at the convention? But I 
 wasn't listened to. Ah, Ippolit, what's new? Well?" 
 
 Restraining his excitement, Ippolit gave a brief ac-
 
 248 What Never Happened 
 
 count of the consultation at Imatra. Rosenstern, gnaw- 
 ing his beard, listened intently and gloomily. Arseny 
 Ivanovich shook his grey head. 
 
 "That's bad, benefactor, bad. Such a business! 
 And what a misfortune ! That's just the way. We live 
 richly, all aplenty ; but whatever we need, we must turn 
 to others for. Don't feel offended, benefactor, but why 
 has the spying brought no results?" 
 
 Ippolit was embarrassed. His pale cheeks turned still 
 paler. He discerned a reproach in the words of Arseny 
 Ivanovich, and thought the reproach was deserved. He 
 had accepted the responsibility for the squad, and at a 
 decisive moment, when the whole of Russia was placing 
 its hope in it, the squad, through his lips, was voicing 
 a confession of its unpardonable weakness. In Rosen- 
 stern's sad eyes, sparkling like a boy's, he read the same 
 painful, though silent reproach. 
 
 "I don't know, Arseny Ivanovich, I don't know. I 
 can't explain. Can't we postpone it for a month? 
 Perhaps we'll manage. At least I have not lost hope." 
 
 "No, no, no!" Arseny Ivanovich waved his hands. 
 "Impossible, unthinkable, benefactor, no." 
 
 "But the attempt at the railway station will end in 
 failure. ' ' 
 
 "Why failure? Why, benefactor? Tell me, why?" 
 
 "The secret service, Arseny Ivanovich," Ippolit be- 
 gan hesitatingly, feeling that Arseny Ivanovich was an- 
 swering as had Seriozha and Vanya, and he could not 
 contradict him. 
 
 "Well, what about the secret service? The secret 
 service is everywhere, my benefactor. You understand 
 me, benefactor?" Arseny Ivanovich got up from his
 
 What Never Happened 249 
 
 chair and took Ippolit's arm. "It's a po-lit-i-cal 
 necessity. Think of it! We must have it now, today. 
 When the Duma opens, good-bye. Yes. And if there is 
 the least hope, we must take the risk. You know me. 
 I am always on the side of the greatest caution. One 
 who takes care of himself is taken care of by God. But 
 in this aifair even I tell you to dare it! However — " 
 He interrupted himself and without releasing Ippolit's 
 arm shook his head again. "Yes — business — " 
 
 "What do you mean by 'however'?" Rosenstem asked 
 drily. "Listen, Ippolit, you must understand that we 
 can neither allow nor forbid assassination. It's not in 
 our power. But after the opening of the Imperial 
 Duma, terror will be politically harmful, yes, harmful. 
 That is not my opinion alone. It is the view of the 
 convention, of the Party, of all Russia. And you turn 
 to the committee. What can I tell you? The prose- 
 cutor must be killed. Is it possible? That is not for 
 me to decide — but for you." 
 
 "I say it's impossible," Ippolit said in a voice barely 
 audible. 
 
 "Well, that is the question. It may be impossible 
 with one metal worker, but possible with two. If one 
 is arrested, the other can throw the bomb. Of course, 
 it 's a mere suggestion. That is the way I think about it. 
 But, of course, I cannot decide." 
 
 Ippolit covered his face with his hands. He felt his 
 words were vain, because a successful assassination was 
 essential at any price, essential to Arseny Ivanovich, to 
 Rosenstern, to the committee and to the Party. The at- 
 tempt would have to be made. Such was the will of 
 Seriozha, of Vanya, of Bolotov, of the committee, and
 
 250 What Never HajDpened 
 
 of all the numberless comrades. And he, Ippolit, had 
 no right to rim counter to their will. Once more he 
 looked at Arseny Ivanovich with obedient eyes. 
 
 "Arseny Ivanovich." 
 
 "What, my benefactor?" 
 
 *'So it can't be postponed?" 
 
 "No, no, no! God forbid!" 
 
 Valabuyev, plump, short-haired and red-necked, 
 dressed in a fashionable frock-coat, entered, bowed re- 
 spectfully and announced that Doctor Berg and Vera 
 Andreyevna had come. Ippolit took a hasty leave. 
 Arseny Ivanovich smiled and said, turning to Rosen- 
 stern : 
 
 "It's all right. It will work out. Still, he's a fine 
 fellow ! A horse has four feet, and yet it stumbles. ' '
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SERIOZHA was not familiar with that apprehen- 
 siveness for the cause which possessed Arseny 
 Ivanovich, Doctor Berg, Vera Andreyevna, Volo- 
 dya, Arkady Rosenstern and all the comrades who were 
 trying to direct the revolution. He had not joined the 
 Party because of his faith in its program, as accepted 
 by the convention, nor because he had hoped to lead the 
 people. A settled, quiet life, its cruelty, hypocrisy and 
 deception, had sickened him and filled him with indig- 
 nation. It seemed to him that only in the Socialist 
 Party, in self-sacrificing, unselfish struggle, was hidden 
 the eternal truth, the immutable commandments of 
 Christ. Upon himself he looked as upon a soldier, one 
 of those nameless soldiers who are not supposed to doubt 
 or question, but to die ungrudgingly. He had a firm 
 faith in the revolution, a faith that God would not desert 
 it, and he prayerfully consecrated himself to the most 
 terrible work, to violence sanctioned by men. 
 
 In the middle of April he sold his horse and cab for 
 half price, without bargaining, discarded his long coat, 
 and put on a suit of German cut. In a soft hat and 
 well-made coat, combed and washed, with curled mous- 
 tache, the village lad was totally unrecognizable. He 
 went to Moscow, changed his driver 's passport, and from 
 a hack-driver turned into a landowner and nobleman. 
 Bolotov could not believe his eyes when he met him. 
 
 On Saturday, a few days before the opening of the 
 
 251
 
 252 What Never Happened 
 
 Imperial Duma, the chief military prosecutor was ex- 
 pected to take his customary morning trip. Friday 
 evening Seriozha met Ippolit. Until then he had stub- 
 bornly believed that the prosecutor would surely be 
 killed. But on remaining by himself at the corner of 
 Karavanaj'a Street late at night, he suddenly felt 
 troubled. He wanted to call Ippolit back, shake his 
 hand again, and hear his excited voice — hear that Russia 
 was blessing terror. But Ippolit was lost in the crowd. 
 Seriozha trembled and started to walk aimlessly along 
 the Nevsky. He came upon the quay of the Neva. He 
 bent his fair head and looked down into the leaden 
 waters. The river flowed on with a roar, and a boat 
 was puffing at the pier. Far away in the east beyond the 
 Okhta, the night was paling and foreshadowing the 
 April morning. Seriozha moved his chilled shoulders. 
 
 ''Driver!" 
 
 "Here, sir, get in!" 
 
 *'To the Islands." 
 
 "To Krestovsky?" 
 
 *'Yes, to Krestovsky/' Seriozha said, without think- 
 ing, and was surprised. 
 
 ' * Why ? Why to the Krestovsky ? ' ' 
 
 There was a smell of wet grass and a salt tang in the 
 air. Many coloured lights, green, red, yellow, shone 
 coldly through the naked branches in the pale dawn. 
 When he reached the lights, the driver stopped. Seri- 
 ozha entered a large, brilliantly-lighted, crowded hall. 
 The shrill notes of the orchestra mingled with the buzz 
 of conversation and shouts and laughter stupefied him 
 for a moment. On the stage an elderly woman in a 
 pink skirt, with bare arms and neck, was flinging about 
 her bare legs, while singing a popular song in a high
 
 What Never Happened 253 
 
 soprano. Well-fed officials and merchants, officers with 
 jingling spurs, were laughing and applauding with all 
 their might. When Seriozha saw the half -naked woman 
 with her painted face, those cringing waiters, that care- 
 free intoxicated crowd, he began to feel his ov\ti loneli- 
 ness still more intensely. He wanted to leave, but re- 
 membered the unattractive hotel room, the rude bed 
 with its cheap coverings, and the long sleepless hours 
 ahead of him. He frowned and seated himself at the 
 table near the door. 
 
 He felt an inexplicable but steadily increasing sen- 
 sation of painful apprehension, and could not under- 
 stand its cause. Ippolit? 
 
 "But even if Ippolit is right, and all ends in failure, 
 I am doing my duty. My conscience is clear. To die? 
 Am I afraid of death ? Ami?" He asked himself and 
 answered with joyous exaltation, "No, I am not afraid. 
 It's not that. Then why am I doubting ? " He glanced 
 wearily at the stage. Behind the footlights a man with 
 long moustaches, in an embroidered blouse, was now 
 dancing a trepak. He waved his arms about, beat his 
 feet on the boards, and circled around. The place shook 
 with applause. A hoarse, drunken, stammering voice 
 bawled "Bravo!" unceasingly. 
 
 "Yes, I am going to kill," Seriozha almost thought 
 aloud. "Yes, I am going to kill." And it came to him 
 with irresistible clearness, with a vision of inexorable 
 fate, that he had to kill, that he had no will of his own 
 in the matter, that he had no power to decide, but that 
 some one had decided for him. It was the same op- 
 pressive feeling that he, Vanya and Bolotov had first ex- 
 perienced in Sliozkin's house. And now, sitting in this 
 Petersburg restaurant, in the midst of the laughter of
 
 254 What Never Happened 
 
 women and uproarious gaiety, this feeling seized him 
 again. "It must be so, it must be so," he repeated in 
 anguish, looking at the stage with unseeing eyes. "Oh 
 God, must it really be so? Why I, I don't want to 
 kill." 
 
 lie sat at the table, his head bowed, stirring his tea 
 with a silver spoon. From a distance he must have 
 given the impression of gazing intently at the stage. 
 He recalled Sliozkin, the ice-covered barricades, the of- 
 ficer of the dragoons who had been shot and Vanya's 
 mocking smile. "The mare has teeth, but is simple." 
 He recalled Bolotov, his conscientious doubts, and his 
 own indefinite answer: "It's not given to us to know. 
 God, teach me how. I must kill tomorrow. But must 
 I really, am I really obliged to, or do I want to, per- 
 haps?" 
 
 He closed his eyes wearily, and suddenly to the ac- 
 companiment of music and noisy laughter, he had a clear 
 vision of what would take place on the morrow. He 
 saw an old, wrinkled, dead face, streams of blood run- 
 ning down the shaven cheeks, a bleeding corpse, and him- 
 self standing over the mutilated body. He recalled the 
 text of the New Testament : "Now is my soul troubled ; 
 and what shall I say ? Father, save me from this hour ; 
 but for this cause came I unto this hour. ' ' 
 
 "But this is blasphemy," he caught himself up. 
 "Did I not commit murder at the barricades? Yes, I 
 did and I will tomorrow again." He could think no 
 more. He had no strength, he felt he would not dare 
 to kill, murder was an unpardonable sin and would de- 
 stroy his immortal soul. Always courageous and firm, 
 strongly confident of the righteousness of his life, he now 
 felt he was a little child and really "it was not given
 
 What Never Happened 255 
 
 us to know" and death was no redemption. "Verily, 
 verily, I say unto you," he whispered the words of God, 
 ''except a com of wheat fall into the ground and die, 
 it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much 
 fruit. He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that 
 hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life 
 eternal. ' ' 
 
 "Are you lonesome, young man?" 
 
 Before him stood a painted woman in a low-cut blue 
 dress, her hands on her hips. She looked straight into 
 his eyes with an inviting, shameless, half-tender, half 
 contemptuous smile. Seriozha frowned and hastily left 
 the restaurant. 
 
 The following day, Saturday, he awoke before seven, 
 untroubled by the doubts of the day before. In the 
 morning sunlight murder did not seem to be a deadly 
 sin, and God would hear him. Not to murder seemed 
 like a greater sin. It would be wrong to pass by 
 silently and acquiesce in deception that had been laid 
 bare. "Without excitement, quite self-assured and calm, 
 as calm as when he had gone to the army barracks, he 
 went to the Aleksandrovsky Park and found Ippolit. 
 Ippolit gave him a bomb and said, glancing at him 
 furtively : 
 
 "You did not sleep last night, Seriozha?" 
 
 Seriozha smiled. 
 
 "Oh, I slept weU." 
 
 "I couldn't sleep. You know what, Seriozha?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Perhaps we ought to refuse." 
 
 "Refuse?" 
 
 "Yes, postpone the attempt." 
 
 "What for?"
 
 256 What Never Happened 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to working this 
 way. ' ' 
 
 Seriozha became lost in thought for a moment. 
 
 *'And the committee?" 
 
 "Oh, what's the committee?" Ippolit burst out un- 
 expectedly. "It isn't the committee that is responsible, 
 but I. You hear? I am afraid." 
 
 "What are you afraid of?" 
 
 * ' I fear for you, Seriozha — and for the whole squad, ' ' 
 he added sullenly. 
 
 Seriozha hesitated a second, then shook his head reso- 
 lutely, and said harshly, forestalling any attempt at 
 argument : 
 
 ' ' Our duty is not to reason. ' ' 
 
 "Not to reason?" 
 
 ' ' Yes. Our duty is to do it. ' ' 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 Ippolit dropped his eyes. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Seriozha." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Seriozha wanted to stop him and embrace him, but 
 Ippolit was already gone. A cold thought flashed 
 through his mind: "I'll never see, him again." He 
 sighed and started off for the railway station taking 
 long strides. 
 
 The day was gloomy. Heavy clouds covered the sky, 
 and a light rain fell intermittently. The bomb was un- 
 comfortably heavy, and Seriozha was afraid of dropping 
 it. On the corner of Gorokhovaya and Fontanka Streets, 
 he saw Bolotov with his hack. He saw the well-known 
 eyes, now so dearly beloved, and the black horse with 
 white hoofs. Without stopping, he touched his soft hat.
 
 What Never Happened 257 
 
 At the station on Zagorodnaya Street an officious-look- 
 ing police inspector walked to and fro with his plump 
 hands behind his back and a policeman beside him keep- 
 ing watch. Tiying not to look at him Seriozha crossed 
 the street and ran up the steps. But as soon as he 
 reached the station platform he saw an immense gen- 
 darme with epaulets standing at attention. From a 
 side door guarded by a sentry appeared a dry-looking, 
 bent old man in a general's uniform. He was walking 
 rapidly, his left leg limping slightly. The distance be- 
 tween him and Seriozha was about sixty feet, and there 
 were two spies and the immense gendarme right there ; 
 yet Seriozha, fearing the old man might escape him, 
 threw out his right hand and ran towards him. He 
 had hardly had time to cover half the distance when the 
 old man suddenly stopped, took hold of the coach, turned 
 his wrinkled face, and looked straight at Seriozha. 
 Seriozha, with eyes dimmed as if by sleep, saw his 
 frightened look. He knew he would be prevented from 
 running up to him and the attempt had failed, but still 
 hoping for a miracle he rapidly swung his arm and with 
 all his might, so that it hurt his shoulder, hurled the 
 round, heavy bomb. He did not hear the explosion. 
 When the smoke cleared away Seriozha lay motionless 
 on the platform with his hands stretched forward along- 
 side the dead gendarme. Over his face and chest hot 
 streams of blood were flowing. The old man in the 
 general's coat stood at the steps of the coach, his lower 
 jaw trembling.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 TOWARDS the end of April the Imperial Duma 
 opened. The committee, after long delibera- 
 tions, decided to halt the terrorist activity 
 temporarily. Doctor Berg insisted upon the complete 
 abolition of the fighting organization. He contended 
 that in the Party Parliamentary work was inconsistent 
 with terrorism. His arguments met with success. The 
 majority ruled "to hold the men under arms." It 
 meant that all the terrorists, in St. Petersburg, in the 
 provincial towns, and in Moscow, were obliged to risk 
 their lives in vain. 
 
 Through the whole spring and the hot summer, Bolo- 
 tov kept to his driver's seat. Seriozha's death had made 
 him obdurate, though he still felt disgusted with the 
 fighting police's "activity" and was embarrassed by his 
 double-faced occupation. 
 
 But now he often caught himself thinking other, 
 secret, revengeful thoughts. Frequently lying on his 
 cot at night, when the drivers were snoring loudly, and 
 darkness filled every corner, and the lamps shimmered 
 dimly and lazily, he would lie awake till dawn, thinking 
 about the prosecutor. As he gazed wide-eyed at the low, 
 soot-covered, misty ceiling, he would recall the painful 
 day when he saw Seriozha for the last time. And grad- 
 ually, secretly, like a sly and skilful thief, a new feeling 
 crept upon him, the desire to kill. He feared these 
 thoughts that were a sign of degeneration. Indignantly 
 
 258
 
 What Never Happened 259 
 
 he would reproach himself for his fury, for the wild 
 anger of revengeful savagerj^, but he could not control 
 himself. He became gloomy, did not talk to Porfirych, 
 nor listen to the drunken conj&dences of Strelov, and, 
 on seeing Supritkin, would hasten to get out of his way. 
 The yard, criss-crossed by the wheel tracks, overrun with 
 lice, permeated by the smell of manure, disfigured by 
 the presence of the slatternly women, and noisy with the 
 pawing of the horses in the stalls, oppressed him. He 
 feared these idle days of his would never end and the 
 prosecutor would not be killed. 
 
 In the streets this wrathful feeling gained an even 
 stronger hold on him. As he passed Fontanka and 
 Sadovaya Streets and the Church of the Holy Mother, 
 as he entered the drivers' eating-houses, he would recall 
 his short meetings with Seriozha, his strange but now 
 unforgettable words, so full of love. And though the 
 work of terror had been temporarily suspended, he tried 
 to continue the spying on his own account, without 
 anybody's instructions. He would spend hours around 
 government buildings at the war ministry, the 
 Imperial council, the Tavrichesky Palace, the Chief of 
 Staff ; and would diligently watch for the lame bent old 
 man in the general's coat. He believed it was his su- 
 preme duty and his duty to the Party to secure victory 
 at the cost of the most difficult labour. This faith in- 
 spired him and justified the contemplated murder. 
 
 After Seriozha 's death, Bolotov came to appreciate 
 the manner of Ippolit's life. He understood that this 
 man, tired by the unequal struggle, orphaned and ex- 
 hausted, was veritably possessed by hate, by wrathful 
 anger. Ippolit was sure he was not alone, that Arseny 
 Ivanovich, Doctor Berg, Vera Andreyevna, the com-
 
 260 What Never Happened 
 
 mittee, the Party, and the whole Russian people were 
 awaiting this assassination to which they had pledged 
 themselves. He was convinced it was only by chance 
 that he headed the squad, and every member of the 
 Party, every hungry peasant, every poor student would 
 gladly take his place and sacrifice his life. He was 
 unconscious of being an exception, of Russia now being 
 silent, of the revolution having been shattered, and his 
 bombs being the last cold flickerings of a dying fire. 
 Yet even had he been convinced that the government 
 had won and the Party lacked the strength to fight when 
 the people were not back of it, he could not have de- 
 serted the "work." He thought death alone was the 
 crown of this bloody work, and he awaited death as he 
 would have awaited reward and redemption. 
 
 He found sympathy and support in his friend Abram. 
 Abram was a huge, good-natured giant, with a broad, 
 child-like face. He was a tanner by trade, and had a 
 family in Vilna. Neither editorials, nor the speeches of 
 orators had convinced him of the necessity of a "sys- 
 tematic" terror. Experience, pogroms, houses burned 
 down and children shot to death had taught him the 
 cruelty of the average smug life, and he did not doubt 
 the righteousness of "fire and sword." Like Ippolit, 
 he cherished an unshaken faith that he was blessed by 
 the people, by Israel martyred through the centuries, 
 and the heart which has tired of hate ' ' shall never learn 
 to love." 
 
 On one point they could not agree. Abram spoke 
 about the "masters" and students, with an ironical, 
 contemptuous smile, and he had no love for the com- 
 mittee. To heated assertions that he was unjust, that 
 the committee made no distinctions between landowner
 
 What Never Happened 261 
 
 and workmen, soldier and general, he stubbornly and 
 distrustfully answered, "I know! Ha! Don't rub 
 it in. The same exploitation. American graft." 
 His place had been in Volodya's troop, but by a happy 
 coincidence he was found by Ippolit, to whom — the * ' ex- 
 ploiter" and "student" — he became attached, body and 
 soul. Bolotov liked his smiling Jewish eyes and na'ive 
 simplicity of soul — the absence of the problems of the 
 Intelligentzia. 
 
 Anna, an unmarried woman of thirty, with a thin, 
 pale face and full, sparkling grey eyes prepared the 
 bombs and took care of the dynamite. She had been a 
 village nurse, and had acquired a deep and earnest love 
 for the people, a love not founded on books and pro- 
 grams, but on life. It was this that had forced her into 
 terrorism. She knew no hate, no wrath and, like Seri- 
 ozha, she was oppressed by murder. But she thought 
 that by killing officials and nobles she was doing an 
 invaluable service, was bringing nearer the day of revo- 
 lution, that day, when, "there shall be no rich and no 
 poor — no masters and no slaves, no sovereigns and no 
 subjects." She dressed carelessly, smoked long cigar- 
 ettes and spoke with an accent on the "0," like the 
 inhabitants of Nizhni Novgorod. Bolotov became at- 
 tached to her. He liked her humbleness, her readiness 
 to give her life, her inspired tales about the village and 
 the peasants, her kindness, her truthfulness, and her 
 rough, almost masculine voice. She respected the com- 
 mittee, and believed the Party was destined to conquer 
 the world. 
 
 The chief military prosecutor lived in Liteiny Pros- 
 pect, in a gloomy, uncomfortable, barracklike house. 
 Towards the end of August the fact was established by
 
 262 What Never Happened 
 
 means of spying that every Thursday he went to the 
 war ministry. Bolotov not only knew his face, mous- 
 taches, hair, medals, and epaulets by heart, but even his 
 driver, his horses, his carriage, its wheels, spokes, lamps, 
 reins, steps and windows. He could recognize the prose- 
 cutor at a distance of fifty yards and could foretell 
 whether he would go out or not. Whenever he left his 
 residence, spies were stationed at the entrance, and con- 
 cierges were on guard at the gates. 
 
 It was Indian Summer. The days were clear, trans- 
 parent, crystalline. In the Petrovsky Park the birches 
 were turning golden. The birds no longer sang, and in 
 the evening beyond the Neva the sea sparkled in the 
 fjery rays of the setting sun. The nights were cool, the 
 sky alight with silvery stars, and the early mornings be- 
 gan to be frosty. One Monday at the beginning of 
 September Bolotov met the prosecutor on the Nevsky 
 Prospect. He returned home in the evening, unhitched 
 his sweating horse, and put it in the stall. Without 
 fixing up his cab he put on his linen cap and, avoiding 
 the ill-smelling pools, went outside the gates. Near the 
 gates, on a bench sat Strelov, black and long-haired, 
 and the stout concierge Supritkin. 
 
 "The chief of police was asking for you," said Sup- 
 ritkin, offering his fat hand without looking at Bolotov 
 and yawning. 
 
 "The chief of police?" 
 
 "Yes, Khrisanf Valeryanovieh. " 
 
 "What does he want?" Strelov asked with a wink. 
 "Don't you know? Look at the infant. Surely not 
 milk for the children. What?" 
 
 Supritkin sighed. 
 
 "He said you should come to the police-station.**
 
 Wliat Never Happened 263 
 
 "To the station? What for?" 
 
 "What for? On business. The government says so. 
 We don't know." 
 
 For the first time Bolotov observed Supritkin closely 
 — his fleshy bull neck, his baggy eyes, his red beard, his 
 shiny boots and his dull, self-complacent glistening face. 
 
 '*We fight, we offer our lives, and this fellow, this 
 Supritkin — ! These Supritkins and Strelovs will come 
 and overpower us, will win by their magnificent dulness, 
 by their well-fed bellies, their foolish self-satisfaction, 
 their boots, harmonicas and wooden self-assurance," he 
 thought, becoming excited and trying to conceal his 
 traitorous emotions. Strelov coughed and said care- 
 fully: 
 
 "The other day they brought a phonograph to The 
 Friends. Now it's just time." 
 
 "Just time for what?" 
 
 **Just the time to go to The Friends." 
 
 Supritkin looked at him severely. 
 
 "You only go to cafes. Well, aren't you going to the 
 station-house?" he said to Bolotov, without turning his 
 head. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going." 
 
 "Why the chief of police? A fine? But if it was a 
 fine he wouldn't summon me to the station-house. 
 Passport? But my passport is all right. Am I being 
 spied upon?" Bolotov thought, as he turned into the 
 Zabalkansky Prospect. "Spied upon now, when all is 
 ready, when the Duma has been disbanded and the com- 
 mittee has given its consent, when I know his carriage ? 
 No, impossible." He was so well known in the restau- 
 rant and the drivers' hotel, he bargained so skilfully 
 with passengers, he could give graft to the policemen
 
 264 What Never Happened 
 
 so imblushingly, he had become so accustomed to groom 
 and harness the horse and to carry oats, he had grown 
 so thoroughly into this driver's life, that it seemed in- 
 conceivable to him that he could be spied upon. But 
 when he turned into Fontanka Street and saw the dirty 
 cafe where he sometimes used to meet Seriozha, he felt 
 uneasy. "And if they do catch me? Then there will 
 be no attempt, the prosecutor will not be killed, and 
 Seriozha will have died in vain. And I shall be guilty. ' * 
 He looked around. There was no one behind him. The 
 quay was deserted, with only a solitary policeman in the 
 distance on the bridge. "I must tell Ippolit. Let Ip- 
 polit decide. Should the squad perish?" He forgot 
 about himself. And it was only as he approached the 
 restaurant, The Deer, the usual meeting-place, that 
 he realized he would die. ''I'll be dying in vain, with- 
 out having killed. Yes, I am to die. No, it's impos- 
 sible." 
 
 The same day Ippolit advised Bolotov not to return to 
 the drivers' hotel, to abandon his driver's outfit and 
 leave temporarily for Moscow. As he was leaving, Bolo- 
 tov felt certain he would kill the prosecutor.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 1PP0LIT feared the squad was being watched. He 
 warned the committee of the fact and decided to 
 hasten the contemplated attempt. On Thursday, 
 the tenth of September, Vanya was to be stationed with 
 a bomb on Fontanka Street, Abram, at the Tsepnoy 
 Bridge, Bolotov, on Liteiny Prospect. It was along one 
 of these routes that the prosecutor would pass on his way 
 to the Ministry of War. This time there was some hope 
 that the attempt would be successful. 
 
 Bolotov arrived at St. Petersburg on the first train. 
 Now, a few hours before the murder, he experienced the 
 cold indifference that had possessed him at the barri- 
 cades in Moscow. Without thinking and without feel- 
 ing any excitement, merely because the habit of conceal- 
 ment had become second nature to him, he took the train 
 at Klina and got off at the Obukhrova Station. Not 
 wishing to wander about the streets of St. Petersburg, 
 he went to a saloon and began to wait patiently for the 
 appointed hour. 
 
 The raid kept up its irritating rattling on the misty 
 wandow-pane outside, pedestrians passed by with um- 
 brellas and goloshes, and the driver slumbered on his 
 seat. Across the street, near the closed doors of a wine 
 store, a crowd of people jostled each other. Bolotov 
 took special notice of one tramp. He was unkempt and 
 dirty, with a sickly, greenish face and red, inflamed eyes. 
 He had no coat, but wore instead a torn woman's blouse, 
 
 265
 
 266 What Never Happened 
 
 and was barefoot in spite of the cold autumn weather/ 
 Pressing his freezing hands to his chest and bending his 
 weakened body, he jumped up and down rapidly in an 
 attempt to get warm. He was shivering with cold. 
 iWhen Bolotov saw this man and the weeping heavens 
 and the policeman in his cloak and the government wine- 
 store and the wet walls of the houses — the whole dull, 
 sodden day in this city of St. Petersburg — the murder 
 appeared unnecessary, without life or truth. It became 
 strange that he was preparing to kill, that he would 
 surely kill, that he would surely hang, and that the rain 
 would keep falling, the policeman would keep on getting 
 wet, the windows would keep on shedding tears, the 
 drunken, hungry people would keep on jumping up and 
 down and shivering. "Will I die?" he asked himself, 
 holding in his breath. ''Yes, of course I'll die — for 
 them? Yes, for them — and for all — and for every- 
 thing,*' he answered with proud joy. 
 
 But as soon as he had said these words, it was in- 
 stantly borne in upon him with absolute definiteness that 
 he had the right over his own life — ^that neither the 
 prosecutor nor Seriozha, nor the Party, nor the squad, 
 nor even Russia could force him to die, could have the 
 right to condemn him as an unwilling sacrifice. He 
 glanced around the saloon. And the whole unpleasant 
 place, the dishes, the waiters, the barkeeper, the guests 
 and the filthy tables, suddenly seemed cosy and at- 
 tractive. He was loath to leave it. But it was nine 
 o'clock. Bolotov threw some coins on the table, and 
 reluctantly went out pulling his cap over his forehead. 
 The hungry tramp was still jumping up and down in 
 the rain, looking with greedy dejection at the unattain- 
 able doors.
 
 What Never Happened 267, 
 
 Bolotov turned into Fontanka Street and passed 
 through the circus into the Summer Park. It was cold 
 in the Park, the rain fell unceasingly, and his feet sank 
 into the wet gravel. Naked goddesses and nymphs, not 
 yet covered with straw for the winter, stood forlornly 
 among the bushes. The place looked deserted and 
 gloomy. The clouds crept dejectedly across the sky. 
 Bolotov was getting soaked and felt sorry again that he 
 was not in the beer saloon. In a lonely alley, near the 
 wet fence, he met Anna. They were both wet and 
 pale, Anna was carrying a square, black portfolio, with 
 "Music" printed on it in golden lettering. Bolotov 
 took the bomb silently and began to wrap it carefully in 
 a red handkerchief. 
 
 *'Be careful," Anna said aloud. 
 
 Bolotov made a tight knot. He heard his heart 
 beating harder and more unevenly and the lead 
 weight inside the bomb ticking in unison with his 
 heart. 
 
 " I am going to die, ' ' flashed through his mind again. 
 But this time he was insensible to the meaning of the 
 words. 
 
 He would not have the courage to die, it was all a 
 dream, he felt. That in ten minutes he would leave the 
 Park, leave these people, so close, yet so remote from 
 him, would meet the carriage and throw the bomb, and 
 himself would surely be killed — it all was unbelievable, 
 absurd, terrible. He called up a clear picture of the 
 drivers' inn, of the tumbledown stalls, Supritkin, Strelov, 
 the restaurant, The Friends, and Squabbler, white- 
 hoofed, snorting and whinnying at his approach. And 
 that servile life so full of hardship, the coldness and 
 hunger and filth, the cursing, the drunkenness, thq
 
 268 What Never Happened 
 
 ''spying," Seriozha, the committee, all seemed a cloud- 
 less, unattainable state of joy. 
 
 "And Vanya?" Bolotov said hesitatingly. 
 
 **Vanya — Vanya is already at his place. Abram, 
 too," Anna replied. "If the prosecutor does not show 
 up, come at twelve o'clock." 
 
 Bolotov, walking with bowed head, left the Park, 
 stepping carefully, so as not to stumble. Hardly con- 
 scious of where he was going he turned in to Liteiny 
 Prospect. The bomb ticked rhythmically. * * Tick, tack ; 
 tick, tack," it sounded to him from within. It was the 
 weight running up and down the tube. Should he but 
 press it a little tighter, the tube would split and the 
 mercury explode. Well, and what if it did? So much 
 the better. I should not hear it at any rate. He smiled 
 quietly and tightened his hold on the bomb. Trembling 
 slightly, he came to the Simeonovsky Bridge. On 
 Fontanka Street, near the Bridge, stood Vanya, in an 
 overcoat and high boots, holding a heavy bundle in his 
 hands. At Boltov's approach, his clever, narrow, slit- 
 like eyes sparkled, and he said in a kind, grave whisper : 
 
 "A man goes, but God leads him. Good luck, Andrey 
 Nikolayevich. ' ' 
 
 Bolotov did not answer immediately. A flush 
 mounted to his cheeks. He felt ashamed that he had 
 thought of himself, had felt regret at giving his life, and 
 on the day when every bit of his courage was needed, he 
 bargained with himself like a servant. "Am I a cow- 
 ard?" he asked himself, in self -hatred, and turned pale. 
 "How about Seriozha and the Party and the squad?" 
 With a happy feeling of relief and in the consciousness 
 that he was to die and that he had no fear of death, he 
 turned to Vanya and said:
 
 What Never Happened 269 
 
 "For land and freedom!" 
 
 It was almost ten o'clock. The rain was falling 
 noisily, but the sun was pushing through the ragged 
 clouds. Bolotov turned into the Liteiny Prospect and 
 stopped at a tobacco store. His head was somewhat 
 dizzy and his heart was still pounding. He looked dully 
 at the multicoloured goods in the window and read the 
 name: "Blend Eel String, price, one ruble." "What 
 does it mean, string? Blend string? And why one 
 ruble?" He felt weary and his back ached, as if some 
 one were forcing him down with all his weight, and he 
 looked indifferently at the entrance to the prosecutor's 
 house, and though there was a policeman on guard at 
 the entrance, and concierges on guard at the gate, and 
 spies slinking about in the streets, he did not want to, 
 could not, believe, that soon the prosecutor would ap- 
 pear two yards away. 
 
 "And suppose he does not come out," he thought, 
 with a secret cowardly hope. He did not dare acknowl- 
 edge to himself that deep down in his tortured soul 
 there lurked a dark prayer: "May he not come out, 
 may he not come out, may he not come out." He tried 
 with all his might to chase the thought from his mind, 
 but it surged back the more insistently. He longed for 
 some unforeseen chance to prevent the attempt. "Then 
 I am a coward, ' ' he thought disgustedly, flushing deeply. 
 But he suddenly straightened up in tense expectation. 
 Along Liteiny Prospect, from the direction of Basseinaya 
 Street, on the right side about forty yards away, a car- 
 riage was coming towards him rapidly. Bolotov im- 
 mediately recognized the prosecutor. He recognized 
 the heavy driver with the red whiskers and the round 
 hat with a peacock feather. He recognized the
 
 270 What Never Happened 
 
 fine black horses, the sparkling harness and the red 
 wheel-spokes. That instant all the doubts that had 
 been troubling him, pity for himself, the desire to live, 
 and fear of the assassination vanished like a dream. He 
 thought of Seriozha. He could hear the ticking of the 
 bomb. He made two heavy steps forward and stopped. 
 He was standing on the asphalt sidewalk, lean, tall, 
 and blue-eyed, his blue jacket unbuttoned, and holding 
 the heavy bomb. He watched the approaching carriage 
 with burning eyes. He saw the snorting thoroughbreds, 
 the red-whiskered driver, the shining body of the car- 
 riage, and distinctly heard the clatter of the iron horse- 
 shoes. When the carriage was only a few feet away, he 
 ran into the middle of the street and raised the bomb 
 over his head. Through the carriage window he saw the 
 dried-up old man in the general's uniform. He was 
 sitting huddled up, asleep in a corner ; but suddenly he 
 trembled, stretched out his hand, and thiTist out his 
 shrunken medal-covered chest. His old, yellow, 
 wrinkled face, with its undaunted, but inquisitive eyes, 
 appeared at the window. There was no time to think. 
 Bolotov made a sweeping motion with the bomb tied up 
 in the handkerchief and wincing as if he were falling 
 into cold water, threw it against the window. 
 
 On the instant the glass broke with a crashing sound, 
 and a blow over the head dazed him for a moment. 
 Breathing in the hot smoke, he stood motionless for a 
 second, not believing that all was over. When he came 
 to himself he saw blood streaming over his burned 
 shoulders, and instead of the horses and the carriage, 
 he saw a soft, blood-covered mass. To the right, near 
 the sidewalk, lay the stout driver. He was naked to the 
 waist. Bolotov saw the bare, pinkish body, the hair on
 
 What Never Happened 271 
 
 his chest and the big, blown-up belly. One eye was 
 swollen, blue and half-closed, the other, glassy-like, 
 stared straight at him. Bolotov sobbed, and imme- 
 diately somebody caught his hands from behind. 
 
 " I 've got you. A-a-a ! No, sir, you won 't get away, ' ' 
 a terrified voice was shouting. 
 
 Bolotov did not try to free himself. He looked down 
 again. He saw the same round glassy eye, with its 
 fixed, surprised stare. "What came after that, Bolotov 
 could never recall. Some one knocked him down with a 
 blow in his face, and he lost consciousness.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 VOLODYA'S troop did not expropriate half a 
 million rubles on Podyacheskaya Street, as 
 Mitya had expected, but only two hundred 
 thousand. With the help of this money Volodya en- 
 larged his organization and applied himself to the car- 
 rying out of his cherished dream — "systematic terror." 
 In May the governor of Tver was killed and an agent of 
 the secret service mortally wounded ; in July a bomb was 
 thrown at the minister of justice; in August the troop 
 set fire to two manor-houses; in September they robbed 
 the Voronins' office near the Khopilovsky Ponds in 
 Moscow, and shot the chief of gendarmes on the streets 
 of Kiev. Volodya 's name rang throughout Rus- 
 sia. Even Arseny Ivanovich shook his grey head and 
 said to the committee, "If one loafs and goes fishing, 
 my benefactors, he can't have a thing. Volodya there 
 has his hands full, and what he does is worth doing." 
 Of course, Arseny Ivanovich did not approve of "private 
 expropriations, ' ' but he could not den}' that he regretted 
 that a revolutionist of such iron will as Volodya had left 
 the Party "for no reason," for a "mere whim." 
 
 Volodya 's squad grew considerably in numbers, but 
 changed in personnel. Mitya was hanged in Tver, Prok- 
 hor was killed in Kiev; Yelizar was arrested in Moscow, 
 and Epstein went to Paris to edit a "free journal." Of 
 the old picked fighters, only Freze and the Fly remained, 
 besides Olga. On the other hand, about forty new mem- 
 bers joined his squad — students, workmen, and Jewish 
 
 272
 
 What Never Happened 273 
 
 artisans. The numbers had grown, and not all were 
 now taking part in the terrorist activity, but the ma- 
 jority were kept waiting impatiently for ' ' work. ' ' And 
 the unoccupied members, wearied by idleness and lone- 
 liness and much vain talk, began to revert to strife, to 
 that ''babbling of the Intelligentzia" which Volodya 
 hated so utterly. But he was powerless to resist this 
 empty talk. He treated the stream of advice, the scores 
 of "sure schemes," with contempt, and was only careful 
 that the talk should not endanger the secrecy of his work. 
 He prevented the comrades from holding meetings and 
 communicating with their relatives. But he did not al- 
 ways succeed. He could not sufficiently impress the im- 
 portance of caution upon his people. Terror was suc- 
 ceeding, the squad was strong, there was enough money, 
 and it was hard to believe that arrests were possible. 
 Gradually, because of their idleness and boredom, drunk- 
 enness began to spread among the men, and one day a 
 deserter by the name of Svistkov sold his revolver 
 to buy liquor. Volodya refused to accept humilia- 
 ting explanations and immediately expelled him. 
 However, that did not stop the drinking. It was kept 
 up in secret, hidden from both his and Freze's knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 In that one summer Volodya aged five years. His 
 quick hazel eyes lost their lustre, and premature 
 wrinkles appeared about his lips. He still had faith in 
 himself, in the unimpeachable righteousness of terror. 
 But he no longer doubted that his men would scatter if 
 he should be hanged. He made no reply to Epstein, 
 who wrote from Paris that "everything was permissible 
 to the strong of purpose." He paid no attention to 
 Olga's dissertations on the "abysses of the high and the
 
 274 What Never Happened 
 
 low," but he had long private talks with Freze. He had 
 a vagiie feeling that the wave of blood and unrestrained 
 murder that had risen after the first "expropriation" 
 was threatening to drown the squad and terror and 
 even himself. Sometimes he sat up whole nights 
 through, thinking. But had any one asked him just 
 what his thoughts were, he would have been unable to 
 answer. Olga observed him in perplexity. The work 
 seemed to be going along nicely, and Volodya ought to 
 condone the petty offences of drunkenness, empty talk, 
 and quarrelling. Freze alone understood Volodya 's 
 worries. Himself of a quiet, exacting nature, he kept 
 a strict eye upon every movement of the squad. He 
 bore the whole burden of the daily labour with its dull, 
 petty details. Not only was he responsible for the 
 funds, the secret gathering-places, the passports, ammu- 
 nition, assignments, and bombs, but he knew each of the 
 fighters personally, and because he knew them so well, he 
 shared Volodya 's anxiety. The Fly annoyed him par- 
 ticularly. After the Khopilovsky expropriation an 
 abrupt change had come over the man. From an obed- 
 ient, devoted member of the squad, he suddenly became 
 lazy and insolent. 
 
 It had been decided that the troop was to assassinate 
 the governor of ]\Ioscow in October. A week before the 
 date set, the Fly announced that he would like to have 
 a private talk with Volodya. 
 
 Volodya made an appointment with him in Sokolniki, 
 at the same place he had first met him half a year be- 
 fore. The day was gloomy and rainy. The wet firs 
 looked sorrowful. The last yellow leaves were drooping 
 from the dying birches. The air smelled of wet grass 
 and moss. The Fly walked at Volodya 's side with a
 
 What Never Happened 275 
 
 brisk step, his hands behind his back. He spoke with 
 barely concealed irritation. 
 
 "Judge for yourself, Vladimir Ivanovich. This 
 isn't my first day with you. Haven't I been trying my 
 best? Think of Podyacheskaya Street, for instance, or 
 Kiev, when Proshka was killed. I can say I have never 
 stopped at risking my life." 
 
 *'Well?" 
 
 ''Well, Vladimir Ivanovich, and what do I get for it? 
 Instead of gratitude, an absolute lack of confidence. 
 Take Herman Karlovicli Freze. He sticks his long nose 
 into everything. 'How much did you spend yesterday? 
 Where were you? Where are you going? Let me see 
 your passport. Let me see your gun.' " The Fly gave 
 a faithful imitation of Freze and then spat contemp- 
 tuously. "What is it? As if we were on a ship, by 
 God. I'm no slave, let me tell you, Vladimir Ivano- 
 vich." 
 
 "Are you dissatisfied?" Volodya asked harshly. 
 
 "I really don't know how to explain." The Fly 
 stopped short and began to roll a cigarette. The 
 matches were damp and it took him a long time to 
 light it. 
 
 "Answer my question." 
 
 "Well, I am dissatisfied." 
 
 "Freze?" 
 
 "No, sir. What's Freze? Let him go in peace, Mr. 
 Freze." 
 
 "Then what is it? Tell me." 
 
 "Oh, everything, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 "Be plain. What is it?" 
 
 "Please tell me, how can I be satisfied? First of all, 
 absolutely no confidence."
 
 276 What Never Happened 
 
 Volodya halted and gazed at the Fly searchingly. 
 The Fly daringly raised his rapacious, hawklike face. 
 
 "Take care, Fly!" 
 
 "As you please, Vladimir Ivanovich.'* 
 
 "Speak out, what do you want?" 
 
 "Oh, what's the use? Mere talk can't make a 
 sandal." 
 
 "I told you, be frank." 
 
 "All right. My business isn't much." He shrugged 
 his shoulders. "If you want me to, I'll tell you. 
 I '11 tell you the whole truth. On Podyacheskaya Street 
 we got two hundred thousand. From the Ivhopilovsky 
 expropriation, twenty-five thousand. That makes a total 
 of two hundred and twenty-five thousand. We have 
 spent about forty thousand for paper, revolvers, bombs, 
 horses and so forth. Isn't that so? I counted — " 
 
 Volodya flushed. He was beginning to understand 
 what the Fly was after. The Fly, his head down, his 
 hands clasped behind his back, tapped the ground slowly 
 with the end of his boot. Volodya looked, at him again. 
 
 "You counted?" 
 
 "Exactly. We counted. Vladimir Ivanovich, let me 
 ask you, have I not worked along with the rest ? ' ' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Have I not been working, that is, robbing, along 
 with the rest? Was I on Podyacheskaya Street or 
 not?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, if you please — you owe me something." 
 
 He had no chance to go on. Volodya, scarlet with 
 rage, teeth clenched, not knowing what he was doing, 
 with his head whirling so that he felt he was about to 
 drop, made a wide sweep with his arm, seized the Fly
 
 What Never Happened 277 
 
 by the collar, and began to shake him like a blade of 
 grass. He saw the Fly turn blue in the face, and his 
 wicked narrow eyes begin to bum. Choking with anger 
 and shaking the Fly with all his might, Volodya kept 
 repeating hoarsely: 
 
 ''What? What? What? How dare you? How 
 dare you?" 
 
 The Fly, his face distorted with fury, braced himself 
 with his feet on the ground and twisted Volodya 's wrist. 
 
 "Let me go, Vladimir Ivanovich!" 
 
 But even had he wanted to, Volodya could not have 
 let him go. Forgetting himself, and the Fly, and the 
 squad, and terror, he let loose upon him all his doubts, 
 all his burdensome thoughts, all the anxiety and un- 
 certainty of the last days. The Fly repeated quietly, 
 
 "Let me go, Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 When Volodya finally stepped aside, the Fly, smooth- 
 ing his wrinkled coat and looking away, said with a 
 wicked smile: 
 
 "As you please, Vladimir Ivanovich," 
 
 "I know — " Volodya roared, still crimson in the face 
 and breathing heavily. "And get out of here! You 
 hear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I hear. But how do you mean it? A wet 
 man is not afraid of rain, nor a naked one of robbers. 
 Make no mistake — " 
 
 "What mistake, in the devil's name?" 
 
 "Oh, well, it's easy to wrong me, easy, Vladimir 
 Ivanovich. But who will pay for the wrongs? Of 
 course, we're small people." 
 
 "Quit your nonsense." 
 
 "All right. Good luck to you. Good-bye." 
 
 The Fly raised his cap and walked away with the same
 
 278 What Never Happened 
 
 bold stride, as though nothing had happened. Volodya 
 dropped wearily on to a bench. He followed him for 
 a distance with his eyes. The tops of the fir trees 
 rustled, and the rain began to fall faster. 
 
 * ' He '11 sell us out, ' ' Volodya suddenly thought. * ' By 
 God, he'll sell us out." He jumped up, ran after the 
 Fly, and seized him by the shoulder: 
 
 "Hey, Fly, I'll kill you!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Not what, but I'll kill you!" 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 * ' Shut up ! You can 't trifle with me, you know ! ' ' 
 
 "I'm not trifling, Vladimir Ivanovich," the Fly an- 
 swered slowly and harshly. "What do you mean? 
 Why trifle?" 
 
 Raising his cap again, he turned into a side path and 
 disappeared behind the wet shrubbery.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 VOLODYA lived on Srietenka Street in a fur- 
 nished rooming-house named Rome. On Sun- 
 day, the twentieth of October, he left the 
 house in the morning and came out on the Trubnaya 
 Plaza. He was going to Tverskaya Street to keep an 
 appointment with Freze. Instead of crossing the park 
 he passed through the Neglinny Alley into Petrovka 
 Street, and halted at Datziaro Street. For the last few 
 days he had been aware of something strange, something 
 unusually foreboding, but he tried not to think of it. It 
 seemed to him that somebody was watching him, that 
 somebody's penetrating eyes were continually scrutiniz- 
 ing his shoulders, hands, moustache and beard, that some 
 one was cunningly setting a trap for him. On Friday he 
 saw a tall red-haired man in Filippov's cafe. The man, 
 who had not removed his hat, or coat, was eating hur- 
 riedly at the buffet, stealing glances about the room, as 
 he did so. He wore a check coat of English cut. In the 
 evening Volodya met him again on Tverskaya Street 
 and on Saturday he saw him on Sofiyka Street, near a 
 shoemaker's window. The man was in the company of 
 a youngster with a face swollen with drinking. Now, 
 as Volodya stood near Datziaro Street, he looked about 
 for the two men, sure that they were watching him. He 
 did not see them on Petrovka Street, but as he looked 
 over the Kuznetzky Bridge, near the Dzhamgarovsky 
 Passage, he noticed the red beard of the one and the 
 black cap set far back on the head of the other. 
 
 279
 
 280 What Never Happened 
 
 The assassination was to take place on the following 
 day. Volodya could not forget about it for a moment. 
 The insignificant cares, labours, and affairs, the dissatis- 
 faction with his men, his sense of isolation, and even the 
 oppressive talk with the Fly had not lessened the unusual 
 feeling of anxiety that came before a contemplated 
 assassination, and here on Kuznetzky Street, though 
 aware of being followed, he gave no thought to spies and 
 prison, but to the governor. He did not believe in a 
 possible arrest. He was accustomed to being out of 
 danger. He was accustomed to feel that his will was 
 law, and he did not doubt for a moment that the assas- 
 sination would be accomplished. He walked slowly 
 away from the shop-window. The day was cold, but 
 sunny, the sky blue. Wheels were noisily rumbling by, 
 the streets were filled with talking crowds, and the bells 
 of the Church of the Holy Mother were ringing for 
 the noon prayer. In the Furkassov Alley Volodya 
 heard hurrying steps behind him. He looked back. A 
 police inspector of imposing figure and with white gloves 
 was running toward him, one hand outstretched, the 
 other on his sword. The inspector looked at him with 
 hostile, terrified eyes. On the other side of the street, 
 at the door of a restaurant, Volodya saw the familiar 
 red-bearded man whom he had seen at Filippov's cafe, 
 and four others with him, spies, Volodya thought. 
 When he saw the inspector's stern face, he realized he 
 was about to be arrested. But just as before in 
 Podyacheskaya Street, he did not believe that death was 
 at hand. He did not believe that on the eve of the as- 
 sassination he would be detained here near Lubianka 
 Street by unknown persons, and that these persons had 
 the right to convict and hang him. He felt so strong
 
 What Never Happened 281 
 
 and healthy, the sun was shining so brilliantly, the street 
 was so noisy, that the thought of death seemed sense- 
 less, unreal, cowardly and cruel. But suddenly the red- 
 bearded detective nodded to him. Volodya came to him- 
 self, grasped the loaded revolver in his pocket, and de- 
 termined swiftly on his course of action. "With his big 
 head down and his right hand in his pocket, he turned 
 upon the stout inspector with a defiant, threatening look. 
 
 The inspector stopped about ten yards away, lowered 
 his eyes, and said irresolutely, almost quietly: 
 
 *'Mr. Gliebov, the mayor would like to see you." 
 
 Volodya glanced at him and frowned. The inspector 
 was pale and his chin was trembling. "Without hesitat- 
 ing or even thinking Volodya raised his revolver delib- 
 erately, took two shots at close range, turned around, 
 and ran towards Lubianka Street. He heard excited 
 shouts, the tramp of feet, and involuntarily, conscious of 
 nothing except that he was being overtaken, yet even so 
 not fully aware of his danger, he ran into the first 
 garden he saw. He passed the dark gates without see- 
 iny anybody, crossed a long, vacant yard overgrown 
 with grass, and made for a pile of lumber that he no- 
 ticed in the corner near a whitewashed wall. There he 
 looked around. About ten yards away a red spy with 
 a drunken face was following him, breathing heavily. 
 Volodya had a revolver in his hand, and pulled the trig- 
 ger, concealing the motion. He mounted the lumber 
 pile, jumped down on the other side between the lumber 
 and the wall, and set himself with his back to the wall. 
 
 "Oh, you'll get your round of nuts," Volodya 
 smiled to himself and made an opening. 
 
 But when he touched the cold wood and felt the damp, 
 slippery moss, a sharp sickening sensation seized him.
 
 282 What Never Happened 
 
 The sensation was so strong that he involuntarily let the 
 hand that held the revolver drop and set his back against 
 the wall again, standing with his long legs apart and 
 staring at the lumber with blank, unseeing ejes. lie 
 knew he would never come out of that place again — 
 from behind that pile of lumber, from before that white- 
 washed wall. It was the end — irresistible, inglorious 
 death. For a moment he felt a slight shiver go through 
 him, and his heart was suddenly chilled. But he felt 
 no terror — not even regret. Olga, the squad, expropria- 
 tion, the Fly, Freze, terror — all seemed like a deceitful 
 dream — as though all that was happening now — the 
 frightened inspector, the heavens high above, the hot 
 revolver, the trap he was caught in — was the treach- 
 erous, unavoidable thing that he had been await- 
 ing every day; as though there had been no life before, 
 and life had just begun that day, there on Lubianka 
 Street, on that vacant grass-covered plot; as though he, 
 Vladimir Gliebov, Volodya, had been born for this sin- 
 gle purpose — to hide like a hunted beast behind the 
 lumber and to die with a revolver in his hand. With 
 only a few hours to live and no hope of escape, his one 
 thought was to exact the highest price possible for his 
 life. 
 
 "It's all the same," he repeated aloud, but did not 
 hear his own voice. "But they'll get their round of 
 nuts." The policemen ran in through the gate. Vol- 
 odya selected a young one, with a vacuous face. To 
 save his cartridges, he made sure of him and pulled the 
 trigger when the policeman was only about fifteen yards 
 away. As he shot, he was surprised to notice that his 
 hand trembled. 
 
 The policeman turned back. Volodya, his face
 
 What Never Happened 283 
 
 flushed, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, looked 
 through the .opening. Near him lay the spy who had 
 been pursuing him. He wore a grey jacket, and lay face 
 downward, his feet toward the lumber. Volodya noted 
 his dirty boots with their worn soles. His round, pim- 
 pled, swollen face looked alive, and his ragged mous- 
 taches stirred slightly. About forty yards away from 
 him, almost at the gate, lay the captain of gendarmes 
 like a child. The buttons on his coat sparkled in the 
 sunlight. The third man, the policeman who had just 
 been hit, was mortally wounded. He was sitting on the 
 grass, his knees drawn up under him, clutching at his 
 heart. A red stream of blood issued from his mouth. 
 
 All became still at the gate. Volodya looked up at 
 the wall again, but without hope. It was smooth, with- 
 out a single projection, and about forty feet in height. 
 He sat on the ground behind the lumber. While he was 
 shooting, a splinter of wood had sunk deep into his hand, 
 and it hurt him. He sat motionless, without thinking, 
 sure there was no way of escape. Wet chips of wood 
 were scattered over the ground. He picked out a long 
 sharp piece, covered with dried tar, and waved it in the 
 air. He recalled his boyhood — a big vacant lot like this 
 one, a blue sky like the one overhead, piles of lumber 
 like those in front of him, and he, a lively boy, playing 
 a rude game of tennis. "It's fine to play tennis," he 
 thought with a smile, and waved the piece of wood again. 
 He felt uncomfortable in his cramped position on the 
 ground wet with rain. He rose slowly, and with bent 
 head began to creep along the wall. He did not know 
 why he was doing it.* He saw a path of clay, a strip of 
 sky above him, and the damp, moss-covered lumber 
 hemming him in. He was all alone now, he thought, the
 
 284 Wliat Never Happened 
 
 police must have gone, and they would not be able to 
 find him. But suddenly shots rang out ; bullets whizzed 
 by him. 
 
 "There's no getting away," Volodya thought. 
 "Well, all right." He straightened up suddenly, and 
 with head high, shoulders erect and chest expanded he 
 looked quietly, almost indifferently, at the soldiers. By 
 their caps he recognized them to be grenadiers. He 
 took aim and began to shoot, and kept on shooting, load- 
 ing his revolver after each shot and aiming carefully. 
 
 He could not tell how long it lasted. He felt a sharp 
 blow on his shoulder, like the cracking of a whip. He 
 did not realize he was wounded until his shirt grew wet 
 and the blood showed through on his coat. He felt no 
 pain, and continued his desperate shooting, standing in 
 full view of the soldiers. Suddenly the shooting ceased. 
 Volodya, black with smoke, his coat torn, reached for his 
 cartridges. He had only five left. His heart grew cold 
 within him, and he realized with merciless clearness 
 that his end was a matter of minutes. And suddenly 
 he was seized by a blind frenzy of rage and despair. 
 
 "They'll hang me? Me? Vladimir Gliebov? Hang 
 me? They? These people?" he thought furiously. 
 Then he remembered his band and the projected as- 
 sassination. "Then the governor will not die! Then 
 the band will perish ! ' ' His face flamed, and his staring 
 eyes filled with blood. As through a mist he saw a row 
 of soldiers running towards him. But he gave them no 
 chance to reach him. Drawn up to his full enormous 
 height, his curly black hair uncovered, his face distorted 
 with rage, his smoking revolver in his hand, he turned 
 swiftly upon them. He had no hope of escape, no hope 
 that his life would be spared, and he did not understand
 
 What Never Happened 285 
 
 why he walked straight towards them. He was merely 
 obeying some hidden impulse, the last effort of a strong, 
 healthy body, which could not become reconciled to 
 death. 
 
 Volodya was so immense and so terrifying in appear- 
 ance, his eyes shone with such wild determination, his 
 revolver looked so threatening, that the soldiers hesi- 
 tated. But one recruit, a small fellow with frightened 
 eyes, winced, and shot without even aiming. A yellow 
 flame flared out. Volodya made one more irresolute 
 step. His knees bent under him. Trjnng to retain his 
 balance, he stretched out his left hand, then fell heavily 
 upon the grass. He was immediately surrounded by 
 soldiers. The red-bearded detective in the English coat 
 went over to him, looked at him, and poked him in the 
 side curiously with the toe of his boot.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FREZE learned of Volodya's death the same day. 
 After waiting for him two hours on Tverskaya 
 Street, he went in the evening to the ' ' emergency 
 quarters," the Port Arthur saloon. In the smoke- 
 laden place, clerks were drinking and workmen in shawls 
 and boots were brawling and cursing in drunken voices, 
 while a phonograph played noisily. At a nearby table 
 a sedate merchant breathing heavily and wiping his bald 
 head with a napkin, was talking to a young man. 
 
 *'0h, oh, oh ! Our sins ! There are too many of them 
 now. God and the Holy Mother spare us. There's no 
 living with them now. Shouting liberty, liberty ! And 
 what's the use of it? What's all the row about any- 
 way? "What's going on? One can't understand. 
 Cossacks surrounded him. But the general took pity 
 on him. 'Surrender,' he says, 'or you'll perish without 
 a confession.' And what do you think?" 
 
 ''W— well?" 
 
 "Well — it's a wonder how desperate people can be. 
 Says he to the general, 'For the time being God has 
 patience with my sins. Take that!' And crack! 
 Killed him on the spot." 
 
 "The general?" 
 
 "That's what I said. Well, they got to thinking what 
 to do next. They thought and thought, my dear fellow, 
 and decided a careful horse is safe from beasts. So 
 they brought a cannon. Began to fire away at him. 
 
 286
 
 What Never Happened 287 
 
 Shot him to pieces. And how strong he was! Fell to 
 the ground, all in blood, life almost gone, and he was 
 still waving his arms, ' Hurrah for liberty ! ' " 
 
 ''God in heaven! A Jew?" 
 
 "No — Jew ! One of our own people, they say, a Mus- 
 covite, the son of a merchant. His name, they say, was 
 Volodin," the merchant added softly, and sighed. 
 
 Freze was startled. 
 
 "About whom are they talking? It's impossible. 
 It's a mistake," he thought, growing pale. He wanted 
 to break in, to get the details, but for reasons of secrecy 
 he said nothing. Summoning the waiter, he paid his 
 bill and left. A light, chill rain was falling; it was 
 cold and dark; here and there a light glimmered. He 
 could not believe that Volodya had not kept the ap- 
 pointment. "Nonsense! What a silly conversation!" 
 Freze waved his hand, and not knowing where to go, he 
 turned to the Nikitsky Boulevard. "But how about the 
 governor? Tomorrow at ten o'clock — " he thought, 
 and stopped immediately. A ragged boy in a torn cap 
 ran towards him with a bundle of evening newspapers. 
 
 "Mister! Buy a paper. Very interesting. Death 
 of the murderer Gliebov!" 
 
 Freze unfolded the damp sheet near a street-lamp 
 and glanced through it hurriedly, trembling with excite- 
 ment. For several minutes he remained standing there 
 with the paper in his hands. He considered himself a 
 quiet and resolute man. He was the one who filled the 
 bombs for the band. He was the one who had saved 
 all the bags with money on Podyacheskaya Street. He 
 had planned the Kiev assassination. He had been Vol- 
 odya 's right hand. He was proud of his cold-blooded- 
 ness, of his imperturbable strength. But there, in the
 
 288 Wliat Never Happened 
 
 rain, near the wet lamp-post, he felt his courage desert- 
 ing him. He could not believe that Volodya had been 
 killed, and the band was orphaned. He could not be- 
 lieve that terror was crushed. He could not believe that 
 he, Herman Freze, was left alone, without any one to 
 turn to for help and advice. His tall figure, usually 
 erect, was so bent now that he seemed to have lost several 
 inches in height and he dragged his feet like an old man, 
 as he slowly made his way towards Arbata Street. On 
 Arbata Street many lights were burning. 
 
 "Hey, hey! Look out! Watch out for yourself 1'^ 
 suddenly came a loud warning, and he was spattered 
 with mud as a sleek horse dashed by. He wiped the 
 mud off carefully with his sleeve ; and the motion sud- 
 denly brought him to himself. 
 
 "I ought to be ashamed of myself. If Volodya is 
 killed, then the assassination won't take place. If he is 
 killed, then the band is being spied upon, is being fol- 
 lowed. Then I must warn all of them. I must save 
 them." 
 
 He turned hurriedly into Tverskaya Street, where 
 Olga lived in the hotel The Prince's Estate. As he 
 mounted the stairs and passed the majestic porter and 
 the officious bell-boys, he felt as if he were being fol- 
 lowed by searching glances. It seemed to him that at 
 the brilliantly illuminated entrance and at the glass 
 doors spies were watching him, and that there was an 
 unusual number of policemen in the street outside. 
 
 "Can it possibly be that Olga has been arrested?" he 
 asked himself, putting his hand into his pocket and 
 carefully raising the trigger of his revolver. "All the 
 same, I must warn her." 
 
 He knocked at the door.
 
 What Never Happened 289 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 On recognizing Olga's voice, Freze gave a sign of re- 
 lief. Without taking off his coat, he seated himself 
 at the table. He began to speak, but Olga stopped him. 
 By the fact that he had disregarded the underground 
 rules and had come to her in the hotel, by his gloomy 
 silence, Olga perceived that something terrible had hap- 
 pened, something impossible to believe, something that 
 had never happened before. Pressing her white fingers 
 to her breast and rising slowly from her chair, she said 
 in a faint, piteous, pleading voice : 
 
 "Volodya?" 
 
 Freze handed her the newspaper. 
 
 "I must tell you, Olga Vasilyevna, very sad news." 
 
 She cast a frightened look at his German face, which 
 looked as if it were cut out of stone. Freze saw her 
 lips tremble. She read the report through, dropped the 
 paper, and still pressing her fingers to her breast, sud- 
 denly swayed and caught at the knob to steady herself, 
 but fell helplessly into a chair. Somewhere far away, 
 at the other end of the corridor, a piano began to play 
 a noisy tune. 
 
 Freze got up and paced the room. 
 
 "Look here, Olga Vasilyevna. You're being spied 
 upon. I noticed spies on the street. You must think 
 how to get away. Do you hear me, Olga Vasilyevna? 
 Listen to me. If you don't see the danger, I must point 
 it out to you. Yes, I must. You must think of the band. 
 You have seven kilograms of dynamite and bombs. 
 If you're arrested, they will be seized too. Let me take 
 them with me." 
 
 Olga did not understand what he was saying. She 
 heard his firm even voice. It seemed to her that some
 
 290 Wliat Never Happened 
 
 black, hairy-winged insect had entered the room and 
 was buzzing, buzzing continually. "With an effort she 
 half opened her eyes. Freze was pacing the room. lie 
 was tall and slender and looked like a cane in his short 
 black coat. 
 
 "I can't understand you. "What is it?" 
 
 *'I say, let me have the dynamite. You're respon- 
 sible for it. I'll take it to a safe place. And you — ^ 
 please leave at once. Yes, I say at once." 
 
 It now seemed to her that it was not Freze. It was a 
 narrow, sharp, metallic pendulum, swaying to and fro. 
 It swayed to the right and then slowly, firmly, evenly, 
 to the left. Eight and left. 
 
 **I will not go." 
 
 "How can you talk that way? You have no right to 
 speak like that. Business first of all. If you're being 
 spied upon, you'll be arrested. You'll be arrested to- 
 night, possibly in an hour. You must do as I tell you. 
 You must give up the dynamite and leave." 
 
 She felt her head spinning round. 
 
 ''I won't go." 
 
 "I think, Olga Vasilyevna — " 
 
 "You heard me. I won't go!" 
 
 She gathered all her strength and looked straight into 
 his eyes, her own full of hatred. 
 
 "Listen, Freze, I thank you for your kindness. But 
 you know, you know — darling, I beg you, leave me 
 alone. ' ' 
 
 Freze shrugged his shoulders and frowned. Her be- 
 haviour filled him with indignation. The band was in 
 danger, the assassination would not take place, and she 
 was thinking of herself, of "Volodya, of her own woman 's
 
 What Never Happened 291 
 
 sorrow. He looked into her round face that had sud- 
 denly darkened. 
 
 "I understand, Olga Vasilyevna. If you think I 
 don't understand, you're mistaken. But I insist, leave 
 this place immediately. If you don 't go, you will surely 
 be arrested." 
 
 Again that troublesome insect was buzzing again, 
 again the pendulum was swinging evenly to and fro. 
 Olga felt she could not control herself and would burst 
 into tears. She could not talk or listen to any one, no 
 words could touch her. In the weak, shrill voice with 
 which she had asked about Volodya, she cried : 
 
 ''Go away, go away, go away!" 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. Freze stood by 
 without knowing what to do or how to make her leave 
 the place. He gave no thought to himself. He knew 
 he was being spied upon, too, and might be arrested. 
 But he had long before made up his mind that some day 
 he would hang, and he felt no fear. 
 
 "My duty is to save Olga," he thought. "Yes, it is 
 my duty as a member of the band. ' ' 
 
 "Olga Vasilyevna." 
 
 "Are you still here?" 
 
 ''Urn Gottes willen," Freze began excitedly in Ger- 
 man. "Olga Vasilyevna — " 
 
 As he descended the stairs, gloomily, angry with Olga 
 and with himself, he again noticed the presence of the 
 spies. In the street outside the entrance were a police- 
 man and a Cossack officer. The policeman looked at 
 Freze suspiciously. Along the wet sidewalk a row of 
 lamps cast a dim light. The Red Plaza was deserted. 
 Through the darkness loomed the statue of Vasily Bla-
 
 292 What Never Happened 
 
 zheny. Freze passed into the Kremlin and stopped at 
 the statue of Aleksandr IL He grasped the iron chain, 
 pressed his cheek against the cold statue, and looked 
 long upon sleeping Moscow spread out below. The statue 
 of the Czar rose majestically above him. In the distance 
 wheels were rumbling. Around him all was quiet, and 
 the rain fell continuously. The clock on the Tainitzka 
 Tower struck twelve. Freze trembled. He walked back 
 to Tverskaya Street, his shoulders stooping and his feet 
 dragging on the pavement. The entrance to the hotel 
 was now deserted.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 WHEN the door closed behind Freze, and Olga 
 was left alone, she burst into a shrill laugh- 
 ing and sobbing. Her face quivered, her 
 teeth chattered, her head beat against the back of her 
 chair. 
 
 "And I did — did — believe him — that Volodya had 
 been killed — that Volodya had been killed," she kept re- 
 peating through her laughter. The idea that Volodya 
 had been shot, that he was no longer alive, that his dead 
 body lay in the police-station, seemed so absurd, so im- 
 probable, so pitiless, that she felt like bringing poor 
 unfortunate Freze back and caressing and reassuring 
 him. She had known that sooner or later Volodya would 
 hang, and had often tried to imagine his death. But 
 she had always consoled herself with the thought that she 
 would die along with him. But now that Volodya was 
 killed, and the long-expected had taken place, her calm 
 forsook her. She crouched in the chair, her arms thrown 
 across the back, and her whole body shaking with her 
 hysterical laughter. She cherished a secret hope that 
 Volodya might hear her, and kept repeating the beloved 
 name: 
 
 "Volodya!" 
 
 Her laughter was so pitiful, so cruel, that it filled her 
 with terror. "Who is laughing? Why?" she whis- 
 pered, stifling her sobs and trying in vain to control the 
 chattering of her teeth. Her body writhed as if in pain. 
 
 293
 
 294 What Never Happened 
 
 She bent down. On the dusty floor lay the newspaper. 
 She unrolled it carefully. At the top she saw the head- 
 line in big letters, "Death of the murderer Gliebov." 
 She got control of herself and read the whole article 
 through carefully and with dry eyes. There could be no 
 doubt. Volodya had been shot dead, today, Sunday, 
 the twentieth of October, in Lubianka Street, in the yard 
 of the lumber merchant, Pizhov. She laid the news- 
 paper down on the table, smoothed out the wrinkled 
 page and rose. Behind a yellow partition stood her 
 bed, and under the bed a trunk filled with dynamite. 
 Olga recalled how Volodya had brought her the first 
 bombs. She recalled his pock-marked, bearded, smiling 
 face, his big strong hands, his jacket and silver watch- 
 chain ; his voice, so slow and commanding, with its sing- 
 song Moscow accent; the marriage ring he had given 
 her; his firm, heavy step. Her cheeks flushed, and she 
 felt bitterly ashamed. She saw herself at Volodya 's 
 side in her secret lodging, when he had returned ex- 
 hausted and haunted by doubts from the Moscow bar- 
 ricades. She heard her own meaningless words, to 
 which he had listened condescendingly. "One must be 
 strong. To the strong all is permissible. One must 
 not fear. The abyss of the low and the abyss of the 
 high. Did I say that? Did I dare to speak to him of 
 strength and boldness, of God knows what abysses?" 
 
 She stood in the middle of the room, her hands hang- 
 ing at her side, her eyes sore with weeping, and gazed 
 at the trunk. It was of black leather, half -concealed by 
 a torn linen cover. 
 
 "What good are all these bombs now?" she asked her- 
 self despairingly, and covered her face with her hands, 
 and threw herself upon the bed. At the far end of the
 
 What Never Happened 295 
 
 corridor some one was playing the piano. A sweet tenor 
 voice was singing off-pitch a little French romance: 
 
 ^'Si tu m'aimais, Si Vonibre de ma vie-e — " Olga 
 repeated the hackneyed words with dry lips and did not 
 recognize her own voice. She felt a sudden pain shoot 
 through her whole body. She thrust her head into the 
 pillows. It seemed that her life had been split into two 
 unequal parts, and there was nothing ahead of her. 
 
 ''This is a dream. No, not a dream. Ill wake up," 
 she kept repeating, biting her lips until they bled. At 
 that moment she thought she heard the door squeak and 
 steps on the carpet. 
 
 **Can Volodya be coming? Yes, of course it's Yol- 
 odya. He'll come. How could he fail to come?" 
 
 She sat up in bed. The room was empty. The bluish 
 electric bulb cast a cold light shimmering through the 
 muslin partition. The room smelled of dynamite and 
 drugs. Though Olga could see there was no one in the 
 room, and though she knew the door was locked and Vol- 
 odya lay dead in the station-house, still she stretched 
 out her arms and threw her head back and began to 
 whisper swiftly and passionately: 
 
 "Have you come? Yes? Tell me. You've come, 
 haven't you? Why don't you speak? Don't torture 
 me. Say something. You know how I love you. Don't 
 you believe in my love ? Don 't you ? Don 't you believe 
 me? Do you love me? Look, I'm alone. I'm afraid. 
 Volodya, Volodya, Volodya!" 
 
 The singing in the hall ceased ; all was now painfully 
 still. 
 
 She suddenly recalled her childhood. Annunciation 
 Day. The church-bells ringing. The snow melting. 
 The streams murmuring and sparkling in the sun. She
 
 296 What Never Happened 
 
 is a little girl, in a short velvet coat, returning from the 
 mid-day service with her father, a bent, decrepit old 
 man. She is holding on to his tobacco-stained military 
 coat. She feels happy ; the blue, blue sky is shining, her 
 father is laughing and showing his toothless gums; she 
 is laughing with light-hearted glee. 
 
 ''No, it's a dream, it's a dream. Si tu m'aimais, Si 
 I'ombre de ma vie-e — '^ Again a piercing pain stabbed 
 her body. She felt like shouting, shouting, with 
 all her might, with all the strength of her lungs, so that 
 everybody could hear her, so that Volodya could hear 
 her. She recalled how she used to pray when she was 
 a child. The dark interior of a church. Candles burn- 
 ing. The odour of incense. The cherubic Hymn. 
 
 "To pray! God, if I could pray! God, teach me 
 how." She buried her face in the pillows. "It's all 
 the same ! It 's all the same ! ' ' 
 
 Suddenly she was seized by an obscure impulse. She 
 opened her eyes and let her feet down from the bed. 
 Now she clearly understood what Volodya 's death 
 meant. Nobody could help her. Life was at an end. 
 "What had happened was irreparable. "Then there is 
 no need of living," she whispered. 
 
 Her hair was dishevelled. Unconsciously she began 
 to twist it into a knot. She did not finish putting it 
 up, but went over to the dresser with hesitating steps, 
 not sure of her resolve, still hoping for some miracle. 
 Among the gloves and underwear she found her re- 
 volver. She took it out and examined it carefully. It 
 was a pocket-revolver, a small one that Freze had bought 
 for her. "If you are in doubt of its working prop- 
 erly-" 
 
 She recalled Freze 's measured words, smiled and
 
 What Never Happened 297 
 
 pressed the trigger irresolutely. The spring snapped. 
 At the same moment Olga realized that she had a pas- 
 sionate desire to live. Death was unnecessary, un- 
 wanted — hateful; there were many days ahead and her 
 horror would pass away. Feeling a chill stealing upon 
 her, her breath coming hard, she laid the revolver down 
 on the table quickly as if in fear it might shoot of itself, 
 and unconsciously looked into the mirror. She saw her 
 tear-stained face, her disordered hair and her plain 
 black dress. 
 
 ''Here I am. And Volodya is gone," she said aloud, 
 and stretched her hand for the revolver again. "No, I 
 need not — I need not live." Her fingers touched the 
 cold steel. "Volodya, Yolodya, Volodya!" She 
 pressed the revolver to her breast, but immediately let 
 her hand fall back again. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The knock was loud 
 and bold. 
 
 " Can it be Freze ? Oh, my God, what for? Why is 
 Freze here again?" 
 
 With the revolver in her hand, she went over to the 
 door reluctantly, and said in an irritated tone: 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "A telegram," replied the voice of a servant. 
 
 * * A telegram ? Deliver it tomorrow, please. ' ' 
 
 "No. It must be delivered now. Please open the 
 door." 
 
 There was a tinkling of spurs, and Olga heard some 
 one say angrily: 
 
 "Don't mind her. Break the door in. Open tlie 
 door, miss." 
 
 It was not Freze, of course, but who it could be, or 
 what was wanted, Olga could not imagine, forgetting
 
 298 What Never Happened 
 
 she was liable to arrest, and arrest meant the scaffold 
 and death. Like a child treating danger with light- 
 hearted contempt, waving irresistible fate aside, afraid 
 to admit there was no way out, she repeated stubbornly : 
 
 ' ' Tomorrow. ' ' 
 
 Again the spurs tinkled, and another commanding 
 voice said : 
 
 ' ' Madam, in the name of the law, open the door. It 's 
 the police." 
 
 On hearing that, Olga at last realized that death was 
 before her. 
 
 ''The police? Then it's the end," she thought. 
 
 A sharp pity for herself surged up in her. She felt 
 sorry for the days of liberty she had spent with Volodya, 
 the days they had done their work of red terror, the 
 great and holy work. And as if it had happened the 
 day before, she recalled the sunlit Podyacheskaya Street, 
 Prokhor's grey racer, the bags full of money, serious- 
 eyed Freze, the horses covered with blood, and Volodya, 
 big, angry-faced, making abrupt gestures. She recalled 
 how cleverly he had thrown the money out of the car- 
 riage, and how she had put it away in their buggy; 
 how, the same evening, Volodya, happy and jubilant, 
 had counted the spoils in her room. She could even 
 hear the ring of the silver coins and see the gold and the 
 bills. 
 
 The door was breaking in. It began to give under 
 the weight of heavy shoulders. Some one was cursing: 
 
 "Break it! Break it! Break it!" 
 
 Olga stepped away from the door towards the window. 
 She saw the yellow muslin partition, the bluish electric 
 bulb, the white newspaper on the green table with the 
 staring headline, ''Death of the murderer Gliebov."
 
 What Never Happened 299 
 
 Olga squeezed into the narrow space between the table 
 and the closet with its mirror-doors. She no longer 
 thought of Volodya, and she had no pity for herself. 
 Tall in her black dress, her face very weary, her back 
 against the wall, she looked wide-eyed and unfalteringly 
 at the door. Then she half closed her eyes, knit her dark 
 eyebrows, held her breath, raised the little revolver, and 
 placed the muzzle to her breast. 
 
 "It's all the same. All — all the same — " Her pale 
 lips whispered it for the last time. Without hesitating 
 a moment, she pulled the trigger. The air filled with 
 grey smoke. 
 
 When the colonel of gendarmes entered the room, his 
 sword clanking, and the officers ran in after him, Olga, 
 looking as if she were alive, lay on her back, her head 
 towards the window. Her eyes were closed, her hair 
 dishevelled, but there was no sign of blood. The re- 
 volver was on the floor, its muzzle still smoking.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MISIIA'S family learned of his death about 
 Christmas time through belated papers from 
 the capital. Nikolay Stepanovich locked 
 himself in his study, and stayed there without eating 
 or sleeping for three days. Driver Tikhon went to the 
 district town Zubkov for the doctor, but Nikolay Step- 
 anovich got angry, scolded Tikhon and Natasha, and 
 ordered them not to let "the fool of a doctor" cross the 
 threshold. Natasha, stifling her sobs, kept running on 
 tiptoe from her father's study to her mother's bedroom. 
 Tatyana Mikhailovna cried all night long, and in her 
 white night-gown, her hair in braids, kneeled for hours 
 at a time praying before the ikons with their burning 
 candles. She was growing grey and old and feeble in a 
 few hours. 
 
 The life of the house was disorganized. The maids 
 Lukerya and Sasha sat in their room yawning and doing 
 nothing. The manager, Aleksey Antonovieh, a bald, 
 stout, bearded fellow, would come, take off his cap, ask 
 in whispers about the health of the family, sigh in pity, 
 cross himself, and go back to his office, trying not to 
 make any noise with his squeaking boots. Malanya 
 Petrovna, the sharp-nosed housekeeper with mouse-like 
 eyes, ran about in her swishing, starched skirt, into the 
 maid's room, into the kitchen, the dining-room, the bed- 
 room, sighing, groaning, whispering, and begging Na- 
 tasha to take pity on her beauty and go to sleep. On 
 
 300
 
 What Never Happened 301 
 
 the fourth day came the pastor, Father Vasily, a good- 
 looking elderly man with thick red hair, and with him the 
 drunkard deacon Agafon. They filled the big colon- 
 naded reception room with the odour of incense, and 
 lighted thin waxen candles. Tatyana Mikhailovna wept 
 and beat her head on the floor, and Nikolay Stepauovich, 
 straight and haggard in his general's uniform, gazed in- 
 differently at the smoking censer and the deacon's little 
 beard. After that rite, life entered its accustomed 
 groove, and the gloomy days went on in slow procession. 
 But now Tatyana Mikliailovna 's back was bent, and Nik- 
 olay Stepanovich was more irritable and excitable than 
 ever. And, as usual, there was no letter from Audrey. 
 
 In May, when the lilies of the valley began to bloom 
 and the violets to turn blue, and the fields were covered 
 with pale green oats and winter grains, their oldest son, 
 Aleksandr, returned from his imprisonment in Japan. 
 His arrival enlivened the dead house, but did not lessen 
 the family grief. Often, as Tatyana ]\Iikhailovna looked 
 with motherly attention at his strong, sunburned face 
 with its forceful chin, straight black moustaches, blue 
 eyes with the ironical gleam in them, his broad shoulders 
 and slender, almost feminine hands and long fingers, 
 she would forget it was her oldest son. It would seem 
 to her that she was looking upon her eighteen year old 
 Misha, her ruddy, blue-eyed boy, so lively and unreason- 
 ingly happy. She would get up from the couch, and 
 without looking at Natasha, would go with uncertain 
 steps into her dark bedroom with its smeU of drugs, bow 
 low before the ikon, whisper her prayers, and then spend 
 the long night unable to sleep. 
 
 Nikolay Stepanovich would question his son excitedly 
 about details in regard to Rozhdestvcnsky, the flotilla,
 
 302 What Never Happened 
 
 the Japanese, the battle of Tsu Shima, cursing the gov- 
 ernment and the revolutionists, recalling the victorious 
 past, the Turkish campaign, Skobelev, Sheinovo, and the 
 Green Mountains, and proudly pointing to the cross of 
 St. George that decorated his breast. 
 
 Aleksandr listened in attentive silence, without 
 criticism, but also without approval, as if not daring to 
 argue with his father. Externally he appeared the 
 same as always, quiet and inscrutable, saying little, but 
 kind and simple. And neither Tatyana Mikhailovna nor 
 Nikolay Stepanovich noticed the change in him, that in- 
 definable new something which, though he was afraid to 
 admit it even to himself, had haunted him ever since the 
 battle of Tsu Shima. 
 
 Natasha could often see him from her window in his 
 white coat and black cap, pacing the garden for hours 
 at a time, with his hands clasped behind his back. He 
 seemed to be thinking about something important and 
 pressing. Trying in vain to find some solution, she 
 would join him silently, with her customary inbred shy- 
 ness, and walk at his side, a thin, fair-haired figure in 
 her white dress and shawl. Aleksandr, seeing her, 
 would frown, as if trying to chase away his irritating 
 thoughts, and would start a conversation about some- 
 thing familiar and near — about mother, father, ]\Ialanya 
 l*etrovna, about the wind breaking a rosebush in the 
 garden, about the paths being overgrown with grass, 
 about the fading of the lilacs — and after a pause, would 
 invite her to go driving. She would look into his cold 
 pale-blue eyes, and then obediently order Tikhon to 
 harness the horses. 
 
 Sometimes Nikolay Stepanovich could not restrain 
 himself, and in his painful yearning for Audrey he
 
 What Never HaxDpened 303 
 
 would begin to talk long and excitedly about traitors, 
 "the long-haired ones," the "disrespectful sons," "the 
 new sort of people," saying there was no love for the 
 Fatherland, no obedience to authority, no fear of God, 
 and the revolution ought to be put an end to. Nobody 
 contradicted him. Tatyana ]\Iikhailovna silently shook 
 her grey head, Natasha looked pleadingly and fear- 
 fully at her angry father, and Aleksandr maintained 
 his puzzling silence and supported the conversation so 
 unwillingly that Nikolay Stepanovich once looked at him 
 severely and said : 
 
 "^Tiy are you silent, Aleksandr? Don't you agree 
 with me?" 
 
 "Agree about what, Papasha?" 
 
 Nikolay Stepanovich got up, tall and heavy, with the 
 ruddiness of a sturdy old age in his cheeks, and said, 
 choking with indignation : 
 
 "I speak about those persons, about the gentlemen 
 revolutionists, about the revolts, about Potiomkin, about 
 OchaJcov, about the Memory of Azov, about the uprising 
 — and where? — in Moscow. Just think! In Moscow!" 
 he ended with a childish, helpless sob. ' * About the scan- 
 dalous murders, yes, the murders. About the fact that' 
 Russia is perishing ! ' ' 
 
 "I don't know about these things, Papasha," said 
 Aleksandr turning towards the window. 
 
 "You don't know? You don't know? And what 
 happened in Japan? What happened in Japan? In 
 Japan, in the presence of Japanese soldiers, who were 
 reading booklets, who were spreading propaganda, with- 
 out any sense of shame, any remorse ? You yourself told 
 me about it. Or didn't you? No?" 
 
 "Yes, you're right. I did,"
 
 304 What Never Happened 
 
 "Well, there, there, you see? And you tell me, j-ou 
 don't know about these things. What are you? Aren't 
 you an officer of the Russian navy? Aren't you a de- 
 fender of the Fatherland? Or perhaps it's all the same 
 to you? Let Russia perish. Let Misha — " Here 
 Nikolay Stepanovich sobbed again, "Let j\Iisha — how's 
 that? Whose fault is it?" 
 
 Natasha stretched out her hands in alarm. Tatyana 
 ]\Iikhailovna got up from the couch and slowly left the 
 room. Aleksandr thought a minute, then smiling in a 
 conciliatory manner, said: 
 
 "It all is really terrible, Papasha." 
 
 "Well, that's just what I say," the old man hastily 
 put in, looking forlornly around the room. "That's 
 just what I say. It's really terrible — terrible! And 
 whose fault is it? Whose?" 
 
 In September Aleksandr 's leave of absence was over. 
 The days were clear and soundless, spiderwebs spread 
 over the harvested fields, and the hounds began to bay 
 and the hunting horn to blow in the j-ellow linden woods. 
 Aleksandr was spending his last days hunting, but 
 evenings he would join the family in the billiard room. 
 The wind would whistle outside, the birches rustle 
 noisily. Natasha would be busy at the samovar; the 
 room would be quiet, light, but rather sad. 
 
 Father Vasily, the good-looking priest, would come 
 in his brown robe, sit in the low arm-chair, drink tea 
 with cognac and sigh. Tatyana Mikhailovna would sew, 
 while father and son would play a game of billiards. 
 
 On Sunday evening Nikolay Stepanovich and Alek- 
 sandr were playing a game together. In his unbut- 
 toned coat covered with chalk, a big, ruddy figure of a 
 man, Nikolay Stepanovich bent over the table, took aim
 
 "What Never Happened 305 
 
 with his hand, wrinkled but still sure, and struck. The 
 ball fell into the pocket. 
 
 *' How's that?" He turned with a bashfully trium- 
 phant smile to his son, and began to chalk his cue. 
 
 "You're playing a splendid game, your excellency," 
 said Father Vasily in a quiet drawl, fingering the cross 
 on his breast. "Even the young folks are no match 
 for you." 
 
 Aleksandr bowed. His playing was so consistently 
 poor that Natasha guessed he was losing on purpose, and 
 nodded to him in gratitude, but meeting his quiet eyes, 
 she flushed and looked down. Father Vasily coughed 
 respectfully, turned to Tatyana IMikhailovna, and con- 
 tinued to converse with her in a low voice. 
 
 "And you will hardly believe me, mother Tatyana 
 Mikhailovna, he has gone all wrong. He is good for 
 nothing, that peasant. Doesn't go to church, pays no 
 respect to the priest, and is insulting. The other day 
 I was coming from Kurbatov. I had just turned into 
 the big road, and there I saw Vanka the shepherd — " 
 
 "Which one is that?" asked Nikolay Stepanovich, tak- 
 ing aim with his cue and keeping his eyes on the green 
 lamplighted table. "The lame one?" 
 
 "The same, the same, your excellency. The lame 
 one. And what do you think? Eh?" Father Vasily 
 stopped, raised his bushy eyebrows, and clasped his 
 hands indignantly. "I hardly dare tell you. He was 
 standing in the middle of the road and, excuse me, was 
 committing a nuisance. I began to talk to him, to re- 
 proach him. 'Really,' said I, 'can't you see that your 
 spiritual father is riding by?' And, imagine, he 
 laughed out aloud, and said something. I can't repeat 
 it."
 
 306 AVhat Never Happened 
 
 Tatyana Mikhailovna did not raise her head. Nik- 
 olay Stepanovich struck the ball with his cue. 
 
 "And what did he say, the scoundrel?" 
 
 "He said, your excellency," Father Vasily almost 
 shouted, red with anger, "he said, 'Get out, while you're 
 all there, you long-haired one!' That's what he said. 
 How do you like it?" 
 
 "He ought to be hanged," said Nikolay Stepanovich 
 in a hoarse voice, growing red in the face. Aleksandr 
 cast his eyes down and lighted a cigarette. For a mo- 
 ment silence reigned in the room. Only the sound of 
 the samovar and the rustling of the leaves outside could 
 be heard. 
 
 "Some one's coming," said Natasha, rising and going 
 out on to the porch. 
 
 Outside the dogs were barking furiously, the long- 
 haired watch-dog Sharik in short barks, and Misha's 
 favourite dog Vesta in a thin, sustained howl. There 
 was no sound of wheels, but the voices of peasants could 
 be heard outside distinctly, and lights were seen twink- 
 ling among the trees. Then the gates creaked and a 
 door banged. Natasha returned with a telegram. 
 
 "Audrey arrested. Trial Thursday. Come at once. 
 Counsel Ikonnikov." 
 
 Father Vasily hastily picked up his wide-brimmed hat, 
 and stole out of the room without taking leave. The 
 dogs kept up their barking.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 CELL No. 17, where Bolotov was confined, was a 
 high, gloomy room of solid old-fashioned con- 
 struction. The narrow, grated window looked 
 out upon a high grey wall, from which the plaster had 
 scaled exposing the brick. Here and there, between the 
 red bricks, green moss showed, and on the top of the 
 wall, at the very edge, hung a pale bluebell. The sun 
 never penetrated into the fortress. It was always dark, 
 quiet and damp. The death-like stillness exhausted 
 Bolotov on the very first day. 
 
 He was sound asleep, when the iron bolt clattered, 
 the key clicked in the lock, and two soldiers tramped 
 into the cell. One of them, an old gendarme with a 
 shaking white head, Bolotov had seen before. When he 
 had been brought to the fortress in his blood-stained 
 jacket, wounded and beaten, and had come to conscious- 
 ness on the cold damp floor of the prison corridor, for a 
 moment not knowing where he was, it was this gendarme 
 who had helped him up and brought him some hot tea. 
 The other was a corporal, lean and tall, with a wiry 
 neck and a dull gloomy face. He came close to the cot, 
 and bent over Bolotov. His breath smelled of vodka and 
 tobacco. 
 
 "Dress!" he said gruffly. 
 
 Bolotov was seized by an unpleasant, even painful 
 feeling. What pained him was not that the door was 
 locked, that gendarmes were on guard, that armed 
 
 307
 
 308 What Never Happened 
 
 strangers were around him though he was undressed and 
 had no desire to see them, and that the trial was sched- 
 uled for that day. He felt unpleasant because the 
 soldier was angry and gruff, and his eyes wicked and 
 haughty. 
 
 "It's in their interest, and they don't understand. 
 They don't want to understand." Bolotov heaved a 
 sigh as he put on his jacket and thought of the coming 
 trial. Though he knew he would surely be convicted, it 
 seemed improbable that this day, Thursday, officers un- 
 known to him yet clothed with authority, would hold a 
 short discussion concerning himself as a mere matter of 
 form and would then render a verdict, that is, would an- 
 nounce and have it put on record that he must be killed. 
 
 "They'll hang me. Funny." Bolotov smiled, and 
 began to rehearse the speech he had so carefully pre- 
 pared. Here behind the prison bars, in the solitude of 
 soundless night, he forgot all insults and differences of 
 opinion. Now Arseny Ivanovich, Doctor Berg, Vera 
 Andreyevna, the squad, the committee, the whole Party 
 were all one family to him sharing a life of common in- 
 terests, and he was in duty bound, not only to die 
 ungrudgingly, but also to bear witness to the strength 
 of the family. These thoughts gave him courage. In 
 them he found solace, and in the conviction that he was 
 doing his duty. So he repeated to himself the words he 
 was going to say at his trial, among the "bitter enemies," 
 * * in the enemy 's camp, ' ' with one foot in the grave. He 
 got up and looked at the soldiers, a challenge in his eyes. 
 The tall corporal had the same haughty expression. The 
 old gendarme shook his head. 
 
 "Mister, you forgot your cap." 
 
 In the dark, resounding corridor stood a platoon of
 
 What Never Happened 309 
 
 soldiers of the guard, with guns and attached bayonets. 
 The corridor smelled of barracks, cheap tobacco, and 
 sweat. A young officer with a silver belt tinkled his 
 sword. 
 
 "March!" he cried, without looking at Bolotov. 
 
 The soldiers started in measured steps, their heavy 
 tread resounding in the corridor. At that moment it 
 came to Bolotov that his speech would be unconvincing 
 and superfluous. All these men, from the erect officer 
 down to the awkward soldier walking at his right, who 
 were throwing indifferent glances at him, were doing 
 their customary, boring, sickening work. For them he 
 was not Bolotov, not a member of the Party, not an 
 emancipator of Russia, not the murderer of the hateful 
 prosecutor, but one of those governmental objects which 
 they are obliged to watch, to take care of, to accompany 
 to the bath-house and to the court, and to hand over on 
 the issuance of a warrant. Should he be hanged tomor- 
 row, he would be forgotten, not only by the trained 
 soldiers, but also by the Supritkins, Strelovs, and Por- 
 firyches, and perhaps even by Arseny Ivanovich, Doctor 
 Berg and Vera Andreyevna. With bent head he fol- 
 lowed them obediently to court. 
 
 Previously when he had thought of arrest and trial, 
 he had fancied it something great and terrible, some- 
 thing that one must prepare oneself for diligently and 
 prayerfully, something that would exact superhuman 
 strength and would serve as a measure of life. But 
 prison, arrest, and the tiresome expectation of death he 
 found w^ere simpler, more colourless and more uninter- 
 esting than they were conceived to be and written about. 
 Fortress-like walls covered with moss, a solitary bell- 
 flower, a stone floor, an opening in the door, dinner at
 
 310 What Never Happened 
 
 twelve 'clock, a decrepit gendarme with a shaking head, 
 a young sub-lieutenant, marching soldiers. It was all 
 so simple, so much like barracks, so devoid of solemnity 
 and brilliancy that one could not think of being afraid 
 of it. Only it was rather strange and unpleasant to be 
 led along a dusty corridor between twinkling bayonets 
 and have somebody dispose of his life. But even this 
 feeling gave him no fear. 
 
 Again the iron lock snapped. Bolotov was led into 
 a clean five-cornered yard, paved, and with a little 
 flower bed. He caught sight of the blue sky, the cold 
 sun, and he heard the twittering of sparrows. He felt 
 a longing for liberty, as one feels a longing for fields in 
 the spring. He felt lonesome and sad. He was seized 
 by a desire to see the Neva, Vanya, and Ippolit, the 
 window of the tobacco store, and the noisy Liteiny Pros- 
 pect. But his desire died as quickly as it had come. 
 The soldiers halted before an unpainted oak door, and an 
 officer called: 
 
 "Attention!" 
 
 The trial was held in a low room with a portrait of 
 the Czar on the wall and a big green table. Bolotov sat 
 on a bench. To his right and left the soldiers stood 
 erect. The one with the round indifferent face kept on 
 looking at him. In the corner near the door sat the 
 colonel of gendarmes writing rapidly. The room was 
 quiet. Only a fly was buzzing and the pen squeaked. 
 
 "Quicker! Quicker!" thought Bolotov with irrita- 
 tion. Then he recalled what had happened the day be- 
 fore. His mother had entered his cell, and a colonel of 
 gendarmes, who smelled of perfume, had obligingly of- 
 fered her a chair. Bolotov saw her, grey and old, in a 
 black scarf, stretching out her weak hands. Her breast
 
 \ 
 
 What Never Happened 311 
 
 began to tremble. Natasha breathed heavily, and he, 
 forlorn and stifling sobs, without knowing what to say, 
 kept repeating one short phrase: "Don't cry, don't 
 cry, don't cry." But the colonel made a noise with his 
 sword and boomed: "The visit is over. Take him 
 away. ' ' At the recollection of this Bolotov felt a rage of 
 indignation. "Oh, the scoundrels! Scoundrels!" he 
 muttered, panting. 
 
 The soldier with the round face thumped his gun on 
 the floor and looked at him perplexed. 
 
 "Yes, of course, scoundrels. And Sliozkin? Didn't 
 Sliozkin's wife cry? Didn't she plead at my feet? 
 Didn't she kiss my feet in mortal anguish? Didn't she 
 plead for mercy? Oh, it's all the same." He made a 
 despairing motion with his head. "Let them try me." 
 
 "Audrey Nikolayevich. " 
 
 Bolotov raised his eyes. Ikonnikov, with a clean- 
 shaven, worn, yellowish face and in a black frock-coat 
 with a portfolio under his ami, shook his hand affec- 
 tionately : 
 
 "There have been cases — don't feel embarrassed, my 
 angel. The Party looks up to you. What, the Party? 
 The whole of Eussia! And perhaps — where doesn't the 
 devil take a hand ? I don't want to give you false hopes, 
 but there have been cases — once, I remember, in 
 Odessa — " 
 
 Bolotov smiled. 
 
 * ' What for, cher maitre ? Didn 't you yourself say we 
 lie from morning till night — ha?" 
 
 Ikonnikov adjusted his pence-nez, 
 
 " True, my angel, true. And it's no use talking. The 
 tongue really has no bones. Rosenstern sends you greet- 
 ings." Then he began to whisper hurriedly in a
 
 312 What Never Happened 
 
 changed voice: "The impression is great, colossal! 
 Ah, my dear man, Andrey Nikolayevich. Ah — " He 
 shook off a tear furtively. Bolotov made no reply. 
 
 * ' The court is coming ! Rise ! Hats off ! " 
 
 Through wide-open side doors the judges filed in. 
 First came a grey general of imposing figure, in a tight- 
 fitting uniform, swaying as he walked and knitting his 
 heavy brows. He tried to look solemn, stern and impar- 
 tial. But his tired, good-natured eyes and the uncertain 
 motions of his large red hands showed that he was pre- 
 occupied with his own interests and it made no difference 
 to him whom and for what he would try. He was fol- 
 lowed by a short round man with a little flaxen beard 
 and a military uniform, wearing glasses and a cross of 
 St. George on his breast. The third judge was lean, 
 bony, and long-legged. He had the gruff face of an 
 official, and, as Bolotov noted, he wore a gold bracelet 
 on his wrist. 
 
 Their slow quiet motions revealed to Bolotov that to 
 them, too, he was merely a governmental object and the 
 trial — an act of mercy and justice — was merely an every 
 day event that rather bored them. The speech he had 
 prepared would appear degrading and ridiculous. 
 Before it had seemed out of place and pitiful. 
 
 "Anyway, the verdict has been fixed already. And 
 why is Ikonnikov here?" he thought with exasperation. 
 " If I'm to be hanged, then let them hang me ! There is 
 no need to talk." 
 
 The grey judge, who presided, coughed, looked up ab- 
 sentmindedly at the high ceiling, and said : 
 
 "Your name, surname, and title?" 
 
 Bolotov made no answer. The judge closed his eyes 
 and repeated the question. Receiving no response again,
 
 What Never Happened 313 
 
 he looked indifferently at Bolotov and bent over to the 
 little judge. Ikonnikov, pale, excited, and angry, whis- 
 pered pleadingly: 
 
 "AVhat are you doing? Answer! Answer!" 
 
 * * You don 't care to answer ? ' ' asked the general drily 
 and contemptuously. Bolotov nodded. The colonel of 
 gendarmes winked, adjusted his silver shoulder-knot, and 
 began to write hurriedly. 
 
 While the uglj^, pock-marked secretary of the high- 
 sounding name Caruso read the charge, swallowing the 
 words, Bolotov did not once look at the judges. He was 
 seized by a feeling of hatred. It was not important to 
 him by whom he was being tried, what the verdict would 
 be, and what the counsel would say; whether he would 
 be hanged or not, and how many more hours he had yet 
 to live ; or what the Party would think, and Russia, Ar- 
 seny Ivanovich, Vanya, and the committee. One thing 
 was important, that he, Bolotov, a free man, had been 
 brought there forcibly by armed men, into that dark 
 hall where Caruso was reading, where some judges were 
 sitting, a gendarme was writing hurriedly, and rifles 
 were shining. He felt like shouting that nobody, neither 
 the presiding judge, nor his associates, nor the soldiers, 
 nor the young officer, nor the ministers had the right to 
 kill him, a free man. He clenched his teeth, the colour 
 rushed from his cheeks, and he wrung his fists. 
 
 The prosecutor was saying something uninteresting 
 and incoherent, the secretary was muttering something, 
 and the associate judges were whispering to each other. 
 Bolotov heard nothing. He gathered all his conscious 
 will power for one purpose, not to shout, not to say in- 
 sulting words, to bear the trial with dignity. 
 
 The presiding judge made an effort to get up from his
 
 314 WHat Never Happened 
 
 chair and read the verdict in a solemn voice, accenting 
 the words. Ikonnikov lost his composure, the soldiers 
 straightened up, and Bolotov, without looking at the 
 judges, turned and with a firm step, followed the young 
 officer out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN Bolotov returned to his cell, No. 17, 
 and had changed his clothes for the blue 
 prison garb and had put on the high wooden- 
 soled prison slippers, and the gendarmes had gone out 
 with a loud bang of the door, he walked slowly to the 
 grated window and looked out, trying to get a glimpse 
 of the sun, but in vain. The only things to be seen were 
 the gloomy cracked wall, the red spots of bricks, and the 
 bell-flower with its quivering transparent petals. The 
 wind must have been blowing. 
 
 "A bell-flower! And down on our estate there are 
 many flowers," Bolotov thought, and his heart began to 
 pound. He was seized by a desire to see his mother and 
 father, and sister, and Sasha's quiet, pale blue eyes for 
 only one minute. *'Sasha! Where is Sasha? Mamma 
 says he is here in St. Petersburg, and sends me kisses. 
 Sasha kisses me?" he whispered, on the verge of tears. 
 But the tears did not come. The little opening in the 
 door winked like an eye, and an unseen some one kept 
 watching through it, long and curiously. "Oh, the 
 scoundrels, scoundrels! What do they want?" Bolo- 
 tov dropped his head and began to pace the cell. 
 
 "What was I thinking of a while ago ? Oh, yes, about 
 Sliozkin and the judges. I killed and I shall be killed. 
 One who has raised the sword shall perish by the sword. 
 Will they really kiU me ? Me? Today? Kill? What 
 does the word mean? Kill? They'll lead me out of the 
 cage, and like a sheep — like a sheep — No ! ' ' 
 
 315
 
 316 What Never Happened 
 
 "And I prayed to the image of Christ, 
 And I made low bows to all sides. 
 Pray, forgive me, oh, people of God, 
 And say prayers for my sins, 
 For my big, heavy sins! 
 And I had no time to look at the people 
 Before they cut my wild head off, 
 Down to the very powerful shoulders." 
 
 He recalled the words that he had read somewhere, 
 and suddenly felt relieved. 
 
 "I'm not the only one, not the first nor the last. 
 Seriozha and Zheliabov, and Pestel, and Pugachov, and 
 Stenka Razin. Why Stenka Razin? What have I in 
 common with Stenka Razin? 'Pray for my sins.* 
 But nobody will pray. And I? Can I pray? I can't 
 and I don't want to. Don't want to, don't want to. If 
 life is so made that a helpless man can be strangled, that 
 conscience can be violated, then I have no one to pray to. 
 No one. I don't want to," he whispered in passion and 
 indignation. He lay down on his cot. Far above in 
 the chapel, the bells, out of tune, struck six o'clock, and 
 when their last sound had died out in the fortress bas- 
 tions, they began to play the hymn, "The Glory of 
 God" sadly and solemnly. "Great is the glory of our 
 God in Zion, ' ' Bolotov began to sing in a low voice, care- 
 fully separating the words. * ' ' There is no speech, there 
 are no words. He is great in Heaven on his throne.' 
 And the judges? I hate them, yes, I hate them." 
 
 Again the opening winked and the sound of steps was 
 heard. 
 
 "Already?" Bolotov jumped up from his cot and 
 felt his cheeks begin to bum feverishly. His mouth be- 
 came dry.
 
 What Never Happened 317 
 
 *'No, impossible! Why, it's only six o'clock. He is 
 great in the blades of grass on earth. God, is it really? 
 Already?" 
 
 The iron-sheathed door opened with a rumble, the blue 
 uniform of a gendarme gleamed in the corridor, and into 
 the cell came a tall, well-built, very young gentleman in a 
 black frock-coat. Bolotov noticed his white face, big 
 nose, curly beard, diamond rings, and gold chain on his 
 belly. The gentleman fixed his grey, kind, nearsighted 
 eyes upon Bolotov, on his unbuttoned prison coat, and 
 his prison shoes, and smiled in an encouraging, friendly 
 manner. He nodded his head condescendingly. 
 
 "Andrey Bolotov? Let me introduce myself. Assis- 
 tant to the Minister, Count Beloselsky. Close the door, ' ' 
 he ordered the sentry in a commanding, almost gruff 
 voice. "They're eavesdropping, the rascals. Are you 
 comfortable here? It isn't damp? Not too dark?" 
 
 Bolotov looked at him in amazement, not believing his 
 own ears and fearful for his sanity as he heard the 
 courteous words. It was curious and uncanny and 
 rather disgusting; and he wished this big stranger who 
 was perhaps kind and genial, would hurry up and say 
 all he had to say. "Will they pardon me? Yes?" 
 went through his mind, and his knees trembled. 
 
 "Well, then, I'll get down to business. You see, I 
 came to you at the request of his High Excellency, the 
 Minister. Taking into consideration the great services 
 rendered by your father, the much-respected Nikolay 
 Stepanovich, and yielding to his entreaties, the J\Iinister 
 has agreed to intercede with the Emperor for mercy." 
 Count Beloselsky stopped and paused impressively. 
 Looking at Bolotov encouragingly, he waited for a reply. 
 But Bolotov kept gazing gloomily at the floor, and his
 
 318 What Never Happened 
 
 thin face with its compressed lips gave no sign of what 
 he was thinking. His knees were still trembling, and 
 his head was in a whirl. Count Beloselsky stopped 
 smiling. 
 
 "Yes, with the highest authority. I am happy I can 
 give you this information. Only, you see — " He took 
 a paper out of his pocket. "Only, you must sign your 
 name here. A mere formality. Have you got pen and 
 ink? Hey, who's there? Pen and ink! Hurry!" 
 
 Bolotov's cheeks flushed a dull red and his mouth 
 grew dry. "They want to disgrace me. To disgrace 
 the squad!" Bolotov thought, and answered firmly: 
 
 "I thank you. I will not sign the paper." 
 
 The Count thought a moment; 
 
 "Listen, Andrey Nikolayevich. What are jon trying 
 to do? You're ruining yourself — irreparably. You 
 are young, your life is still ahead of you. If you don't 
 care about yourself, think of your parents. What grief 
 you're causing them! Think of your mother." 
 
 At the mention of his mother and father, Bolotov, feel- 
 ing he could no longer control himself, raised harassed 
 eyes, saying: 
 
 * ' I beg of you — yes, I beg of you, leave me alone, and 
 — and — and — don't speak of my mother. I — I — beg 
 you to go away. Will you, please? Please go, and im- 
 mediately, this very moment, you hear me? Get out of 
 here ! ' ' His shouts became shriller and louder. Two 
 gendarmes with clanging spurs appeared at the door. 
 Count Beloselsky shrugged his shoulders and left the 
 cell. 
 
 When the sound of steps died away, Bolotov lay face 
 downward on his pallet, drawing his cloak about him 
 and trying not to think. It was growing dark, and the
 
 What Never Happened 319 
 
 lights were not yet lit, and it was still, so still, and the 
 pounding of his temples seemed like heavy footsteps. 
 And so he lay motionless in the dark, without thought, 
 or words, or hope, but only in overwhelming agony of 
 spirit till the chimes sounded the evening prayers. 
 They came to him indistinctly stifled by the walls of the 
 fortress. And then he heard singing. 
 
 Bolotov sat up, his palms resting on his knees, and 
 his head bowed. He was not thinking. He was utterly, 
 painfully tired, and felt a great desire to fall asleep. 
 He made an attempt to sleep, but the electric light was 
 suddenly turned on, and he blinked his eyes. On the 
 moment he recalled everything that had been haunting 
 him the last few days, and tried in vain to forget. It 
 was not his childhood, nor his mother, nor father, nor 
 relatives, nor the barricades, nor the committee, nor the 
 troops, nor the day of the convention, when he had de- 
 termined on his way of life — when he had resolved to 
 kill and to die; but it was the Liteiny Prospect, the 
 blood-covered pavements, the shattered carriage, the 
 half-naked driver, and the round, glassy surprised-look- 
 ing eye. And for the first time since he had been fight- 
 ing with death, he realized, not with his mind, but with 
 his conscience, that it was not merely a hateful old man 
 who had been killed, but also an innocent human being, 
 full of life and vigour, killed not by the committee, not 
 by the Party, not by Russia, but by him and him alone. 
 "When trees are felled, the chips fly," he muttered 
 through his teeth, and immediately felt the meaning- 
 lessness of his self-justification. And as from a high 
 mountain one can see the great steppe in the distance, 
 with here and there the roofs of scattered houses, the 
 contented herds with their shepherds, and beyond the
 
 320 What Never Happened 
 
 river glistening in the sun woods and the ripe fields of 
 grain, so did Bolotov on the eve of his execution see 
 many things that had been hidden from him all his life. 
 He saw that even death of one's own choosing cannot 
 act as redemption for murder, that a murderer cannot 
 redeem himself even with his own blood, and if kill one 
 must and may, then it is impossible and unnecessary to 
 seek for justification. He saw that he had had to kill, 
 and that neither articles about the use of terror, nor 
 hatred, nor love, nor revenge, nor anger had made him 
 raise his sword, but that a higher unknown force, mil- 
 lions of causes and hundreds of bygone years had 
 brought him to commit murder. And he also saw — and 
 this was the most valuable thing — that it was more dif- 
 ficult to kill than to die, and he was happy to under- 
 stand that death was desirable and not terrifying. He 
 felt no remorse and no regret, but only a clear, quiet 
 feeling, peaceful as deep waters. **I have killed and I 
 shall be killed. All are right and all are wrong. There 
 are no innocent and no guilty ones. There are two 
 mortal, thousand-year-old enemies, and nobody on earth 
 can act as judge over them. It is not given to us to 
 know. But even on the eve of death, before I breathe 
 my last, here where no one can see me and no one can 
 hear me, I, Audrey Bolotov, sentenced to death by hang- 
 ing, say and say it with solemn faith, 'Long live Lib- 
 erty, long live the great Russian people ! ' " 
 
 Bolotov did not notice that the evening had passed 
 and night had come. He did not lie down but paced the 
 room without resting, stumbling in his long prison 
 clothes. He thought of nothing, only felt he had no 
 fear in his heart, and so was happy. It was late, the 
 clock struck three, but all was quiet in the corridor.
 
 What Never Happened 321 
 
 "Is it possible that I shall live tomorrow? All day! 
 My God, all day ! " he asked himself with a secret hope, 
 and suddenly stopped. Far away at the other end of 
 the corridor he heard a noise. It came nearer and grew 
 louder. It was clear that many people were coming to 
 him in the night, and that immediately the thing would 
 take place which he could never imagine, that inexplic- 
 able and terrible thing which a moment ago he had not 
 feared, but even desired. "They? Yes, they," he 
 whispered, as a cold sweat broke out over his whole 
 body, and suddenly bending like a cat, he jumped to 
 the wall and seized hold of his cot with all his strength. 
 He did not notice the entry of the colonel of gendarmes, 
 nor did he notice how white his face was, how timid the 
 motions of his men. He did not know what they said 
 to him, did not see the grey uniforms, the priest, gen- 
 darmes, and a broad-shouldered, hairy man in a red 
 blouse. He came to himself when he was already in the 
 paved yard, in the midst of a faded flowerbed, in the 
 corner near a water-pipe. Above him was the endless, 
 black, star-filled sky, the Big Dipper and the Milky 
 "Way split in two. The air was cold. Around him were 
 people, very many people. They stood in a huddled, 
 frightened crowd and looked with fixed eyes straight 
 into his own. And, as he caught their look, Bolotov 
 waved his cap, and without hesitation, without believing 
 himself, he went up the platform. The hairy hangman 
 in the red blouse threw the shroud over him and tight- 
 ened the noose. The clock struck five.
 
 PART THREE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AUTUMN passed, then winter, and the spring 
 days came again, and blood was still being 
 spilled, and the sanguinary battle of brother 
 against brother was not yet over. The government was 
 still trying, hanging, and shooting, and sending puni- 
 tive expeditions. The revolutionists were still plotting 
 uprisings, printing proclamations, organizing the "Work- 
 men's Party and throwing bombs at ministers. But to 
 every one, officials, students, and Party members, troop- 
 ers and soldiers, what they had not seen before was now 
 clear, that the revolution had lost its force and the gov- 
 ernment was victorious. Numberless arrests followed. 
 Arrests were as steady now as autumn rain. The po- 
 lice seemed to know everything, the most secret secrets 
 of the Party. In December Ippolit was suddenly ar- 
 rested on the street in St. Petersburg and a month later 
 was hanged. The Union of the Army was destroyed. 
 The sailors of the Guard were seized and shot. A stu- 
 dent who had come from Moscow and was known only 
 to Doctor Berg and Rosenstern was arrested with a 
 bomb in his hands. A collection of ammunition beyond 
 the Nevsky Prospect was discovered and confiscated. 
 
 These symptoms were disquieting to the comrades. 
 Rosenstern knitted his brows and refused to answer any 
 questions. Vera Andreye\'na grew thinner and yel- 
 
 322
 
 What Never Happened 323 
 
 lower, and complained of the lack of secrecy and disci- 
 pline. Arseny Ivanovich sighed, shook his grey head, 
 and said by way of consolation: "Never mind, bene- 
 factors, it happens. Broken dishes last for centuries." 
 Yet all of them, Gruzdiev, Rosenstern, Vera Andrey- 
 evna, Zalkind, and Arseny Ivanovich, had a feeling that 
 treachery was lurking nearby, perhaps in their very 
 midst, in the committee. The most awful thing was not 
 to be able to discover it. 
 
 The enormous Party, scattered throughout Russia, 
 only recently so terrifying and so faith-inspiring, was 
 losing its strength, just as a beast hunted by dogs be- 
 comes weak and powerless. This weakness, this fore- 
 boding of defeat, manifested itself not only on the sur- 
 face, in the committee, but in every city, in every work- 
 men's circle, in every student's group, in eveiy little 
 organization, in every detail of daily life. The ** Dis- 
 trict Republics ' ' existed no more, the numerous meetings 
 took place no more. There were no strikes. There were 
 no spontaneous, unplanned assassinations. On the con- 
 trary, gendarmes were everywhere, and they made ar- 
 rests without cause and without discrimination. The 
 machine was running unevenly, and the bond that 
 united the comrades was wearing away. Somewhere in 
 the Party, in its distant branches, timid voices were 
 heard saying there was treachery in the committee and 
 some one had sold out the defeated revolution. But the 
 rumours were indistinct and unsupported. The commit- 
 tee knew of them, but did not dare to believe them. 
 
 Aleksandr Bolotov entered the Party in November. 
 On returning from imprisonment in Japan in the sum- 
 mer, he had already made up his mind he must no longer 
 serve in the army. To do so, he felt, would be to com-
 
 324 What Never Happened 
 
 mit an irreparable, unpardonable mistake. He himself 
 could not have told just when the profound change took 
 place that made a terrorist of him, whether it was in 
 Libau at the sailing of the fleet, or in Nosibe when Nob- 
 ogatov arrived, or on the Yellow Sea, when they were 
 waiting for the Japanese or in prison in Kioto. Every 
 day of the painful campaign he lived in thoughts of his 
 fatherland, of Russia, of her unheard-of disgrace. He 
 saw thousands of vigorous youths inspired by love for 
 their Czar, giving their lives ungrudgingly in defence 
 of the flag of Audrey. Nevertheless Russia was beaten, 
 disgraced, ruined ; the greatest sacrifices had been made 
 in vain. Drop by drop, like a slow poison, the stunning 
 belief distilled itself into him that his duty was to fight 
 for his Fatherland, but not on the ocean, not at the can- 
 non, but at home, in the midst of the Party struggling 
 for "land and freedom." It was not an idle attraction, 
 a thoughtless fascination, which takes hold of weak, dis- 
 satisfied people in certain decisive moments. It was a 
 ripe determination to die for the people, a determina- 
 tion bought with blood, a conviction that he could not 
 live without serving Russia. "When he learned of Aud- 
 rey's arrest, he left for St. Petersburg with his mother 
 and Natasha. In St. Petersburg he found Rosenstern, 
 who received him with open arms. 
 
 It was towards the end of April that Aleksandr was 
 for the first time invited to a meeting of the committee. 
 He was not overjoyed, nor did he consider it a great 
 honour that he, a recent officer and a new-comer in the 
 Party, should be initiated into Party secrets. The pro- 
 cedure seemed natural and proper. He was risking his 
 life for the Party, therefore he should have a share in 
 the discussion of questions of importance.
 
 What Never Happened 325 
 
 The same representative members of the intangible 
 committee met at Valabuyev's house on the Kammenoos- 
 trovsky Prospect as had met there a year and two years 
 before. They were all on hand, as if there had been no 
 revolution, no scaffolds, no terror, no uprisings, and no 
 prisons. Aleksandr looked at them with respect. He 
 believed he was looking upon the general staff — that 
 mysterious managing staff which knew of no military 
 honours, no red tape, no envy, no competition, and no 
 disgraceful intrigue. And he was happy in the thought 
 that he was serving a just, dignified cause, hand in hand 
 with brave, well-tried people. 
 
 When Valabuyev turned his back and his red neck 
 and left the room on tiptoe, closing the heavy door 
 behind him, Doctor Berg began in a dry, matter-of-fact 
 voice : 
 
 *' Messieurs, we have gathered today to discuss an im- 
 portant, I may say, an exceptionally important matter. 
 You know that lately many arrests have taken place, 
 and under circumstances that arouse suspicion. I draw 
 no conclusions. I am merely pointing out a fact. Yes- 
 terday I received the following letter:" 
 
 He paused, reached out his long white hand, and took 
 a crumpled sheet from the table. The big room with its 
 pictures and velvet rugs was filled with people. On 
 the couch, under a portrait of Tolstoy, sat Rosenstern, 
 with half-closed eyes and head thrown back on the 
 cushion. His sharp Jewish face with its curly little 
 beard was quiet and stern, as if he knew exactly what 
 Doctor Berg was about to say. Arseny Ivanovich was 
 leaning his elbows on the embroidered cloth of the table. 
 His bowed head and the veins standing out on his neck 
 were signs that he was sorely distressed. The faces of
 
 326 What Never Happened 
 
 Zalkind, Vera Andreyevna, Aliosha Gruzdiev and the 
 others unknown to Aleksandr expressed curiosity and 
 that peculiar feverish excitement which seizes people 
 when faced by a sudden, unavoidable calamity. Doctor 
 Berg wiped his glasses carefully and began to read : 
 
 "Comrades! There is a provocateur among you. 
 He exposed the terrorist known by the name of Ippolit, 
 he gave information about the concealing of ammunition 
 beyond the Nevsky Prospect, he made known the pres- 
 ence of Arkady Kosenstem in St. Petersburg, he re- 
 vealed the headquarters of the committee. Take care. 
 Expect many arrests. Search for the provocateur near 
 you. Burn this letter. Your well-wisher." 
 
 Doctor Berg stopped and asked : 
 
 "Messieurs, does anybody want to say anything?" 
 
 Aleksandr slowly raised his cold, pale blue eyes. 
 Doctor Berg, tall, erect, shaven, with a green neck-tie 
 and a high collar that reached up to his ears, was care- 
 lessly waving the letter about, and looking at the com- 
 rades with a searching and, as it seemed, ironical look. 
 One might have thought he knew who the provocateur 
 was and remained silent merely because he was loathe 
 to provoke untimely quarrels. Aleksandr was sur- 
 prised. It was difficult to believe there should be a 
 traitor in the Party, among people who loved the revo- 
 lution with all their hearts, among the blameless, well- 
 tried committee. He looked at Doctor Berg again in em- 
 barrassment, trying vainly to understand the insulting 
 puzzle. Doctor Berg rolled the letter into a neat tube, 
 put it in his pocket, and repeated : 
 
 "Who wants the floor, comrades?" 
 
 The room was well-lighted and the sparkling crystal 
 lamp threw an even pale glow over the Venus of Milo,
 
 What Never Happened 327 
 
 the comrades, the rugs, the pictures and the mirrors. 
 Everybody was silent, nobody trusted himself, each one 
 was afraid of saying a careless word, was afraid of in- 
 sulting, degrading thoughts. Finally, after long hesi- 
 tation, Arseny Ivanovich heaved a sigh, pulled at the 
 tablecloth with trembling fingers, and began in his un- 
 even bass voice, without looking at anybody: 
 
 "Yes, yes, my benefactors, the situation — the situa- 
 tion is very difficult. Wliat's to be done? Eh? And 
 who is this well-wisher? And — and — but no, what does 
 it mean, anyway ? " He stopped and spread out his arms. 
 There was a pause again. 
 
 "We must have an investigation," Doctor Berg said 
 firmly. 
 
 "An investigation? Of course, an investigation — " 
 Gennady Gennadievich began excitedly, as if he had just 
 awakened. He jumped up, ran over to Doctor Berg, 
 coughing and choking, and began to talk hurriedly, ex- 
 citedly, and angrily: "We must appoint a committee, 
 my dear fellows. But first of all we must verify the 
 statement. The letter is anonymous. Who wrote it? 
 I say it was written by some one in touch, you under- 
 stand, in touch with the police. No one but a person 
 in touch with the police, a policeman, a provocateur, or 
 a spy, could be acquainted with Party affairs, or could 
 know of the committee headquarters. But if the letter 
 was written by a member of the police — " He paused, 
 quieted down, lowered his voice mysteriously, and ended 
 in measured, emphatic words: "If the letter was writ- 
 ten by a member of the police, then can't we admit the 
 hypothesis, a mere hypothesis, of course, that the letter 
 is not in the interests of the Party?" 
 
 "In other words?" Rosenstem asked gloomily.
 
 328 What Never Happened 
 
 "In other words, isn't it proper to assume that the 
 writer of the letter wrote it in his own interests?" 
 
 "What could be his purpose?" 
 
 "Well, I cannot explain that, my dear — " Gennady 
 Gennadievich coughed again, grasping at his chest. 
 "What do you want? I am not a police official. I 
 don't know the soul of a secret service man. I merely 
 think the document is not sufficient proof that we have 
 a provocateur in our midst." 
 
 Though what Gennady Gennadievich had said was 
 not clear or convincing, and could not assuage the com- 
 rades' apprehension, and though each one deep down in 
 his heart realized that the cleverly-worked out hypothe- 
 sis was absurd, still they felt relieved and began to talk 
 excitedly, all at the same time. Rosenstem alone kept 
 quiet, and his frown deepened; and Aleksandr, con- 
 trolling his growing anger, sat patiently awaiting the 
 final decision. 
 
 "I can't agree with the comrade," Doctor Berg re- 
 plied very loudly, making himself heard above the noise, 
 and fixing his tie with a careless motion. 
 
 "Les affaires sont les affaires. We have received a 
 letter, and though it's anonymous, still it's a docu- 
 ment. We must assume that one of us is a provocateur. 
 The Party's responsibility is too great — " He paused, 
 looked about the room with a rapid ironical glance, and 
 finished drily: 
 
 "I demand an investigation." 
 
 Gruzdiev, who was sitting alone in a comer of the 
 room, rose resolutely from his chair at the last words. 
 His kind Russian face flushed, and his voice trembled 
 with outrage. 
 
 "Messieurs, I can't understand it, by God. Are we
 
 What Never Happened 329 
 
 not ashamed? Either we have faith in one another, or 
 — or — we can suspect anything, the devil knows what! 
 If we trust one another, we must burn this letter, yes, 
 bum it, throw it into the stove. If, however, any one 
 can entertain the thought that one of us — one of us — 
 is a provocateur, then — then we must dissolve the com- 
 mittee. I have faith in everybody. I want everybody 
 to have faith in me. Otherwise it's a shame and a dis- 
 grace. One cannot work in such a way. I can't. Do 
 what you will, but I can't." 
 
 And he left the room with a bang of the door. Arseny 
 Ivanovich shook his head in compunction. 
 
 "Yes, as you make your bed, so you must lie upon it. 
 What's to be done, benefactors?" 
 
 Late at night, after tiresome, fruitless discussion, 
 Aleksandr, angry at the committee's lack of power to 
 defend itself against treachery, surprised at the helpless- 
 ness of the comrades, and himself at a loss how to pre- 
 vent the approaching disaster, was putting on his coat 
 in the anteroom. He was joined by Rosenstern, and by 
 the expression of Rosenstern 's sorrowful eyes, deter- 
 mined walk, and steady silence throughout the evening, 
 Aleksandr judged that he wanted to speak to him. 
 They left the house together. The day dawned. A 
 pale red flushed the heavens, and beyond the Nevsky 
 sparkled the spires of the Isaaky Church.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THEIR steps made a loud knocking on the gran- 
 ite pavement, and their long blue shadows fol- 
 lowed them. The sun was rising. Over the 
 Neva the translucent fog was lifting. In the whirling 
 mist shimmered the white bastions of the fortress. The 
 French quay was empty. Rosenstem took Aleksandr's 
 arm, bent towards him, and asked softly: 
 
 "Well, w^hat have you got to say, Aleksandr Nikolay- 
 evich?" 
 
 Aleksandr was lost in thought for a minute. Here on 
 the bank of the Neva, under the sparkling rays of the 
 sun, it all seemed an absurd dream, as if no evening 
 meeting had actually taken place. He felt ashamed and 
 embittered when he thought of the committee, and he 
 was embarrassed by a sense of his own helplessness — of 
 naive unpreparedness and childish credulity. More- 
 over, he was utterly disgusted at the thought of the po- 
 lice and gendarmes. Angry at himself and unpleas- 
 antly aware of being stealthily observed by Rosenstern, 
 he said gruffly, without turning his head: 
 
 *'I don't know who the provocateur is." 
 
 ** Don't you even suspect?" 
 
 "I don't suspect." 
 
 "But he was present at the meeting," Rosenstem re- 
 plied softly. In spite of himself a shiver ran through 
 Aleksandr's body. 
 
 When Doctor Berg was delivering his speech, and 
 
 330
 
 WHat Kever Happened 331 
 
 later, when Aliosha Gruzdiev was voicing his indigna- 
 tion, and Vera Andreyevna was silently showing her con- 
 tempt, and Gennady Gennadievich was "analysing" 
 the situation, Aleksandr had experienced an uncomfort- 
 able sensation, as if right there, in Valabuyev's house, 
 near him, at the very same table, was sitting the provo- 
 cateur, the man who had sold them all out. He did 
 not trust his feelings, unwilling to believe that for money 
 a man could deliver his people up to be hanged. But 
 now, when Rosenstem had finally voiced his own 
 thought, it struck him with full force that it was no 
 mistake, that Vera Andreyevna, or Aliosha Gruzdiev, or 
 Doctor Berg, or Zalkind, or perhaps Rosenstem himself 
 was the traitor, the Judas about whom the letter had 
 warned them. Feeling unpleasantly chilled, he stopped 
 and asked hoarsely: 
 
 "About whom are you speaking?" 
 
 Rosenstem smiled. 
 
 "You don't know?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Wait a quarter of an hour." 
 
 They passed the Aleksandrov Park in silence, and 
 turned into Voznesensky Street. The stores were closed, 
 but on the comer of Officer Street a saloon was still 
 open. Rosenstem pushed open the swinging glass door. 
 At one of the tables was a man who rose respectfully to 
 greet him. The man was small and slender, had a snub 
 nose and thin, colourless hair. His manner had some- 
 thing servile about it, and he seemed half dazed as if he 
 had no faith in himself and felt nobody else had faith in 
 him either. He might have been taken for a waiter, a 
 police clerk, or an office clerk out of a job. He smiled 
 timidly, bowed, and extended his hand.
 
 332 What Never Happened 
 
 "My respects, Arkady Borisovich! I was beginning 
 to think you couldn't come." He gave Aleksandr a 
 swift sidewise glance that took him in from head to 
 foot. "And this, I think, is Aleksandr Nikolayevich, 
 Mr. Bolotov? My respects, Mr. Bolotov." 
 
 "How do you know me?" Aleksandr asked in sur- 
 prise, speaking in the familiar way one uses to servants, 
 and with a look of disgust on his face. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I know you? Not to know you 
 would be not to know my superiors. Who doesn't know 
 you, if you please? As soon as you left military ser- 
 vice and joined the revolutionary party, the secret ser- 
 vice got orders to keep you under watch — a thorough 
 surveillance. ' ' 
 
 "What sort of a surveillance?" 
 
 "A thorough one." 
 
 "Thorough?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What does that mean?" 
 
 Aleksandr could not fathom to whom he was speak- 
 ing and why Rosenstem had brought him there. The 
 procedure was disgraceful, he thought, and perhaps ab- 
 surder than the speeches of the night previous. He 
 turned slowly to Rosenstern. Rosenstem was pulling 
 at his beard and observing the detective with a sharp 
 quiet look, as if weighing his every word and gesture. 
 
 "What does this mean?" Aleksandr repeated. 
 
 "It means that we know absolutely everything. May 
 I have a cigarette? Merci. Have you not noticed a 
 public hack near your house? At the comer of Vos- 
 kresensky and Furshtadskaya Streets ? ' ' 
 
 "There are many hacks standing there." 
 
 "Perhaps you've noticed the number?"
 
 What Never Happened 333 
 
 **No, I haven't noticed the number." 
 
 "Oh, my, how can you be like that?" He shook his 
 head in disapproval and smacked his lips. "Believe 
 me, it deserves your attention. Why, it's our hack- 
 driver Leonty of the secret service, No. 1351. And may 
 I ask you, is your maid hired by your landlady?" 
 
 "Yes, by my landlady." 
 
 "Is her name Masha — yes?" 
 
 "Yes, Masha. Why?" 
 
 "Because she is Masha, but also one of our people. 
 Belongs to the secret service — Masha of the secret ser- 
 vice. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Tutushkin, that will do. We know it all very 
 well without you. Get down to business," Eosenstern 
 interrupted impatiently. "Have you found anything 
 out?" 
 
 "But he was asking me," Tutushkin interjected. 
 Aleksandr looked at his colourless hair, his dirty, shin- 
 ing coat, and his thin, curled moustachios, and again 
 showed his disgust in the expression of his face." 
 
 "You're lying. Why haven't I been arrested yet?" 
 
 "I am lying?" Tutushkin muttered, taking offence. 
 "I've never lied in my life. You have not been ar- 
 rested yet because the colonel gave us orders." 
 
 "Which colonel?" 
 
 ' ' The chief — Colonel von Schoen, ' ' 
 
 "All right, that's enough," Eosenstern interrupted 
 angrily. "I'm asking you, have you found anything 
 out?" 
 
 "I have," Tutushkin answered, his eyes down. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Well, tell us what you found out."
 
 334 What Never Happened 
 
 "All right. Only—" 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 Tutushkin blinked his eyes, raised his pale, browless, 
 drunken face, and smiled slavishly. 
 
 * ' Only don 't treat me badly, Arkady Borisovich. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Have I ever treated you badly ? ' ' 
 
 "No. Why, no. I thank you for everything. I'm 
 deeply touched. But the case is exceptional — I may 
 say, it's remarkable. God forbid if the colonel finds 
 out." 
 
 "I know. Tell me, how much?" 
 
 "Please take into consideration that my salary 's only 
 forty rubles. A man with a family — a family to sup- 
 port. And then, God forbid, if somebody should 
 tell on me and the colonel should find out, what will I 
 be? A slave and a despised worm." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "And then, Arkady Borisovich, I beg you to take into 
 consideration that it was very difficult to find out. You 
 may believe me. It was only out of sympathy to the 
 Party and out of goodwill to you personally. You 
 know what times these are. "We're afraid of ourselves. 
 You don't believe me? My word of honour, it's the 
 truth." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 Tutushkin was silent, with a thoughtful look on his 
 face. He began to drum on the table with his fingers, 
 and drummed for a long time, as if figuring something 
 out and trying to figure it correctly without cheating. 
 At last he heaved a deep sigh and said: 
 
 "As much as you'll give, Arkady Borisovich. I trust 
 you, so help me God!" 
 
 "No, you'd better tell me."
 
 What Never Happened 335 
 
 "Well, I don't want to make it hard for you. You 
 ought to give me a hundred." 
 
 Kosenstern whistled softly. Tutushkin struck his 
 hands together. 
 
 ' * Arkady Borisovich ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, well, I see your prices are not exorbitant." 
 
 "Arkady Borisovich, you must take into account — " 
 
 "Twenty-five." 
 
 "Twenty-five! My God, why that's cheaper than 
 mushrooms. No, really, am I doing this for money? 
 What is money? Phew! Mere metal, that's all. But 
 how is it possible, Arkady Borisovich ? ' ' 
 
 Aleksandr turned pale. This bargaining with a filthy 
 spy in a filthy saloon, bargaining over who was the 
 traitor, seemed a vile insult to the revolution. He bent 
 across the table to Kosenstern and said in an angry 
 whisper : 
 
 "The devil take him! Give it to him!" 
 
 "It's Party money, my dear," Kosenstern answered 
 unperturbed, also whispering. "Are we Kothschilds? 
 And you must not cater to these scoundrels. You won 't 
 get rid of them. See here, Tutushkin, my last word — 
 fifty." 
 
 "Another ten-spot, Arkady Borisovich!" 
 
 "Fifty, that's all. No use talking. If you don't 
 want to, as you wish." 
 
 The saloon became empty. The sleepy, yawning 
 waiters were turning out the lights. Tutushkin sighed, 
 and drummed on the table again. 
 
 ' ' Arkady Borisovich. ' ' 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Is that a price? My word of honour — six children. 
 Must I feed them or not ? "
 
 336 What Never Happened 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 Tutushkin got up, and with an unwilling, sorrowful 
 expression looked about for his hat. He found it, put 
 it on, and walked towards the door, but suddenly shook 
 his head, turned back, and said abruptly, almost gruffly : 
 
 "Let's have the money!" 
 
 On receiving the money he counted it, put it into his 
 pocket, and seated himself at the table. 
 
 "Well, now talk." 
 
 "There's nothing to tell." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Everything is just as I told you. Of course, he is 
 the 'sole.' " 
 
 "The sole?" 
 
 "Yes, a secret assistant." 
 
 "Speak up, you rascal, who is the provocateur?" cried 
 Aleksandr, hardly able to control himself and clenching 
 his fists under the table. 
 
 "The provocateur? You want to know his name?" 
 Tutushkin smiled a servile smile. "There — the famous 
 member of the committee, Doctor Berg." He gave a 
 silly giggle, bowed rapidly, and made his exit into the 
 street.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FROM afar yet, as Aleksandr was approaching his 
 house, he was disturbed to notice a public hack 
 at the entrance. He glanced at the number. 
 On the worn red plate he distinctly saw the white num- 
 ber, 1351. "Our hack-driver, Leonty of the secret ser- 
 vice," he recalled the words spoken with a giggle and 
 the feeling of pained disgust possessed him again. The 
 door was opened by Masha. She smiled coquettishly. 
 "Good morning, Aleksandr Nikolayevich." 
 "Masha of the secret service. Fie!" He passed 
 silently into his room, and seated himself on the couch 
 without taking off his coat. He remained motionless a 
 few minutes, trying to understand all that had taken 
 place the night before. Doctor Berg with his bald head, 
 high collar, and mysterious smile, the ambiguous anony- 
 mous letter, Arseny Ivanovich, so forlorn, the filthy sa- 
 loon and the servile Tutushkin — it was all so new, so 
 unexpected and so strange that he could hardly believe 
 himself. He feared his memorj^ was failing him. He 
 passed his hand thoughtfully over his hot cheeks. Doc- 
 tor Berg a provocateur! And I am not to be hanged 
 yet, because Colonel von Schoen gave no orders. I am 
 in the hands of the secret service spies, at the mercy of 
 Colonel von Schoen. He can hang me or spare me at his 
 will. Faugh! Seized by a sensation of actual physical 
 pain he got up and walked over to the window. He 
 had a military bearing, shoulders squared, head raised 
 and firm steps. 
 
 337
 
 338 What Never Happened 
 
 He recalled a rainy autumn night. The battleship 
 was rolling heavily, its stern swept by the waves. The 
 wind was blowing, the waves beating, the rain falling 
 in torrents. In the misty distance shimmered the fires 
 of the ship Aleksandr. Everything was so small, grey 
 and dull. He was sleepy. The "dog-watch" was so 
 long and tiresome. But suddenly the shrill sound of the 
 silver bugle rent the howling wind. Lights signalled. 
 And immediately the projector flashed, the heavy waves 
 were brilliantly lighted, the decks rang with the tramp- 
 ing of feet, wheels rolled over the rails, the telegraph 
 began to click in haste. With a heavy, powerful, deaf- 
 ening sound roared the first shot. * * A submarine attack ! 
 An attack ! " He caught a glimpse of the high cheek- 
 bones of the Asiatic Malaika. Again bells rang, men 
 ran, and the ship was surrounded with a belt of fire. 
 And then an excited voice: "How dare you shoot? 
 Can't you see? It's a fishing-smack!" 
 
 "Yes, we were shooting at fishermen. Yes, it was a 
 shame, a mistake, merely a mistake. But the enemy was 
 not to be seen. Sea all around, night, and the fate of 
 Russia. And now? Is it not the fate of Russia? Is 
 it not a shame? And a hidden enemy again. "Who? 
 The Japanese? Admiral Togo? No. Tutushkin and 
 Doctor Berg." 
 
 "Am I doing this for money?" he distinctly heard the 
 servile voice with the giggle in it saying. "What is 
 money? Metal. Forty rubles for a man with a fam- 
 ily." 
 
 "And Rosenstem bargains with him, buys him? And 
 Doctor Berg? Les affaires sont les affaires. And Doc- 
 tor Berg is listened to. And Arseny Ivanovich spreads 
 his hands helplessly. And this takes place in the Party,
 
 What Never Happened 339 
 
 in the committee." Aleksandr's lips curled contempt- 
 uously. He threw open the double window. A smell 
 of spring rushed into the room, a noise of the streets. 
 Above him, between the houses, was the blue sky. Be- 
 low at the gate, was the patient, watchful hack-driver. 
 No. 1351. ''Must I fight him, or Colonel von Schoen? 
 Or Masha of the secret service ? ' ' He leaned against the 
 window and noticed he still had his coat on. ''And if 
 one must fight, then how?" 
 
 He recalled another night, still more disgraceful, a 
 night he could never forget even if he had wanted to. 
 The battleship, his beloved ship, on which he had just 
 made a trip and had fought the whole day before, was 
 slowlj'' going forward. The water was rough, the lights 
 were out, the sea pitch-dark. The battleship was cov- 
 ered with debris, the mast was half-broken, the bridges 
 down, the holds upset, the fires burned out, the tow- 
 ers dynamited, the armour bent and the iron traps 
 twisted. Only one cannon remained untouched — the last 
 hope and refuge. The deck was a hospital. On mat- 
 tresses and stretchers lay mutilated bodies. On the 
 floor, his bare feet under him, lay Malaika wounded, his 
 high cheekbones and dark stained face all covered with 
 blood. His teeth were bared. Holding his head be- 
 tween his hands, his body swaying and writhing, he was 
 whining: "Water! "Water! Water!" Day was 
 dawning in the east. Far away on the horizon in the 
 blue and sparkling haze, columns of smoke became dis- 
 tinguishable. One, two, three — twenty-six. Through a 
 field-glass one could distinctly see Meekaza, Sekko San, 
 Fuji, Asahiga Take, Kassuga, Nishi Shima, Idztimo, 
 twenty-six ships, as if there had been no battle at all, as 
 if the unfortunate Osliabya had not perished, as if Suv-
 
 340 What Never Happened 
 
 orov had not battled like a lion, as if Borodino had not 
 sunk. A lonely shot resounded on the stem and a sig- 
 nal was raised. And then a tugboat approached, and 
 strange armed men climbed like monkeys up the battle- 
 ship. The hateful Japanese flag was raised. **A dis- 
 grace! We could not win. We could not die. There 
 is no justification. Well, £ind now will we be able to 
 win? Or will we again shamefully beg for mercy? 
 Not from the Japanese, but from Colonel von Schoen?" 
 He walked away from the window and almost fell on the 
 couch. He was seized by a feeling of utter exhaustion. 
 He wanted to fall into a quiet refreshing sleep, to for- 
 get Tutushkin, and Tsu Shima, and the committee, to 
 remember nothing, to think of nothing, and particularly 
 to decide upon nothing. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 Masha entered in a white apron, with a tea tray in 
 her hands, smiling amiably: 
 
 "Will you have some tea, Aleksandr Nikolayevich ? " 
 
 It seemed to Aleksandr that it was not Masha, but that 
 hundreds of eyes were watching and hundreds of ears 
 were eavesdropping. It seemed to him that the whole 
 secret service — all the colonels, provocateurs and 
 spies, all the traitors, informers, and gendarmes — 
 were standing behind her back and giggling like Tu- 
 tushkin. He turned his face away in disgust and 
 said: 
 
 "I don't want anything. Please leave me alone." 
 
 Masha went away offended, her starched skirt rus- 
 tling. Aleksandr got up and paced the room thought- 
 fully. He felt indifferent now — that same feeling of 
 contempt for danger which he had felt that night on the
 
 "WHat Never Happened 341 
 
 battleship before the battle. He could not have told 
 what had caused the sudden change, but it was clear to 
 him that no Tutushkins could embarrass him and he 
 would not leave the Party. " If I can 't stand filth, ' ' he 
 thought coldly, "then I ought not to work for terror. 
 I did not join the Party because I thought the revolu- 
 tion was powerful, but because I wanted to fight and be- 
 lieved my labour was needed. Then why am I hesitat- 
 ing now ? Did I leave military service because Seniavin 
 and Nikolay fell to the enemy? Because there was a 
 Tsu Shima? And does faith in the Party and in the 
 people imply faith in the infallibility of the Party com- 
 mittee? In the infallibility of Doctor Berg?" With 
 a timid feeling of joy and the firm conviction that 
 he was right, he concluded without hesitation : ' * I have 
 come with the will to serve the people, the Party, and 
 Russia. "Who has the power to prevent me? Doctor 
 Berg? Tutushkin? Von Schoen? But if I must fight 
 them, I shall not hesitate. If it is over their dead bodies 
 that I must win, I am certain of victory". So much the 
 better — let the enemy be hidden, let the battle be a bat- 
 tle of death, not of life. And if I must fight, then 
 Rosenstern is right. Yes, he is right. Either one must 
 keep his snow-white purity or one must not fear any 
 degradation. Either be sentimental like Aliosha Giniz- 
 diev, or — or kill. There is no choice. There is no mid- 
 dle way. And I don't want it. An eye for an eye and 
 a tooth for a tooth. ' ' 
 
 Thus he reasoned with himself and though he was not 
 yet rid of a secret feeling of disgust, he felt happy and 
 relieved, as if he had at last found the right road. "The 
 one who wants victory comes out victorious, he who 
 fears nothing and dares to kill."
 
 342 What Never Happened 
 
 He longed for air, for the city, for the sea, for the 
 majestic and silent Neva. He put on his hat and went 
 ont. The hack-driver was still at the door. But Aleks- 
 andr paid no attention to him now.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ROSENSTEEN informed the committee of his 
 meeting with Tutushkin. His report was met 
 with indignation. Arseny Ivanovich, Vera 
 Andreyevna, Zalkind, and Aliosha Gruzdiev considered 
 it a crj'ing injustice, a slander to suspect Doctor Berg 
 of being a provocateur. Doctor Berg's work was so 
 faultless, he organized technical work so brilliantly, he 
 had been a member of the committee for so long that it 
 was terrible to assume that he, a talented, honest, ex- 
 perienced revolutionist should be in the service of Colo- 
 nel Schoen. But it was still more terrible to admit that 
 the faith in the Party was not justified, that at its head 
 was a provocateur, that due to inexperience, good nature, 
 or blindness, many people had been hanged and terror 
 broken down. And the comrades became excited and 
 did not dare to believe that Tutushkin was not lying. 
 And though they thought they were defending Doctor 
 Berg, his dignity and his honour, they were in fact de- 
 fending themselves — against oppressive thoughts and 
 painful remorse. Aliosha Gruzdiev contended hotly 
 that "hideous slanders were demoralizing the Party." 
 Vera Andrej^evna shrugged her thin shoulders and 
 pointed out that "all secret service men were knaves," 
 and that to listen to them was to disgrace the committee. 
 Gennady Gennadievich was sorry for the action of the 
 comrades and obstinately maintained that the secret ser- 
 vice, because of its fear of Doctor Berg, was hatching 
 
 343
 
 344 What Never Happened 
 
 an intrigue, was merely trying to create dissension in the 
 Party. But Arseny Ivanovich was most indignant of 
 all. 
 
 "Yes, my benefactors," he complained bitterly at the 
 meeting. *'If you listen to Arkady Borisovich you get 
 the chills in your spine. Doctor Berg a provocateur! 
 One must approach matters thoughtfully, not in excite- 
 ment, and without losing presence of mind. Well, all 
 right. Let's assume that this fellow — what's his name 
 — Tutushkin? — is not lying. Though I must admit it 
 seems to me he is one of those fishermen who fish out of 
 their own pockets. But let us assume he's not lying. 
 Now, my benefactors, comes the question: is it not pos- 
 sible that this Tutushkin was honestly misled? "Who is 
 he? An ordinary government spy, a petty official, a 
 street detective. Well, is it possible that Colonel von 
 Schoen would tell his secrets to a spy, that he would en- 
 trust a clerk with the list of his assistants? Eh? Is it 
 not more likely to assume that Tutushkin is simply mis- 
 taken, that he heard a ring, but doesn't know where it 
 came from? And I tell you this, my benefactors, Doc- 
 tor Berg is our comrade, a deserving worker, an honest 
 fighter. The least hesitation, the least doubt, my bene- 
 factors, must be in his favour. Yes — yes — in his favour. 
 I don't know who the provocateur is, but to assert that it 
 is surely Doctor Berg is not right. No, it's not. I 
 should never forgive myself if I suspected a comrade 
 at the word of a spy. And I should not forgive you, 
 Arkady Borisovich. And as to the Party, as to the sug- 
 gestion that the secret service is hatching an intrigue, 
 here is the proverb: 'People are blaming, but could not 
 spoil, winds are blowing, but could not blow away, rains 
 are wetting, but could not wash it away.' No rain can
 
 What Never Happened 345 
 
 wash away the Party, and no Colonel Sehoen can dis- 
 grace it. His nose is not made that way." 
 
 Rosenstern could not be convinced by his comrade's 
 words. Assured of Aleksandr's support, he firmly de- 
 manded that Doctor Berg be put to the test. A week 
 passed in quarrels, bitter reproaches, and indignant ac- 
 cusations. It was proved by facts that Doctor Berg had 
 been spending thousands of rubles. Arseny Ivanovich 
 still hesitated. 
 
 ' ' How is that ? After God, then money comes first ? ' ' 
 He shook his white head in perplexity. "I can't sus- 
 pect. But I can't leave it without attention. I don't 
 know how to act." 
 
 Notwithstanding the protests of Aliosha Gruzdiev, it 
 was decided to appoint an investigating committee. It 
 consisted of Aleksandr, Rosenstern and Gennady Gen- 
 nadievich, who still supported his saving theory of the 
 affair. 
 
 Aleksandr had no doubt that Doctor Berg was a 
 provocateur. To him who was not responsible for the 
 committee and had no experience in underground work, 
 it was clear that Tutushkin would not dare to tell a lie, 
 and there could be no question of a police intrigue. He 
 did not understand why an investigating committee 
 should be appointed. Why should a suspected provo- 
 cateur, who had been practically exposed be questioned 
 or tried? A secret trial would be a half -measure, pro- 
 vocateurs should be treated according to martial law, as 
 spies are treated in wartime, without mercy or loss of 
 time. 
 
 "If Doctor Berg were in the army he would be shot 
 in twenty-four hours," he said drily to Rosenstern. 
 Rosenstern looked at him sideways.
 
 346 What Never Happened 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "You're right. But what can we do? The whole 
 Party would be aroused. We killed an innocent man, 
 they would say, and Arseny Ivanovich would be the 
 first one to say it." 
 
 Aleksandr had long given up living in the house with 
 Masha of the secret service and hack-driver No. 1351. 
 But he did not leave St. Petersburg. A sudden de- 
 parture would have drawn down the suspicions of 
 Doctor Berg. He lived without a passport now, "ille- 
 gally," he slept in the houses of people who were stran- 
 gers to him, but sympathizers with the cause, merchants, 
 officials, and priests. This tramp's life exhausted him. 
 He shrugged his shoulders in dissatisfaction. 
 
 "If I'm right, why are we waiting?" 
 
 They were sitting in the Apollo, a half-dark cellar- 
 cafe on the Nevsky. The place was noisy and hot, a 
 ladies' orchestra was playing badly, and crowds were 
 constantly coming in and out. Rosenstern was silent, 
 lost in thought. Aleksandr repeated his question : 
 
 "What are we waiting for?" 
 
 "What are we waiting for? Listen, Aleksandr Niko- 
 layevich. We are members of the Party. Must we or 
 must we not reckon with public opinion?" 
 
 "Public opinion?" 
 
 "Yes. Or do you think public opinion is a trifle? 
 Very well. I am convinced that Doctor Berg is a provo- 
 cateur. I have been observing him for the last three 
 months. But how will you explain it to the comrades? 
 You know we Jews in Russia have an explanation for the 
 way Itzek turned into Isaac. Itzek is Itzkhok, Itzkhok 
 is Isaak, Isaak is Izak, Izak is Isaac. You'll say, a let-
 
 What Never Happened 347 
 
 ter was received. Gennady Gennadievich will explain 
 that the letter was written by a policeman. You'll 
 say, 'Tutushkin informed us.' Vera Andreyevna will 
 burst out, 'The Tutushkins are scoundrels.' You'll say, 
 'He spent party funds.' And Gruzdiev will retort, 
 'Are you the keeper of the treasury?' Wonderful 
 minds! And they are the only ones who know. And 
 how about those who don't know, who have never heard 
 of Tutushkin, the letter and the money? In their eyes 
 Doctor Berg is an inviolable member of the committee. 
 I tell you, Itzek will turn into Isaac. They will say, a 
 torture chamber, lynch law, inquisition. Isn't that so? 
 Won't they say so?" 
 
 "Let them." 
 
 "There, excellent! I knew you'd say that. But 
 think a minute. Can our work possibly be built on dis- 
 trust? What work could be done if there were gossip 
 about the committee and it were called a torture cham- 
 ber, if people suspected me, Arseny Ivanovich — ^you? 
 Well, then, it follows we won't try Doctor Berg." 
 
 "But this is merely an investigating committee, not a 
 court. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, my God!" Rosenstern replied in irritation, and 
 his eyes sparkled. "And what would you have? 
 Do you want a spy? A counsel for defence? Prose- 
 cutors? Speeches? Why, we are the Party. We have 
 no court procedure. We can only examine Doctor Berg. 
 And we must have him examined. It is imperative that 
 nobody — you understand, not one man — should be able 
 even to dream that we did not give him a chance to de- 
 fend himself, and that Itzek is not Itzek but Isaac. 
 That's all. But it's impossible to prove that Doctor 
 Berg is a provocateur. We have no direct evidence."
 
 348 What Never Happened 
 
 "But if we can't prove it, then we can't try him. 
 You oifer a mere formality. Don't you believe that 
 Berg is a provocateur? You need no proof, no trial, 
 and no discussions. Isn't that enough? And would 
 an examination convince us of his guilt? If Berg is 
 no fool, he will be able to arouse our sense of pity. Or 
 while you are arguing in the committee, he will disap- 
 pear, and you'll be arrested. And you know from his 
 standpoint Berg will be right." 
 
 Rosenstem smiled. 
 
 "He won't escape us. You say, it's a mere formality. 
 But it's not a formality, it's a voluntary concession to 
 the needs of the Party. And be sure that acts of 
 treachery can never be proved. Unless the provocateur 
 confesses. Well, what can we do? You surely think" 
 — he made a long pause and looked steadily into Alek- 
 sandr 's eyes — ' ' that I 'm not bold enough, that I dare not 
 take the responsibility? That's not true. Can't you 
 see how few in number we revolutionists are, how few 
 people we have who are ready to do anything? But if 
 we are few, we will grow in numbers. We will have to 
 grow. And in order to grow, we must reckon with all 
 these, with Vera Andreyevna — yes, even with Vera An- 
 dreyevna. The Party can only thrive on respect, on 
 a good name, on the influence of the masses. That's 
 what I think. And you?" 
 
 The wretched orchestra kept up its thin music, the 
 waiters scurried about, and hoarse voices filled the place. 
 Aleksandr listened, and was bored by Rosenstern's sen- 
 sible words. 
 
 "I joined the Party to do some work. A provocateur 
 stands in my way and I am helpless, my hands are tied. 
 I must reckon with Vera Andreyevna." He lighted a
 
 What Never Happened 349 
 
 cigarette, and said harshly, watching the bluish rings 
 of smoke: 
 
 "You know, this trial of yours is a comedy. I can't 
 understand what's the purpose of hypotheses, argu- 
 ments, and perpetual sessions. What difference does it 
 make to me what the Countess Marie Alekseyevna is go- 
 ing to say ? I 've got a head of my own. Any one who is 
 not a revolutionist should not remain in the party; any 
 one who is not a soldier should not go to war. I think 
 that is clear. The rest is red tape." 
 
 "What's to be done then? Tell me." 
 
 "What's to be done? We should end the affair." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "No trial." 
 
 "And no examination?" 
 
 "No examination." 
 
 "But that's impossible." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because the committee will not stand for it." 
 
 They were both silent. Aleksandr now had a pre- 
 sentiment that Rosenstem would not dare to kill and 
 deep in his heart still cherished the hope that Tutushkin 
 might have lied and Berg was not working for the secret 
 service. Doctor Berg would not be killed, Aleksandr 
 now felt, and the vile disgrace would go unpunished. 
 But accustomed to obeying he stifled his thoughts. 
 
 "I am a member of the Party. I submit to the verdict 
 of the Party. I will go to the examination. But tell me, 
 if you are convinced that Doctor Berg is a provocateur, 
 what will you do?" 
 
 Rosenstem understood what was troubling Aleksandr. 
 He suppressed a smile. His black youthful eyes 
 flashed.
 
 350 What Never Happened 
 
 "In that case we'll act according to martial law." 
 
 "And what will Vera Andreyevna say?" 
 
 "After the trial she will not say anything." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They parted on the Nevsky. Night had fallen. 
 Among rare clouds the first stars shimmered. Alek- 
 sandr drew a full breath. 
 
 "Yes, he will keep his promise," he thought with re- 
 lief. "And if not, Doctor Berg shall be killed just the 
 same."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DOCTOR BERG lived on Maly Prospect, in a 
 back house rented in his own name. The 
 back stairs were wet, smelled of cats, kitchens 
 and unwashed children's clothes. 
 
 ' ' Strange ! If he lives here, then what does he do with 
 his money?" Rosenstern asked himself in embarrass- 
 ment as he stopped at the head of the stairs. Aleksandr 
 firmly pushed the bell button. 
 
 The door was opened by Doctor Berg. On seeing his 
 comrades, he gave them a fixed look of surprise, un- 
 mingled with fear, as if he were trying to understand 
 what had caused their sudden visit. It had never hap- 
 pened before that a member of the committee, contrary 
 to discipline and the interests of secrecy, should come 
 to his house. He turned slightly pale, rubbed his thin 
 hands together, and asked carelessly: 
 
 "Very pleased to see you. What is it, comrades?" 
 
 ** We've come in the name of the committee." 
 
 ** Please be seated. What is it?" 
 
 The room in which Doctor Berg received his visitors 
 was low, dark, as poor as a student 's room, with an iron 
 bed at the wall and an unpainted floor. Over the bed 
 hung a portrait of Karl Marx. In the corner on a set 
 of shelves lay a few books. Aleksandr opened a big 
 annotated volume, and absentmindedly read the title: 
 "The Length of the Working Day in Shops and Fac- 
 tories." 
 
 361
 
 352 What Never Happened 
 
 "Studying the labour problem," he thought with an 
 unkind smile. This beggarly room, the scientific books, 
 Karl Marx, and Doctor Berg, bald-headed, and correctly 
 dressed, seemed like derision of the deceived committee. 
 Doctor Berg noticed his smile and adjusted his glasses 
 nervously. 
 
 "I'm ready to listen," he said without looking at 
 Aleksandr. 
 
 Gennady Gennadievich burst out coughing, caught at 
 his breast, and began to mutter incoherently in his em- 
 barrassment, pronouncing the words with difficulty, as 
 if he were asking forgiveness beforehand. 
 
 * ' A trifle — mere trifles. How should I explain ? You 
 will excuse me, my silver one. You see, that insinuat- 
 ing letter — the letter you read at the meeting — well, you 
 know, the committee has decided to make an investiga- 
 tion — and honoured us greatly. The committee ordered 
 that all the members should be questioned — including 
 you — to prevent talk. Otherwise rumours will be 
 spread. "We knew of certain things and we paid no at- 
 tention. We received a letter and threw it into the 
 w^astebasket. Oh, those rumours ! I have an opinion of 
 my own, you know. I am convinced the whole thing 
 isn't worth a broken cent. I am convinced it's an in- 
 trigue, an adventure of Colonel Schoen. But what can 
 you do?" He sighed, visibly affected. "The committee 
 thinks otherwise. Don't assume anything bad, for 
 God's sake, but just answer a few of our questions." 
 
 Doctor Berg listened very quietlj'', almost indifferently, 
 with his head bent and his hands fingering the gold chain 
 on his breast. Then he took a pencil off the table, leaned 
 back in the wicker chair he was sitting in, and said in 
 a loud voice:
 
 What Never Happened 353 
 
 "Very well. Then I am to understand that the com- 
 mittee suspects me of being a provocateur?" 
 
 Gennady Genuadievich waved his hands in depreca- 
 tion. Rosenstern raised his thick eyebrows. 
 
 "Yes, that's exactly what you are to understand. 
 The committee suspects you of being a provocateur." 
 
 "Very well. In that case, will you be kind enough 
 to submit the material upon which you base your 
 suspicions ? " 
 
 "The material?" 
 
 "Yes, the incriminating material." 
 
 "We will not submit it to you." 
 
 "At every trial," Doctor Berg replied didactically, 
 tapping the table with his pencil, "even at a court 
 martial, the defendant has a right to know on what 
 grounds the accusation is based. I am the defendant. 
 You cannot deprive me of my rights." 
 
 "The incriminating material shall not be submitted." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ' ' Because we are not a court and not a department of 
 gendarmes." 
 
 Doctor Berg wanted to reply again, but changed his 
 mind. He frowned as if in pain, laid down the pencil 
 and rose slowly from his chair. His clean-shaven face 
 darkened. He went over to Rosenstern, leaned towards 
 him, his eyes flashing, and looked straight into his eyes : 
 
 "Listen, Arkady Borisovich. I can understand how 
 Gruzdiev or Zalkind or the other comrades who don't 
 know me should express such opinions — should give 
 voice to such a terrible suspicion. But you know me. 
 It's not the first year that we have been working to- 
 gether on the committee. You have been a witness to 
 my whole life. You cannot, you dare not, doubt me.
 
 354 What Never Happened 
 
 Aren't you — aren't you ashamed? I don't say it in re- 
 proach. I understand. I should probably have acted 
 the same way in your place. But — but — to suspect me ! 
 Me — me!" He turned away, awkwardly brushing a 
 tear off his eyelashes. 
 
 He spoke so simply, with such apparent truthfulness, 
 his words expressed such a depth of outraged feeling, 
 and his weeping seemed so sincere that Rosenstern felt 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "What if I'm mistaken? What if Tutushkin was 
 lying? What if Arseny Ivanovich is right?" He cast 
 a disturbed look at Aleksandr, blue-eyed, broad-shoul- 
 dered, with a stem set face, sitting on the table in a 
 position of military erectness. It was evident that he 
 had no faith in Doctor Berg and felt contempt for the 
 whole doubtful procedure. He caught Rosenstern 's 
 look, smiled, and said harshly: 
 
 "All this has no bearing on the case." 
 
 "No bearing on the case?" Doctor Berg turned to him 
 in quick indignation. "Here is what I'll tell you, 
 Mister Lieutenant Aleksandr Nikolayevich Bolotov." 
 Berg's voice had suddenly grown firm. "I don't know 
 when you joined the Party and what you have done for 
 it. Perhaps you have done a good deal. I don't doubt 
 it. But I do know that I — any one is witness to it — 
 have been working for the Party for eight years. If you 
 want, I'll tell you the story of my life, and you tell us 
 yours. Do you want me to tell my story? We'll see 
 who has done more for the revolution, who has worked 
 more, who is more deserving of trust. I have estab- 
 lished twenty-three printing presses. I have opened all 
 the frontiers from Koenigsberg to Jasey. I have or- 
 ganized dozens of workmen's circles. I have been a
 
 What Never Happened 355 
 
 member of the committee for the last five years. I have 
 been working unceasingly, from morning to night. And 
 if the Party has grown, if it has reached lofty heights, I 
 have the right to assert that I am one of those who have 
 been building it up. And now you come, you, who have 
 taken part in the campaign of Tsu Shima, you, ignorant 
 in revolutionary matters, and tell me it has no bearing 
 on the case, you hasten to accuse me." He banged his 
 fist on the table and began to pace the room excitedly. 
 
 "Yes, you hasten to accuse me," he continued a mo- 
 ment later, flushed with anger. ''But where are the 
 proofs? Where? "Who gave you the right to sit in 
 judgment if you cannot prove it? Who? The Party? 
 The committee? But I am a rightful member of the 
 committee, too. If you could prove it, you would sub- 
 mit the incriminating material to me. Why are you 
 silent? You have the floor, not I. Not you are the 
 judges, but I — I accuse. I say, you are not comrades, 
 you are not judges, you are hypocrites, you slander me, 
 you fling mud at me. Shame on you! I want you to 
 explain ! ' ' 
 
 Rosenstem was listening, with his head leaning to one 
 side and his eyes fixed on Doctor Berg with a harsh look 
 of revenge and anger. His embarrassment had passed. 
 He felt ashamed that he had been influenced by a super- 
 ficial feeling, like a weak child. "And the gallows. 
 And the Party? And terror? No, Tutushkin is not 
 lying, he dares not lie," he thought, and said firmly: 
 
 "This has no bearing on the case either." 
 
 * ' You think so ? You, too, Rosenstern ? What is left 
 for me to do? Where, oh God, is truth?" Doctor Berg 
 said in a failing voice, but immediately regained con- 
 trol over himself.
 
 356 What Never Happened 
 
 "Very well. Then submit the incriminating material, 
 please. ' ' 
 
 "We have told you, we will submit no such material." 
 
 * ' In that ease I refuse to testify. ' ' 
 
 Rosenstern raised his eye-brows contemptuously. 
 
 "You refuse?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Think it over, "We will not come a second time." 
 
 "I have thought it over already." 
 
 "And you refuse?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are committing a crime." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are ruining yourself." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know what is awaiting you?" 
 
 Doctor Berg shook his head indifferently, acting as 
 if it were the same to him whether he were convicted or 
 exonerated, whether his life be taken or spared. His 
 manner seemed to indicate that the terrible disgrace he 
 had just gone through was not eradicable, was unheard 
 of, was so great that in the face of that eternal moment 
 everything else looked pale — life, revolution, death. 
 Gennady Gennadievich, feeling he would burst into 
 tears, jumped up, ran over to Doctor Berg, and grasped 
 his hands. 
 
 ' ' Is this right of you ? What are you doing, my silver 
 one? For God's sake. You are disobeying the com- 
 mittee! What shall we report at the meeting? Listen 
 to me, for God 's sake, listen to me ! " 
 
 Aleksandr and Rosenstern rose, and went toward the 
 door. Berg realized the committee was leaving and made 
 an irresolute step towards them. Looking around fev-
 
 What Never Happened 357 
 
 erishly, as if searching for help, he stood still a moment, 
 speechless. Then suddenly, with a jerk of his chin, as if 
 somebody had struck him a painful blow, he shouted in 
 a shrill falsetto: 
 
 "Rosenstem! You may not believe me, you may kill 
 me — yes, kill me — but — but — I give you my word of 
 honour, I have never worked for the police." 
 
 He suppressed a sob and turned to the window. 
 Aleksandr to his surprise saw his shoulders tremble, his 
 bald head shiver, and his back sway. He was sobbing 
 noiselessly, without tears, holding on to the window 
 frame and paying no attention to the others in the room. 
 His long narrow body in its fashionable dark-brown 
 coat was trembling and jerking, his teeth were chatter- 
 ing, his shaven chin was shivering. It was not as if the 
 famous Doctor Berg, the self-reliant member of the com- 
 mittee were crying, but a helpless little boy. He was so 
 pitiful, so unhappy and weak, his misfortune was so 
 oppressive, the merciless verdict was so terrible, Gen- 
 nady Gennadievich was so pale, that Rosenstern, losing 
 control of himself, ran hurriedly out of the room. Ou 
 the stairs Aleksandr was waiting for him impatiently.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 TUTUSPIKIN succeeded in stealing a document, 
 a report in Doctor Berg's handwriting, which 
 made it clear that the Party was in the power 
 of the secret service and a spy was working in the com- 
 mittee. Aliosha Gruzdiev, deeply agitated, on the point 
 of suicide, left St. Petersburg, without taking leave of 
 anybody. Gennady Gennadievich had to admit that his 
 saving hypothesis w^as without foundation. Vera And- 
 reyevna wept in indignation and shouted that she was 
 disgraced. Arseny Ivanovich groaned and advised them 
 to appeal to the convention. And though the comrades 
 could see that the treachery had undermined the Party, 
 just as a scythe cuts into the grass, and though every one 
 felt conscious in his heart of the disgrace, not one of 
 them thought of his own unconscious guilt. Doctor 
 Berg's treachery seemed to be a misfortune beyond their 
 control, and they were not to blame if a hired murderer 
 found his way into the committee. And since the Party 
 had many members, and they all had had faith in Doctor 
 Berg, had loved him and worked with him, none of them 
 were guilty in the matter. Neither Arseny Ivanovich, 
 Zalkind, Vera Andreyevna, nor Aliosha Gruzdiev per- 
 ceived that treachery was not an accidental evil for 
 "which they were all in full measure responsible. The 
 faith in the committee was shaken. Disquieting ru- 
 mours sprang up that Doctor Berg was not the only 
 traitor. The work stopped. The comrades were suspi- 
 cious of one another. 
 
 358
 
 What Never Happened 359 
 
 The Party, exhausted by arrests, deprived of its best 
 workers, disappointed in its own strength, could no 
 longer count on victor3^ Like a defeated army, with a 
 timid commander at its head, the Party was retreating 
 without giving battle. Men and women who had been 
 fighting valiantly the day before were now giving up 
 their arms. Some complained of the committee, others 
 of "violence and lack of control," some of treachery 
 and some of the "indifference of the masses." But 
 each one thought he was performing his duty con- 
 scientiously. 
 
 While Rosenstem was following up Doctor Berg, 
 questioning and trying him, he secretly cherished the 
 hope that his innocence would be proved. He had 
 worked with him so long, had become so accustomed to 
 respect him, and had grown so attached to him, that he 
 could not conceive of his meeting a violent death. And 
 though he had promised Aleksandr that the provocateur 
 would be killed, he felt that he lacked the courage to 
 keep his promise. He tried to convince himself that 
 Doctor Berg was not a comrade, but a secret service spy, 
 that they had never worked hand in hand, that the 
 Party would approve of the legalized killing. And 
 still he could not kill. This strange duality oppressed 
 him. He realized that he still loved Berg, and the feel- 
 ing bred by many years of work together could not be 
 influenced by evident treachery, could not be reconciled 
 to fratricide. So, contemptuous of his own faintheart- 
 edness, he gave Aleksandr permission in the name of the 
 committee to "act at his own discretion." Aleksandr 
 met Abram and Vanya the same day. Abram was 
 stirred. 
 
 "Ha, a real American grafter," he exclaimed indig-
 
 360 What Never Happened 
 
 nantly, and his round, laughing, childish face was dis- 
 torted by anger. ' ' Five years in the committee ! In- 
 tel-li-gentzia ! Well, all right. We're no students. 
 We're workingmen. Ha! Rest assured — " 
 
 Aleksandr looked at him in curiosity. 
 
 "But it's a capital crime." 
 
 "A capital crime? What if it is? Very important! 
 And what did you expect of us — prayers ? ' ' 
 
 ''But the Party has pronounced the verdict." 
 
 "Well, is it my fault?" Abram said angrily. 
 
 Vanya shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' ' The wolf was getting us ; now we '11 get the wolf, ' ' he 
 said coldly and with hatred in his voice. 
 
 Aleksandr smiled. 
 
 "Tomorrow?" 
 
 "Yes, tomorrow." 
 
 "At his house?" 
 
 "Yes, at his house." 
 
 "Well, all right. Good luck to you." 
 
 On the sixth of May at ten o'clock in the morning 
 Abram was nearing Doctor Berg's house. The contem- 
 plated murder seemed neither difficult nor dangerous to 
 him. He gave no thought to it that he might be arrested 
 and that it was hardly possible to escape on the Maly 
 Prospect. "The many-eyed snake! The scoundrel! 
 He arrested Ippolit. ]\Ien of that calibre arrange po- 
 groms, violate women, kill children, burn houses, drive 
 out Jews. Well, all right. Ha!" he kept on muttering 
 through his teeth. He found the house, which Aleksandr 
 had described to him, and mounted the stairs slowly. 
 On the lower landing a padded door stood wide open. 
 From it issued steam, hot and stuffy. Washer-women 
 were laundering. One of them, good-looking, well-built,
 
 What Never Happened 361 
 
 her face red from the heat, turned around when she 
 heard his steps. 
 
 "They're working. Ha! They are not the intelli- 
 gentzia," Abram thought. On the fifth floor he saw a 
 card on the door, ''Doctor of Medicine Fiodor Fiodorov- 
 ich Berg," and stopped, breathing heavily. "A cap- 
 ital crime. What does it mean? Ridiculous!" He 
 raised the trigger of his revolver and was going to ring 
 the bell, but suddenly hesitated. ''I'll take a smoke." 
 He took out his box of matches and slowly lighted a 
 match. He smoked passionately, in short puffs, listen- 
 ing to what was going on in the yard. All was quiet 
 around him, except that in the laundry a deep contralto 
 voice was singing a sad song, and from the street came 
 the sound of sweeping. He did not notice how the cig- 
 arette gave out and the paper burned his fingers. "And 
 suppose he is not at home?" He reached for the bell 
 with his trembling hand. "He'll know how to make 
 pogroms I He '11 know how to hang people ! Let a fire 
 burn him." 
 
 He waited long, and felt a dry, bitter taste in his 
 mouth, as he clutched his revolver. The contralto voice 
 in the laundry ceased singing and somebody laughed 
 aloud. From the second floor came the sound of loud 
 quarrelling. Abram trembled and rang again. 
 
 The lock clicked. On the threshold behind the half- 
 open door appeared Doctor Berg, tall in his brown coat. 
 He looked at Abram through his glasses from under 
 sullen brows. 
 
 "What do you wish?" 
 
 "Don't you recognize me?" 
 
 "No. What do you want? Who are you?" 
 
 Abram did not answer. Fearing the door might shut,
 
 362 What Never Happened 
 
 he leaned his whole weight against it. Doctor Berg 
 turned pale, and retreating, let him enter the anteroom. 
 
 They were standing in the anteroom, not daring to 
 move, not daring to think, nor to breathe, ready to jump 
 at each other at the first movement. Abram felt Berg's 
 uneaven breathing and saw his wide-open, sparkling eyes. 
 Neither of them could have told how long it lasted. At 
 length Doctor Berg repeated his question in a hoarse 
 whisper : 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 At the same instant Abram raised his revolver. But 
 he had no time to shoot. As soon as he saw the smooth 
 barrel, Berg jumped on Abram, catching his wrist and 
 squeezing it tightl}''. Pressing him with his shoulders, 
 breathing heavily, and gradually moving away from the 
 door, he tried to force Abram 's fingers open and make 
 him drop the revolver. Abram felt that he could not 
 release himself. He freed his left hand, and reached 
 imperceptibly under his vest, and took out a large 
 Finnish knife. He swung his hand, hitting himself 
 painfully against the jamb of the door, and struck hard 
 with the knife. Something heaved, something soft and 
 elastic gave way, and warm blood ran over his fingers. 
 Doctor Berg immediately released his hold on the re- 
 volver. His body bent up, and he made a step back- 
 ward. He groaned, caught at his heart, and trying to 
 keep his balance, leaned against the wall. But his body 
 swayed, his head dropped, and he fell heavily to the 
 floor. His left side was bleeding. 
 
 Abram bent over him. He lay on his side, his bony 
 legs under him. His face could not be seen. It seemed 
 to Abram that he was still alive. He was seized by ter- 
 ror. Forgetting himself, his eyes horror-stricken, he
 
 What Never Happened 363 
 
 crouched back on his heels and began to strike the body 
 rapidly with his knife. He swung the blood-covered 
 steel and brought it down on the neck, and sides, the 
 back, again and again, without pausing, taking revenge 
 for the terror he had just gone through. He did not 
 remember how many wounds he inflicted. He thought 
 he heard a sound at the door. Mad with terror, at a 
 loss what to do, fearing somebody might ring the bell, 
 he threw away the revolver and looked around. If 
 Vanya had by chance entered then, he would not have 
 recognized Abram. It was not the good-natured, smil- 
 ing, familiar Abram. It was another man, an entire 
 stranger. Big drops of perspiration ran down his ex- 
 pressionless face, as white as a table cover. His hair 
 stuck together, his legs trembled, and his back was 
 strangely bent. He stopped to listen. There was not 
 a soul around. Trying not to look at the mutilated 
 corpse, he passed into the bedroom. He was troubled 
 by the annoying thought : "I ought to wash up — wash 
 up — " In a corner near the bed stood a wash-stand, 
 but Abram did not see it. He walked about the room as 
 if he were blind, searching in all the corners, leaving 
 bloodstains everywhere and without finding a drop of 
 water. He did not have the courage to go through all 
 the rooms, and return to the anteroom. 
 
 And suddenly he was seized by a desire to get away, 
 by the blind instinct of an animal to save itself. He 
 found his cap with difficulty and pulled it over his fore- 
 head. He forgot about his knife and revolver. He 
 came out stealthily on the staircase and listened leaning 
 over the railing. 
 
 "There is nothing in the world I have need of," the 
 contralto voice was singing. Abram shook his head and
 
 364 What Never Happened 
 
 began to descend the stairs, lie came out into the 
 yard. At the garbage pit the hostler was sweeping up 
 some horse manure. He was working with his back to 
 Abram and did not notice him. Abram hid his face in 
 his collar and walked away rapidly. Beyond the gate 
 was the street. He called a hack and ordered him to 
 drive to the Nevsky Prospect, and it was not until he 
 reached the Nikolayevich Bridge and beheld the Neva 
 sparkling in the sun, that he realized there was no dan- 
 ger. He pulled the leather apron over him, so as to 
 cover the blood-stains, and heaved a sigh of relief, of 
 happiness, almost of innocence. '*So you are killed 
 just the same! Ha! You'll know how to make po- 
 groms. You'll know how to kill Jews!"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AT Volodya's death his squad went to pieces like 
 an iron chain under the blows of a hammer. 
 Its members scattered all over Russia. "Sys- 
 tematic partisan terror" had ended in defeat. Some 
 of the men turned to robbery, others left the work en- 
 tirely, and only an imperceptible minority still kept 
 their determination to finish Volodya's work. At the 
 head of these stood Herman Freze. He saw clearly that 
 the struggle was hopeless and the government was vic- 
 torious. But that did not deter him. He thought it 
 was his duty, the duty of an irreconcilable terrorist, to 
 remain at his glorious post to the end. And though he 
 felt he was alone and powerless, without the committee 
 to support him, he continued to build his tower of Babel 
 with bold, inexhaustible patience. During the few 
 months he had grown old and bald and had lost his con- 
 fident bearing — the self-reliant manner of a well-to-do 
 student. He travelled over the whole Volga region and 
 the south in the hope of finding fighting anarchists. He 
 found nobody, and to his deep regret had to accept the 
 deserter Svistkov, who had been expelled by Volodya 
 for drunkenness. Gerasim Svistkov, of the regiment of 
 grenadiers, a six-foot giant, with white hair and white 
 moustaches, resembling Wilhelm II, was filled with re- 
 morse for his great sin. He swore he would give up 
 drink, and was true to his oath. This Svistkov, and the 
 tramp, jester and singer from Sormov, Nikolay, nick- 
 named, "Kolka the bum," became Freze 's trusted as- 
 
 365
 
 366 What Never Happened 
 
 sistants. But the work was not progressing. The at- 
 tempts at assassination were not successful. Yet the 
 fewer the hopes, the finner, the more diligent, and the 
 more energetic did the band become. Freze knew he 
 would be hanged. But he was not afraid of death. All 
 he thought of was how to fulfil Volodya's dream of 
 creating a powerful, invincible system of terror. At 
 the end of May he came from Moscow to St. Petersburg 
 to seek the means of dynamiting the secret service. 
 Kolka the Bum and Svistkov came with him. 
 
 After he had stopped in the Hotel Reef and had 
 turned over for registration purposes his false passport 
 made out by Kolka in the name of a Polish nobleman, 
 Dovgello, Freze went to the Zabalkansky Prospect. 
 He turned instinctively to Fontanka Street. He had 
 not been in St. Petersburg since Volodya had arranged 
 the expropriation. And now he was being pulled by a 
 hidden force to Great Podyacheskaya, to that sacred 
 spot where Konstantin had thrown the first bomb and 
 the band had "earned" its first money. The day was 
 cloudy and close. A light summer rain was falling. 
 Freze walked along the wet sidewalk past the once 
 familiar houses. One of them, the house of merchant 
 Beliakov, a square, cold-looking, yellow barracks of a 
 building, with iron balconies on the second floor and a 
 greengrocer's shop below, had particularly stuck in his 
 memory. In front of this house, about five yards from 
 the entrance, had lain the canvas bags that had been 
 thrown upon the pavement, and there the decisive 
 battle had taken place. Freze recalled how a tall 
 bearded Cossack outside on a little horse had raised 
 his rifle and aimed at his breast. He recalled how at
 
 What Never Happened 367 
 
 the same moment he had levelled his revolver, how his 
 hand had jerked and his shoulder had recoiled. The 
 rifle clattered to the pavement. The frightened horse, 
 showing his teeth, snorting, and tossing his head, stood 
 up on his hind legs. And Freze also recalled how 
 Proklior's trotter, a fine grey horse with white spots, 
 was snorting, and how Prokhor, with his peasant face 
 and worried eyes, turned in the saddle and shouted 
 something to Volodya. 
 
 "Prokhor is gone — and Volodya — and Olga — and Kon- 
 stantiu — and Mitya — and Yelizar. A cemetery, for- 
 saken graves — and nobody sheds tears over them," he 
 thought anxiously. Crossing the street he entered a 
 saloon familiar to him in its minutest details. In that 
 dark saloon he and the Fly had awaited Volodya a quar- 
 ter of an hour before he was killed. The same old bar- 
 tender who had met them a year ago greeted them now, 
 and the same active boy wiped the table with a dirty 
 towel. Freze seated himself and concealed his face be- 
 hind a newspaper. At any minute, it seemed to him, 
 the door would open and pock-marked, long-haired Kon- 
 stantin in an officer's mantle with a bomb hidden beneath 
 would enter and would say, just as he had on that bril- 
 liant April morning: 
 
 "Good morning. Are you here? And where is our 
 Vladimir Ivanovich?" 
 
 It seemed to him that the sound of hoofs would begin 
 to rumble, and from under the hood of the carriage a 
 rakish hat would appear. "Olga," he thought, "Olga. 
 "Why did she shoot herself ? And if she hadn 't shot her- 
 self ? She would have been hanged. Do they ever show 
 mercy? My God, there isn't a soul. All have died —
 
 368 What Never Happened 
 
 all." He crumpled the newspaper up and rose. The 
 hot sun sparkled between the clouds and played on the 
 street lamps. 
 
 "Right here, at this lamp, lay Konstantin dying." 
 Freze dropped his head on his chest and walked slowly 
 back to Fontanka Street. 
 
 At the Yusupov Park somebody called his name : 
 
 "Herman Karlovich! Is that you?" 
 
 Before him stood Epstein. He stooped, his face was 
 of a greenish pallor, and blue goggles covered his eyes. 
 He wore a black hat, a short light coat, and bright yellow 
 gloves. He would never have been taken for a revolu- 
 tionist, an expropriator and anarchist, but some mer- 
 chant's careless, idle son. And though he had disgrace- 
 fully deserted the band and had gone to Paris, Freze was 
 heartily glad to see him. He held out his hand to 
 Epstein and smiled affably. Freze smiled only with his 
 eyes. His narrow, stony German face always remained 
 immobile. 
 
 "Are you back from Paris long?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" Epstein exclaimed in surprise, 
 as if expecting Freze to know the exact time of his ar- 
 rival. "Direct from the station. Well, how are af- 
 fairs?" 
 
 "What affairs?" 
 
 ** Yours, of course." 
 
 "Mine? My affairs are not in very good shape." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 "There are only a few men left of the old squad." 
 
 ''Why only a few?" 
 
 Freze sighed: 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 **You don't know. Who does know, then? God per-
 
 What Never Happened 369 
 
 haps?" Epstein looked at Freze sternly. "It means 
 that the comrades cannot work." 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Not perhaps, but surely. If Volodya were alive — " 
 
 "Well, Volodya was different," Freze replied re- 
 luctantly. 
 
 "What was Volodya?" Epstein replied angrily. 
 ' ' Why are we worse than Volodya ? Have you read my 
 article on the worst and the best? No? I wrote that 
 a general clean-up is necessary — you understand ? a gen- 
 eral clean-up. We must have a spontaneous, universal, 
 all-embracing, ruthless terror. There are two races of 
 mankind, the race of exploiters and the race of ex- 
 ploited. The exploiters are by heritage wicked, greedy, 
 and predatorj^ It is unthinkable to associate with them. 
 They must be annihilated. You understand, annihi- 
 lated. All of them to the last man. If there are a hun- 
 dred thousand of them, we must annihilate a hundred 
 thousand. If there are a million of them, we must an- 
 nihilate a million. If a hundred million, a hundred 
 million must be annihilated. We must not stop before 
 anything. And I — I, Ruvim Epstein, know how it 
 should be done. I came just to find you. I will tell 
 you how we must work. We shall win the world. We 
 shall have the revolution. No?" 
 
 Night was falling. A transparent violet fog wove 
 itself about the Neva, and in the east, beyond the Baltic 
 factor^', the sky became overcast with dark clouds. A 
 fresh wind sprang up. It was getting cold. Peals of 
 thunder sounded. Epstein buttoned up his coat and 
 continued rapturously- : 
 
 " It is a great misfortune that people cannot free them- 
 selves of prejudice. Somehow all are afraid of free-
 
 370 What Never Happened 
 
 dom. Somehow nobody dares to take any risks. You 
 think it is not so? Oh, I've always said, what a childish 
 fairytale it is that one must think of laws! Where are 
 they, those laws ? I laugh at all laws. I am a law unto 
 myself. Have you read Nietzsche? You must read 
 him. Remember, we want to fill one another with ad- 
 miration. Yes, with admiration. Olga understood. 
 She alone understood that for a freeman all is permis- 
 sible. A man — the name is full of pride. You under- 
 stand — pride ! Well, and we ? It 's ridiculous ! I come 
 from Paris. I thought I'd find you and you would tell 
 me something very pleasant. Instead you say affairs 
 are in a bad way. Why? Because you dare not risk 
 putting them into good shape. 
 
 Epstein was silent a moment, then he raised his thin 
 weak hand in a yellow glove, and began to recite loudly 
 and with inspiration : 
 
 "Beyond the limits of the finite, 
 High in the endless radiant spaces, 
 Rebellious spirits unafraid, 
 We fly in search of happiness, 
 In search of joy that is complete. 
 Light as the air we soar and soar, 
 And scarcely move our wings, ne'er halting. 
 The world and all therein embracing. 
 We'll grasp with glee all it contains. 
 With bold and hard endeavor we'll make 
 For lofty heights yet unattained. 
 Far from the narrow haunts of earth 
 We'll fly to realms of undreamed wonders. 
 To worlds of rare and hidden beauty." 
 
 Freze wrinkled his high white forehead. Epstein's 
 words about beauty, Nietzsche, about the worst and the 
 best, about an abyss and daring seemed void of aU sense,
 
 What Never Happened 371 
 
 the babbling of a school-boy. He recalled Volodya's 
 harsh estimate: "The woodcock is small, but it makes 
 a big noise." His feeling of pleasure suddenly died out. 
 Glancing at Epstein with an up-and-down look of con- 
 tempt, he asked wearily: 
 
 "Why are you saying all this?" 
 
 "What do you mean, why?" Epstein replied excit- 
 edly. "It means a renascent beautiful life, an untiring 
 struggle for light, and consequently, for revolution. 
 How can you fail to understand ? Don 't we revolution- 
 ists pine for beauty ? For universal harmony ? For the 
 annihilation of two-legged scorpions? For the destruc- 
 tion of the bourgeoisie? Or don't we? Perhaps beauty 
 is not in daring? 'In our enmity we must be creators 
 of images and phantasms and with their aid we must 
 declare war on one another.' So spoke Nietzsche. And 
 you? What will you say to it? I must warn you. I 
 am convinced that for the success of the revolution one 
 must dare anything, without exception. That is the 
 only way to achieve good results. Perhaps you think, I 
 just talk this way ? " He began to whisper mysteriously, 
 leaning one shoulder towards Freze. "I must tell you 
 one thing, a secret, one plan that I have thought out, 
 tried out and accepted. You will be convinced that a 
 clever man may do anything and that I know how to 
 carry on terror. You will be convinced when we are 
 successful. No ? " 
 
 Freze was lost in thought. Epstein, his body bent, his 
 face pale, his dark glasses over his eyes, seemed to him 
 so foolish, insignificant and ridiculous that he did 
 not care to listen to his ''secret." But suppressing his 
 uneasy feeling, he said lazily: 
 
 "If you have something to tell me useful to terror, I
 
 372 What Never Happened 
 
 am ready to listen. But the street is not a convenient 
 place to talk in." 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course," Epstein rejoined excitedly. 
 "Let's go to the Islands! Driver, to the Islands!" 
 Without giving Freze a chance to say a word, he got into 
 the hack and ordered the driver to go to the night 
 restaurant Alcazar.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 EPSTEIN entered the noisy, brightly lighted 
 Alcazar with firm, heavy steps. He imme- 
 diately ordered a private room, and when the 
 waiters brought in the supper he drank a glass of wine, 
 lit a cigarette and began to talk: 
 
 "Won't you drink? The wine isn't bad. Tell me, 
 have you considered why terror was unsuccessful, or 
 rather, may be unsuccessful? No? Were there few 
 workers? Too little courage? Lack of money? Lack 
 of discretion? Strange! There was enough of every- 
 thing. I tell you, the only thing was there was too 
 little daring. Ah, what sentimental tales! 'I rejoice 
 in great sin,' spake Zarathustra, *as my great consola- 
 tion. Such things, however, are not said for long ears. 
 . . . These are fine, far-away things: at them sheep's 
 claws shall not grasp ! Think ye that I am here to put 
 right what ye have put wrong? ... Or show you rest- 
 less, miswandering, misclimbing ones, new and easier 
 foot paths ? ' Do you remember ? Well, that 's just why 
 I have come. You understand? I can show you the 
 way. You understand, I can point it out to you. Have 
 you heard about Doctor Berg?" 
 
 Freze looked at Epstein and yawned. The room filled 
 with smoke and the smell of cigars. The annoying 
 sounds from the orchestra, the miserable looking Epstein 
 in dark glasses and his bombast tired him out. He 
 passed his hands over his face, and thinking about his 
 
 373
 
 374 .What Never Happened 
 
 own affairs, the squad and the contemplated assassina- 
 tions, answered indifferently: 
 
 ' ' Yes, I 've heard about Doctor Berg. ' ' 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing. A provocateur was killed." 
 
 ' ' Strange ! That 's not the point. I ask you, is terror 
 possible if a provocateur is a member of the committee ? 
 Well? Of course, it's impossible. You won't contra- 
 dict that ? I ask you, is terror possible if we sheepsheads 
 are not going to fight?" 
 
 "Fight what?" 
 
 "What? Treachery, of course!" 
 
 "But how can we fight it?" 
 
 "That's just what I've come for. I have a faultless 
 plan. I'll show you the way. You must understand 
 that till the police know everything, terror cannot be 
 successful. The only way to fight them is to enter the 
 secret service. Isu 't that clear to you ? Must I explain 
 it to you? Chew it for you? Make it clear to you? 
 In the party of the 'People's Freedom' there was a 
 precedent that gave excellent results. While Klietochni- 
 kov served in the secret service, Zheliabov was out of 
 danger. And then, you know, you must imagine what 
 it means to serve in the secret service. Imagine what 
 a man must feel who has dared to do it! What emo- 
 tions, what sensations he must go through ! To work for 
 terror and at the same time to work for the secret 
 service! To know everything that is going on on both 
 sides of the barricade ! To know that he holds the fate 
 of Russia in his hands! The fate of Russia! What 
 beauty! What grandeur! To walk at the edge of the
 
 What Never Happened 375 
 
 precipice and to strive for 'radiant infinity'! Here's 
 the abyss of the underworld ! Here 's the abyss of the 
 heights! No? Just think! Just think of it. Well, 
 what do you say ? ' ' 
 
 Epstein jumped up, his face flushed, his head raised 
 proudly. 
 
 Freze was no longer indifferent. He listened to him 
 with curiosity. "Is he babbling, or not? He's bab- 
 bling, of course." 
 
 He frowned and said reluctantly : 
 
 ''If you ask me my opinion, I must tell you that we 
 must not join the secret service in any circumstances." 
 
 "Why? Why? Explain why!" 
 
 "Because it is treachery." 
 
 "Treachery? Ridiculous! Sentimental fairy tales! 
 Ancient commandments ! A moral imperative ! Law ! 
 But how in God's name can you call it treachery if I 
 say, not for myself, but for terror, for the revolution? 
 Well, and the law. What is the law? Do you remem- 
 ber? 'Oh, send me madness, ye dwellers in heaven! 
 Send me delirium and convulsions, sudden light and 
 sudden darkness, give me fever, make me howl and 
 creep, like an animal. I have killed the law. If I am 
 not higher than the law, then I am the lowliest of men.' 
 Thus wrote Friedrich Nietzsche. Well and I, Ruvim 
 Epstein, tell you this: a free man is higher, immeasur- 
 ably higher, than the highest law. A free man must not 
 howl and creep. I jeer at the foolish law!" 
 
 He went over to the table and drank another glass of 
 wine. His lengthy quotations from Nietzsche, his un- 
 certain words, his exaggerated ease and forced smile 
 were signs to Freze that Epstein was concealing some- 
 thing he was afraid to tell. "And suppose he is not
 
 376 What Never Happened 
 
 babbling? Suppose?" he thought with apprehension, 
 and said: 
 
 "That's all very well. But you surely have not come 
 from Paris to lecture on morals," 
 
 Epstein did not answer immediately. He seated him- 
 self in a low arm-chair and looked at Freze long and 
 silently. In the low chair he looked still shorter, still 
 weaker and more helpless. In the main saloon the or- 
 chestra was playing noisily. In the hall waiters were 
 whispering to each other. Epstein coughed irreso- 
 lutely : 
 
 "I must tell you something." 
 
 "I am listening." 
 
 "Well — I — I — you know my views? I have come to 
 the conclusion that for the benefit of terror it is neces- 
 sary to join the secret service." 
 
 "And?" 
 
 "And — and — I'll tell it to you, Freze. You are wise, 
 you won't misunderstand me. I tell you, terror can't 
 be successful unless the secret service stops hampering 
 us. Am I not right? "Well, if that is so, somebody 
 must be daring enough to join the secret service. A 
 strong man will have the courage. A weak man will 
 not. I am a free man, I recognize no authority. Don't 
 you agree with me? Maybe you think it's not the right 
 thing to do? Oh, I knew that beforehand. I knew 
 nobody would understand me. Loneliness ! Oh, my fa- 
 therland is loneliness." He clutched his head with both 
 hands. "Now I come to you in tears. I ask you, do 
 you want terror to be successful ? Do you want to come 
 out victorious ? Do you want to work with me ? Think 
 it over, Freze." 
 
 Epstein rose in expectation of an answer. His sunken
 
 What Never Happened 377 
 
 cheeks and lips trembled. Though Freze could see he 
 was not joking and had really sold himself to the secret 
 service, he could not believe the degrading confession. 
 Without raising his eyes and still incredulous, in fear 
 of hearing the irreparable word, he asked : 
 
 **You — you are working in the secret service?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ''How long?" 
 
 "Two months." 
 
 Freze turned pale and was silent. At last his truth- 
 ful soul took in the whole fact, that this man Epstein 
 was not a friend, not a comrade, not a well-wisher of 
 lost Olga, but a secret service hireling, a spy. ''Who 
 betrayed Volodya?" The thought entered his mind like 
 a sharp blade. Clenching his teeth, he asked harshly: 
 
 ' ' How much do you get ? ' ' 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 * * How much do you get ? ' ' 
 
 "Herman Karlovich, what's this? A cross examina- 
 tion? I won't answer you. You have no right to ques- 
 tion me like that." 
 
 "You won't answer me?" 
 
 "I won't. I spoke to you like a comrade, and you — " 
 Epstein stole an angry glance at Freze, and flushed up. 
 "This is the devil knows what! This is insolence!" 
 
 "You shall answer me." 
 
 "Well, all right. Five hundred rubles." 
 
 "A month?" 
 
 "Yes, a month." 
 
 "Where is the money?" 
 
 "What do you mean? I can't understand you. 
 What is it ? What do you want ? ' ' 
 
 "Where is the money?"
 
 378 What Kever Happened 
 
 Freze slowly and quietly put his right hand into his 
 pocket. Epstein noticed the movement. He trembled 
 and quickly produced his pocketbook and threw it on the 
 table. 
 
 ''Here are three hundred rubles. There, count the 
 money if you want to." 
 
 ' ' Three hundred ? And the rest 1 ' ' 
 
 "I don't understand. What do you want me to do? 
 Save my money? Hide it in the ground? Or what? 
 \Yell?" 
 
 "Then you live on your pay?" 
 
 "Yes, I live on it." 
 
 "See here, Epstein," Freze said glumly. An intox- 
 icating joy was mounting in him. The idea occurred 
 to him to take revenge on account of Volodya. It would 
 be a revenge fitting and worthy of him. Epstein no 
 longer seemed foolish, powerless, or pitiful. Now he 
 assumed the shape of a sly, wicked enemy whom it 
 would be a crime to spare. 
 
 "See here, Epstein, I am compelled — " 
 
 "Stop your joking, Herman Karlovich, won't you?" 
 Epstein began excitedly. "AVhat do you mean? You 
 talk as if I were a provocateur! It's ridiculous — ab- 
 surd. I have come here to work for terror. I have 
 joined the secret service for that one purpose. Do you 
 think I enjoy working there? You have not yet con- 
 vinced me that I have made a mistake. Convince me. 
 I am a free man. I am not afraid of anything. You 
 can't prevent me from serving the revolution. This is 
 violence. I protest. "What difference does it make that 
 I have been receiving money ? Wliat is money anyway ? 
 Why shouldn't I take it? Must I idealize things? 
 Create suspicion? Where is the proof? Well?"
 
 What Never Happened 379 
 
 Freze heard his fiery speech with indifference. When 
 Epstein, choking with emotion and wiping his eyes with 
 his handkerchief, dropped in exhaustion into a low arm- 
 chair, Freze repeated coldly: 
 
 "Taking into consideration that you are a provoca- 
 teur, I shall be compelled — " 
 
 "Compelled to what?" 
 
 "I shall be compelled to put one condition." 
 
 "What condition? What has a condition to do with 
 it? Well! I want to be of benefit to him, I tell him 
 what things to do and how to do them in order to make 
 terror effective, and he threatens me. It's madness, 
 foolishness, insanity! What do you think? I will call 
 for help." 
 
 Freze wrinkled his bare white forehead and slowly 
 drew his revolver from his pocket. He laid it near him 
 on the table-cloth and smiled. 
 
 "If you want to call for help, why don't you? My 
 condition is that you must kill Colonel von Schoen. 
 Otherwise — otherwise — I shall be constrained to — kill 
 you. ' ' 
 
 Epstein rose with difficulty from his chair. He 
 stretched his thin neck and glanced idly round the room. 
 The doors were closed, and between him and Freze was 
 the table covered with bottles. The room was very light, 
 very warm, and smelled strongly of wine. On the white 
 table-cloth lay the loaded black revolver. Epstein 
 heaved a deep sigh, and almost losing consciousness, fell 
 back into his chair. As if in sleep he heard the even 
 voice : 
 
 "Do you agree, or not?" 
 
 He made no reply. He forgot where he was, what 
 was going on, who was questioning him, why the re-
 
 380 What Never Happened 
 
 volver was sparkling, and why the electric lights were 
 shining. All he understood was that Freze would not 
 let him go, that his life was coming to an end, that in 
 ten minutes he would die a disgraceful death. He was 
 certain Freze would shoot him, shoot him there in that 
 chamhre separe smelling of cigars and wine, that it 
 would be futile to ask for mercy, futile to cry, to shout, 
 to call for help, to argue, or even to struggle. "Without 
 thinking what he was doing, without knowing what to 
 do, he nodded weakly, and crossed his hands on his 
 chest in an attitude of self-defence, which was an old 
 habit of his childhood. Freze looked at him in hatred 
 and put his revolver back into his pocket.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE next day Epstein woke up late, at eleven 
 o'clock. The familiar hotel-room, the dusty 
 rug, with its intricate pattern, the yellow 
 closet with the mirror and the muslin window-curtains 
 looked unattractive and strange, as if his whole life had 
 changed during the night. Though the room was warm, 
 he pulled the quilt up over his head, and made an at- 
 tempt to fall asleep again so as to avoid his painful 
 thoughts. 
 
 **Ah — ah — ah!" he groaned, biting his nails. 
 "Freze! Ah— ah! What folly! What terrible folly! 
 What brainless folly! Who was pulling at my 
 tongue? What did I have to blab for? Couldn't I 
 hold it back ? He did not have to know anything. And 
 I could have gone on working, and everything would 
 have been all right. And now all is lost. Lost ? Really 
 lost? Can't I really fix it up? Ah— ah— ah! The 
 devil!" 
 
 He was thoroughly convinced he had joined the se- 
 cret service solely for the good of terror and there was 
 incontestably a bottomless gulf between Doctor Berg and 
 him. He was convinced he was not a venal "secret 
 agent," but a bold revolutionist who could not be 
 bought, more courageous, of course, than those who 
 would not dare. And he was also convinced that his 
 unpardonable sin lay solely in the fact that he had 
 "babbled like a woman," and overestimated his trust in 
 comradeship. 
 
 "He does not understand. The fanatic, the fool, the 
 
 381
 
 382 What Never Happened 
 
 telegraph post! They have created laws! The saints! 
 Oh, folly, folly, folly! Insane folly! But what's to he 
 done?" He sat up uncombed and unwashed, swing- 
 ing his bare legs and gesticulating with his arms as he 
 muttered : 
 
 *'He was telling me something. He said he'd kill 
 me. He wouldn't dare to. For what? What have I 
 done? Am I a provocateur? My conscience is clean. 
 "Why shouldn't it be clean since I am convinced that we 
 must work in the secret service? Let him prove that 
 I am wrong. Let him prove it. Yes, yes, let him prove 
 it. Whom have I betrayed? Have I injured anybod}^? 
 And the money? A trifle. Nonsense! A child would 
 understand it. Kidiculous!" 
 
 He quieted down, almost convinced he was right and 
 there was nothing to accuse him of. He put on his shoes 
 and began to dress carefully. But the thought of what 
 had taken place the evening before haunted him. Hav- 
 ing combed himself and put the brush on the marble 
 table his thoughts involuntarily reverted to Freze. At 
 the same instant he recalled Colonel von Schoen, who 
 wore his hair short and was ruddy and plump and a very 
 polite gentleman. He recalled his round, dull eyes, 
 those eyes of which he was so afraid, and their last con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Don't you know where Herman Freze is now, Ep- 
 stein?" 
 
 "Have I betrayed?" Epstein was stricken with 
 terror. His knees shook. "Why did I betray him? 
 Am I a provocateur? How could I help giving an 
 answer? If I had not answered, he would have grown 
 suspicious of me — would have understood I was play- 
 ing a game. It is inevitable. And what harm have
 
 Wliat Never Happened 383 
 
 I done? I merely said I thought Freze was in St. 
 Petersburg. Well, what of it? St. Petersburg is big. 
 He would surely be found. ' ' He tried to vindicate him- 
 self, tried hard to convince himself he had committed no 
 crime, and Freze would not be arrested. "Even should 
 some harm come of it, there is a difference. A provoca- 
 teur works for money, while I do it for an ideal and for 
 no personal interest. That must not be forgotten. It 
 must be borne in mind that — that sometimes victims 
 must be sacrificed." He staggered to the window and 
 pulled the muslin curtain aside. ''Freze says he'll kill 
 me. Freze will kill me ? How ? Suppose I go out now 
 and he should be waiting for me around the corner? 
 Will he spare me? Do they spare? Why did I talk? 
 How silly of me ! He'll kill me? Why didn't he kill 
 me yesterday ? Could he ? Didn 't he dare to ? I gave 
 him a promise. How idiotic! Oh, what should I do? 
 What should I do ? " As he put on his coat awkwardly, 
 he had a clear vision of the events of the night before. 
 He saw the close, smoke-filled, brightly-lighted private 
 dining-room, the narrow face, that seemed chiselled in 
 stone, the black revolver and the table with bottles on 
 it. "I shall be compelled to put one condition," Freze 
 had said. "That means — I must escape. But where 
 to? Escape where? They are surely watching me. 
 There is no escape," he thought in fear and immediately 
 caught at a new hope. "Suppose I don't go out? 
 Suppose I hide here? Who can force me to come out? 
 I shall sit right here, on this couch. And I will write 
 to the colonel." 
 
 He quieted down for a moment and even tried to 
 smoke, but his fingers were not firm, and he could not 
 light the match.
 
 384 What Never Haj)pened 
 
 "IIow about Doctor Berg? They went to his house. 
 "Will they come here? Well, yes, it's very simple — ■ 
 they'll come here." 
 
 He did not doubt any longer that wherever he would 
 be, whatever he would do, however he would try to pro- 
 tect himself, the merciless Freze would ferret him out. 
 He threw away the unlighted cigarette and looked out 
 into the hall cautiously. In the next room an elderly 
 maid with a tired face was fixing up the bed. "A 
 maid?" Epstein became excited. "I did not notice 
 her yesterday. Is she a maid? My God!" Feeling a 
 sudden spell of dizziness come over him, he ran down 
 stairs quickly and came out on the Nevsky. 
 
 Sadovaya Street was crowded. There was a funeral 
 procession for an officer. While the monster cortege of 
 carriages and soldiers was passing, Epstein looked 
 suspiciously at every passer-by. It seemed to him that 
 somewhere near him, perhaps at his very side, was Freze, 
 or Kolka or Svistkov, or some other terrorist whom he 
 did not know. At the entrance to the public library 
 stood a long-haired student in a white coat. 
 
 "That's strange," Epstein thought, looking at him 
 attentively. "Why is he here? And why doesn't he 
 look up? Why does he turn his eyes away? Who 
 knows who he is?" Without thinking, afraid to look 
 back, haunted by the fear that the student was following 
 him, he ran along Sadovaya Street, jostling men and 
 women, breathing heavily and not seeing where he was 
 running. There was a steady ringing in his ears. He 
 saw sparks of fire, and his feet caught in his coat all 
 the time. The immense city of iron and stone, the tall 
 impenetrable houses, the theatres, monuments, parks and 
 castles seemed like a solitarj^ prison cell, like a cleverly
 
 What Never Happened 385 
 
 laid trap. Freze, he felt, was not the only one spying 
 on him. So were the hack drivers, the newsboys, the 
 messengers, the blind and crippled beggars. They were 
 all treacherous members of the fighting squad, terrorists, 
 intent upon killing him. They were laughing at him. 
 Not a soul in the world had pity on him. He reached 
 the Kalinkin Bridge and turned into Galerny Street. 
 He could see the black chimneys of factories on Cheku- 
 sky Street. At the custom house stood rows of barnS) 
 warehouses, stores, and low houses. Epstein halted. 
 The blue diamond-like water was sparkling with silver 
 spots and a boat was emerging from the Morsky Canal. 
 Bells were ringing gleefully. 
 
 "It's Sunday. Bells are ringing." Epstein sud- 
 denly came to himself. "I must hide — I must hide — • 
 but what am I afraid of ? How foolish ! Even if Freze 
 is following me, all I need do is tell Colonel von Schoen. 
 Tell Colonel von Schoen? Then I'm a provocateur." 
 He did not dare to develop the thought. His body bent. 
 He staggered over the Egyptian Bridge, and reached the 
 Peterhof Prospect. But as soon as he saw the people, 
 the careless, hurrying crowds, he was seized by fear 
 again. "There is no escape — no escape," he almost 
 sobbed, and jumped upon a passing street-car. 
 
 The car was dirty and crowded, the windows were 
 trickling, and the conductor was issuing tickets. Ep- 
 stein squeezed himself into a corner, and looked around 
 the car from beneath knitted brows. On the bench op- 
 posite him a retired soldier with medals on his chest was 
 slumbering. "When did he come in? Before or after 
 me?" Epstein tried to recall. He felt he was getting 
 tired. "I think after me, yes, of course, after me. But 
 how is it I didn't notice him? Why is he silent? He is
 
 386 What Never Happened 
 
 pretending to sleep. I think I have seen him some- 
 where," The soldier drew his grey brows together and 
 looked at Epstein with expressionless eyes. Epstein 
 pressed closer to the wall. "He's looking at me. He's 
 sly. He's afraid of making a mistake. My God! I 
 must get off. It's best to jump off while the ear is mov- 
 ing." The wheels squeaked, and the lame horses re- 
 duced their speed. 
 
 "Technological Institute," the conductor called out. 
 Epstein got up and made his way with difficulty to the 
 platform. The old soldier followed him. 
 
 "Well, of course, of course," Epstein thought, in 
 utter terror. "It's so. What should I do? I must 
 run. ' ' He looked back at the old man and ran stealthily 
 into the Zagorodny Prospect. "I have seen him some- 
 where? Yes, I have," he kept repeating, accelerating 
 his steps. He made his way through side-streets to the 
 Obvodny Canal, past the gas works and the city 
 slaughter houses, and reached the park. "If they're 
 following me, they'll surely come here, and I'll see them 
 — I '11 see them. ' ' He did not know whom he would see 
 and why it would be good if the terrorists found him 
 there in the deserted section on the outskirts of St. Pe- 
 tersburg, where nobody would come to his rescue. 
 
 The day was sunny, warm as in summer. Beyond the 
 tracks of the Warsaw Eailroad the white crosses of a 
 cemetery could be seen. 
 
 "My God, what is the trouble with me?" Epstein 
 grasped his head. "My God, am I losing my mind? 
 Shall I tell the colonel? No?" But the thought im- 
 mediately died out. "No — I must leave — leave — leave 
 St. Petersburg — cross the frontier — to Paris." And 
 Paris, dismal Paris, where he had gone hungry and cold
 
 Wliat Never Happened 387 
 
 and had spent weary days, now seemed a land of prom- 
 ise. * ' But how can I leave 1 Oh, it makes no difference. 
 Nobody will find me there. Nobody will dare to kill 
 me there." He looked at his watch. It was four 
 o 'clock. * ' I think there is a train. And suppose they 're 
 at the station ? No, no, it cannot be. ' ' He took a hack, 
 ordered the top to be raised, and asked to be taken to the 
 Warsaw Station. He arrived just as the third bell was 
 given. A suburban train was leaving for Luga. Ep- 
 stein, full of excitement, happy there was no one there, 
 went to the first-class car, and after the locomotive had 
 whistled and the train had started, he walked through 
 all the cars for the sake of security. The car next to the 
 locomotive was almost empty. Epstein sank into the 
 dirty seat and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 "Thank God, it's all over! Thank God, I'm saved! 
 Saved ! Saved ! " he repeated, hardly believing in his 
 own good fortune. His coat burst open, his hat was 
 crushed and his glasses fell and were broken. The 
 wheels clattered monotonously, the car vibrated at rail- 
 joints, and through the open windows the damp air 
 rushed in. Everything was now forgotten, he felt, 
 everything was past and gone, was forgiven, and Freze, 
 reconciled, was not exacting promises.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FREZE'S men were impatiently waiting for 
 "work." Long months had passed in idleness 
 and loneliness, in explicable unforeseen failures. 
 The governor of Saratov, on whom they had had their 
 eyes all winter, left for St. Petersburg before Christ- 
 mas and did not return to Saratov. In February, on 
 the eve of an expropriation in Kazan, Kolka suddenly 
 noticed that the squad was being spied upon. In March 
 the assassination of the Odessa district attorney, who 
 was known for his cruelty, did not take place because the 
 dynamite had not arrived in time. In April a transport 
 of ammunition fell through in Tver, and it was neces- 
 sary to postpone a contemplated attack on the postoffice. 
 Freze did not lose his composure. He had come to the 
 capital to destroy the secret service and he was immeas- 
 urably happy that there was an opportunity to kill Colo- 
 nel von Schoen. He did not doubt that -Epstein was 
 too frightened either to "squeal" or to run away, and 
 he was sure the squad would acqviit itself with honour. 
 He thought himself obliged to revenge Volodya's death, 
 the defeated terror, and the defeated revolution. And 
 though he hated Epstein, as people hate a wicked, treach- 
 erous enemy, he decided to send him across the frontier 
 in case the colonel were really killed. 
 
 The day following his meeting with Epstein he saw 
 Svistkov and Kolka. He told them of the planned as- 
 sassination. They met in the Viborg section, in the 
 cheap restaurant Rostov-on-Don. 
 
 388
 
 What Never Happened 389 
 
 When Freze had finished, Svistkov curled his long 
 moustaches that were like Kaiser Wilhelm's, and made 
 no answer. His soldier-like brown face with its rough 
 chin gave no indication of what he thought of Epstein's 
 treachery. Freze was not surprised. He knew Svist- 
 kov could keep things to himself and achieve the most 
 dangerous things. Kolka, a red-haired, thick-lipped 
 fellow of about twenty-eight, laughed aloud. He had 
 a provoking sort of laugh, as if he were making fun of 
 himself and his companions. 
 
 "There's a trick for you! The sly guy! Ha — ^ha — 
 ha! How many people do you think know about the 
 joke already? I would have strangled the dirty-face 
 with my own hands. I would have killed him on 
 the spot! You may crack and crack, but you can't 
 bend!" 
 
 Freze motioned to a waiter and ordered tea. Kolka 
 became restless in his chair, his greenish, catlike eyes 
 protruded more than usually, and he laughed louder 
 still. 
 
 ' ' I remember there was a man by the name of Filatka 
 in our shop. He was a scoundrel, not a man. We were 
 watching him. Something was wrong, we saw — some- 
 thing foxy about him. What would you have done? 
 We got hold of him and began questioning him. 'You 
 knave, you scoundrel, confess. We'll try you.' He be- 
 gan to cry and shout and jump up and down. 'Broth- 
 ers, I swear to God, not I. Brothers, here's the cross, 
 I'm not guilty.' 'All right, talk. Who was running 
 to the secret service yesterday? Speak up, you bastard ! 
 I'll beat you to death!' He kept crying like a fish, 
 'Comrades, forgive me! Spare my soul!' But he 
 couldn't fool us. The grave for him!"
 
 390 What Never Happened 
 
 ''You killed him?" Svistkov put in gloomily. 
 
 "What do you think we did — forgave him?" 
 
 "That's what they deserve." 
 
 Freze hardly heard their conversation. The thought 
 of Colonel von Schoen was disturbing him. "If Colo- 
 nel von Schoen is killed," he was considering, "it will 
 at once become easier to work. He knows everything. 
 He is at the head of the secret service. Epstein will 
 show us his house and tell us when he is at home. I 
 will make the bomb. A bomb is more reliable. What 
 would Volodya do ? After all, Epstein is a provocateur. 
 Will he fool us? No, he won't. And suppose he runs 
 away? If he runs away, then what shall I do? Too 
 bad I did not establish a watch over him. But no, he 
 is a coward. He will not dare to run away." 
 
 He raised his head and looked at Svistkov. Svistkov 
 was sitting with his broad back bent, and arms spread 
 in a circle, noisily drinking his tea. "And Volodya is 
 gone — and Yelizar — and Olga." Freze sighed and 
 touched Svistkov 's sleeve. 
 
 "Listen, Svistkov." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You go to Epstein's house tomorrow at eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "To the hotel." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Take a revolver along and keep an eye on Epstein. 
 You understand?" 
 
 Svistkov, drinking his tea, said yes with his eyes. 
 Kolka became attentive. 
 
 "Herman Karlovich, this isn't fair." 
 
 "What?"
 
 What Never Happened 391 
 
 "How about me?" 
 
 "You?" Freze mused. "There is no work for you 
 yet." 
 
 "That means one worker and seven idlers?" Kolka 
 muttered offended. "Why should he put his head into 
 the noose every day?" 
 
 Freze patted him on the shoulder in a conciliatory 
 manner, paid the bill and went out. 
 
 "I must prepare the weapon for tomorrow," he 
 thought, as he entered his room. He locked the door 
 carefully, opened the satchel, and took out a round box 
 with soldered edges, "Yolodya's bequest," he smiled 
 contentedly, and uncovered the soft, odorous, yellowish 
 mass. He was so accustomed to make bombs and handle 
 dynamite, and was so proud of his difficult work that 
 the thought of an explosion never disturbed him. He 
 worked with the complacency of a jeweller, carefully 
 and without passion, measuring all his motions. "Yes, 
 I'll order Epstein to show us Colonel Schoen's house," 
 he repeated, kneading the elastic mass. "Svistkov will 
 throw the bomb. Tomorrow." Steps resounded in the 
 hall. Freze got up and listened at the door. "Non- 
 sense, no one will come in," he thought indifferently, 
 without apprehension, and returned to the table. He 
 filled the tin box, laid it on the bed carefully and ex- 
 amined the kindling tube. The glass tube was in good 
 condition, but the mercury was damp and needed diy- 
 ing. Still oblivious of the danger of an explosion, he 
 lighted the alcohol heater and emptied the mercury into 
 a pan. The grains began to give forth a dry cracking 
 sound. "Suppose they explode?" Freze became wor- 
 ried. "No, they won't. They never have." He sat 
 down and began to look at the trembling flame with close
 
 392 What Never Happened 
 
 attention. The hotel was quiet. No sounds came from 
 outside. 
 
 "Olga used to hide our dynamite," Freze whispered. 
 "Olga — how long ago it was!" 
 
 Then suddenly, sitting there in front of the loaded 
 bomb, a few hours before the planned assassination, he 
 was seized by fear. He realized at last that the revolu- 
 tion was defeated, that his attempts were futile, and that 
 terror was ineffective. Neither the killing of Colonel 
 von Schoen, nor the dynamiting of the secret service, nor 
 the execution of Epstein, nor a dozen desperate expro- 
 priations could turn the tide of events, or effect any 
 change. "Then why am I alive? Why am I working? 
 Why am I killing?" he asked himself anxiously and 
 touched his bald forehead. He was not oppressed by his 
 loneliness, nor by that feeling of having been deserted 
 which came to him after Volodya's death, nor by the 
 sensation that a dead waste surrounded him, nor even 
 by the thought of blood. He was oppressed by a sud- 
 denly born consciousness that terror was fruitless, that 
 he was torn away from life, that his efforts were vain. 
 
 "The revolution has been defeated." The words that 
 carried disgrace with them flashed through his mind. 
 He muttered them aloud and looked blankly into the 
 flame. "All right, let it be defeated. I must remain 
 on the battlefield. We shall not surrender. I have no 
 right to retreat. I am defending the last barricade. I 
 am defending the red banner. I may perish, but so has 
 Volodya perished." Forgetting about Epstein and Von 
 Schoen and the mercury, he began to lose his usual self- 
 control. He took the decanter from the table and 
 poured out a glass of water. 
 
 " Is it really impossible to win ? Have we really been
 
 What Never Happened 393 
 
 defeated? La commune est battue, nous n'avons pas 
 vaincu. Ah, it's all the same. We shall not surrender. 
 I, at any rate, will not surrender. ' ' He stood erect and 
 looked into the fire again. His firm, sharp-featured face 
 turned pale and still narrower, and his prominent near- 
 sighted eyes became sterner and more sorrowful. He 
 bent over the table. And he remembered no more. 
 Something ringing, fiery-red, hot, and like lightning, 
 covered his eyes, blue spots rushed in the air, and the 
 violet ceiling trembled. There was no time to become 
 frightened. There was no time to scream. There was 
 no time to run. He dropped his arms helplessly and 
 lay flat on the rug. 
 
 On regaining his senses, he could not understand for 
 a time what had happened and where he was. An un- 
 familiar, boundless feeling possessed him, a feeling of 
 repose, of blissful restfulness, as if the tiresome journey 
 were over and he had found a haven at last. Every- 
 thing he had just been thinking about — the revolution, 
 Epstein, Colonel von Schoen and the squad — seemed dis- 
 tant, unimportant, something he was over and done with. 
 ''How good," he whispered, conscious of an odour of 
 burning and not comprehending where the fire was and 
 why it was not being extinguished. *'How good! I 
 have done my duty. We will not surrender. I will not 
 surrender. An explosion? Yes, an explosion. Volo- 
 dya, Volodya, Volodya!" He tried to raise himself, 
 but felt a sharp pain in his leg and a rattling in his 
 chest. He stretched his arms, pressed his hot cheeks to 
 the rug and half opened one eye. But he saw nothing. 
 And the same feeling of repose was in his soul. ''Ich 
 sterle," he muttered weakly and heaved a deep sigh. 
 *'Ya, ich sterbe. All is well, all is beautiful." That
 
 394 Wliat Never Happened 
 
 big, radiant feeling which filled his soul was so deep and 
 significant that he did not doubt it was death. His 
 hand jerked, his neck stretched out, and his straight 
 body trembled. He sighed again, and ceased to live.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A MONTH after the killing of Doctor Berg, 
 Zalkind, Arseny Ivanovieh, Vera Andreyevna 
 and Aliosha Gruzdiev were arrested simul- 
 taneously in different parts of Russia. Geunady Genna- 
 dievich, who had long been ill and coughed blood, went 
 South at the advice of his physicians. The Party re- 
 mained without a committee. Rosenstern was taken up 
 with "organization work," and entrusted Aleksandr 
 with the work of terror. 
 
 The arrest of the comrades did not disturb Aleksandr. 
 He had seen the decrepitude of Arseny Ivanovieh, the 
 magnanimity of Aliosha Gruzdiev, the carelessness of 
 Vera Andreyevna, but like Volodya he could not under- 
 stand that the red tape slowness was not the result of 
 their conscious will, but of the spirit of the Party, of 
 that spirit which had allowed treachery to flourish and 
 murderous robbery to spread. He thought that Rosen- 
 stern, trained by bitter experience, could rebuild the 
 beloved Party and regain the lost faith. But the re- 
 sponsibility which he, the unknown lieutenant Aleksandr 
 Bolotov, had assumed, was disturbing him. He had not 
 expected that a man unprepared for the work, never 
 having even seen hard labour camps or even the prison 
 walls, would be honoured with the task of directing the 
 Party troops. But there was no choice. Though the 
 comrades were not reconciled to their defeat and con- 
 tinued to argue at meetings and to write articles on the 
 desirability and even the absolute necessity of terror, 
 
 396
 
 396 What Never Happened 
 
 nobody dared to risk his life after the expose of Doc- 
 tor Berg, Abram, Vanya, Anna, Kolka the Bum, and 
 Svistkov allied themselves with Aleksandr, and also that 
 vigorous old man from Siberia, Solomon Moiseyevich 
 Bukh, With these experienced people Aleksandr set 
 out to do the work. 
 
 Towards the end of July the group assembled in Mos- 
 cow. One day in August Aleksandr made an appoint- 
 ment with Abram. He left the house in the evening, but 
 instead of taking Tverskaya Street and going along the 
 Vozdvizhenka Street, he went through the Kremlin. It 
 was only in the pleasant city of Moscow, in the Moscow 
 of tar, peasant jackets, mats, saints' ikons, and broken 
 barricades, that he felt with his whole heart that he was 
 Russian, bound to Russia by the ties of blood. In the 
 east, beyond the Presnensky Ponds, the sun was setting 
 in a bright-red sky and swallows were flying through 
 the air against the sunset. Aleksandr stopped at the 
 Tainitzka Tower. He saw the blue ribbon of the narrow 
 river, the brilliantly lighted Zamoskvoriechy Street, 
 Neskuchny Park and Simonov Monastery — immense, 
 Russian, ancient Moscow. 
 
 "The burden of all Russia — terror," he thought. 
 "But why I ? Why not Rosenstern, why not one of those 
 who has earned the honour, who has proved his right. 
 God, why is Andriusha dead? He could have helped 
 me, he could teach me. Whence shall I get the courage ? 
 The ability? I must kill. Kill whom? Raise my hand 
 against whom ? And if defeat should result once more ? 
 Another unforgettable disgrace?" 
 
 It was getting dark. The Kremlin was deserted, but 
 outside its gates surged the Moscow crowds. Here, at 
 the white Elremlin walls, in front of the Uspensky
 
 What Never Happened 397 
 
 Church, a few paces away from the tomb of the Russian 
 Czars, Aleksandr felt a slight hesitation. But he under- 
 stood that to him and to the Party and to the people 
 this blood was needed. Only blood could crown the 
 revolution, could save Russia. It seemed right to him, 
 and right that he, an officer of the Russian navy, a par- 
 ticipant in the Japanese campaign, should strike the 
 last blow, should take revenge for Port Arthur and Tsu 
 Shima, that he should bring the revolution to a finish 
 at the cost of his own life. 
 
 "Zheliabov and Pestel," he thought with joy, "the 
 Decembrists and the people 's freedom, and great Russia, 
 emancipated by me." On the Kremlin quay below 
 lights were appearing like stars, and beyond the Nesku- 
 chny the sky was darkening. Filled with excitement he 
 came out on the Krasnaya Plaza, and descended past 
 the Lobnoye Place into the Aleksandrov Park. The 
 birches were rustling. Aleksandr trembled. A small, 
 lean man with curled moustaches lodged straight at him. 
 "Tutushkin," he thought, and went faster. But Tu- 
 tushkin nodded to him. Aleksandr frowned, but fol- 
 lowed him, suppressing an unpleasant feeling. 
 
 ''What do you want?" 
 
 "How are you, Aleksandr Nikolayevich ? May I dis- 
 turb you? I think there is no one around." 
 
 Aleksandr shrugged his shoulders in disdain. The 
 dark side street, the faint shimmering of the street 
 lamps, Tutushkin's whisper and his spy's cap reminded 
 him of Berg, of Masha of the secret service and the un- 
 deserved disgrace he had so recently gone through. 
 "One of those fishermen who fish out of their own 
 pockets," he thought with repugnance, and repeated 
 coldly :
 
 398 What Never Happened 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "I'm afraid on the street, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. I 
 don't see any of our lads, still it's dangerous. Wouldn't 
 you come into a saloon? I have some business to tell 
 you about." 
 
 Five minutes later they were sitting in a beer-saloon. 
 Tutushkin, bending low over the table, was speaking 
 hurriedly. 
 
 ' ' I have been looking for you, Aleksandr Nikolayevich 
 — for a long time. I didn't get a chance. Of course, 
 we know your address." 
 
 "My address?" 
 
 * ' Yes, your address — Hotel Metropol ? But of course, 
 I was afraid. Though we have relaxed our watch over 
 you in order not to excite any suspicion, still — the hotel 
 clerk, the waiters, and so on." 
 
 Aleksandr listened, and could not believe his ears. 
 Tutushkin seemed to be trying to deceive him and was 
 laughing at him. After a pause he said quietly: 
 
 "You're lying. How do you know?" 
 
 "Lying? I have told you once before that we know 
 everything. Let me explain to you. You may doubt 
 what I say if you wish, but I am telling you the truth, 
 upon my word. My own life hangs by a hair. Only out 
 of goodwill — I knew your deceased brother Audrey 
 Nikolayevich, may he rest in peace. Think of Doctor 
 Berg. Who threw the light? I, Dmitry Tutushkin. 
 And now I have been assigned to a band that is to watch 
 over you." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "Yes — ^well — I'm afraid of everything. I'm a family 
 man — ^burdened with a family. Judge for yourself: 
 six small children. The colonel might squeeze me with
 
 What Never Happened 399 
 
 his nails, and not a thing would be left, only a wet spot- 
 And so I have been looking for you in the hope that you 
 wouldn't forget me. I know your magnanimity. The 
 thing is this, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. We have insti- 
 tuted a watch over you. And not only over you. "We 
 know there are six others beside you working. And be- 
 lieve me, we also know whom you're threatening — not 
 a mere governor. We know of the lady who lives on 
 Arbata Street, of the Jew with light hair, the 'nose,' 
 we call him, who lives on Ilinka Street, of the younger 
 Jew, the 'clamp,' the one who wears a fur jacket and 
 lives in a hotel on Sadovaya Street. Am I not right? 
 Don't you believe me? Well, then, I have warned you, 
 Aleksandr Nikolayevich. Now do as you please. And 
 don't slight me." 
 
 "But who betrayed us?" Aleksandr asked. He felt 
 no hatred or anger any more, as though what Tutushkin 
 had said was natural and proper, and nothing else could 
 be expected. Later, long afterwards, when he recalled 
 this horrid conversation, he could never explain where 
 he had gathered the strength and repose that had up- 
 held him. Tutushkin spread his hands in a gesture of 
 regret. 
 
 "Who betrayed you? I really don't know, I don't 
 know. But so help me God, some one has sold you for 
 a trifle. Don't have any doubts on that point. Believe 
 me, it's always that way, and I must tell you, it's surely 
 one of your own people." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 ' ' One of those six. ' ' 
 
 "No, there you're lying.'* 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 "How does he dare to talk that way? How does he
 
 400 What Never Happened 
 
 dare to ? " Aleksandr flushed deeply, took out his pocket- 
 book, and silently handed Tutushkin a hundred rubles. 
 He made to rise, but Tutushkin, hiding the money in his 
 fist, said cautiously : 
 
 '^Merci. ThanJi you very much. But I must tell you, 
 even though you feel offended again. Of course, I can't 
 swear to it, but do you know them all perfectly well?'* 
 
 "Speak straight out. Who is the provocateur?" 
 
 "I don't know. So help me God, I don't," Tutushkin 
 replied hastily. "If I knew, believe me I would not 
 shield him." 
 
 "Perhaps you're not satisfied?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am." 
 
 "Tell me, do you want money?" 
 
 "My God! What is money? Metal! I'd gladly do 
 it, but by God I don't know. My advice to you, Alek- 
 sandr Nikolayevich, is to cross the border. You won't 
 be arrested tomorrow. But — if you'll pardon me — one 
 who takes care of himself is taken care of by God. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Why won 't I be arrested tomorrow ? ' ' 
 
 * * Because it 's our intention to have you arrested with 
 a bomb in your hands at the scene of the crime — caught 
 with the goods, so to say — at the moment of the at- 
 tempt." 
 
 "At the moment of the attempt?" 
 
 "Exactly. Then they will get a reward." 
 
 Aleksandr looked at him intently. 
 
 "Then you don't know who the provocateur is?" 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 On his way to the Hotel Metropol late that night 
 Aleksandr felt as though some one had played a bitter 
 joke on him. "The tomb of the Russian Czars, the 
 Uspensky Cathedral, the Kremlin, Holy Moscow," he
 
 WHat Never Happened 401 
 
 thought with a bitter smile. * ' I am a Russian, Yes, of 
 course I am a Russian. We are all Russians, thank God 
 — Tutushkin, Nebogatov, Doctor Berg, and Stoessel, and 
 Colonel von Schoen, and this treacherous unknown 
 'comrade.' We are all Russians, the grandchildren of 
 Pestel, the children of Zheliabov. What a shameful 
 thing! What can we do? What can we achieve? Un- 
 fortunate, slavish, snow-bound Russia ! ' ' 
 
 At Iverskaya Street a hairy peasant snatched his cap 
 off and kept bowing low and pointing his fmger to his 
 chest. Aleksandr looked at him contemptuously. "The 
 great Russian nation, the great Russian revolution! 
 The only hope of the Russian is in God, in the faithful, 
 orthodox priest." 
 
 He recalled the service that had been held on the bat- 
 tleship, on the eve of battle, and how the ship 's chaplain, 
 the stout priest, Father Yevpl, whom the soldiers had 
 nicknamed "Chaldean," had read the prayers to the 
 sound of cannons. 
 
 "The Japanese, I am sure, did not pray, did not bow 
 to the ikons. They were learning how to shoot." And 
 he recalled his prayers: "God, give me the happiness 
 to help save Russia, even though my share be only as a 
 drop in the ocean, as a spark in the flame. God, help me 
 to see victory." 
 
 "And I helped, and I saw. And I shall help, and I 
 shall see," he muttered, biting his lips until they bled. 
 The Theatre Plaza was dark. The building of the thea- 
 tre appeared a black mass. The air was close. No 
 stars were out.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHEN the first sharp pain had passed, Alek- 
 sandr resolved that he must fight. But how 
 — that was the question. Solomon Moisey- 
 evich, Vanya, Abram, Anna, Svistkov, and Kolka the 
 Bum were all honest terrorists. It was impossible to 
 believe that any of them should be a traitor, a Judas. 
 Vanya had been fighting in Moscow. Anna had been 
 making bombs. Abram had killed Doctor Berg. Solo- 
 mon Moiseyevich had spent ten years at hard labour. 
 Svistkov and Kolka had worked with Volodya. To no 
 one of them could suspicion attach. 
 
 Aleksandr sent a telegram to Rosenstern, asking him 
 to come to Moscow. Rosenstern, who had grown thin 
 and pale, utterly exhausted by the Party work, listened 
 to what Aleksandr had to say, and then asked: 
 "What do you intend to do? Tell me." 
 They were sitting in Philippov's cafe in a secluded 
 corner near the door. At the counter sounded the 
 laughter of children. There was a tinkling of glasses 
 and the atmosphere smelled of bread and tobacco. 
 Aleksandr looked at the walls hung with price-lists, at 
 the soiled tables, at the floor covered with spit and 
 cigar butts, and paused before he replied. It suddenly 
 seemed strange to him, that he, Aleksandr Bolotov, an 
 ensign of the Russian navy, a brilliant young ofiScer, 
 should be in hiding like a murderer, followed by spies, 
 in constant danger of arrest, and in the company of 
 
 402
 
 What Never Happened 403 
 
 the famous revolutionary Rosenstern. Never in his life, 
 on the ocean, or in battle, or later in Kioto, had he ex- 
 perienced such a feeling of pitiful helplessness. He 
 shook his head impatiently, trying to drive away these 
 bitter thoughts, and taking out his silver cigarette case, 
 he lit a cigarette. 
 
 "I will be quite frank with you. Had I foreseen 
 Doctor Berg was a provocateur, I would never have 
 joined the Party. "Why have I been chosen to direct the 
 work of terror ? You will say there is no one else. You 
 v.'ill say after this affair with Doctor Berg nobody cares 
 to work as he used to. All right. I am satisfied. I 
 have assumed the responsibility. I am not afraid of it. 
 But teach me what to do. You have been working in 
 the committee for many years. You must teach me. 
 Both of us know there is a provocateur. But where is 
 he? "Who is he? How can we find out?" 
 
 Rosenstern turned away. His round shoulders 
 drooped slowly and his curly head shook. Rosenstern, 
 the correct, the perfectly poised, who had not wavered 
 when the committee fell, now looked as forlorn as an un- 
 happy boy. It all seemed unreal. That was not Alek- 
 sandr speaking about the band, but some irresponsible 
 person saying meaningless things. The Party could not 
 be dying, the well-established machine to which he had 
 consecrated himself could not be crumbling into dust. 
 He felt like saying that Tutushkin had deliberately lied, 
 that there could be no treachery, that he could vouch for 
 the band. But he kept quiet and covered his face with 
 his hands. 
 
 "You know, when I was attached to the fleet," 
 Aleksandr began quietly, "I knew the Japanese were 
 stronger. I knew Nebogatov's ships were ' self -sinkers, '
 
 40i What Never Happened 
 
 and there had been a battle on July 28, and the Petro- 
 pavlovsk had been lost. I knew we were ignorant and 
 did not know how to man vessels. I knew it all, and 
 yet, strange as it may seem to you, I had faith in our 
 victory. Not only that, but I believed firmly — I wanted 
 to believe — that victory could be secured by courage, 
 yes, yes, by courage alone, by the careful Russian per- 
 haps. I also had faith in our strength, in Russia's 
 strength, in Russia that gave us Istomin, Kornilov, 
 Ushakhov. And do you know when I lost my faith? 
 Not when I realized that nothing can be gained by 
 courage alone ; not when I saw that all was lost ; not even 
 during the battle, when the Osliabya went down, when 
 the Suvorov was set on fire. No, long before that. I 
 went into battle without the least bit of hope, just be- 
 cause I had sworn allegiance to Russia. I'll tell you 
 how it happened. On the 23d of November we were 
 approaching the shores of Africa, near Bengala, the 
 Portuguese colonies. "We came up in full force, the whole 
 invincible armada, the Suvorov, the Aleksandr, the 
 Borodino, the Osliabya, the Orel, the Nahimov, the 
 Aurora, and the Donskoy. We entered the bay, the 
 Great Fish Bay, a sandy shoal. We began to take on 
 coal. And what do you think? Suddenly smoke ap- 
 peared near shore. It came nearer and nearer. A 
 queer sort of dishlike thing was coming, hardly a ship, 
 the devil knows what! A salt-box, a boat of ancient 
 construction, with one cannon and two mitrailleuses. 
 And such a foolish name — Limpopo. The Portuguese 
 flag was flying over it. There was a mulatto in it with 
 a sword and plumes. It came to our side, to the Su- 
 vorov' s side, and the mulatto made a horn out of his 
 hands, and shouted with all his might: 'Leave here at
 
 Wliat Never Happened 405 
 
 once, or I Mali shoot!' That was the Limpopo's order to 
 the Suvorov. And then for the first time I began to 
 have doubts of our victory. Not only doubts. I felt 
 with all my heart that it was the end. International 
 law? It was all over. But if we had been a power, 
 would he have dared ? And now this Tutushkin. He is 
 our Limpopo, He advises me to go to Paris. 'Leave 
 here at once, or I will shoot. ' Well, man, teach me how. 
 I know. Solomon Moiseyevich, Anna, Vanya, Abram, 
 Svistkov, and Kolka the Bum, and — you — don't be of- 
 fended — and you — one of you is a provocateur. That is 
 the warning the Limpopo gave me. You remember the 
 'Night in May'? You remember a youngster in the 
 pond and fairies in the water ? He knows one of them is 
 not a fairy, but a witch. But which one ? Who ? They 
 are all alike. They are all white and pure. So are we. 
 We are all white and pure. That case of Doctor Berg 
 weighed on me heavily. It was not merely a misfortune. 
 Think of the disgrace ! It's a disgrace for a provocateur 
 to be in the Party — in the Party, in the committee. 
 And now in the band. What 's to be done ? ' ' 
 
 Aleksandr was not accustomed to much talking. He 
 was surprised at his own eloquence. 
 
 "I took part in war," he thought bitterly, **was in 
 battle, lived through captivity. I joined the Party, 
 planned murder, all so that I might be sitting here in 
 this vile-smelling cafe, asking who the provocateur is, 
 waiting for an answer, and expecting arrest?" 
 
 For a time there was silence. Rosenstern was pale • 
 with red spots showing on his cheeks. He looked at 
 Aleksandr sideways. 
 
 "If there is a provocateur, we must find out who he 
 is."
 
 406 What Never Happened 
 
 "Yes, of course — but how?" 
 
 "How? I don't know." 
 
 "But you exposed Doctor Berg.*' 
 
 Rosenstern gave a sickly smile. 
 
 "Doctor Berg? Ah, my God, what a comparison! I 
 had observed him closely for three months. And you 
 are to be arrested in a week." 
 
 "What's to be done, then?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 A red-faced, clean-shaven man in a long check coat 
 entered the cafe. He seated himself at a table in the 
 corner opposite and ordered tea. Eosenstern looked up 
 fearfully. 
 
 "Let's go." 
 
 They rose and went out. On the other side, at the 
 furnished-room house the Madrid, two men were loiter- 
 ing. Not far from them at the street corner, a hack 
 was standing. 
 
 "Here, mister, a hack." 
 
 "Spies," Rosenstern whispered. "Here is what I 
 think, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. You must make an in- 
 vestigation. Investigate all of them. You must keep 
 a watch on everybody. You must make a thorough 
 search. And — and then — disband them. ' ' 
 
 Aleksandr realized that Rosenstern could not help 
 him. But he felt he would not desert terror. Neither 
 Rosenstern, nor the band, nor the Party had the power 
 to stop the attempt. He must carry it through. He 
 felt he was responsible for the treachery that had arisen 
 not before the Party alone, but before all Russia, and 
 even if it was impossible to win, it was possible to deny 
 defeat. The dignity of the revolution, the honour of the 
 band, and the memory of the dead, the blood that had
 
 What Never Happened 407 
 
 been spilled for the people, all demanded the sacrifice. 
 But the thought of death did not frighten him. * * God ! 
 Give me the happiness to have a share in saving Russia, 
 like a drop in the ocean, like a spark in the flame," he 
 prayed. Standing erect and looking straight into Rosen- 
 stern's eyes, he said firmly: 
 
 "I will not disband the squad." 
 
 Rosenstern thought a little. 
 
 ' ' You will ruin yourself. ' ' 
 
 ''Perhaps." 
 
 "But there's no use in it." 
 
 *' Perhaps." 
 
 "But you have no hope of success." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You have no hopes, have you, of the treachery being 
 exposed?" 
 • "I don't know." 
 
 Rosenstern paused. 
 
 "Listen, take my advice. Leave here at once." 
 
 "Across the border?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ''Limpopo, Arkady Borisovieh." 
 
 "Well, what if it is Limpopo?" Rosenstern answered 
 without taking offence. "Tutushkin is right. Listen, 
 what else can you do ? You '11 be hanged, and the band 
 with you, of course. "Who needs it? Who? It means 
 a useless loss of yourself. What's the sense of it? 
 Think of it, after you come back you will be useful 
 again, you will work for terror again. Well, suppose 
 there is a provocateur in the band. Can't you collect 
 another band? I beg of you, I beg of you sincerely, I 
 insist — in the name of the Party, in the name of terror. 
 Do vou hear me?"
 
 408 What Never Happened 
 
 ' ' I hear you. ' ' 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "My God," Rosenstern continued angrily, "this is 
 obstinacy. You are a member of the Party, you must 
 reckon with it. What will you achieve? Well, there 
 will be an effective trial. But what's the good of it? 
 Do we want trials? We want terror. What will hap- 
 pen if you are arrested? I can't work alone. Do you 
 think I can? The Party is dying. My God, the Party ! 
 Think of it dying!" Rosenstern paused for a second 
 in his excitement. He wanted to go on to prove to 
 Aleksandr that it was his duty as a Party member to 
 save the Party, and consequently his own life. But 
 Aleksandr interrupted him drily : 
 
 "You've said enough, Arkady Borisovieh. But 
 there's no use. I won't leave. Make up your mind to 
 it." 
 
 Rosenstern trembled. 
 
 "Then it means the fate of Rozhdestvensky ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The fate of Tsu Shima?" 
 
 Aleksandr did not answer. Rosenstern shook his hand 
 quietly and without looking back turned toward Tver- 
 skaya Street.
 
 H 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ^''J' "^ OW did I escape?" Svistkov asked gloomily, 
 and touched his long moustachios with the 
 turned-up ends. "It isn't worth talking 
 about. I ran away and that's all." 
 
 "No, you'd better tell me about it." 
 
 "Well, there was a revolt in our regiment. So 
 then—" 
 
 "A revolt?" 
 
 "Exactly, The fifth company revolted. The fellows 
 shouted, 'Take the guns, comrades!' And we seized 
 the guns." 
 
 "What was the cause of the revolt?" 
 
 ' ' On account of the meat. The meat was rotten, with 
 worms. The fifth company was in formation, a corporal 
 to its right. He waved his gun. 'Come with me, 
 brothers, come ! ' Well, we made some sort of a disturb- 
 ance, then we saw the Bielostok Regiment coming and 
 then they began to shoot with machine guns. Nothing 
 came of it. That's all." 
 
 He forgot to add that he had killed one officer and 
 when the machine guns were being fired he was the only 
 one in the regiment who did not throw away his gun and 
 hide in the barracks. Aleksandr lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "What followed? Nothing. We were arrested, 
 taken to prison, confined to the top floor. One hundred 
 and twenty-five men. Of course, a trial. The verdict 
 would be death, nothing less. So we stayed there. The 
 
 409
 
 410 What Never Happened 
 
 sentry were from our village. Well, we began to think 
 how we could escape from the trap we were in. "We 
 knocked on the wall — a hollow sound. That meant a 
 pipe in it for ventilation. So we began to whittle at 
 the wall with a knife. We made a hole. Well. ..." 
 He wrinkled his brow as if trying to recall something, 
 and looked up. The hot rays of the sun fell through 
 the tops of the bricks and played on the dusty bench. 
 The sound of distant wheels crunching over sand came 
 to their ears. Kolka, who had been silent all the time, 
 laughed and nudged Svistkov's elbow. 
 
 ''He's as bashful as a crab. Have you really forgot- 
 ten? My, what a girlish memory! Come on, tell us. 
 Stop your fooling." 
 
 "What is there to tell? We made a hole, and then 
 made a rope out of sheets. Well, one of us was a sol- 
 dier, Fitik was his name. He crossed himself, climbed 
 into the hole and began to let himself down the rope. 
 At last we felt a pull on the rope. That meant to pull 
 him up. So we pulled him up. *A wall,' he said, 'and 
 beyond the wall, a kitchen.' 'How do you know?' we 
 asked. 'I pried a brick loose,' he said. Well — " 
 Svistkov paused and spat out. "He was a desperate 
 fellow, this Fitik. He could do anything. He was 
 caught in Odessa. Well, a kitchen, he said. We began 
 to argue who should go first? The first day eighteen 
 men ran away. And I was among them. We went 
 through the kitchen. I even met the sentry officer. ' ' 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I met him. He said: * Where are you going?' 
 ' For hot water, ' I said. That 's all. " 
 
 "For hot water?" Kolka repeated. "That's great! 
 You were lucky!"
 
 What Never Happened 411 
 
 Aleksandr had heard of this escape, the incredible 
 escape of thirty-seven grenadiers. But he could not 
 imagine how Svistkov, so awkward, indifferent and 
 sulky, had climbed down a rope in full view of the sentry 
 at the gates. Svistkov 's lazy way of talking, his low 
 voice and his inexpressive dull eyes embarrassed him. 
 "Did Tutushkin mean him?" he thought, almost with 
 relief, and threw away his cigarette butt. 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "Then I joined Vladimir Ivanovich." 
 
 "What were you doing?" 
 
 "Drinking," Kolka put in hilariously. 
 
 "What do you mean — drinking?" Svistkov frowned 
 and flushed. It was strange to see his tanned soldier 
 face grow red with anger and embarrassment. He 
 waved his hand in indignation and said in a tone of of- 
 fence, without looking at Aleksandr: 
 
 "He'd better keep quiet. But it's so. I must con- 
 fess, Vladimir Ivanovich discharged me for drinking. 
 But I really don't drink any more." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I swore off." 
 
 "And you don't drink?" 
 
 "No, sir, I don't drink." 
 
 "Not a drop?" 
 
 "Not a drop." 
 
 "I'll quit the cards, 
 I'll quit billiards, 
 The bitter vodka I'll debar. 
 I'll work by day, 
 Begin to pray, 
 I'll be conductor on a car." 
 
 Kolka began to sing derisively in a falsetto voice. He
 
 412 "What Never Happened 
 
 sat on the grass in Turkish fashion, his feet under him, 
 and he blinked up at the sun. He looked bronze colour 
 in the hot rays — a red cap, red hair, red hands, and a 
 torn, badly-fitting red coat. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" Svistkov turned on 
 him. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 ' ' What are you singing ? What do you mean by those 
 words? Perhaps you know something? Speak up, if 
 you do." 
 
 "What do I know? You funny fellow! My grand- 
 father knew, but he died long ago." 
 
 "Then what are you singing about?" 
 
 "Singing, When one drinks, he sings. My soul 
 sings, but I have no voice." 
 
 Aleksandr frowned. "He ran away, was drinking, 
 discharged for it, drinks no more. And what a mur- 
 derous face! And R-osenstem advised me to accept 
 him." He lighted another cigarette and looked at 
 Svistkov with his cold blue eyes. 
 
 "Why did you join the band?" 
 
 Svistkov straightened his moustaches. 
 
 "I can't," he answered hoarsely. "I had lived 
 enough — I can't — " 
 
 "He can't stand it," Kolka put in, winking one eye. 
 
 "Yes, I can't. Of course — there — " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "W^hat's the use of questioning me, Aleksandr Niko- 
 layevich?" Svistkov answered gloomily, and began to 
 roll a cigarette. "My God, it's all plain. Nothing to 
 eat, no land. What can a fellow do? Yuz has a mil- 
 lion acres. And I? What have I? Where is justice
 
 What Never Happened 413 
 
 in the world ? I am for land and freedom, ' ' he finished 
 resolutely and wiped his face. 
 
 Somewhere near them in the bushes a bird twittered 
 cautiously. The sun was no longer overhead, but had 
 sunk behind the birches. Across the bench a blue 
 shadow was falling. "For land and freedom," Alek- 
 sandr said to himself in anger. "They are all for land 
 and freedom." Now he was sure that Svistkov was de- 
 ceiving him. The suspicion was so strong that he could 
 hardly keep it to himself. But he restrained himself 
 and said nothing. Kolka turned over, and smiling and 
 leaning back on the grass, said simply : 
 
 "But when I escaped, it was a great escape. Not 
 merely a hole to poke through. My God, it's a joke !" 
 
 * ' You have escaped, too ? ' ' 
 
 "I had the honour. Very simple. I was caught in 
 Nizhni in proper shape. I was brought before the chief. 
 He looked so stem, was frowning and fidgeting. 
 'Your name?' I was silent. 'Your name?' I was si- 
 lent. 'Will you answer?' 'I won't.' 'Take him 
 away.' I was taken away. Two soldiers were leading 
 me along the street. It was evening. I looked around. 
 An alley to the right — downhill. I thought a little. 
 Eh, take a chance. Risk is the spice of life, I spit on 
 them all. Anyway my head wasn't safe. The soldiers 
 were something like him, not men, but monuments," he 
 pointed to Svistkov. "I invoked the help of God, and 
 rolled down the hill. I heard them shoot, but it was 
 dark. They couldn't aim, couldn't catch me. I jumped 
 over a fence and ran with all my might. Ran and ran 
 till I was exhausted. So help me God, it's the truth." 
 
 "And why were you arrested?"
 
 414 What Never Happened 
 
 ' * That was when Vladimir Ivanovich was living. For 
 an expropriation." 
 
 "Were you arrested alone?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Where did you escape to?" 
 
 "Back to the squad." 
 
 ' * Am I not ashamed of myself ? ' ' Aleksandr bethought 
 himself. "They both worked with their lives, indeed. 
 Both escaped by a miracle. How can I suspect them? 
 But who is the provocateur? Surely not Anna? Not 
 Vanya? Not Rosenstern ? " 
 
 Kolka got up, and with his hands in his pockets looked 
 slyly at Aleksandr as if wanting to show that he kneiv 
 his oppressive doubts and was not surprised by them. 
 
 "What did you in the squad?" 
 
 ' ' What did I do ? Ha-ha ! What didn 't I do— that 's 
 what you should ask. I was everj^thing, saw everything, 
 tried everything. I may say I had my innings in this 
 world. I was a worker in a factory, a shepherd in 
 Savara, and a tramp. And after Comrade Freze 's death 
 I remained all alone, like a mushroom under a birch. I 
 have no one. I couldn't very well go home. At home 
 in the Ural there is a-plenty, cold springs, deep lakes, 
 wild forests, meadows. It 's a garden of Eden. But it 's 
 not my lot to be in Eden. Ha-ha-ha!" he laughed his 
 rollicking laugh. 
 
 Aleksandr 's frown deepened. Talk leads to nothing 
 and he had learned nothing. Kolka was so happy and 
 so healthy, his laughter was so contagious, his eyes 
 sparkled so provokingly that Aleksandr felt Jishamed 
 again. "A man like that doesn't lie. He can't lie? 
 He's too hearty," he decided in his soul. 
 
 "Do you drink, too?"
 
 What Never Happened 415 
 
 " I ? " Kolka answered unhesitatingly. ' ' I 'm no saint. 
 To drink and to loaf and be rich." His face suddenly- 
 darkened. He paused, and then began to sing at the 
 top of his voice: 
 
 "Farewell, my Odessa, 
 Farewell, quarantine, 
 I'm going in exile 
 To far Sakhaline. 
 Just two pairs of stockings, 
 Chains my legs to grip, 
 And four wooden shoes, 
 Then off for the trip!" 
 
 He sang in a wail, as the peasants sing, and while he 
 sang Aleksandr kept his eyes on him. "How could I 
 have suspicions of him?" he thought in despair. "But 
 if it isn't Svistkov and if it isn't Kolka, who is it? Is 
 there really a provocateur among us? Perhaps Tu- 
 tushkin lied?" 
 
 The sun was setting, but it was still hot, and the 
 birds kept up their singing. Sokolniki was deserted. 
 Aleksandr walked slowly towards IMoscow and meditated 
 on how easy it is to slander a man.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A WEEK passed. Rosenstem had gone south on 
 Party business. Aleksandr, lost in suspicion, 
 ready to believe that Tutushkin had lied, de- 
 cided after some deliberation to consult the squad. He 
 had a clear perception of the absurdity of the step, but 
 hoped to be able to unearth the treachery in a serious 
 talk. The meeting was to take place in Anna's home in 
 the furnished-room house, Kerch, on Arbata Street. 
 Anna, having the custody of the dynamite, occupied a 
 spacious, nicely furnished flat, with a separate entrance 
 on Povarskaya Street. As he was taking off his hat and 
 coat in the narrow hall, which was crowded with trunks, 
 Aleksandr heard the conceited words: 
 
 **The peasants? Ah, the poor famished peasants!" 
 It was Kolka speaking laughingly. "The much-suffer- 
 ing Russian people? Nonsense. I have seen enough of 
 these people! Plenty! Much obliged. The peasant is 
 very well fed, if you want to know. A peasant will get 
 drunk, have a fight with the landowner, will sleep it off 
 and will be afraid of a pig. Where are you going, 
 honest people? To get spanked, little father, to get 
 spanked. ' ' He imitated the peasants in a wailing voice. 
 "And they go. Creep along on their poor horses. Ha- 
 ha-ha ! So help me God, they go. Slaves ! You can do 
 with them whatever you please. Take Luzhenovsky — 
 he ate them with his gruel. Well, did the peasants kill 
 him? They'll stand anything. Christ suffered and 
 bade us suffer. Damned fools ! ' * 
 
 418
 
 What Never Happened 417 
 
 ''Don't talk that way. I don't like it." Aleksandr 
 recognized the harsh, ringing, and somewhat masculine 
 voice of Anna with a Nizliny Novgorod accent on the 
 " 0. " * * You ought to be ashamed. I lived in a village, 
 too. I know as well as you do. Do you remember: 
 
 "These poor hamlets. 
 This poverty of nature. 
 The land of long suffering, 
 The land of the Russian people! 
 The proud look of stranger 
 Shall never see or know 
 What's hid and shines mysteriously 
 Within your humble nakedness." 
 
 "And aren't you a Russian? Aren't you a peasant? 
 You mustn't curse, Nikolay, but love and forgive," she 
 added in a softer voice. 
 
 Aleksandr smiled. "And forgive. When I'm not 
 there, she argues, recites from Tiutchev, and when I 
 come in, she drops her head and is silent. A fine way 
 of being conspirative. " 
 
 In the big, light room, at a table set for tea, sat Solo- 
 mon Moiseyevich and Vanya. Solomon Moiseyevich 
 was talking in whispers to Svistkov. At the window, 
 with his back to the comrades, sat Abram. AVhen 
 Aleksandr entered, Anna dropped her eyes and flushed. 
 
 Aleksandr glanced at the familiar faces, which now 
 seemed impenetrable to him. His eyes stopped at 
 Vanya. Vanya, black-haired, with high cheekbones, was 
 dressed in a badly fitting coat and was rolling a ciga- 
 rette thoughtfully. He looked straight ahead, as if he 
 saw nothing and was thinking of something important 
 and oppressive. 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" flashed through
 
 418 What Never Happened 
 
 Aleksandr's mind. He greeted all, seated himself, and 
 began his prepared speech. 
 
 "Recently I began to notice that we were being spied 
 upon. I am convinced I'm not mistaken. In fact, I 
 know it 's so. The question is, what is the cause ? There 
 can be only two causes, either our own carelessness, or 
 treachery — a provocateur." He said the last word 
 firmly, almost carelessly, as if not attaching much 
 weight to it. "As to myself, I think there cannot be a 
 provocateur among us. But I should like to know what 
 the comrades have to say." 
 
 He hardly finished when Vanya brought his fist down 
 on the table. The spoons jumped, and a glass broke. 
 
 "A nice business! We surely are being spied upon. 
 I was going to speak to you about it myself. I noticed 
 it long ago. Something is wrong. There is a legion of 
 spies and detectives. Not a spot to spit on even. 
 Moths!" 
 
 "Tutushkin said the watch was relaxed, that there 
 were almost no spies, so as not to arouse our suspicion. 
 So how could Vanya notice anything?" Aleksandr 
 thought in apprehension, but recalled that Vanya had 
 killed Cossacks. "Killed Cossacks, fought in Moscow, 
 worked with Andriusha. No, of course not, not he. 
 Then who is it?" he asked himself for the hundredth 
 time. 
 
 ' * Of course there is a provocateur, ' ' Vanya was shout- 
 ing, his black eyes sparkling. "What are you thinking 
 of? Indian cocks are thinking. We live like monks, 
 we don't say a word, don't see each other. Where do 
 the spies come from? Passports? But the passports 
 are first rate. They are copies, no fakes. Who knows 
 where I live ? Nobody, nobody but you, Aleksandr Niko-
 
 "What Never Happened '419 
 
 layevich. Then why are there spies at my gate ? "Where 
 did they come from? Or am I blind? Can't I tell a 
 spy ? Am I losing my mind ? Suffering from a mania ? 
 Absolutely, some one has betrayed us. I was going to 
 tell you long ago. Scoundrels! Pigs! This is no 
 work, it 's filth ! The Party is drowning in filth. ' ' 
 
 He jumped up and began to pace the room, pale with 
 anger. Abram did not turn his head. Svistkov 
 breathed heavily and stroked his moustachios. Kolka 
 was the only one that became indignant. His big, thick- 
 lipped face showed a feeling of deep offence. 
 
 ' ' What is it all about ? " he drawled, looking at Vanya 
 gloomily. ''There is all sorts of talk around here. Of 
 course there is. Who says anything else? Treachery 
 is treachery, the devil take it. There are plenty of 
 knaves in this world. Very many of them. But I'll 
 tell you this. You know each other well, you're quite 
 apart, but I and he there — " he pointed his finger at 
 Svistkov, ''we're new men. We've never worked in the 
 Party. Who knows us? Business first of all. We will 
 go." He shook his thick red hair. "Yes, we'll go, and 
 you will feel quieter and we easier. Don't be angry. 
 To listen to this! I've never heard anything like it. 
 God had spared me before. No, better let me go, Alek- 
 sandr Nikolayevich. Somebody can feel and insult. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He sighed and began to look for his hat. Svistkov 
 breathed heavily and pulled his cap down on his head. 
 
 "Wait a minute, comrades," Solomon Moiseyevich be- 
 gan in a conciliatory tone. He was known to the whole 
 Party, and the whole Party loved him. In his younger 
 days he had taken part in an affair of the old party of 
 "People's Freedom," and after serving a term at hard
 
 420 What Never Happened 
 
 labour he had returned to his terrorist activity. He 
 was a tall old man, somewhat bent, but still vigorous, 
 and he had kind, shining eyes. 
 
 "We all know each other and of course we trust each 
 other. Otherwise we wouldn't be here. Put your cap 
 down, Nikolay, and j'ou, Svistkov, put your cap down. 
 Still, though I trust all comrades, I think Vanya is right, 
 and not Aleksandr Nikolayevich. Vanya says some one 
 has betrayed us. We must confess it is quite probable. 
 Out in Kara, in the hard labour prisons, we used to dig 
 tunnels for escape purposes every month, and the gov- 
 ernment invariably discovered them. I remember one 
 tunnel we dug was already carried beyond the prison 
 limits. And of course, the usual failure. Some said it 
 was an accident — the keeper had discovered it. But to- 
 day an accident, tomorrow an accident, and the next 
 day, a betrayal. So it is in this case. Have the spies 
 noticed us? Through their own diligence? Yes? No, 
 of course, some one has betrayed us. But does that in- 
 dicate — let us be quite frank, without any fear of of- 
 fence — that one of us is a provocateur? No, it does not. 
 It may be that one of us has told somebody something 
 unintentionally, out of carelessness, of course. Well, 
 and rumours spread. And of course they reached the 
 police, the secret service. Colonel von Schoen. And it 
 follows that if any one has betrayed the troop, it does 
 not mean that you, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, or I, or any 
 one of the comrades, is an informer. And we must not 
 get excited. It is written in the Bible : ' If thou be 
 wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself : but if thou scornest, 
 thou alone shalt bear it.' So it's better to be wise. 
 Isn't that so, Nikolay?" 
 
 Aleksandr was impressed. "Of course, it was the re-
 
 What Never Happened 421 
 
 suit of blabbing," he thought. "Some one was merely 
 too talkative. Perhaps Rosenstern himself. What 
 guarantee is there that everything is all right in the 
 new committee ? ' ' And as is usually the case when one 
 wants to prove himself in the right, Aleksandr like a 
 child accepted the argument as correct. He came to 
 believe that Tutushkin had lied, and the members of the 
 troop were all honest, and there was no need of degrad- 
 ing investigations. Instantly, he felt relieved, as if 
 there had been no spying and no danger of arrest. 
 He looked at Kolka affectionately. "He's offended. 
 Could a provocateur feel offended? Could an informer 
 want to leave?" But Vanya, his excitement undimin- 
 ished, came over to the table and exclaimed with re- 
 proach in his voice : 
 
 **So, Solomon Moiseyevich, rumours have spread, 
 have they? But where from? I say, we live like 
 monks. Our troop is more like a monastery. To whom 
 can we write letters? Home, to our girls, or where? 
 Perhaps you have been tempted to write a letter? Or 
 I? Or Anna Petrovna? Or you, Kolka? Or you, 
 Svistkov? You, Abram? Confess. This is no joke. 
 Letters, Solomon Moiseyevich? Letters? Where could 
 letters come from? And we have nobody to talk to. 
 We are not accustomed to tell tales. We are not new at 
 this game. Should we take any measures? But what 
 measures can we take? If we don't know who the in- 
 former is ? If we knew. But now what ? Disband the 
 troop ? Or should we sit and wait until we 're trapped ? 
 I trust everybody. Where is the insult? But I insist 
 there is a traitor. Absolutely there is treachery. It's 
 a pig-stall!" 
 
 He turned on his heel and began to pace up and
 
 422 What Never Happened 
 
 down in the room again. Solomon Moiseyevich was si- 
 lent. The room was as quiet as a field before a thunder- 
 shower. Abram drummed on the window pane with his 
 fingers and turned slowly to Vanya. 
 
 "Ha! If there is treachery, we must find it out." 
 
 "Find it out?" Kolka asked, and threw his cap on 
 the table. "Find it, and we'll show it to you. Say, 
 Svistkov, let's both look for it," 
 
 Svistkov looked at him sullenly. 
 
 "Kidding again, you bagpipe!" 
 
 Aleksandr felt his head spinning. 
 
 The kind, affectionate old man, Anna with downcast 
 eyes and sunken cheeks, sullen Svistkov and laughing 
 Kolka, good natured Abram and indignant Vanya, Ros- 
 enstern, who could not come to their aid — all were puz- 
 zling him — impenetrable, wicked people, one of whom 
 was a Judas. The feeling of disgust came upon him 
 again. "A boy at the pond, and fairies, one of them a 
 witch. Of course, a witch. But which one is the 
 witch?" Unable to find an answer, he said with harsh 
 emphasis : 
 
 "Well, what's to be done? Tell us." 
 
 "I have something to tell you." 
 
 "You, Abram?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Don't ask me now. Later." 
 "Why?" 
 "I said later." 
 "Say it now." 
 "Ha! Now it's impossible." 
 
 "What does he want? What can he tell me?" Alek- 
 sandr thought, but without surprise or apprehension.
 
 What Never Happened 423 
 
 He well knew that even the deceitful conversation had 
 not exposed the informer. Degenerated terror had not 
 been saved. Vanya continued to pace the room like a 
 furious wolf, the white-bearded old man sat all bent, 
 Anna kept her modest silence, Kolka still had an air of 
 wounded pride, and Svistkov, as angry as before, was 
 breathing heavily. It was impossible, almost sinful, to 
 believe that there, in that secret house on Arbata Street, 
 in the cosy room, was a provocateur, the man who would 
 have them all hanged the next day. The room was still, 
 and the rain was beating on the window unceasingly.
 
 H 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 <<'J' ^ERE I am," said Abram, with a confiding 
 smile, and offered Aleksandr his broad hairy 
 hand. "Excuse me. I have brought Solo- 
 mon Moiseyevich along. I want both of you to know 
 what I have to say. Maybe it won't please you. 
 Maybe you won't like it. Maybe you'll think what does 
 he know to teach us things? Maybe you don't like to 
 listen to me. Maybe you think you know without me. 
 But do me the favour and listen to me." 
 
 Abram and Solomon Moiseyevich had for once neg- 
 lected the rules of secrecy. They had not made an 
 appointment with Aleksandr for some remote alley in 
 ]\Ioscow, in Zamoskvoriechy, or Solkolniki, or beyond the 
 Tverskaya Gate, but came direct to his rooms in the 
 Hotel Metropol. After their meeting at Anna's the 
 usual cautiousness had lost its meaning. Everybody 
 knew the band was being watched, and today or tomor- 
 row might see them on the scaffold. But no one paid 
 any attention to this. The provocateur had not been 
 discovered, and spies were considered a secondary and 
 insignificant evil, 
 
 ''Listen to me." Abram glanced with disapproval 
 at the patterned rug covering the whole floor, and 
 seated himself on the edge of an arm-chair. He felt un- 
 comfortable on the velvet cushion, but there were no 
 plain chairs in the room, and the bed stood behind a 
 muslin curtain. He tucked his immense feet close to 
 the chair and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 424
 
 "What Never Happened 425 
 
 "When you came and said Doctor Berg was a provoca- 
 teur, I immediately said to myself, ' All right, then he '11 
 be killed.' And you see, is he alive? But I also said 
 something else to myself. I said, Abram, what is the 
 intelligentzia? American grafters! They're always 
 dirty! They work, but why? Who knows? The devil 
 himself could break his leg. Don't be offended, I don't 
 mean you. Ippolit was one of the intelligentzia, too. 
 And still, even the wise men would not be able to un- 
 derstand why they take part in the revolution. AVhat 
 do they want Socialism for ? They are not like us. We 
 are workingmen. We know what we want. We want 
 to live like human beings. That's easy to see. Well, 
 so I thought, what is there surprising about a Doctor 
 Berg — probably a rich man — being a provocateur? 
 Maybe he got frightened and sold out. Very important 
 — sold himself. He is one of the intelligentzia, and the 
 intelligentzia sell themselves out every day. Aren't the 
 government officials, for instance, intellectuals? And 
 don't they sell out? Because, what is government serv- 
 ice? It means to work against the people and be paid 
 for it. Ha! So of course, they sell themselves out. 
 And I said to myself, Abram, men like Doctor Berg 
 write in the newspapers that the Jews eat Christian 
 blood, such men exploit the poor, such as he hanged 
 Ippolit, such as he incite to pogroms. And I know 
 what pogroms are. Maybe I do. Well, I did w^hat was 
 necessary. And what do you say? Wasn't Doctor 
 Berg a snake ? ' ' 
 
 * * Make your story shorter. ' ' 
 
 "Shorter? At once. But please listen to me." 
 
 "I am listening," 
 
 "Now you came yesterday again, 'Comrades, we are
 
 426 What Never Happened 
 
 being followed ; one of us is a provocateur. ' True, you 
 didn't say so, but Vanya did. But that makes no differ- 
 ence because you think so, too. And perhaps it's true. 
 I have long noticed that we are being spied upon. I 
 have also asked myself. Tell me, Abram, if you are no 
 fool, what does it all mean? What does it mean that 
 there are spies all around? Excuse me" — he turned to 
 Solomon Moiseyevich — "that's all nonsense about let- 
 ters or careless blabbing. Nobody wrote any letters and 
 nobody could blab. That's sure. And so I thought — " 
 
 Abram 's harsh voice, his accent, and jerky sentences, 
 as well as his excited womanish face were disagreeable 
 to Aleksandr. "He drags as if he were carrying water. 
 And one can't understand what he wants. What did he 
 come for? And why not alone? So as to have a wit- 
 ness? So as to escape examination?" He lighted a 
 cigarette and watched the yellowish flame of the match 
 until it went out. He threw it away and looked at 
 Abram again. "But he killed Doctor Berg. . . . The 
 devil knows ! ' ' Abram was lost in thought and fixed his 
 gaze on the rug. 
 
 "Well, what were you going to say?" 
 
 * ' What was I going to say ? Wait, I '11 tell you every- 
 thing. So I thought, suppose there really is a knave 
 in the band? Who can he be? There are three intel- 
 lectuals among us, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, Solomon 
 Moiseyevich, and Anna. But I said to myself. No, 
 Abram., Aleksandr Nikolayevich 's brother was hanged. 
 There isn't a man in this world who could forget it. 
 Then it's not he. And I went on; well, and Solomon 
 Moiseyevich? But I answered myself, he suffered ten 
 years at hard labour. Can he forget his sufferings? 
 Will he sell out to dirty Von Schoen? Nonsense! So
 
 Wliat Never Happened 427 
 
 Anna remains. Perhaps it's she. I can't vouch for her, 
 but I asked myself, Abram, do you trust her? And 
 I said, I trust her. Why do you trust her? I don't 
 know. Is it because she has been making bombs? 
 But so was Doctor Berg making bombs. Who knows? 
 And still I trust her. But if not she, not you, and not 
 you, the intellectuals — ha!" He passed his hand across 
 his face. "Then one of us, one of the workingmen, 
 must be the provocateur. We sell out, we do harm to 
 ourselves, don't we? I asked myself. And I answered, 
 What do you mean, who? Take yourself, for instance. 
 You, Abram, are an honest workingman, aren't you? 
 Yes, I know I 'm an honest workingman. Then is Vanya 
 honest or is he a knave ? Yes, Vanya is an honest work- 
 ingman, too. How do I know he is? Because he has 
 been working for the proletarian cause all his life. He 
 fought at barricades, he attacked a district attorney 
 with a bomb in his hands, and when I said that to my- 
 self—" 
 
 *'Do you mean to express a definite suspicion?" 
 Aleksandr remarked coldly. 
 
 "Suspicion? Why suspicion? I haven't expressed 
 any suspicion. I merely say what I think. Ha ! I 
 think it's either Kolka or Svistkov. We don't know 
 them. Do you know them? No? Who are they? 
 Answer if you can. Please tell me what they were do- 
 ing when they were with the anarchists. With Vo- 
 lodya. With Freze. Perhaps they were not working, 
 but dealing in fruits? Who can vouch for this? 
 Nikolay? What does he say about peasants? Do you 
 vouch for him ? You ? But I have not come to tell you 
 just this. I have come to suggest that we should ar- 
 range to watch them. We must find out where they go,
 
 428 What Never Happened 
 
 where they live, when they think nobody can see them. 
 Is it foolish? I say one of them is a scoundrel. So it 
 is clear we must watch them. What else can we do? 
 Well?" 
 
 Abram was still sitting on the very edge of the chair. 
 
 * His worn-out linen jacket and high boots gave him the 
 
 appearance of a well-to-do Moscow merchant, not of a 
 
 Jew. He dropped his thick eyebrows and waited shyly 
 
 for an answer, gazing at the floor. 
 
 ''That means, you propose that we should organize 
 a secret service department?" Aleksandr replied in 
 surprise and thought, "Who could propose such strong 
 measures?" And suddenly Abram, whom he had 
 trusted the day before, the honest, good-natured tanner 
 Abram, with callouses on his hands and a Jewish ac- 
 cent, became almost detestable to him. And he felt a 
 hatred for the band, where such insulting words were 
 spoken and there was no work, but a nameless spying, 
 a hatred for the Party and the revolution and even for 
 terror. "And my own investigations?" he recalled. 
 "If it is permissible to question, why not to spy? And 
 Abram may be right after all." 
 
 Solomon Moiseyevich, tall, round-shouldered, and 
 grey, in a buttoned black frock coat, made a few steps 
 across the room and stopped in front of Abram. 
 
 "You're wrong, Abram." He jerked his neck nerv- 
 ously, coughed and fixed his collar, which was evidently 
 bothering him. "You imagine that either Kolka or 
 Svistkov is the provocateur. But if they should think 
 wisely, they would probably suspect you or me or Anna. 
 Then ought we to watch everybody? But would that 
 be terror? No, it would be the same as the secret serv- 
 ice. I think it is all our own fault. It is naive to as-
 
 What Never Happened 429 
 
 sume that treachery is an accident. If our conscience 
 would really prevent us from spying and attempting to 
 penetrate into people's hearts, if the Party were purer, 
 if there were no attempts at leadership, no fainthearted- 
 ness, no irresponsibility and robberies, if everybody 
 would serve the revolution honestly and with real de- 
 votion, then there would be no Doctor Bergs. He could 
 not have been, he would have been exposed in ten min- 
 utes. But now it's too late. You know the Psalmist 
 says: 'Save me, O God; for the waters are come in 
 unto my soul. I sink in deep mire.' We have sunk in 
 mire. "We have come into deep waters. But we cannot 
 spy upon each other." 
 
 "Ha, and why not?" Abram flushed. "Spy on me, 
 if you want to. Please do. An honest man is not afraid 
 of anything. How can we discover treachery any other 
 way?" 
 
 "Then, Abram, we ought not discover it." 
 
 "What else should we do?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 After Abram and Solomon Moiseyevich had left, and 
 Aleksandr remained alone, he could not fall asleep for 
 a long time. 
 
 He felt uneasy in this hotel, where dozens of people 
 were living, hostile and indifferent strangers, where bells 
 were constantly ringing, where unfamiliar voices were 
 calling to each other, where a man was on constant duty 
 at the entrance, and where he himself was not Aleksandr 
 Bolotov, not an ofiScer of the Russian army, but a repre- 
 sentative of a London firm, the Englishman McGoog. 
 
 "Hypocrites," he thought gloomily. " 'Save me — I 
 sink in deep mire.' Abram, Kolka, Svistkov — Svistkov, 
 Kolka, Abram — Svistkov, Kolka, Abram." He did not
 
 430 What Never Happened 
 
 turn on the electric light, but sat in the comer of the 
 couch and peered long into the darkness. His whole 
 revolutionary life passed before his eyes. Arseny Ivan- 
 ovich, Vera Andreyevna, the committee meetings, Doctor 
 Berg, terror, Tutushkin and lying. But I have done 
 nothing. Happy is Andriusha." 
 
 AVheels rumbled by outside on the Theatre Plaza. 
 Raising himself on his elbow and grasping his revolver 
 with his free hand, Aleksandr listened to the growing 
 noise. "When it died away and all was still again, he 
 suddenly recalled Kolka the Bum. Aleksandr distinctly 
 saw his thick-lipped face with red moustaches, his ironi- 
 cal greenish eyes and heavy body. He saw him in Sokol- 
 niki, under the bush, crimson in the hot rays of the 
 sun, and he heard his rollicking peals of laughter. "I'll 
 quit the cards, I'll quit billiards, the bitter vodka I'll 
 debar." Without knowing why, Aleksandr suddenly 
 felt relieved. Happy in this feeling, yet fearful of it, 
 he leaned his head on the pillow. Suddenly he jumped 
 up. "Of course, Kolka, Kolka! Not Svistkov, not 
 Vanya, but Kolka!" He could not tell where his con- 
 viction came from, whether from Abram's suggestion, or 
 Kolka 's ridicule, his strange remark about peasants, and 
 his quarrel with Svistkov. Perhaps it simply came from 
 his own indefinable feelings, which had haunted him the 
 last few days. But noAV he believed without doubt that 
 he had discovered the treachery. It was Kolka who had 
 sold himself out. A foreboding of the truth, one of 
 those prophetic visions which penetrate the substance of 
 things. "The witch," he whispered, and smiled. "Yes, 
 the witch, but now he is not terrifying. My God, give 
 me the happiness to help save Russia, like a spark in the 
 flame." An hour later he was sound asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE following day Aleksandr took the first train 
 to Kuntzevo. After a two-liour search he 
 found what he was looking for, a detached 
 country home for rent. The house was of wood, had 
 two stories and a mezzanine and a garden in poor con- 
 dition. The watchman, a half -deaf old drunkard, lived 
 half a mile away near the railroad tracks, and the house 
 was entirely vacant. Aleksandr left a deposit, took the 
 keys and gave notice that he would take possession in a 
 day or two. On returning to the city he summoned 
 Kolka to the Hotel Metropol, gave him his new address, 
 and told him to be in Kuntzevo that evening on very im- 
 portant business. Kolka said he would be there at ten 
 'clock. 
 
 At a quarter to ten Aleksandr arrived there. He 
 opened the creaking door, looked at it again on ^he 
 inside and took a candle out of his pocket. Lighting 
 it, he placed it on the table. He saw a dilapidated 
 ceiling, dirty torn wallpaper and wretched furniture 
 in covers. Again he felt oppressed. ** Suppose it's 
 not Kolka? Suppose it's Svistkov? Why am I so 
 sure it's Kolka?" he kept on thinking, while he listened 
 to the splash of the rain outside and the racket of mice 
 under the stove. He took out his revolver and examined 
 it carefully. It was of army make, a Nogan. 
 
 The wind blew through the cracks in the walls. The 
 bluish flame of the candle was uneven, now bending 
 down to the table, now standing straight up, now burst- 
 
 431
 
 432 What Never Happened 
 
 ing out in a flickering tongue. Black shadows stretched 
 into the comers. The one area of light was the faint, 
 trembling spot that the candlelight cast on the three- 
 legged table. Aleksandr did not have to wait long. He 
 heard a voice above the sound of the rain. He trem- 
 bled, and went with heavy steps out on the damp bal- 
 cony. 
 
 "Good evening, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. " Kolka 
 made an obeisance, winking and shaking his wet cap. 
 "Why do you lock yourself in? A clever thief can 
 steal even from behind a lock. Ha-ha-ha! I was 
 knocking and knocking, but not a sound. I had to 
 shout. Have you rented this country house?'* He 
 stole a glance around the room. "It's my business to 
 ask, and yours to give no answer. If you'll allow my 
 curiosity, what's the purpose?" 
 
 "I guess it's needed," Aleksandr replied drily. 
 
 "Needed? That means it's none of my business. 
 'Keep away, fellow.' "Well, well, all right, I won't pry, 
 A]jpksandr Nikolayevich, I won't pry. What's wrong, 
 anyway? Can't a fellow make a joke, by God?" 
 
 Kolka was noisy and free. But it seemed to Aleksandr 
 that his freedom was forced. In his winking, yellowish- 
 green, cattish eyes wicked fires were sparkling and his 
 lips moved slightly, as if he were whispering something. 
 The candle illuminated Aleksandr 's moustachios and his 
 firm clean-shaven chin. Kolka unbuttoned his jacket 
 and took a seat. He immediately was swallowed up by 
 the darkness. 
 
 "You know, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, I'm afraid 
 there's trouble ahead. When you told us the other day 
 that spies were on our trail, I did not believe you, to 
 tell the truth. Ha-ha-ha! But now I too have my
 
 What Never Happened 433 
 
 doubts. Something is wrong. Everything is not as it 
 should be." 
 
 "Have you noticed something?" 
 
 ' ' That 's just it. One scoundrel was following me. A 
 fat bastard, blood and milk. And his face is beastly — 
 big skull and wolfish eyes. So help me God, I came out 
 at the station. I looked around, he was there. I turned 
 into a side street. He — after me. I shook my fist at 
 him. I'm no infant, by God, I'll kill him. Ha-ha-ha ! 
 Then I jumped over a fence and made my way here 
 across the orchards. I really don 't know where he came 
 from. And by God, where do so many spies come from 1 
 "We were living quietly, respectably, without police traps. 
 And suddenly — we're here." 
 
 "Then you have brought him over here?" Aleksandr 
 asked, and moved over to the candle. Now he could see 
 Kolka plainly. He sat comfortably, his right foot out 
 forward, beating his cap on his hand. His big face had 
 an unfamiliar, puzzling, insolent smile. Aleksandr felt 
 a shiver run through his body. 
 
 "Suppose I did bring him? I spit on him!" Kolka 
 muttered through his teeth and spat out. • 
 
 "You spit on him?" 
 
 "Why not? If Vanya is not faking and there is a 
 provocateur among us, then what do spies amount to? 
 Shrimps! A ridiculous comedy! I'm not afraid of 
 them. Nonsense! But what's up, Aleksandr Nikolaye- 
 vich? Why did you tell me to come here?" 
 
 * ' What shall I answer ? ' ' Aleksandr thought a minute. 
 "Should I invent some foolish pretext? Should I lie 
 to him, to a police informer? No, enough! I don't 
 want to. ' ' He raised his head and said, without looking 
 at Kolka:
 
 434 What Never Happened 
 
 "What do you think about the treachery?" 
 
 *'The treachery r' 
 
 "Yes, about the provocateur in the band." 
 
 *'Oh-h," Kolka drawled impressively, and gave a 
 start. 
 
 Aleksandr listened attentively. Outside near the 
 house entrance somebody's steps squashed on the rain- 
 soaked path. But a gust of wind rustled in the foliage 
 of the bushes, big drops of rain drummed on the win- 
 dows, and all became still again. Kolka crossed him- 
 self and winked mysteriously: 
 
 "A devil! Ha-ha-ha! Well, then, about the provo- 
 cateur? But I have already told you." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "I said that if there is the least suspicion, I won't 
 work, Aleksandr Nikolayevich. I'll leave, I'll leave for 
 good. I don't want to handle filth." 
 
 Aleksandr looked at him. 
 
 "You don't want to handle filth?" 
 
 "Say, what does this mean, anyway? It's insulting, 
 Aleksandr Nikolayevich — very ! If that is why you had 
 me come here, it would have been better if you hadn't. 
 I'm no informer. No. I trust everybody. I guess it's 
 my fate. Well, good-bye, Aleksandr Nikolayevich." 
 He sighed and raised his cap. "Good luck to you. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Kolka got up and turned slowly to the balcony with 
 the same mysterious smile on his face, Aleksandr re- 
 alized it was a move to get away ; and at the same instant 
 it became clear to him that he was not mistaken. Kolka 
 the Bum was not a comrade, not a member of the band, 
 but the treacherous murderer whose identity he had 
 guessed the day before. Under the force of a sudden
 
 What Never Happened 435 
 
 impulse he made a quick action and seized Kolka by the 
 collar. Kolka screamed. His eyes began to burn. He 
 made a sweeping motion with his hand, but instead of 
 striking Aleksandr, he dropped his hand again and asked 
 quietly : 
 
 "Why did you grab me?" 
 
 "Because," Aleksandr shouted in a commanding voice, 
 his face white with anger, "until now I spoke to you as 
 a comrade, as a member of the band. And now — ^you 
 hear? — now I am the commander, you're the subordi- 
 nate. I am the officer, you are the soldier. I order 
 you to answer me. Understand? I order you. Where 
 is your revolver ? Give it up ! " 
 
 The candle was slowly burning its last, and immense 
 blue shadows — the shadows of Kolka and Aleksandr — 
 were struggling on the ceiling. Kolka, flushed, his face 
 almost blue, was moving his lips noiselessly, trying to 
 say something. But he said nothing. He reached obe- 
 diently into his pocket and handed Aleksandr his loaded 
 revolver. 
 
 "Let me go, Aleksandr Nikolayevich." 
 
 Aleksandr released him, and threw the revolver on the 
 table. Kolka seated himself and forced a smile to his 
 face. 
 
 "Why did you get so angry? What's the noise 
 about? Because I want to leave? But by God, you 
 must understand. I — I feel offended. What am I ? A 
 spy, a detective, or a slave ? I don 't want to stay. You 
 hear? It's all over!" 
 
 He fixed his jacket and stole a glance at the door. 
 Somewhere outside near the window the sound of steps 
 was heard again. Kolka stretched his neck. Aleksandr 
 smiled. Of small stature, but broad-shouldered, with
 
 436 What Never Happened 
 
 darkened blue eyes, he stood motionless in front of Kolka 
 and looked at him with hatred. They understood each 
 other now. Kolka felt that Aleksandr could kill him, 
 but he did not believe he would, just as nobody believes 
 in his own death by violence. And though he really was 
 in the service of Colonel von Schoen and was receiving 
 money for spying, and had given information about the 
 band that very morning, still he did not feel guilty. All 
 his superiors, advisers, and friends were doing the same 
 — the spies, the captains, the inspectors and the disguised 
 officers. And because he did not feel guilty, he could 
 not believe that Aleksandr hated him. But he was ter- 
 rified, and Aleksandr could tell he was from his insolent 
 words, his wandering eyes and his drooping head. 
 Aleksandr pressed his lips together, retreated a step, and 
 took out his heavy long-barrelled revolver. 
 
 "I advise you to confess." 
 
 ''You're joking, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, " Kolka rat- 
 tled furiously. "What do you want me to confess? 
 That I was working honestly? That I served the revo- 
 lution as well as I could? I can't even understand why 
 you speak to me that way. What is it ? By God ! That 
 revolver of yours! Ah, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, it's a 
 sin. The cat will pay for the mouse's tears." He 
 turned away and waved his hand in despair. 
 
 "Confess," Aleksandr muttered, feeling the uneven 
 beating of his heart. 
 
 But here something unexpected happened. Kolka 
 jumped up and blew out the candle. At the same in- 
 stant Aleksandr heard the crash of broken glass. And 
 immediately, moved by a sudden impulse, without see- 
 ing either Kolka or the window, Aleksandr raised the 
 revolver and pulled the trigger. The sudden shot rever-
 
 What Never Happened 437 
 
 berated in the air, a yellow flame burst out, and some- 
 tliing fell with a groan to the floor. Aleksandr lighted 
 a match. Under the window, with his feet towards the 
 table, lay Kolka face downward. On his neck near the 
 right ear a dark stream of blood was running down his 
 red dishevelled hair. Aleksandr put on his hat and, 
 felt his way in the darkness to the door, his body oddly 
 bent.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 T[IE rain had ceased. The remaining clouds 
 were drifting in the sky. To the right the 
 birch trees were rustling, to the left the wet 
 orchards were stretching. It was cold. The air smelled 
 of rain. It seemed to Aleksandr that the path would 
 never end, and the station was hundreds of versts away. 
 When the station lights appeared in the distance, he re- 
 membered that Kolka had not been alone. ''It's all the 
 same," he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders. 
 "Tsu Shima — it's all the same." He experienced an 
 obstinate, almost shameless feeling of indifference. He 
 was not thinking of the fact that he had killed a man 
 and a corpse was lying in the deserted house. He walked 
 along without thoughts, without sensations, like a ship 
 without a steering-wheel. 
 
 On the station platform near the water-tank a man 
 was sleeping. " Kolka 's spy," Aleksandr thought. He 
 bent over him. He saw a plump face with dyed mous- 
 taches, a torn jacket, and wet army boots. "A fat bas- 
 tard — big skull — ^wolfish eyes. And by God, where do 
 so many spies come from?" He recalled Kolka 's words 
 and hastened down the platform. The telegraph ap- 
 paratus ticked unceasingly and behind a lighted win- 
 dow of the first-class buffet a man, evidently a merchant, 
 was yawning. 
 
 Suddenly Aleksandr was seized by the sensation of an 
 irreparable act, of the killing of a comrade, Kolka the 
 Bum. But he felt no regret and had no fear. ''Well, 
 
 438
 
 What Never Happened 439 
 
 what of it? I killed— Kolka? Yes— Kolka." He 
 heard the rumbling of wheels and saw the sparkle of ap- 
 proaching lights. The rails resounded and the train 
 thundered into the station. Aleksandr boarded it. The 
 man near the water-tank got up and followed him lazily. 
 Nothing of the outside could be seen through the damp 
 window, to which Aleksandr pressed his cheek. "I 
 killed a man," he was thinking, "but I couldn't have 
 done otherwise. I had to. Wasn't Doctor Berg a 
 snake? That's what Abram said. And Kolka was a 
 snake, too. "We are at war, on the battlefield. ]\Iartial 
 law prevails — a rapid court-martial." He kept on argu- 
 ing with himself, but the more he argued, the more dis- 
 tinct did Kolka 's laughing image appear before his eyes. 
 "It's insulting, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, very insulting. 
 I'll leave, leave for good. What am I? A spy, a de- 
 tective, or a slave?" "But he didn't leave and he won't 
 leave. And perhaps he's not guilty. He didn't con- 
 fess. I shot him simply because he was going to run 
 away. Oh, it's all the same!" He brought his fist 
 down on the bench furiously. "In the battle of Tsu 
 Shima thousands perished, honour perished, Russia per- 
 ished. What does Kolka the Bum amount to? And 
 how can a provocateur be exposed ? I am sure he was a 
 provocateur. Positively he was. And that's enough. 
 I am right. The victory is to him who wants victory 
 and who dares to kill. I have killed and I am responsi- 
 ble—to the Party? To Vanya? To Abram? To the 
 People? No, to my conscience, to Russia." A train go- 
 ing in the opposite direction passed by whistling and the 
 window lighted up with golden sparks. Aleksandr 
 looked around. Behind him, at the door, sat the spy of 
 the station. "Will they arrest me? Let them — Tsu
 
 440 What Never Happened 
 
 Shima — what was I thinking about? Kolka? That's 
 what he deserved. God, give me the happiness, give me 
 the happiness to serve great Russia." 
 
 He closed his eyes in weariness. But a foreboding of 
 defeat, a foreboding of inglorious fate did not leave him 
 for a minute. It seemed as if the battle had taken 
 place that day, the cannons had been thundering, the 
 Japanese had won, and the white flag of surrender had 
 been hoisted. 
 
 It was late when Aleksandr arrived in Moscow. Not 
 knowing why, he went to the all-night restaurant Var- 
 iete and ordered a bottle of wine. He wanted not to 
 think. He wanted to believe that he was not alone, that 
 somewhere in Moscow, or in St. Petersburg, or even a 
 thousand miles away, there was a man who could un- 
 derstand him and realize what it meant to expose a 
 provocateur, to make terror, and most important, to 
 kill. "And Abram? And Svistkov? And Vanya?" 
 He thought of the band with an unfamiliar feeling of 
 affection. "Won't they understand? Won't they ap- 
 preciate it? We are not mere friends, we are brothers, 
 bound by blood." He did not notice the white tables, 
 or the officers with their tinkling spurs, or the painted 
 women, not even the respectable gentleman with gold 
 rings on his fingers who threw occasional glances at him. 
 The "work" suddenly appeared ridiculous. "We were 
 not able to win there at Tsu Shima. We have not been 
 able to win here in Moscow. I killed Kolka. But was 
 Kolka the only one? Was there not a Doctor Berg? 
 They are legion, these Kolkas and Bergs. Everywhere 
 treachery and disgrace." And the whole Party now 
 made the impression on him of a lion mortally wounded. 
 He saw the estate so painfully built up, the secret meet-
 
 "What Never Happened 441 
 
 ings, the committees, the unions, the organizations, the 
 workmen's groups, the fighting squads and the student 
 circles. He saw how in every city, every village, on 
 the snow-bound Russian steppes, the members of the 
 Party were diligently building a new life. And he saw 
 how everywhere, from Archangel to Baku, and from 
 Warsaw to Irkutsk, double-faced Kolkas were hypo- 
 critically doing their work and eating like a canker at 
 the Party's body. ''Is there any way at all of carry- 
 ing on the struggle? What's the use of my investiga- 
 tions? Of my killing? The stricken body won't be 
 brought to life again, we shan't finj. a remedy for the 
 poisonous wounds. But why ? Perhaps others will find 
 a remedy. I can't. And if I can't then it means Tsu 
 Shima. ' ' He did not finish his wine, but went out into 
 Trubnaya Plaza. The respectable looking gentleman 
 with gold rings on his fingers got up and followed him. 
 
 In the Hotel Metropol the doors were wide open. 
 The servants' room was lighted, and on the threshold 
 stood a tall waiter unfamiliar to Aleksandr. Aleksandr 
 looked at his watch. The hands were not moving. It 
 had stopped at twelve o'clock. 
 
 ''What time have you got?" 
 
 "Half past one." 
 
 Aleksandr nodded and began to walk up the stairs. 
 But on the third step somebody seized him by the 
 shoulder. Not yet understanding that he was arrested 
 and going white with the indignity of the assault, Alek- 
 sandr turned around quickly. He recognized the sta- 
 tion spy. The man, holding him tight, was looking at 
 him with frightened eyes. Without a moment's hesi- 
 tation Aleksandr struck him in the face. He felt the 
 man's hold relax, and ran up the stairs.
 
 442 "What Never Happened 
 
 On the landing between the first and second floors he 
 stopped. He saw he was in a trap and could not es- 
 cape. In the corner, near a plush couch, he saw a dried- 
 up palm. "A palm?" he thought. "What is a palm 
 here for?" For a moment his mind was held by the 
 faint recollection of the southern sky, the sparkling blue 
 bay, the mewing of pink sea-gulls, the red cactus, and the 
 3'ellow-faced Japanese soldier. "A sentry — Nagasaki — 
 Tsu Shima." He stood erect and looked downstairs in- 
 differently. 
 
 Soldiers were running out of the door of the dark 
 dining-room. They were many. In the waiters' room 
 swords were clinking. The officer could not be seen. 
 Aleksandr, blue-eyed, his grey coat unbuttoned, stood 
 motionless on the landing, his black revolver in his hand. 
 He still did not believe that he would be arrested. 
 "Would those men in grey uniforms, the very men who 
 had risked their lives in the battle of Tsu Shima — would 
 they want to shoot him? He cocked his revolver and 
 kept his eyes fixed quietly on the soldiers. He knew he 
 would not kill anybody. But as soon as the click of his 
 revolver was heard, a voice shouted, "Shoot!" An 
 awkward corporal with a long neck and big fists raised 
 his gun irresolutely. But Aleksandr, as if he were 
 pushing him aside, aimed at his own breast. 
 
 "It's all the same. I have not succeeded — ^have not 
 helped to save Russia." With a simple quick motion, 
 as when he had shot Kolka, he pulled the trigger. 
 There was a loud report. He fell at the couch under 
 the dusty palm. His firm face with its blue eyes was 
 cold and passionless. Aleksandr looked as though he 
 were asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THAT same night the police arrested Abram, 
 Anna, Svistkov, Solomon Moiseyevich and 
 Eosenstern who was then in Kiev, Solomon 
 Moiseyevich offered armed resistance. He barricaded 
 himself in his room in Ilinka Street and kept up a fire 
 against the besiegers until he ran out of bullets. He 
 was killed towards morning through an opening cut in 
 the ceiling. The only one to escape arrest was Vanya. 
 He was in the theatre when the gendarmes came to his 
 house. He returned home at eleven o'clock and was 
 stopped at the gate by the concierge, who advised him 
 in a low whisper not to enter the house. Vanya went 
 away. He spent a month in disguise in Klina, then 
 secured a new passport, and left for Odessa, where he 
 remained until October, and then started for Bolotovo to 
 see Aleksandr's parents. He had promised Aleksandr 
 at the very outset of the "work" to inform his parents 
 in case of an accident, and he felt it his duty to keep 
 his word. 
 
 It was a late, rainy autumn, with a cold north wind 
 prevailing. The linden-trees had lost their dark-green 
 attire, and the garden paths were littered with the fallen 
 leaves. The flowers had withered. Nikolay Stepano- 
 vich 's favourite flower-bed was denuded of its red carna- 
 tions, gillyflowers and reseda. The woods were damp 
 and still. The fir-trees were whispering, the fallen twigs 
 cracked under the feet, and flocks of crows filled the air 
 
 443
 
 444: Wliat Never Happened 
 
 with their cawing. There was an atmosphere of sad- 
 ness about the woods. It foretold a long, cold, gloomy- 
 winter. 
 
 After the death of his second son Andrey Nikolay 
 Stepanovich had suffered a stroke. For over a year he 
 had been confined to bed. His body, till then sound 
 and vigorous became thin and lifeless, and his bloodless 
 lips tried in vain to speak. Natasha attended him. 
 She was silent and stern. Old Tatyana Mikhailovna 
 could hardly bear her sufferings. God seemed to have 
 abandoned her, though she continued to offer prayers 
 and to have litanies performed. All her affection, all 
 her motherly tenderness were now concentrated upon 
 her firstborn, Aleksandr. She knew he had left the ser- 
 vice, but she concealed it from her husband. She 
 guessed that he had followed in the footsteps of her lost 
 sons Mikhail and Andrey, yet cherished the belief that 
 she was mistaken and Aleksandr, an obedient, affection- 
 ate son, would spare her age and his dying father. Na- 
 tasha tried to reassure her, insisting that her brother 
 was abroad and that they would get a letter soon. But 
 she herself had no faith in what she said. And often 
 the two would share tears together, the mother for her 
 sons, the daughter for her mother. 
 
 A year passed in mourning and in caring for Nikolay 
 Stepanovich. Everybody in the house, including the 
 servants and occasional uninvited guests, felt the op- 
 pressive cloud hanging over the place. The housekeeper, 
 Malanya Petrovna, walked on tiptoes, sighed, and rolled 
 her little mouselike eyes. The maids Lukerya and 
 Dasha sang no more. The manager Aleksey Antono- 
 vich crossed himself, sighed, and presented himself regu- 
 larly to Natasha to receive her awkward orders. The
 
 What Never Happened 445 
 
 household was all in disorder. At night the ax was 
 heard in the woods, and no one asked who was cutting the 
 trees, and for whom. The harvest was half the size of 
 the neighbours '. The garden was neglected. The build- 
 ings were unattended. The stalls were empty. Nikolay 
 Stepanovich kept muttering unintelligible words ex- 
 citedly. "Long-haired ones, knaves, sold Russia, hang." 
 Then Natasha would come over to him noiselessly and 
 caress his grey hair. The family held together by the 
 three sons, ruddy Misha, tall Andriusha and broad- 
 shouldered Sasha was no more. There remained noth- 
 ing but a demolished, weatherbeaten nest. 
 
 Vanya reached the manor-house in the morning. In 
 his torn peasant jacket and felt shoes he looked like a 
 labourer out of work. 
 
 Aleksey Antonovich received him in his office. 
 When Vanya explained that he came on personal busi- 
 ness, he shook his head in distrust, but called a boy and 
 told him to announce the visitor. A samovar was filling 
 the office with smoke. The walls were covered with por- 
 traits of metropolitans and of General Skobelev on a 
 white horse. Vanya looking through the window saw 
 the barefoot boy running to the house, jumping over 
 puddles, the lilac bushes shaking in the wind, and Ma- 
 lanya Petrovna working in the kitchen. Observing this 
 unfamiliar life, he felt he had come in vain. But he 
 heard the sound of rapid steps outside. Natasha en- 
 tered the office. She wore a black dress and a black 
 knitted shawl. Vanya immediately recognized her by 
 her cold blue eyes. She looked at him perplexed. 
 
 "Have you come on business?" 
 
 "Yes, on personal business." 
 
 They went outside. The wet, soggy ground was
 
 446 What Never Happened 
 
 covered with rotting straw. Freezing sparrows were 
 flying around. Vanya stammered: 
 
 *'I come from your brother." 
 
 "From Aleksandr?" Natasha asked in excitement. 
 "Are you from him? Is he alive?" 
 
 Vanya cast down his eyes. 
 
 "Well, speak, speak!" 
 
 "Aleksandr Nikolayevich is dead," Vanya answered, 
 afraid to look at Natasha. She said nothing. Vanya 
 flushed and was silent. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "In Moscow, on the 20th of August." 
 
 "I read about it. Then it was he?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She turned away, and went back to the house oblivious 
 of Vanya. In her black dress and with her long 
 braided light hair, she looked like a nun. Vanya 
 thought she would fall. But suddenly she stopped : 
 
 "Are you his comrade? Yes? Excuse me — do you 
 — do you need anything?" 
 
 "No, nothing." 
 
 "I beg you — " 
 
 "Thank you, nothing." 
 
 She stood a long time, unable to move, as if trying to 
 grasp something. At last she threw up her hands in 
 resignation. 
 
 "My God, how will I tell them?" 
 
 The station was seven versts away. Vanya went on 
 foot. It was windy, his feet sank in the mud, a cold mist 
 was falling, and a heavy cloud was encircling the sky 
 on the left from behind the woods. On all sides, as far 
 as the eye could reach, the harvested fields stretched 
 monotonously. Along the road stood the birches, like
 
 i 
 What Never Happened 447 
 
 solitary sentries. Shivering with the cold and lis- 
 tening to the whistling of the wind Vanya recalled 
 his life. He thought of his childhood with its beatings, 
 its cursings, its drunkenness, and the peasants' bare, 
 naked want. He recalled his youth, the factory, the 
 noise of machines, and drunkenness again and want. 
 He recalled Volodya, his immense height and strength, 
 his commanding voice and the revolver in his hand. He 
 recalled Presnia, the frosty day at the barricades and 
 Seriozha, the schoolhouse and the dragoons. He recalled 
 Anna and Ippolit, the assassination of the army prose- 
 cutor. He recalled Abram, Berg, Kolka, Aleksandr. 
 His recollections filled him with fear. ''Absolutely de- 
 feated! Neither Volodya, nor Seriozha, nor Ippolit, 
 nor the Bolotovs, nor Rosenstem could achieve anything. 
 Who will? Where is the hope? Or is there no hope? 
 Is there no truth in the world?" He felt still colder 
 from these thoughts. It seemed senseless, sinful, shame- 
 ful to live. 
 
 He reached the station at five o'clock. It was not 
 yet dark, but it was foggy and the autumn sky was 
 shedding tears. The platform was crowded. A com- 
 pany of mill-workers was leaving. At their front stood 
 a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded peasant, resembling 
 Volodya at the distance from which Vanya saw him. 
 His intent, firm, somewhat pock-marked face and clever 
 grey eyes struck Vanya. "So help me God, it's Vol- 
 odya," he thought, and suddenly he saw a vision of la- 
 bouring Russia. He saw the Russia of endless, ploughed, 
 sweat-moistened fields, of factories, shops, and workshops, 
 not the Russia of students, officers, programs, meetings, 
 committees, not idle, babbling Russia, but the Russia of 
 tillers and reapers, the great Russia, labouring and uu-
 
 448 What Never Happened 
 
 conquerable. Instantly he felt relieved. He under- 
 stood that the red tape committees, and the hooligans, 
 and treachery, and the impotent barricades, and Vol- 
 odya's audacity, and Ippolit's devotion, and Aleksandr's 
 courage, and Audrey's doubts were only the foam of the 
 people's sea, the splash of the beating waves. He un- 
 derstood that ministers and committees cannot change 
 the course of events, just as sailors cannot allay a stormy 
 sea. And he felt that deep in his weary soul a new, 
 pure faith was rekindling, a faith in the people, in the 
 work of emancipation, in a regenerated world based on 
 love, a faith in the eternal truth. 
 
 THE END
 
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