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THE PALE HORSE 
 
THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ByROPSHIN" 
 
 [Boris S avin kov_Jl 
 
 Author of" What Never Happened " 
 
 Translated from the Russian 
 By Z. VENGEROVA 
 
 ALFRED A • KNOPF 
 NEW YORKMCMXIX 
 
'R£S£RVATiON 
 :,OPY ADOED 
 DRiGJNAL TO BE 
 :^ETA!NED 
 
 \^d 1335 
 
Ills 
 
 MAl/V 
 
 MG3538 
 
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Edinburgh, Scotland 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The soul of Russia is revealed even more in her 
 literature than in the realities of her life. If 
 her activities are handicapped in many ways, 
 her spirit lives in a sort of Utopian Freeland, 
 where it is concerned only with problems of 
 spiritual law and spiritual obligations. Russian 
 novels- — certainly tne best of them — express this 
 spirit, and are for that reason ' human docu- 
 ments ' of great intensity. 
 
 Each epoch of Russia's spiritual life is ex- 
 pressed in a few books of a highly imaginative 
 character. Among those literary works which 
 illuminate with a rare light the period just before 
 the war, the problems which had to be faced 
 by the heroic will and the mystic tendencies 
 of a tragically unbalanced generation, Ropshin's 
 Pale Horse ranKs as one of the most charac- 
 teristic. The Russian writer Dmitry Meresli- 
 kovsky has called it ' the most Russian book of 
 
vi THE PALE HORSE 
 
 the period,* as it contains the tragedy of every 
 individual conscience in Russia possessed by 
 the necessity of violent political action and the 
 equally strong religious objections to it. The 
 problem of Ropshin's hero could be summed 
 up in the words : ' I am bound in conscience 
 to do it — yet my conscience imperatively pro- 
 hibits me to do it.' The author's aim is to 
 show the psychological consequences of this 
 very Russian, this very modern problem. Never- 
 theless, the book is far from being an objective 
 psychological study, but bears more the impress 
 of a personal confession forced out by some 
 urgent inner need. It is more than mere ' litera- 
 ture,' — ^it is life's tragjedy interpreted by one 
 who had lived every bit of what he writes about. 
 The Pale Horse is a story of a revolutionary 
 plot, yet it contains nothing of the old conven- 
 tional and romantic type of the ' Nihilist story,' 
 as it used to be written — especially in England. 
 The picturesque side of revolutionary life — its 
 continual dangers, disguises, conspiracies — forms 
 merely the background. The object is to show 
 the changer! spirit of a new generation of revolu- 
 
INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 tionaries, more fully aware of higher responsi- 
 bilities than the former romantic fanatics of 
 terrorism. As they appear in The Pale Horse 
 the Russian revolutionaries remind one of thf' 
 mystic heroes of Dostoevsky who seek for justi- 
 fication of their acts. 
 
 The book reveals the nature of the change 
 that has taken place, and makes clear the fact 
 that the ' Nihilists ' who deliberately had shaken 
 off all religious and idealistic conceptions, in 
 order to secure their immediate political aims, 
 are a thing of the past. The new revolutionaries 
 are more spiritualised, more close to the religious 
 wants and sentiments of the Russian people. 
 This has made their problems more complex, 
 and The Pale Horse shows how distressing their 
 dilemma has become. Yet, in spite of the 
 story's pessimistic tone, there is a suggestion of 
 hopefulness in the struggle for the establish- 
 ment of idealistic values, in the attempt to make 
 the will conform to the standards of enlightened 
 thought. 
 
 Ropsiiin's heroes are men and women living 
 in a period of transition, and as such they are 
 
 h 
 
viii THE PALE HORSE 
 
 necessarily unbalanced, unsettled, more given 
 to reflecting upon new spiritual values than to 
 facing their problems with the determined and 
 undivided will they need for their purpose. 
 They are tragic in the absolute sincerity of their 
 divided minds. In spite of their doubts and 
 indecision, their way leads to future harmony — 
 it is the way of high-strung idealism applied to 
 the problems of real life. This is the hopeful 
 prophecy of The Pale Horse. The vision of a 
 new and regenerated Russia rises above the sad 
 tale of shattered lives and cruel destinies. 
 
 No one is more entitled to reveal the new 
 psychology of the Russian fighters for freedom 
 than the author of The Pale Horse. Ropshin 
 is his nom de plume. He played a conspicuous 
 part, in the revolutionary movement of about 
 ten years ago. Since then his views underwent 
 a marked change : The Pale Horse is confes- 
 sional and autobiographical. He gave up party 
 work, came into touch with a strong religious 
 current in the Russian literature of recent years, 
 and made his first appearance as an author with 
 The Pale Horse. The book created a sensa- 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 tion when it was published, and passed through 
 several editions. The author's personal experi- 
 ence gave special value to his revelations, and 
 Ropshin is now considered one of the foremost 
 writers of the younger generation. 
 
 His second book. The Tale of What Was Not, 
 with its vivid scenes of the Moscow barricades 
 in 1905, and its revelations about the revolu- 
 tionary parties and their new spirit, was also 
 a great literary success. 
 
 Ropshin has also written short stories, and 
 is a brilliant journalist as well. His war cor- 
 respondence from the western front is full of 
 colour, and has a very personal touch. 
 
 The Pale Horse gives the keynote to Rop- 
 shin' s art and attitude to life, and is certainly 
 the best adapted of his works with which to 
 introduce him to the Irish and English reader. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 
 PART I 
 
 ' . . . and behold a pale horse ; and his name that 
 sat on him was Death. . . / — Revelation vi. 8. 
 
 ^But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and 
 walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he 
 goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes. ' — 
 1 John ii. 11. 
 
 March 6. 
 I ARRIVED last night at N. It is the same as I 
 last saw it. The crosses glitter on the churches, 
 the sledges creak as they glide over the crisp 
 snow. The mornings are frosty, there are ice- 
 flowers on the window-panes, the bells of the 
 monasteries are calling to Mass. I love the 
 town. I was born here. 
 
 I have a passport bearing the red seal of 
 the King of England and the signature of 
 Lord Lansdowne. The passport certifies that 
 I, George O'Brien, British subject, have under- 
 taken a journey to Turkey and Russia. I am 
 registered as ' tourist ' by the Russian police. 
 
2 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 The hotel bores me to weariness. I know so 
 we)! its hal'i-porter in his blue tunic, its gilt 
 mirrors, its carpets. There is a shabby sofa in 
 my room and dusty curtains. I have placed 
 three kilograms of dynamite under the table. 
 I have brought it from abroad. The dynamite 
 smells of a chemist's shop. I have headaches 
 at night. 
 
 I am going out for a stroll presently. The 
 boulevard is dark, a fine snow is falling; the 
 clock is striking at a distance. I am quite 
 alone. Before me lies the peaceful life of the 
 town and its slothful people. In my soul re- 
 sound the sacred words : 
 
 ' And I will give thee the morning star.' 
 
 March 8. 
 
 Erna has blue eyes and heavy plaits of hair. 
 She clung to me and entreated me : 
 
 ' Will you love me a little ? ' 
 
 Some time ago she gave herself to me like a 
 queen : she never asked for anything in return, 
 and entertained no hopes. Now she implores 
 me for love like a beggar. As I looked through 
 the window on the square covered with snow 
 I said to|lier|: 
 
THE PALE HORSE S 
 
 ' Look how immaculate the snow is.' 
 
 She dropped her head and did not answer. 
 
 I then said : 
 
 ' I was out of town yesterday, and saw even 
 a purer snow. It was quite rosy. And the 
 shadows of the birch-trees were blue.' 
 
 I read in her eyes : 
 
 ' Why didn't you take me with you ? ' 
 
 ' Look here,' I began again, ' have you ever 
 been deep in the country in Russia ? ' 
 
 She answered : ' No.' 
 
 ' Well, in the early spring, when the new 
 grass begins to show in the fields and the snow- 
 drops bloom in the woods, the snow still lies 
 in the ravines. And it looks so odd : the white 
 snow and the white flowers. Have you ever 
 seen that ? No ? Can you imagine what a 
 strange sight it is ? ' 
 
 She whispered : ' No.' 
 
 And I was thinking of Elena. 
 
 March 9. 
 
 The governor lives in an old house, under a 
 double guard of sentries and detectives. 
 
 We are a small group of five. Fedor, Vania, 
 and Heinrich are disguised as sledge-drivers. 
 
4 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 They watch all his movements and report their 
 observations to me. Ema is an expert in 
 chemistry. She will prepare the bombs. 
 
 I am sitting in my room and studying the 
 plan of the town. I am niapping out the 
 roads we must follow. I try to reconstruct his 
 life, his daily habits. In my thoughts I am 
 present at the receptions in his house; I take 
 walks with him in the garden, behind the gate ; 
 I hide beside him at night, I say prayers with 
 him as he goes to bed. 
 
 I caught a glimpse of him to-day. I was 
 waiting for him in the street, and I walked up 
 and down the frozen sidewalk for a long time. 
 It was getting dark, and the cold was severe. 
 I had already begun to give up hope, when 
 suddenly the police-inspector at the corner 
 brandished his glove. The policemen stood at 
 attention, the detectives ran in all directions. 
 A deathlike silence filled the street. 
 
 A carriage came swiftly past me. The horses 
 were black. The driver had a red beard. I 
 noticed the curved handles of the doors, the 
 yellow spokes of the wheels. A sledge followed 
 closely behind the carriage. 
 
 I could hardly discern his face as it rapidly 
 
THE PALE HORSE 5 
 
 passed before my eyes. And he did not notice 
 me. I was part of the street for him. I 
 slowly turned home. I felt happy. 
 
 March 10. 
 
 I am not conscious of hate or anger when I 
 think of him. At the same time I do not feel 
 any pity for him. As a personality he leaves 
 me indifferent. But I want him to die. 
 Strength will break a straw. I don't believe 
 in words. I do not want to be a slave myself, 
 and do not want any one else to be one. 
 
 Why shouldn't one kill ? And why is murder 
 justified in one case and not in another ? People 
 do find reasons, but I don't know why one 
 should not kill ; and I cannot understand why 
 to kill in the name of this or that is considered 
 right, while to kill in the name of something 
 else is wrong. 
 
 I remember the first time I went hunting. 
 The white-crop fields were red, there were cob- 
 webs everywhere, the wood was silent. I 
 stood on the edge of the wood close to the road 
 ravaged by the rain. The birches were whis- 
 pering, the yellow leaves were flying up and 
 down. I waited. Suddenly there was a con- 
 
6 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 fused movement in the grass. A hare, looking 
 Hke a small grey bundle, rushed out of the 
 bushes and squatted down cautiously on his 
 hind legs. He looked about him. I tremblingly 
 lifted my gun. An echo resounded far in the 
 wood, there was a puff of blue smoke among 
 the birches. On the darkened grass, wet 
 with blood, the wounded hare struggled and 
 whimpered like a baby. I felt sorry for 
 him. I fired a second shot. The wailing 
 ceased. 
 
 At home I forgot all about him as if he 
 had never existed, as if I had not taken from 
 him that which was most precious to him — his 
 life. And I ask myself why I suffered when I 
 heard his outcry, while the fact that I killed 
 him for my amusement did not arouse any 
 emotion in me. 
 
 March 13. 
 Elena is married and lives here — ^that is all 
 I know about her. Every morning, in my 
 leisure, I go strolling on the boulevard to see 
 her house. The white frost is soft like down. 
 The snow creaks under my feet. I hear the 
 slow strokes of the tower clock. It is ten 
 
THE PALE HORSE 7 
 
 o'clock. I sit down on the bench and patiently 
 count the minutes. I say to myself : 
 
 ' I did not meet her yesterday, but I may 
 to-day.' 
 
 I saw her for the first time a year ago. I 
 passed through N. in the spring, and went one 
 morning to the large park. The ground was 
 damp, the tall oaks and the slim poplars 
 loomed above it, lost in an all-pervading 
 silence. Even the birds did not sing. There 
 was only the low murmur of the brook. I 
 watched its ripples. The sun gleamed on the 
 water, which purled ; I listened to the sound. 
 When I lifted my eyes I saw a woman on the 
 opposite side. She did not notice me. But 
 I knew that we were listening to the same 
 thing. 
 
 The woman was Elena. 
 
 March 14. 
 
 I am sitting in my room. Some one in the 
 room above me is playing the piano. I can 
 hear it but faintly. The sound of footsteps is 
 lost in the soft carpet. 
 
 I am used to the uncertain life of a revolu- 
 tionary and its loneliness. I do not think of 
 
8 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 my future, and do not want to know it. I try 
 to forget the past. I have no home, no name* 
 no family. I say to myself : 
 
 Un grand sommeil noir 
 Tombe sur ma vie. 
 Dormez, tout espoir, 
 Dormez^ toute envie. 
 
 But hope never dies. What hope ? That 
 of securing ' the morning star ' ? I know well : 
 we had killed yesterday, we will kill to-day, 
 and we shall go on killing to-morrow. ' And 
 the third angel poured out his vial upon the 
 rivers and fountains of waters and they became 
 blood.' You cannot quench blood with water, 
 you cannot burn it out with fire. It will be 
 blood all the way to the grave. 
 
 Je ne vois plus rien^ 
 Je perds la memoire 
 Du bien et du mal. 
 O, la triste histoire ! 
 
 Happy is he who believes in the Resurrection 
 of Christ, in the Resurrection of Lazarus. 
 Happy is he who believes in socialism, in the 
 coming paradise on earth. These old tales 
 seem simply ridiculous to me : fifteen acres of 
 apportioned land do not tempt me. I have 
 
THE PALE HORSE 9 
 
 said to myself : I do not want to be a slave. 
 Is this my freedom ? It is indeed a poor 
 freedom ! Why am I pursuing it ? In the 
 name of what do I go out to kill ? Is it only 
 for the sake of blood, and more blood ? . . . 
 
 Je suis un berceau 
 Qu'une main balance 
 Au creux d'un caveau. 
 Silence . . . Silence. . . . 
 
 There is a knock on the door. It must be 
 Erna. 
 
 March 17. 
 
 I don't know why I have taken up the work, 
 but I know the reasons that have brought 
 others into it. Heinrich is convinced that it 
 is our duty. Fedor joined us because his wife 
 had been murdered. Erna says she is ashamed 
 to live. Vania . . . but let Vania speak for 
 himself. 
 
 Recently we spent all day about town to- 
 gether, he acting as my driver. I made an 
 appointment with him in a tavern. 
 
 He came in high boots and in a blue tunic, 
 such as are worn by men of the lower class. 
 He has grown a beard and wears his hair cut 
 round. He said : 
 
10 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Now, tell me, have you ever thought of 
 Christ ? ' 
 
 ' Of whom ? ' 
 
 ' Of Christ, of the God-Man Christ ? Did 
 you ever ask yourself what you ought to be- 
 lieve in and how you ought to live ? In my 
 lodgings, in the drivers' yard, I often read the 
 Gospels, and I have come to the conclusion 
 that only two ways are open to men, no more 
 than two. One is to believe that everything 
 is permissible. Please, understand me — every- 
 thing, without exception. Now that leads to 
 the making of such a character as Dostoyevsky's 
 Smerdiakov,^ provided a man has a mind to 
 dare and not to shrink at any consideration. 
 After all, there is logic in such an attitude : 
 since God does not exist, since Christ is but a 
 man, there is no love as well ; there is nothing 
 whatever to stop you. The other is the way 
 of Christ which leads to Christ. Tell me, if 
 there is love in a man's heart — I mean real, 
 deep love — could he kill or not ? ' 
 
 I replied : ' He could, in any case.' 
 
 ' No, not in any case. To kill is a great 
 sin. Just remember : '' Greater love hath no 
 * The maii-servaut in ' Brothers Karamazov.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 11 
 
 man than this, that a man lay down his Ufe 
 for his friends." And he must lay down more 
 than his life — his soul. He must ascend his 
 own calvary and take no decision unless it is 
 urged by love — ^by love alone. Any other 
 motive would bring him back to Smerdiakov. 
 Take my own life. What do I live for ? Who 
 knows but that my last hour may prove the 
 one I had to live my whole life for. I pray to 
 God : Lord, let me die for the sake of love. 
 Now, is one likely to pray for the sake of 
 murder ? A man may kill, but he will not 
 pray about it. . . . And yet I know : I have 
 not enough love in my heart. I find my cross 
 too hard to bear.' 
 
 ' Don't you laugh,' he said a moment later ; 
 ' there is nothing to laugh at. I speak of God and 
 His words, and you probably think I am raving. 
 Now, do you really think I am ? Tell me.' 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 ' You remember St. John in the Revelation : 
 " And in those days shall men seek death and 
 shall not find it, and shall desire to die, and 
 death shall flee from them." Can there be 
 anything more ghastly than death fleeing from 
 you when you are calling for her ? You also 
 
12 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 may seek death, and for that matter, all of 
 us. How dare we shed blood ? How dare we 
 break the law ? Yet we do one and the 
 other. You don't recognise laws : blood is 
 like water to you. But remember, the day 
 will come when you shall recall my words. 
 You will long for the end, and the end will 
 not come. Death will flee from you. I be- 
 Ueve in Christ ; indeed I do. But I am not 
 with Him. I am not worthy of Him, I am 
 bespattered with mire and blood. Yet Christ 
 in His mercy shall come to me.' 
 
 I looked intently into his eyes and replied : 
 
 ' Why kill, then ? You are free to leave us.' 
 
 His face grew quite pale. 
 
 ' How dare you to speak like that ? My soul 
 suffers agonies. But I cannot ... I love.' 
 
 'It's all simply rot, Vania. Don't think 
 about it any more.' 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 I left him, and, once in the street, I forgot 
 all about the matter. 
 
 March 19. 
 Erna wept and said through her tears : 
 ' You don't love me any more.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 13 
 
 She was sitting in my armchair and covering 
 her face with her hands. How strange that I 
 never noticed before how large her hands are. 
 
 I looked at her very intently and said : 
 
 ' Don't cry, Erna.' 
 
 She lifted her eyes and looked at me. Her 
 red nose and her drooping under-lip made her 
 ugly. I turned away from her towards the 
 window. She rose from her armchair and 
 tugged timidly at my sleeve. 
 
 ' I am sorry, dear,' she said, ' I won't cry 
 any more.' 
 
 She cries rather frequently. First her eyes 
 redden, then her cheeks begin to swell, until 
 finally a few barely perceptible tears begin to 
 roll down her cheeks. What silent tears they 
 are ! 
 
 I took her on my knees. 
 
 ' Listen, Erna,' I said to her. ' Did I ever 
 say I loved you ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Did I deceive you ? Did I not tell you that 
 I loved another woman ? ' 
 
 She did not answer. She only shivered from 
 head to foot. 
 
 ' Answer, please.' 
 
14 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Yes, you did tell me that.' 
 
 ' Now listen : I will tell you when I get tired 
 of you. I promise not to hide it from you. 
 You trust me, don't you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I do.' 
 
 ' Well, that settles it. And now stop your 
 crying. I have no one but you.' 
 
 I kissed her. She looked happy as she said : 
 
 ' Oh, how I love you ! ' 
 
 But I could not help noticing her large 
 hands. 
 
 March 21. 
 
 I don't know a word of English. I speak 
 a broken Russian in the hotel, in the restaurant, 
 and in the street. This leads to occasional 
 unpleasantness. 
 
 I went to the theatre last night. A stout 
 business man with a red, perspiring face, sat 
 next to me. He breathed heavily through his 
 nose and was half asleep during the perform- 
 ance. Between the acts he turned to me with 
 the question : 
 
 ' What is your nationality ? ' 
 
 I did not reply. 
 
 ' Don't you hear ? ' he asked again. ' I want 
 to know what your nationality is.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 15 
 
 I answered without looking at him : 
 
 ' I am a subject of His Majesty the King of 
 England.' 
 
 This did not seem to satisfy him. 
 
 ' Whose subject did you say ? ' he asked 
 again. 
 
 ' I am Enghsh.' 
 
 * Oh, EngUsh. . . . Are you ? Then you 
 belong to the worst nation on earth. They 
 helped the Japs to sink our flagship at 
 Tsushima, that's what they did. And now you 
 just come over on a trip to Russia as if nothing 
 had happened. I 'd put a stop to that ! ' 
 
 People began to look at us. 
 
 ' I must ask you to stop addressing your 
 remarks to me,' I said in a low voice. 
 
 ' I will hand you over to the police ; that 's 
 what I am going to do,' he went on, raising 
 his voice. 'Look at that man! He might 
 be a Japanese spy for all I know, or a swindler 
 of some sort or other. An Englishman, indeed ! 
 I wonder why the police don't keep a sharp 
 look-out.' 
 
 I felt for the revolver in my pocket. 
 
 ' I ask you once more to shut up,' I enjoined 
 him. 
 
16 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Shut up, you say ! No, sir ; let us go to 
 the police station, you and me. There they 
 will find out what 's what. Spies are not 
 allowed in our country, let me tell you ! No, 
 I say. Three cheers for Holy Russia ! ' 
 
 I got up and looked straight into his round, 
 bloodshot eyes. 
 
 ' I warn you for the third time : shut up ! ' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and sat down 
 without a word. 
 
 I left the theatre. 
 
 March 24. 
 
 Heinrich is just twenty-two. As a student 
 he used to speak at meetings. In those days he 
 wore glasses and long hair. Now, he has be- 
 come rather coarse, like Vania : he is lean and 
 usually unshaven. His horse is also lean, the 
 trappings show much wear, the sledge is a 
 second-hand bargain. He is the usual sledge- 
 driver from the poorest class. 
 
 The other day he took me and Erna out for 
 a drive in his sledge. When we had passed out 
 of the town gate, he turned round and said : 
 
 ' I had some trouble with a priest a few 
 days ago. He gave me an address in Round 
 Square and arranged to pay fifteen kopecks 
 
THE PALE HORSE 17 
 
 for the fare. Now I did not know where the 
 place was, and simply drove him round and 
 round the streets until finally he lost his 
 temper and began to abuse me. " You 
 scoundrel," he said, " you don't know your 
 way. I will hand you over to the police." 
 " A driver," he went on, " ought to know the 
 town as well as if it were his own bag of oats. 
 You surely have got your certificate by fraud : 
 you must have bribed some one with a rouble 
 or so, and they let you pass without an exami- 
 nation." I had the greatest difficulty in con- 
 ciliating him. " I humbly beg your pardon, 
 sir," I said to him. " Do forgive me for the 
 sake of Christ ! " And he was right. I had 
 not passed the examination as required. I 
 got the tramp Karpusha to pass it for me, 
 and paid him fifty kopecks for his trouble.' 
 
 Erna hardly listened to him, but he went 
 on with great volubility : 
 
 ' I had another adventure quite lately. I 
 was engaged as a driver by an old gentleman 
 and his wife. They seemed to be decent 
 people of the better class — quite an old pair. 
 I drove them through Long Street just at the 
 moment when the tramcar paused at the 
 
 B 
 
18 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 stopping place. Without as much as looking 
 at it, I darted across the rails. The old gentle- 
 man in the sledge jumped to his feet and 
 kicked me violently on the back of my neck. 
 " You villain ! " he cried, " do you want to 
 get us run over ? What do you mean by 
 driving like a madman, you dog ! " 
 
 ' " Your Highness need not be alarmed," I 
 said. " It 's quite a simple matter to get across. 
 There was plenty of time before the car moved 
 on." Then I heard the woman say to him 
 in French : "I wish, Jean, you didn't get 
 into such fits of rage. It 's very bad for your 
 health, and a driver is, after all, a human 
 being." She actually said that : a driver is, 
 after all, a human being. And he answered 
 in Russian : " That may be true, but this 
 fellow is a beast for all that. . . ." " O Jean," 
 she said, " you ought to be ashamed to speak 
 like that." Then I felt him tapping my 
 shoulder. *' I am sorry, my friend," he said; 
 " I hope you won't mind." And he gave me 
 a tip of twenty kopecks. . . . They must have 
 been liberals. . . . Gee-up there, old girl ! ' 
 
 Heinrich lashed his poor, jagged horse. Erna 
 drew stealthily near me. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 19 
 
 ' I say, Erna Jakovlevna, how do you like 
 it here ? Have you got used to the work ? ' 
 
 Heinrich asked the question rather shyly, 
 Erna answered reluctantly : 
 
 ' I am quite satisfied. Of course, I 've got 
 quite used to the work.' 
 
 To the right of us were the black skeletons 
 of the bare trees, on the left the white cloth 
 of the fields. The town stretched behind us. 
 The churches gleamed in the sunlight. 
 
 Heinrich stopped talking : save for the 
 creaking of the sledge, there was complete 
 silence. Heinrich brought us back to town, 
 and, as I stepped out of his sledge, I put fifty 
 kopecks into his hand. He took off his cap 
 covered with frost and for a long time his eyes 
 followed us. 
 
 Erna whispered : 
 
 ' May I come to you this evening, darling ? ' 
 
 March 28. 
 The governor evidently anticipates an at- 
 tempt on his life. He suddenly left for 
 Podgornoe last night. We followed him there. 
 Vania, Fedor, and Heinrich took their posts 
 of observation at different points. I strolled 
 
20 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 about the streets, which was the duty assigned 
 to me. 
 
 We know a good deal about him now. We 
 cannot fail, and soon we shall be able to fix 
 a day. Vania is the jfirst to . . . 
 
 March 29. 
 
 Andrei Petrovich is here. He is a member of 
 the Central Committee, and has to his credit 
 long years of hard labour in the mines and 
 of exile in Siberia ; he has lived the life of an 
 old revolutionary. He has melancholy eyes and 
 a pointed grey beard. 
 
 We went together to a restaurant. 
 
 ' You know, George,' he began in an em- 
 barrassed manner, ' there is some talk of sus- 
 pending the work for some time. What do 
 you think of it ? ' 
 
 ' Waiter,' I called out, ' put on '' The Bells 
 of Corneville " on the gramophone.' 
 
 Andrei Petrovich lowered his eyes. 
 
 ' You won't listen to me,' he said, ' yet it 's 
 a very grave matter. How can our present 
 tactics be reconciled with parliamentary work ? 
 We must take a definite and consistent stand. 
 One thing or another. We must either adopt 
 
THE PALE HORSE 21 
 
 constitutional principles and try to get into 
 Parliament, or frankly set up opposition, and 
 then, of course . . . Well, what do you 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' What do I think ? Nothing/ 
 
 ' But, please, do make up your mind. Things 
 may come to the point of dismissing you — I 
 mean your organisation.' 
 
 ' What ? ' I asked rather sharply. 
 
 ' To dismiss is not the right word, but — well, 
 how should I put it ? . . . Of course we know, 
 George . . . We understand . . . We are aware 
 of what a disappointment it would be to our 
 comirades. We value so highly. . . . And, after 
 all, nothing is yet settled.' 
 
 His face was a lemon yellow, and there 
 were wrinkles round his eyes. He surely lived 
 in poor suburban lodgings, subsisted on tea 
 prepared on a spirit lamp, wore a thin over- 
 coat all the winter, and spent all his time in 
 planning and discussing. He was ' doing work.' 
 
 ' Look here, Andrei Petrovich,' I said to 
 him, ' just go on passing resolutions — you are 
 quite entitled to that. Yet no matter what 
 decisions you make we will go on doing our 
 work all the same.' 
 
22 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Do you mean it ? You 'd refuse to submit 
 to the decision of the Central Committee ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ 
 
 ' But, I say, George . . .' 
 
 ' It 's my last word, Andrei Petrovich/ 
 
 ' And what about the party ? ' he urged me. 
 
 ' What about the work ? ' I rejoined. 
 
 He heaved a sigh and stretched out his hand 
 to me. 
 
 ' I am not going to repeat to them what 
 you have told me,' he said. ' I hope things 
 will turn all right somehow. You are not 
 provoked with me, are you ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, George.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Andrei Petrovich.' 
 
 The sky was thick with stars, a sign of 
 approaching cold weather. The small, de- 
 serted streets had an uncanny look. Andrei 
 Petrovich had to make haste to catch his train. 
 Poor old man, poor grown-up child ! . . . Yet 
 theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 March 80. 
 I have resumed my strolls near Elena's 
 house. It is a very large, grey, and massive 
 
THE PALE HORSE 28 
 
 structure. The landlord is a merchant, Kupo- 
 rossov. How can Elena live in such a 
 house ? 
 
 I know it is stupid to stand in the frost, 
 to walk again and again past closed doors, to 
 wait for something that is not likely to happen. 
 Suppose I should really meet her, would that 
 make any difference ? Surely not. 
 
 I met Elena's husband yesterday in the 
 main street. I saw him first at a distance, 
 as he stopped at a shop window to look at 
 some photographs. He had his back turned 
 to me. I came nearer, and stood at his side. 
 He is a tall, slim, fair-haired man of about 
 twenty-five, an army officer. 
 
 He turned round and knew me at once. I 
 saw malice and jealousy in his eyes which 
 darkened at recognition. I don't know what 
 he saw in mine. 
 
 I am neither jealous of him, nor do I hate 
 him. But he stands in my way. There is 
 something else. As I looked at him, the words 
 came back to me : 
 
 If a louse in your shirt 
 Mocks you : ^ you are a flea,' 
 Then go out and kill ! 
 
24 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 It is thawing to-day, the rivulets are running 
 down the slopes. The puddles are gleaming in 
 the sunlight. The snow is melting, there is a 
 smell of spring, of the invigorating dampness 
 of the woods in the country air. The nights 
 are still frosty, but in the middle of the day 
 the ground becomes slippery and the roofs 
 begin to drip. 
 
 I spent the last spring in the south. The 
 nights were pitch dark but for the brightness 
 of the Orion. In the mornings I used to walk 
 down the gravel beach on my way to the 
 sea. The heather was in full bloom in the 
 woods, and the white lilies as well. I climbed 
 the cliffs. The scorching sun shone above my 
 head, and far below me I could see the trans- 
 parent greenness of the sea. The lizards were 
 darting on the stones, the mosquitoes buzzed 
 in the air. I loved to lie on the hot stones and 
 to listen to the waves. Time would pass and 
 all would suddenly vanish out of my sight — 
 the sea, the wood, the spring flowers. The 
 whole universe became one vast body filled 
 with the infinite bliss of life. . . . 
 
 And now ? 
 
 A friend of mine, a Belgian officer, has 
 
THE PALE HORSE 25 
 
 described to me his life while on service in 
 the Congo. He was alone there and had fifty 
 black soldiers under his command. His cordon 
 was quartered on the bank of a large river 
 where the sun affords no warmth, and where 
 there is a constant danger of yellow fever. 
 Across the river lived a tribe of independent 
 negroes who had their own king and their own 
 laws. Day was followed by night, and then 
 it was again day. And in the morning, at 
 midday, and in the evening he saw the same 
 turbid river with its sandy banks, the same 
 bright green creepers, the same blacks who 
 spoke an incomprehensible language. Some- 
 times, to while away the idle hours, he took his 
 gun and aimed at some curly head in the 
 foliage. 
 
 Whenever his black men succeeded in cap- 
 turing a negro from across the river, they 
 bound the prisoner to a post, and, to while 
 away the time, they used him as a target for 
 shooting. And vice versa : whenever one of 
 the officer's men was caught on the opposite 
 bank of the river, he had his legs and his 
 arms cut off, and was placed in the river and 
 left there all night with only his head sticking 
 
26 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 out. The next morning he had his head 
 cut off. 
 
 I wonder whether the white men differ from 
 the black. What is the difference ? A choice 
 must be made : either ' Thou shalt not kill ' — 
 in which case we all are murderers, just as the 
 blacks are ; or ' eye for eye and tooth for tooth ' 
 — in which case there is hardly need for 
 justification. Such is my desire, and I do what 
 I like. Is not there an element of cowardice 
 in the plea for justification and too much 
 concern for other people's opinions ? Why 
 should one fear to be called a murderer and 
 wish to be called a hero ? After all, what do 
 I care for what other people might say ? 
 
 Raskolnikov killed an old woman and was 
 
 himself choked by her blood. Yet Vania goes 
 
 out to kill, and he will be happy and blessed. 
 
 Will he, I wonder ? He does it for the sake of 
 
 love, he says. But does love exist ? Did Christ 
 
 actually rise from the dead on the third day ? 
 
 . . . That 's all words and nothing more. . . . 
 
 No: 
 
 If a louse in your shirt 
 Mocks you : ^you are a flea/ 
 Then go out and kill ! 
 
THE PALE HORSE 27 
 
 April 6. 
 
 The holy week is over. The merry bells are 
 ringing to-day. It is Easter Sunday. The 
 night passed in joyous processions, in the 
 praise of Christ. The streets have been 
 thronged since morning ; there is no room for 
 an apple to fall. Peasant women with white 
 kerchiefs on their heads, soldiers, beggars in 
 rags, schoolboys in their uniforms, they all 
 kiss, crack sunflower-seeds, chatter, laugh, and 
 gossip. Red Easter eggs are sold on the 
 stands, and gingerbreads, and ' American 
 devils,' and coloured balloons fastened to 
 ribbons. The crowd is buzzing like bees in 
 their hive. 
 
 In my childhood we used to prepare for the 
 sacrament during the sixth week of the Lent. 
 We kept the fast the whole week, and on the 
 day of the communion no food whatever was 
 touched until after the administration of the 
 sacrament. Then came the Passion week. . . . 
 Oh, the fervour of our genuflexions; the pas- 
 sionate clinging to the Saviour's grave exposed 
 in the church ! ' Lord, forgive me my sins.' 
 The Easter matins gave one the feeling of 
 paradise : there was the bright glow of the 
 
28 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 candles, the smell of the wax, the white robes 
 of the clergy, the golden shrine. . . . The ex- 
 citement took one's breath away. Shall Christ 
 arise soon ? Shall we soon go home with the 
 consecrated Easter loaf ? 
 
 At home everything was in festive array. 
 Holiday was in the air during the whole Easter 
 week. 
 
 To-day I feel quite out of touch with every- 
 thing. The bells jar on my nerves, the laugh- 
 ing crowd annoys me. I wish I could go away, 
 anywhere out of this, and never come back. 
 
 ' Try your luck, sir.' A little girl pushed an 
 envelope into my hands. 
 
 The girl is barefoot and in rags. There is 
 nothing festive in her appearance. The piece 
 of grey paper I buy from her contains this 
 prophecy : 
 
 * If bad luck pursues you, do not lose 
 hope and do not give way to despair. You 
 will conquer the greatest difficulties and you 
 will force Fortune to turn her wheel towards 
 you. Your enterprise will be crowned with 
 complete success, a greater one than you dare 
 to anticipate.' 
 
 Now, is not this a nice Easter egg for me ? 
 
THE PALE HORSE 29 
 
 April 7, 
 
 Vania lives in the drivers' yard with the 
 other men. He sleeps side by side with them 
 on the sleeping benches. He eats out of the 
 common kettle. He looks after his horse him- 
 self, and cleans his own carriage. He spends 
 the whole day in the street driving his car- 
 riage. He does not complain. He is quite 
 satisfied with his work. 
 
 He put on a new tunic to-day, his hair was 
 freshly oiled, and his boots creaked smartly. 
 
 He said to me : 
 
 ' Easter has come at last. It is good. . . . 
 Christ is risen : that is true, George.' 
 
 ' Well, what is the good of it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, you are . . . You 've no joy in you. 
 You don't accept the universe as it is.' 
 
 ' Do you ? ' 
 
 ' I ? That 's different altogether. But I am 
 sorry for you, my dear George.' 
 
 'Sorry?' 
 
 ' Yes. . . . You love no one, not even your- 
 self. . . . We have a driver in the yard, 
 Tikhon — such a dark-skinned, curly-haired 
 peasant. He is as malicious as a devil. He 
 was very rich in his time, but lost all he had in 
 
80 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 a big fire. People had set fire to his house 
 out of spite. He can't get over it, and he 
 curses everybody and everything. He curses 
 God, the students, the tradespeople, even the 
 children. He hates them all. " They are dogs, 
 the whole lot of them," he says. " They suck 
 the blood out of Christians, and God enjoys 
 the sight of it, as He looks down on them 
 from Heaven." . . . One day I came into the 
 yard after leaving the tea-house, and there 
 was Tikhon right in the middle of the yard. 
 He stood with his legs wide apart, with his 
 sleeves rolled up. He held the reins in his 
 big fist and was lashing his horse with them 
 across the eyes. The miserable jade, with 
 hardly any life left in her, tried to pull up 
 her head to dodge the blows, but he went on 
 lashing her eyes again and again. " You old 
 carcass," he shouted in a hoarse voice, "you 
 beast! I will give it to you; I will teach 
 you . . ." " Why do you beat the poor 
 beast, Tikhon ? " I asked him. " Shut up, 
 you dirty fool ! " he answered, and only lashed 
 the horse with increased fury. 
 
 ' The yard was dirty, there was a foul smell 
 of horse dung, and all the drivers came out in 
 
THE PALE HORSE 81 
 
 a crowd and stood around laughing. They 
 seemed to enjoy the performance. '' Tikhon 
 is having the time of his hfe," they said. . . . 
 That is just what you are doing, George. You 
 want to lash every one across the eyes with 
 the reins, my poor friend.' 
 
 Vania bit off a small piece of sugar, and, 
 lingering over his tea, proceeded : 
 
 ' Don't be cross with me, George, and don't 
 laugh. Do you know what I think ? We are 
 poor-spirited, all of us. What is our driving 
 force in life ? Hate, just bare hate. We 
 don't love, we don't know what it is to love. 
 We strangle, we kill, and we burn, and we 
 are also strangled, hanged, and burned. In 
 the name of what is it done ? Tell me.' 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 ' Ask Heinrich, Vania.' 
 
 ' Oh, Heinrich ! He believes in setting men 
 free and in giving them all food. But that 
 is Martha's part. But what of Maria's part ? 
 I quite agree that a man may be willing to 
 die for the cause of liberty, and not for free- 
 dom alone, but for the sake of a single tear, 
 I also pray to God : Let there be no slaves 
 on earth, let no one go hungry. Yet that is 
 
32 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 not everything, George. We know that the 
 hfe of men is based on untruth. But where 
 is truth ? Tell me that, if you can.' 
 
 ' What is truth ? Is that what you mean ? ' 
 ' Yes, what is truth ? You remember : "To 
 this end was I born, and for this cause came I 
 into the world, that I should bear witness unto 
 the truth. Every one that is of the truth 
 heareth my voice." ' 
 
 ' Vania, Christ said : Thou shalt not kill.' 
 ' I know, but don't yet speak of blood. Tell 
 me something else. Europe has given the 
 world two great words and has sealed them 
 with her suffering. The first one is freedom, 
 the second is socialism. But what word have 
 we given the world ? Much blood has been 
 shed in the name of freedom. Yet who be- 
 lieves in freedom ? Much blood has been 
 shed for socialism. Yet do you really think 
 socialism is heaven on earth ? Who has gone 
 to the stake for the sake of love, in the name 
 of love ? Did any one of us ever dare to 
 say : It is not enough that men should be 
 free, that children should not starve, that 
 mothers should not cry out their eyes ? Even 
 more than this, they have need, great need, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 38 
 
 to love one another. God must be with them, 
 and in their hearts. Yet it is precisely God 
 and love that they have forgotten. But 
 Martha is only half the truth. The other half 
 is Maria. Where is our Maria ? A great cause 
 is being fought now and I strongly believe in 
 it. It is the cause of the peasants, of all 
 Christians: more than that, it is the cause 
 of Christ. It is being fought for the sake of 
 God, for the sake of love. Men shall be free, 
 they shall be fed, and a life of love will be 
 theirs. And I also believe: our people is the 
 people of God. It is inspired with love, and t 
 Christ dwells in its midst. Ours is the word ^ 
 of resurrection : Lord, come out ! . . . Our 
 faith is small, and we are weak like children. 
 That is why we take up the sword. Not be- 
 cause of our strength do we wield the sword, 
 but because of our weakness and of our fear. 
 But wait for those who will come to-morrow : 
 they will be pure. They shall not need the 
 sword, they will be strong. Yet before they 
 come we shall perish. And our children's 
 grandchildren shall love God. They shall live 
 in God and rejoice in Christ. The world will 
 be revealed to them anew, and they will 
 
84 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 discover in it all that we are unable to see 
 at present. . . . And oh, George ! To-day is 
 Easter Sunday. Christ is arisen ! So let us 
 forget our injuries just for this one day, and 
 let us stop slashing each other across the 
 eyes . . .' 
 
 He stopped rather abruptly, as if a new 
 thought suddenly struck him. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Vania ? You seemed 
 about to say something ? ' 
 
 ' I will tell you. It 's impossible to break 
 
 the chain. There is no way out for me, none 
 
 ■whatever. I am out to kill, yet I believe in 
 
 the Word, I adore Christ. Oh, the agony 
 
 of it ! ' 
 
 The tavern was full of the din of drunken 
 men who were celebrating the festive day. 
 Vania bowed his head low over the table- 
 cloth and waited. What could I do . . . but 
 lash him across his eyes with the reins ? 
 
 A2ml 8. 
 The next time we met, Vania said : 
 ' Shall I tell you when I knew Christ for 
 the first time and became aware of God ? I 
 was an exile in Siberia at the time. One day 
 
THE PALE HORSE 85 
 
 I went out hunting. The place was the Obj 
 estuary, and at the point where it flows into 
 the ocean the Obj is Hke the sea. The sky 
 is low and grey, the turbulent river is also 
 grey. The banks are out of sight, they don't 
 seem to exist. A boat landed me on a small 
 island : it was agreed that my friends should 
 come back for me in the evening. I strolled 
 about the island and shot at the ducks. The 
 place was all swamps, decayed birches, tiny 
 green mounds and moss. I walked on and on, 
 until the bank was completely lost to view. 
 The duck I shot fell somewhere, but I could 
 not find it. While I was looking for it night 
 came on : it grew dark, the fog crept up the 
 river. I made up my mind to return to the 
 bank, and took the direction of the wind to 
 be sure of my way. But with my first step 
 my feet began to sink into the ground. I 
 tried to gain a footing on a mound, but no — ^it 
 was impossible. I found myself sinking into 
 the swamp. I sank very slowly, about half an 
 inch a minute. 
 
 ' It grew cold and began to rain. I pulled 
 up one foot to drag it out, but I only sank 
 an inch deeper. Then, in utter despair, I 
 
86 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 took my gun and began firing in the air. I 
 hoped some one would hear and come to my 
 rescue. . . . 
 
 ' Except for the hissing of the wind there 
 was silence. And there I was standing in the 
 swamp almost up to my knees. I thought : 
 The swamp will suck me in, there will be 
 bubbles bursting over my head, and just as 
 before, there will be nothing left but the green 
 mounds. I felt so sick at heart that I almost 
 wept. Then I pulled up my foot again — and 
 was the worse for it. I felt cold like ice, and 
 was shivering like an aspen : so that was how 
 I was going to die — at the world's end ... in 
 a swamp . . . like a fly. . . . And I felt as if 
 my heart had suddenly become quite empty. 
 Nothing mattered : I was going to die. I bit 
 my lips until the blood came, and I pulled up 
 one foot as hard as I could. This time I 
 succeeded. One foot was free, and a great 
 joy came over me. The boot remained stick- 
 ing in the swamp and the foot was bleeding. I 
 managed to obtain a footing on a mound ; 
 then, leaning on my gun, I began dragging the 
 other foot out of the mire. When, finally, I 
 stood up on both legs I did not dare to move : 
 
THE PALE HORSE 87 
 
 I was afraid that my first step would draw me 
 back again into the swamp. I remained stand- 
 ing the whole night on that spot, until the 
 dawn came. And it was then, during that 
 long night, as I stood in the middle of a 
 swamp — with the rain falling, and the black 
 sky, and the howling wind — that I realised in 
 the very depth of my heart that God is above 
 us and within us. And all fear was gone, 
 there was nothing but joy in me; a great 
 weight fell from my heart. The next morning 
 my friends came and rescued me.' 
 
 ' There are many who see God at the ap- 
 proach of death. It is fear that makes them 
 see Him, Vania.' 
 
 ' Fear, you say ? That may be so. But do 
 you think you could see God in this dirty 
 place ? The soul is exulted at the approach of 
 death, when the border is in sight. That is 
 why in most cases men see God in the hour 
 of their death. I also saw Him when death 
 came near.' 
 
 ' I can tell you,' he went on after a pause, 
 ' I can tell you — ^nothing can make you happier 
 than to see God. As long as you don't know 
 Him, He never enters your thoughts. You 
 
88 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 think of all sorts of things, but never of Him. 
 Some people have got the superman on their 
 brains. Just think : the superman ! And 
 they actually think they have discovered the 
 philosopher's stone, have solved the problem of 
 life. In my eyes they all are like Smerdiakov. 
 They say : I cannot love those who are nearest, 
 so instead I love those who are furthest. . . . 
 But how could you love those who are far 
 from you since you are without love for those 
 who are around you ? It is easy to die for 
 others, to give them your death. But how 
 much harder is it to live for men. It means 
 to live by love every single day, every minute 
 of one's life; to love, as God loves, all men, 
 all that is alive — to forget one's own existence, 
 to create life not for oneself, and not for those 
 distant. We have become harsh, we are like 
 beasts. Is it not distressing to see how men 
 flounder about ? how they seek and cannot find ? 
 They believe in Chinese gods, in wooden logs, 
 and they are unable to believe in God and to 
 love Christ ! We are corroded by that poison 
 from our childhood. Take Heinrich. He can 
 never call a flower simply a flower : he must 
 always add : a flower of this or that family, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 89 
 
 such and such species, with such petals, such 
 corolla ; these petty details make him overlook 
 the flower itself. And that 's how we lose 
 the sight of God because of worthless futilities. 
 It 's all mathematics and reason with us. But 
 when I stood on the little mound that night, 
 in the midst of a swamp, and waited for death — 
 it was then I realised that reason is not every- 
 thing, that there is something above it : but 
 we have blinkers on our eyes, we don't see, we 
 don't know. Why do you laugh, George ? ' 
 
 ' Well, you speak like a parson.' 
 
 ' Never mind that. Tell me : can a man 
 live without love ? ' 
 
 ' Of course he can.' 
 
 ' But how ? How ? ' 
 
 * You simply have to spit at the whole world.' 
 
 ' You don't say that in earnest, George ? ' 
 
 ' I do indeed.' 
 
 ' Oh, George ! Oh, my dear friend ! ' 
 
 April 10. 
 
 I saw the governor to-day. He is a tall and 
 
 rather good-looking old man, with a closely 
 
 clipped moustache : he wears glasses. The 
 
 square showed its wet pavements which were 
 
40 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 only yesterday covered with snow. The ice 
 has melted away, the river gleamed bright in 
 the sun. The sparrows twittered. 
 
 A carriage stood at the door of the house. 
 I recognised it at once — ^the black horses, the 
 yellow spokes. I crossed the square and went 
 up to the house. As I approached it, the door 
 opened wide, the policeman on duty saluted. 
 The governor came slowly down the steps. 
 I stood rooted to the pavement and looked at 
 him. I simply could not tear my eyes away 
 from him. He lifted his head and looked at 
 me. I took off my hat and bowed very low 
 to him. He smiled, and acknowledged my 
 bow by raising his hand to his military cap : 
 I hated him at that moment. 
 
 I strolled away toward the park. My feet 
 stuck in the soft clay of the paths. The daws 
 flew about among the birches. 
 
 April 10. 
 I spend my leisure in the Public Library. 
 Most of the readers in the large silent room 
 are bearded students and college girls with 
 short-cropped hair. I, with my shaven face 
 and high collar, look radically different from 
 
THE PALE HORSE 41 
 
 them. I read the ancient classics with great 
 interest. They, in the old days, actually had 
 no conscience ; they did not seek for the truth. 
 They simply lived — just as the grass grows 
 and the birds sing. Sacred simplicity — ^is 
 not that the only way to accept life, and not 
 to revolt against it ? They appealed to their 
 gods to protect them . . . and the gods pro- 
 tected them. Ulysses had Pallas to stand by 
 him in the fights against the plunderers of 
 his property. 
 
 What god could I pray to not to abandon 
 me ? To whom could I appeal for help and 
 protection ? I am alone. But since there is 
 no one to protect me, I must protect myself. 
 Since I have no god, I shall be mv own god. 
 
 What was it Vania told me ? To think that 
 everything is permissible leads to Smerdiakov. 
 . . . But Smerdiakov is no worse than all the 
 rest. 
 
 April 13. 
 
 Erna said to me : 
 
 ' I feel as if I had lived only in order to meet 
 you. I saw you in my dreams. All my prayers 
 were for you.' 
 
42 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' You forget our cause, Erna.' 
 
 ' We shall die together for it. . . . Oh, my 
 love, when I am with you, I feel' like a little 
 girl, like a child. ... I know I have nothing 
 to offer you. . . . Nothing but my love. 
 Take it. . . .' 
 
 And she biurst into tears. 
 
 * Don't cry, Erna.' 
 
 ' I am crying with joy. . . . But it 's over. 
 You see, I am not crying any more. And 
 now listen : I have something to tell you. 
 Heinrich . . .' 
 
 ' What about him ? ' 
 
 ' Please, don't take it unkindly. . . . Hein- 
 rich told me yesterday that he loved me.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Well — I don't love him. You know that. 
 It 's you alone I love. Are you jealous, 
 darling ? Tell me,' she whispered into my ear. 
 
 ' Jealous ? What an idea ! ' 
 
 ' You must not. I do not care a bit for him. 
 But he is so miserable, and I feel sorry for him. 
 Yet I don't think I ought to have listened to 
 him. I felt as if I were betraying you. . . .' 
 
 ' Betraying me ? But, Erna . . .' 
 
 ' I love you so deeply, but I pity him never- 
 
THE PALE HORSE 48 
 
 theless. I told him I would be his friend. 
 You don't mind, do you ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not, Erna. I don't mind, and I 
 am not jealous.' 
 
 She dropped her eyes. She was hurt. 
 
 ' Oh, I see. You simply don't care.' 
 
 ' Look here, Erna,' I said. ' Some women 
 are faithful wives and passionate lovers and 
 devoted friends. Yet they are not to be com- 
 pared with that superior type of woman — 
 the woman who is a born queen. She does 
 not give her heart to any one. Her love is a 
 splendid gift she bestows on the elect one.' 
 
 Erna listened with a terrified look in her eyes. 
 Then she said: 'I see — you don't love me 
 at all.' 
 
 I answered her with a kiss. She pressed her 
 head to my breast and whispered : 
 
 ' Shall we die together, love ? ' 
 
 ' Maybe we shall.' 
 
 She went to sleep in my arms. 
 
 April 15. 
 I went out for a drive in Heinrich's carriage. 
 ' Well, how do you feel ? ' I asked him. 
 He shook his head. 
 
44 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' It is not a pleasant sort of job,' he said, 
 'to be all day out in the street in the rain, 
 driving a cab.' 
 
 ' I quite agree,' I said to him, ' and it is 
 the more unpleasant when a man is in love.' 
 
 ' What do you know ? ' He quickly turned 
 round toward me. 
 
 ' What do I know ? I don't know anything, 
 and I don't want to know.' 
 
 ' You make fun of everything, George.' 
 
 ' I don't.' 
 
 We passed through the park. Gleaming 
 drops were falling on us from the wet branches. 
 There were delicate green patches of new grass 
 on the lawns. 
 
 ' George 1 ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' George, is not there some danger of accidents 
 in the preparation of explosives ? ' 
 
 ' Of course there is. Accidents do happen 
 now and then.' 
 
 ' Then Erna might be blown up ? ' 
 
 ' She might.' 
 
 ' George ! ' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' Why did you entrust the work to her ? ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 45 
 
 ' She is an expert.' 
 
 ' Oh, is she ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Could not some one else do it ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think so. But why are you so 
 excited about it ? ' 
 
 ' I am not. I simply wanted to know.' 
 
 On our way back he again turned to me. 
 
 ' George,' he said. 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Is it going to be soon ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' When ? ' 
 
 ' In about two or three weeks.' 
 
 ' And you are sure you could not get some 
 one to come here and take the place of 
 Erna ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure.' 
 
 He shrank within his blue driver's coat, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 ' Good day, Heinrich, and don't you fret. 
 Cheer up ! ' 
 
 ' I am in the best of spirits.' 
 
 ' Don't let your thoughts be concerned with 
 any one in particular. You will be much 
 happier, I can tell you.' 
 
46 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' I know. You need not tell me. Good-bye.' 
 He drove away slowly. This time it was I 
 
 who followed him with my eyes for a long 
 
 while. 
 
 April 16. 
 
 I ask myself : Do I still love Elena ? Do I 
 not love only a shadow, only my former love 
 for her ? Who knows but that Vania is right, 
 and I do not love any one — cannot love ? 
 And why should one love, after all ? 
 
 Heinrich loves Erna, and will love her, only 
 her, all his life. But his love does not make 
 him happy. On the contrary, it makes him 
 miserable, while my love is all joy. 
 
 I am sitting again in my room, in the dull 
 room of the dull hotel. Hundreds of people 
 live under the same roof with me. I am a 
 stranger to them. I am a stranger within the 
 stone walls of the town. I am a stranger 
 everywhere. Erna has given all her being to 
 me without leaving a thought for herself, but 
 I don't care for her, and I repay her devotion 
 — with what ? With friendship ? Or perhaps 
 with a false pretence of friendship ? How 
 stupid to think of Elena and to kiss Erna — 
 
THE PALE HORSE 47 
 
 and yet that's what I am doing. But after 
 all, what does it matter ? 
 
 April 18. 
 
 The governor is back in town. All our plans 
 are ruined again. Once more we must begin 
 to watch his movements. This is much more 
 difficult here. The house is under the constant 
 guard of sentries : detectives are posted in 
 the square and at the house gate. They keep 
 a close watch on every one passing in the street. 
 They suspect every cab-driver. 
 
 Of course they don't know where we are 
 and who we are. Yet rumours are already 
 circulating in the town. 
 
 Last night, in a tavern, I heard a conversa- 
 tion between two men. . . . One looked like a 
 shopman, and the other, a boy of about eighteen, 
 might have been his assistant. 
 
 ' There is the will of God in everything,' 
 said the elder man in a positive voice, ' and no 
 one can escape his fate. Now that 's how they 
 say it all happened. A young woman came 
 to see him, and she had a written petition 
 which she wanted to present to him. She 
 was admitted into his office, and while he was 
 
48 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 reading her petition she suddenly produced a 
 revolver out of her pocket and fired at him. 
 She actually planted four bullets in him.' 
 
 The boy threw up his hands in excitement. 
 
 ' Well, well ! ... He was killed on the 
 spot, I suppose.' 
 
 ' He was not — that 's the strange thing.' 
 
 ' And then, what happened ? ' 
 
 ' Why, they hanged her — naturally. But 
 afterward another young woman requested an 
 interview with him — and she also brought a 
 petition to give him.' 
 
 ' Did they admit her into his presence ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. She insisted, and gave all 
 sorts of reasons. But they searched her in 
 the hall — and what do you think ? They 
 actually found a revolver hidden in her hair. 
 God saved his life that time.' 
 
 ' What did they do to her ? ' 
 
 ' They sent her to the gallows — what else 
 was there to do ? But now comes the most 
 extraordinary part of it.' He emphasised with 
 a broad gesture his amazement at the work- 
 ings of fate. ' A short time afterward he was 
 taking a walk in his garden, which, as always, 
 was carefully guarded by the police, when a 
 
THE PALE HORSE 49 
 
 sudden shot was fired at him from ambush. 
 The bullet went right through his heart. He 
 had hardly time to scream.' 
 
 ' Oh, what devils they are. . . . Just imagine I ' 
 
 ' Ye — es. The murderer was hanged — of course 
 — but the other died, all the same. No one 
 can escape his fate. . . .' 
 
 I met Elena yesterday ... at last ! I had 
 not been thinking of her for some time. I had 
 almost forgotten that she lived in the same 
 town. I was walking in the street when I 
 suddenly heard some one call me. I looked 
 around — and I saw Elena. I saw her large 
 grey eyes, her black hair. As we walked side 
 by side, she said to me with a smile : 
 
 ' You have forgotten me.' 
 
 A shaft of bright light shone into our faces. 
 The street was ablaze with light of the sunset, 
 the pavement shone like gold. I blushed like 
 a poppy flower and said to her : 
 
 ' No, I have not.' 
 
 She took my arm and asked in a low voice : 
 
 ' Are you here for long ? ' , 
 
 ' I can't tell.' 
 
 ' What are you doing here ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 D 
 
50 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Oh, don't you ? ' 
 
 'No; 
 
 She blushed deeply and said : 
 
 ' But I know. I will tell you.' 
 
 ' Do, please.' 
 
 ' You . . } 
 
 ' Well, perhaps.' 
 
 The evening light was now gone. The air 
 became chilly and grey. I had so much to 
 tell her, but no words came to me. I only said : 
 
 ' Why do you live here ? ' 
 
 ' This is where my husband is stationed.' 
 
 ' Your husband ? ' 
 
 I suddenly remembered all about that 
 husband of hers. Of course, she had a husband. 
 Haven't I met him ? 
 
 ' Good-bye,' I said, and stretched out my 
 hand awkwardly. 
 
 ' Must you go ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I must.' 
 
 ' Don't go yet.' 
 
 I looked into her eyes. There was a spark 
 of love in them. But I remembered her 
 husband. 
 
 ' Au revoir,' I said. 
 
 Everything seemed dark and deserted. I 
 
THE PALE HORSE 51 
 
 went to the Tivoli. I listened to the noisy 
 orchestra, and to the shameless laughing of 
 the women. ... I felt very lonely. 
 
 April 25. 
 
 The governor left for X. I followed him 
 there. I felt happy in seeing the broad river, 
 the glittering domes. The spring is very lovely 
 in these parts : it is as virginal and as bright 
 as a child of sixteen. 
 
 The governor went by train to a near-by 
 suburb. I also went there in a first-class car 
 by the same train. A smartly dressed lady 
 entered my compartment. She dropped her 
 handkerchief. I picked it up. 
 
 ' You are not a Russian, are you ? ' she 
 asked in French, and looked intently at me. 
 
 ' I am EngHsh.' 
 
 ' English ? May I ask your name ? I think 
 we have met before.' 
 
 After a moment's hesitation I took out my 
 visiting card, which bore the inscription : 
 ' George O'Brien, Engineer, London.' 
 
 ' So you are an engineer. I am very pleased 
 to have met you. I hope you will call on me. 
 I will look forward to seeing you.' 
 
52 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 At the station, in the refreshment-room, I 
 saw her having tea with a Jew. He looked 
 very much hke a spy. I came up to her and 
 said : 
 
 ' I am glad to see you again.' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 I walked up and down the platform with 
 her. 
 
 Once more in the train the guard came to 
 collect the tickets. She handed him a grey 
 envelope, and I could read plainly at the bottom 
 of it : ' Secret Police Department.' 
 
 ' You have a season ticket, I see,' I said to 
 her. 
 
 She blushed violently. 
 
 ' Oh no,' she answered. . . . ' Not exactly, 
 I mean. I had it given to me by a friend. . . . 
 How happy I am to have met you. I do like 
 the Enghsh.' 
 
 A whistle — ^the train stopped. We arrived. 
 I took my leave of her, but followed her stealthily 
 at a distance. 
 
 I saw her enter the office of the gendarmerie. 
 
 ' Oh, so that 's how things stand,' I thought. 
 
 Once in the hotel again, I decided that I 
 must act. Either I am watched — and then, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 58 
 
 of course, I am lost. Or else my meeting with 
 the woman in the train was simply an accident, 
 a foolish coincidence. In any case, I thought, 
 I must know the truth, and so I decided to 
 challenge fate. I put on my top -hat, took a 
 smart carriage and drove to her address. I 
 pulled at the entrance bell. 
 
 ' Is madam at home ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, please, come in.' 
 
 The room into which I was admitted looked 
 like a pretty box of sweets. There was a large 
 bouquet of yellow roses on a table in the corner 
 — obviously the gift of an admirer. Many 
 portraits of the lady of the house in different 
 poses were standing upon the tables and hang- 
 ing upon the walls. 
 
 ' Oh, that 's you. . . . How kind to have 
 called. Be seated, please.' We dropped again 
 into French. I lit a cigar, and put my hat 
 on my knees. 
 
 ' Do you like the Russian women ? * she 
 asked. 
 
 ' I think them the most charming in the 
 world.' 
 
 Then came a knock at the door. 
 
 ' Come in.' 
 
54 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Two men entered : they had very dark 
 hair and thick moustaches. They looked Hke 
 cardsharpers or men who Hved on women. 
 
 We shook hands. 
 
 The woman went with them to the window. 
 
 ' Who is he ? ' I heard one of them ask in 
 a whisper. 
 
 ' Oh, an engineer — an EngHshman. Very 
 rich. You may speak freely — don't mind him. 
 He doesn't know a word of Russian.' 
 
 I rose from my seat. 
 
 ' I am sorry, I must go. Good day, madam.' 
 
 I again shook hands with all of them. Once 
 in the street, I felt very amused. Thank God, 
 they think me an Englishman. 
 
 April 26. 
 The governor is going back to N. I have 
 still an hour to myself before the train starts. 
 I stroll aimlessly about the town. It is getting 
 dark. There is a glowing red sunset across 
 the river, where a well-defined spire can be 
 seen piercing the sky. There is a three- 
 coloured sentry-box at the oak posts of the 
 prison gate — the dark mouth of the corridor 
 is behind the white walls. The echo of the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 55 
 
 footsteps resounds on the stone slabs. . . . 
 Then the darkness, the barred windows . . . 
 the trembUng melody of the tower-clock chimes. 
 . . . There is vast melancholy upon the whole 
 earth. 
 
 I can see the low bastions, the grey walls. 
 We are too weak . . . too weak ! Yet the 
 day of the great wrath will come. . . . Who 
 will be able to withstand it ? 
 
 April 28. 
 
 It is still cold in the park. The linden trees 
 are yet bare, but the shrubs are green with 
 foliage. The birds are singing in the young 
 bushes. 
 
 Elena stooped to pick flowers. She turned 
 to me and laughed: 'Isn't it lovely out here?* 
 she said. ' I feel so happy and gay. And you ? ' 
 
 I also felt happy and gay. I looked into 
 her eyes and wanted to tell her that she was 
 the joy and the bright light of the day. ... I 
 joined unwittingly in her laughter. 
 
 ' I have not seen you for so long,' she said. 
 ' Where have you been all this time ? Where 
 have you lived ? What have you seen, what 
 have you learned ? What did you think of me ? ' 
 
56 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Without waiting for an answer she added 
 with a deep blush : 
 
 ' I felt very anxious for you.' 
 
 Surely there never was such a morning. The 
 lilies-of-the-valley were in full bloom, there was 
 a fragrance of spring in the air. Fluffy clouds 
 melted away in the sky as they chased one 
 another. My heart was full of joy : she had 
 shown a deep concern for me. 
 
 ' Do you know, I seem to live without notic- 
 ing life,' said Elena. ' I look at you now, and 
 I have a feeling as if you were not actually 
 yourself, but a stranger . . . and yet some one 
 who is dear to me. . . . After all, you are a 
 stranger. Do I know you ? Do you know me ? 
 But we need not know each other ? We are 
 happy without it, aren't we ? ' 
 
 After a pause she added smilingly : 
 
 ' Well, do tell me what you have been doing ; 
 what you are living for.' 
 
 ' You know what I am living for.' 
 
 She dropped her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, then it is true ? ' 
 
 Her face became clouded. She took my 
 hand and was silent for a while. 
 
 ' Look here,' she began at last. ' Of course, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 57 
 
 I don't understand anything about it. . . . 
 But tell me, why do you want it ? Why ? 
 Isn't it just lovely here ? The spring has come. 
 The birds are singing. But what are you 
 thinking of ? What do you live for ? Why, 
 dearest ? ' 
 
 I had so much to say to her. . . . But some- 
 how I could not find words. I knew that they 
 would be mere words to her, that she would 
 be unable to grasp their meaning. 
 
 And she repeated insistingly : 
 
 ' Why, dearest ? ' 
 
 There was dew on the leaves. I touched a 
 branch with my shoulder — and down came a 
 shower of glistening drops. I was silent. 
 
 ' Why not live simply for life's sake ? Or, 
 perhaps I misunderstood you ? Or else, you 
 are right and it must be done ? . . . No, no,' 
 she answered her own question, ' I am sure 
 you are wrong. . . .' 
 
 I asked timidly, like a boy : 
 
 ' What is right, Elena ? ' 
 
 * I don't know ; how could I know ? Why 
 do you ask mel I know nothing . . . and I 
 don't want to know. . . . But we are happy 
 to-day. . . ,' 
 
58 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 There she was again laughing and picking 
 flowers, and I thought how lonely I would 
 feel presently after her departure, and that 
 childlike laugh of hers would sound not for me 
 but for another. 
 
 The blood rushed to my face, and I said in 
 a barely audible voice : 
 
 ' Elena ! ' 
 
 ' What, dearest ? ' 
 
 ' You have asked me what I was doing ? 
 ... I was thinking of you.' 
 
 ' Of me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. . . . Don't you see ... I love you.' 
 
 She dropped her eyes. 
 
 ' Don't say that to me.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' O God. . . . Please, don't. Good-bye.' 
 
 She walked away quickly. And for some time 
 her black dress glimmered among the white 
 birches. 
 
 April 29. 
 I wrote Elena a letter : 
 
 ' I feel as if I had not seen you for years. I 
 
 am conscious every hour, every minute that 
 
 you are not with me. I see your dear eyes 
 
 before me day and night, everywhere, always. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 59 
 
 ' I believe in love, in my right to love. At 
 the very bottom of my heart I feel so tran- 
 quilly confident — ^it is a foreboding of what 
 must be. And it shall be. 
 
 ' I love you and I am happy. Love and be 
 happy as I am,' 
 
 I received a brief answer : 
 
 ' To-morrow in the park, at six.' 
 
 April 80. 
 
 Elena said to me : 
 
 ' I am so happy because you are with me 
 now. . . . But don't speak to me of love.' 
 
 I wa§ silent. 
 
 ' No, you must promise not to speak about 
 your love. . . . And don't be sad ; don't think 
 about anything.' 
 
 ' I was thinking of you.' 
 
 ' Of me ? Don't. . . .' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 And before she could say a word I went on : 
 
 ' Is it because you are married ? Because 
 of your husband ? The duty of a faithful 
 wife ? Oh, of course. . . . Forgive me. ... I 
 had dared to speak of my love, and I had dared 
 to ask for yours ! Virtuous wives prize only 
 
60 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 their peaceful home, the clean chambers of 
 their heart. . . . Forgive me.' 
 
 ' Aren't you ashamed of yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I am not. Oh, I know : the tragedy of 
 love and duty ; the tragedy of love and the 
 wedding gown, of legal marriage and of legal 
 kisses exchanged by husband and wife. . . . No, 
 Elena ; it 's not I who am ashamed — ^but you.' 
 
 ' Be silent ! ' 
 
 We walked for some moments along the 
 narrow path in the park without saying a 
 word. Her face was still angry. 
 
 ' I wonder,' she said, turning round to me, 
 ' whether you recognise a single law ? ' 
 
 ' Not for me, but for you.' 
 
 ' No. . . . But surely . . . What is your 
 aim in life ? Why do you live like this ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' You don't know ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then I can tell you that 's your law. You 
 said to yourself : " It is necessary," ' 
 
 ' No. I said to myself : "I desire it." ' 
 
 ' So you desire it ? ' 
 
 She looked straight into my eyes in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 61 
 
 ' You desire it ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes.' 
 
 Suddenly she put her hands on my shoulders. 
 
 ' George, dearest ! ' 
 
 With a swift graceful movement she kissed 
 my lips. It was a long, burning kiss. When 
 I opened my eyes she was gone. Where was 
 she ? Or was it not all a dream ? 
 
 May 1. 
 
 It is the first of May — a festive day. I 
 love this day — ^it has so much light and joy. 
 To-day of all days. . . . But I have not seen 
 the governor to-day. 
 
 He has been on his guard of late. He remains 
 at home and we shadow him in vain. We 
 see only detectives and soldiers. And they 
 see us. It seems better to stop our surveil- 
 lance for the present. I have found out that 
 he is to visit the theatre on the thirteenth. 
 We will guard all the gates. Vania will take 
 his post at one gate, Fedor at the other, Hein- 
 rich at the third. And we will patiently 
 wait. . . . 
 
 I am anticipating the joy of our triumph. 
 I can see the dark vaults of the church, the 
 
62 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 lighted candles. ... I can hear the chant of 
 the prayers, the stifling smell of the incense. . . . 
 
 May 2. 
 
 I am in a kind of fever these days. My whole 
 will is concentrated on one desire. I look out 
 very carefully every day whether I am not 
 being watched. I am so afraid we shall not 
 reap what we have sown. But I will not 
 surrender alive. I am staying now in the 
 ' Edinburgh Hotel.' I had my passport regis- 
 tered and brought back to my room last night. 
 The man who brought it remained standing 
 at the door, and said after some hesitation : 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir, but the police in- 
 spector wants to know what your religion is ? ' 
 
 A very strange question. It is stated in 
 my passport that I am a Protestant. I asked 
 without turning my head : 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' Your religion, sir — what is it ? ' 
 
 I took my passport from the table, and 
 began to read aloud the title of Lord Lans- 
 downe : 
 
 We, Henry Charles Keith Petty Fitz-Maurice, 
 Marquess of Lansdowne, Earl Wycombe, etc. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 68 
 
 As I don't know English, I pronounced the 
 syllables slowly one after another. 
 
 The man listened with much attention. 
 
 ' Do you understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 I said with a strong foreign accent : 
 
 ' Go, tell the police inspector : I 'm going 
 to telegraph immediately to the ambassador. 
 Do you understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 I stood with my back to him, and I said in 
 a loud voice, looking out of the window : 
 
 ' You may go now.' 
 
 He bowed and went out. I was alone. Is 
 it possible that I am being watched ? 
 
 May 6. 
 
 We met out of the town, close to the rail- 
 way Une — I, Vania, Heinrich and Fedor. They 
 jvere in high boots and in caps — ^like peasants. 
 
 I said to them : 
 
 ' The governor is going to the theatre on 
 the thirteenth. We must settle our posts 
 now. Who is going to be first ? ' 
 
 Heinrich became very agitated. 
 
 ' I want to be the first,' he said. 
 
64 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Vania has fair hair, grey eyes, and a pale 
 forehead. I looked questioningly at him. 
 
 ' I insist on being given the first place,' 
 repeated Heinrich. 
 
 Vania smiled affectionately. 
 
 ' No, Heinrich,' he said, ' I have been wait- 
 ing for the chance ever so long. It is my 
 turn. I must be first. I hope you won't 
 mind.' Fedor went on smoking his cigarette 
 indifferently. 
 
 ' And you, Fedor, what have you to say ? ' 
 I asked him. 
 
 ' Well, you know, I am always ready.' 
 
 Then there was silence. 
 
 The narrow rails of the line stretched into 
 the distance, where the telegraph poles were 
 gradually lost to view. It was quiet. Only 
 the buzz of the telegraph wires was audible. 
 
 ' Look here,' said Vania. ' I was just think- 
 ing that I might miss him very easily. In 
 throwing a bomb like that one can't always 
 be sure to hit. I might, for example, only 
 strike the back wheel of the carriage.' 
 
 Heinrich looked up, very agitated. 
 
 ' That 's true. . . . What shall we do ? ' 
 
 Fedor listened very attentively. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 65 
 
 ' I know,' said Vania ; ' the best plan is to 
 throw oneself right in front of the horses.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' That would mean certain death for him.' 
 
 ' And for you too.' 
 
 ' Yes, and for me.' 
 
 Fedor shrugged his shoulders with contempt. 
 
 ' There is no need whatever for that,' he 
 said. ' Run up simply to the window and 
 throw the bomb at the glass pane. That 's 
 all.' 
 
 I looked at them. Fedor was lying on his 
 back on the grass and the sun scorched his 
 dark cheeks. He was blinking ; the spring 
 made him feel happy. Vania, pale, looked 
 pensively into the distance. Heinrich walked 
 up and down and smoked in nervous puffs. 
 Above us was the blue sky. 
 
 ' I will tell you when to sell your horses and 
 carriages. Fedor will dress up like an officer ; 
 you, Vania, will disguise yourself as a hall- 
 porter; while you, Heinrich, will remain a 
 peasant in a peasant's coat.' 
 
 Fedor turned to me and laughed with satis- 
 faction. 
 
 ' Am I to be promoted to an oflScer's rank ? ' 
 
 E 
 
66 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 he said. ' That 's fine. . . . Nice to be a gentle- 
 man again.' 
 
 I shook hands with them all and left them. 
 Heinrich overtook me on my way home. 
 
 ' George,' he said. 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' George. . . . Just think. ... Is Vania going 
 to do it ? ' 
 
 ' Of course he is.' 
 
 ' That means, he is lost.' 
 
 He looked down under his feet : our foot- 
 prints showed clearly on the young grass. 
 
 ' I can't stand that,' he said in a hoarse voice. 
 
 ' What is it you can't stand ? ' 
 
 ' Well, his going to his death. . . .' 
 
 He stopped and went on talking very fast : 
 
 ' Let me be the first. It is much better that 
 I should perish — not he. He . . .' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly.' 
 
 ' No, George, listen. . . . Can you imagine 
 Vania gone ? We calmly decide a thing, 
 and it means the certain death of Vania. . . . 
 The certainty of it is so ghastly. No, for 
 God's sake, no ! . . .' 
 
 He plucked his beard. His hands were 
 trembling. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 67 
 
 ' Look here, Heinrich,' I said to him. ' It 
 must be one or the other. Either you stick 
 to it, and in that case stop your tedious dis- 
 cussions, or else go on discussing ; go back — 
 to your imiversity.' 
 
 He was silent. I took him under the arm. 
 
 ' Remember,' I said, ' General Togo said 
 to his Japanese : "I only regret that I have 
 no sons who might share your lot." Well, 
 we also should regret but one thing — that we 
 cannot share Vania's lot. And there is nothing 
 to shed tears about.' 
 
 We were now close to the town. Window- 
 panes were glittering in the sun at a distance. 
 Heinrich raised his eyes. 
 
 ' You are right, George,' he said. 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' You just wait,' I said. ' Suum cuique.' 
 
 May 7. 
 
 Erna came into my room, sat down in a 
 comer and began to smoke. I don't like to 
 see women smoking, and am always on the 
 point of telling her. 
 
 * Is it going to be soon, Georgie dear ? * she 
 asked. 
 
68 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Very soon.' 
 
 ' When ? ' 
 
 ' On the thirteenth.' 
 
 She wrapped herself up in her warm shawl. 
 Only her blue eyes were visible. 
 
 ' Who will throw the first bomb ? ' 
 
 ' Vania; 
 
 ' Vania ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Vania.' 
 
 Her large hands, her affectionate voice, her red 
 cheeks irritated me. I turned away from her. 
 
 She went on smoking for some time. After- 
 ward she rose and walked about the room in 
 silence. I looked at her hair. It was flaxen 
 and curled at the temples and on her forehead. 
 How could I have kissed her ? 
 
 She stopped and looked timidly into my 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Do you believe in the success of the venture ? ' 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 ' May God help us.' 
 
 ' Don't you believe in it, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I do.' 
 
 ' If you don't, you had better part with us,' 
 I said. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 69 
 
 ' But, Georgie darling, why do you speak 
 like that ? I do believe/ 
 
 And I repeated : 
 
 * Yes, leave us.' 
 
 ' What is the matter with you, George ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ! Do leave me in peace.' 
 
 She returned to her corner and wrapped 
 herself up in her shawl. I hate those shawls. 
 I said nothing. 
 
 The clock was ticking on the mantelpiece. I 
 felt nervous. I waited for reproaches and tears. 
 
 ' Georgie ! ' 
 
 ' What is it, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing.' 
 
 ' Well, good-night. I feel tired.' 
 
 At the door she whispered sadly : 
 
 ' Good-bye, love.' 
 
 She let her shoulders droop. Her lips 
 quivered. 
 
 I pitied her. 
 
 May 8. 
 
 People say that where there is no law there 
 is no crime. If that is true, where is the wrong 
 in my kissing Elena ? And why am I to 
 blame in not caring any longer for Erna ? I 
 ask myself this and I can find no answer. 
 
70 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 If I acknowledged a law I probably would 
 not kill ; I would not have made love to Erna, 
 and would not be seeking the love of Elena. 
 But what is my law ? 
 
 They also say : love your fellow-man. But 
 suppose there is no love in my heart ? They 
 say : respect him. But suppose there is ho 
 respect for others in me ? I am on the border 
 of life and death. Words about sin mean 
 nothing to me. I may say about myself : ' I 
 looked up and I saw the pale horse and the 
 rider whose name is death.' Wherever that 
 horse stamps its feet there the grass withers : 
 and where the grass withers there is no life 
 and consequently no law. For Death recog- 
 nises no law. 
 
 May 9. 
 
 Fedor sold his horse and carriage in the 
 horse market. He is an officer now, a cornet 
 in the dragoons. His spurs clash, his sword 
 clangs on the pavement. He looks taller in 
 his uniform and walks with more self-assurance. 
 
 I sat with him at a table in an open-air caf6. 
 The violins were singing in the orchestra. 
 Military uniforms passed quickly before our 
 
THE PALE HORSE 71 
 
 eyes, as well as the women's white dresses. 
 The soldiers saluted Fedor. 
 
 He turned to me. 
 
 ' How much do you suppose,' he said, ' that 
 dress cost ? ' 
 
 He pointed to a smartly dressed woman at 
 the next table. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 ' I don't know. I should think about two 
 hundred roubles.' 
 
 ' Two hundred, you say ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I should think so.' 
 
 He gave no answer. 
 
 ' Look here,' he said after a while. 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' When I worked I had a rouble a day.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Well, nothing.' 
 
 The electric lights were turned on. A white 
 globe shone quite low over our heads. Blue 
 shadows streaked the white cloth. 
 
 ' I say . . .' 
 
 ' What, Fedor ? ' 
 
 ' Well, why not do it ... to these ? ' 
 
 ' Do what ? ' 
 
 ' You know yourself.' 
 
72 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' But why ? ' 
 
 ' Let them know . . .' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' That the working people die Uke flies.' 
 
 ' But, Fedor. . . . We are not anarchists.' 
 
 He asked: 'What?' 
 
 ' That is anarchism, Fedor.' 
 
 ' Anarchism ? . . . What a word ! . . . All 
 I know is that the costume over there cost 
 two hundred roubles, and that there are children 
 begging pennies in the street. . . . What do 
 you call that ? ' 
 
 It was strange to look at his silver shoulder- 
 straps, his white uniform, the white brim of 
 his cap, and to listen to such talk. 
 
 ' What makes you so bitter, Fedor ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 ' There is no justice in life,' he answered. 
 ' We toil all day in the factories, our mothers 
 weep, our sisters walk the streets. . . . And 
 these creatures. . . . Two hundred roubles ! 
 . . . Oh, they ought to be wiped out, all of 
 them. . . . No doubt about that.' 
 
 The bushes were becoming lost in the dark- 
 ness, the wood began to look depressingly dark. 
 Fedor sat leaning on the table with his elbows 
 
THE PALE HORSE 78 
 
 and did not speak. There was a look of hate 
 in his eyes. 
 
 ' They all ought to be wiped out — no doubt 
 about that ! ' 
 
 May 10. 
 
 Two days more. ... In two days . . . 
 
 Elena's image appeared before me dimly. I 
 shut my eyes and I tried to resurrect it. I 
 knew that she had black eyebrows and slender 
 hands, but I really did not see her. I saw only 
 a dead mask. And yet a secret hope was 
 alive in my soul : she will be mine. 
 
 Everything is the same to me now. There 
 was a thunderstorm yesterday. I heard the 
 season's first thunder. To-day the grass looks 
 fresh as from a bath, the lilacs are in bloom. 
 There is the cry of the cuckoo at sunset. But 
 I hardly notice the spring, I have almost 
 forgotten about Elena. Well, let her love her 
 husband, let her not be mine. I am alone, I 
 will remain alone. That 's what I am saying 
 to myself now. But I know : a few days will 
 pass, and my thoughts will be with her again. 
 My life will move in an iron circle as before. 
 That is, if these days will pass and . . . 
 
74 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 I walked along the boulevard to-day. There 
 was still the smell of rain in the air, but the 
 birds were already twittering. I suddenly 
 noticed a man who walked at my right on the 
 wet path. He was a Jew in a bowler hat, in 
 a long yellow overcoat. He stopped at the 
 corner and followed me with his eyes for a 
 long while. 
 
 I asked myself again : am I being watched ? 
 
 May 11. 
 
 Vania is still a cab-driver. He came to meet 
 me in his holiday dress. We sat down on a 
 bench in the square, opposite the cathedral. 
 
 ' Well, Georgie, the end has come.' 
 
 ' Yes, Vania, it has come.' 
 
 ' I am so happy. My whole life is like a 
 dream to me now. I feel as if I were born just 
 in order to die, and . . .' 
 
 The spires of the white temple seemed to 
 pierce the sky. Down below the river was 
 glittering in the sun, Vania was quite com- 
 posed. 
 
 ' It is hard to believe in a miracle,' he said. 
 ' But once you believe, all problems cease to 
 exist. No need of violence, no need of the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 75 
 
 sword. No need of blood. No need of the 
 commandment : " Thou shalt not kill." But 
 that 's the trouble — ^we have no faith. A 
 miracle, we say, is just a story for children. 
 Now you Hsten and tell me whether it 's just a 
 story or something more.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is not at all a story but the truth.' 
 
 He took out of his pocket a Bible bound in 
 black leather with a gilded cross on the cover* 
 
 ' Jesus said. Take ye away the stone, Martha, 
 the sister of him that was dead, saith unto 
 him. Lord, by this time he stinketh ; for he 
 hath been dead four days. 
 
 ' Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, 
 that, if thou wouldst believe, thou shouldst 
 see the glory of God ? 
 
 ' Then they took away the stone from the 
 place where the dead was laid. And Jesus 
 lifted up his eyes, and said. Father, I thank 
 thee that thou hast heard me. 
 
 ' And I knew that thou hearest me always ; 
 but because of the people which stand by I 
 said it, that they may believe that thou hast 
 sent me. 
 
 ' And when he thus had spoken, he cried 
 with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. 
 
76 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' And he that was dead came forth, bound 
 hand and foot with grave-clothes; and his 
 face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus 
 saith unto them, Loose him and let him 
 go. . . . 
 
 Vania shut the Bible. I did not speak. He 
 repeated, absorbed in his thoughts : 
 
 ' Lord, by this time he stinketh : for he has 
 been dead four days.' The swallows were 
 circling in the blue air. In the monastery 
 across the river the bells were ringing for 
 vespers. Vania said in a whisper : 
 
 ' You hear, Georgie : four days. . . .' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' It is a great miracle.' 
 
 ' And is the saint Seraphim of Sarov ^ also 
 a nliracle ? ' 
 
 Vania did not hear me. 
 
 ' George,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, Vania.' 
 
 ' Listen ' : 
 
 ' But =. Mary" stood without at the sepulchre 
 weeping : and, as she wept, she stooped down 
 and looked into the sepulchre. 
 
 ' And seeth two angels in white sitting, 
 ^ A Russian saint, canonised under Alexander iii. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 77 
 
 the one at the head, and the other at the feet, 
 where the body of Jesus had lain. 
 
 ' And they say unto her. Woman, why 
 weepest thou ? She saith unto them, Because 
 they have taken away my Lord, and I know 
 not where they have laid him. 
 
 ' And when she had thus said, she turned 
 herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew 
 not it was Jesus. 
 
 ' Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest 
 thou ? Whom seekest thou ? She, suppos- 
 ing him to be the gardener, saith unto him. 
 Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me 
 where thou hast laid him, and I will take him 
 away. 
 
 ' Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned 
 herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni ; which is 
 to say. Master.' 
 
 Vania stopped reading. There was silence 
 around us. 
 
 ' Did you hear, George ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes, I heard it all.' 
 
 ' Is it merely a story ? Tell me.' 
 
 ' But you, Vania, do you believe it ? ' 
 
 He went on, quoting the text by heart : 
 
 ' But Thomas, one of the twelve, called 
 
78 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Didymus, was not with them when Jesus 
 came. 
 
 ' The other disciples therefore said unto him, 
 We have seen the Lord. But he said unto 
 them, Except I shall see in his hands the print 
 of the nails, and put my finger into the print 
 of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, 
 I will not believe. 
 
 ' And after eight days again his disciples were 
 within, and Thomas with them. Then came 
 Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the 
 midst, and said. Peace be unto you. 
 
 ' Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither 
 thy finger, and behold my hands ; and reach 
 hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side; 
 and be not faithless, but believing. 
 
 ' And Thomas answered and said unto him, 
 My Lord and my God. 
 
 ' Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou 
 hast seen me thou hast believed : blessed 
 are they that have not seen, and yet have 
 believed.' 
 
 ' Yes, George, " blessed are they that have 
 not seen, and yet have believed." ' 
 
 Evening was approaching with its fresh cool- 
 ness. Vania shook his curly head vigorously. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 79 
 
 ' Good-bye, George, for all time. And be 
 happy.' 
 
 There was sadness in his honest eyes. 
 
 ' What about " thou shalt not kill," Vania ? ' 
 I asked. 
 
 ' No, George, no. . . .' 
 
 ' You say that ? ' 
 
 ' I do. We have to kill in order that no 
 one should kill after that; that men should 
 live for ever according to the divine law, and 
 that love should for ever brighten men's lot.' 
 
 ' This is sacrilege, Vania.' 
 
 ' I know. And, " thou shalt not kill " ? * 
 
 He stretched out to me both his hands and 
 smiled with an expansive bright smile. Then 
 he kissed me like a brother. 
 
 ' Be happy, George ! ' 
 
 I also kissed him. 
 
 May 11, 
 
 I had an appointment to-day with Fedor 
 in a tea-shop. We discussed our plans in detail. 
 
 I left the place first. Once in the street, 
 I noticed three detectives at a neighbouring 
 gate. I knew them by their furtive eyes and 
 fixed glances. I stopped at a shop window 
 and stood without moving. I became a detec- 
 
80 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 tive myself and watched them. I wondered 
 whether they were on our track. 
 
 In a short while Fedor came out of the tea- 
 shop, and walked tranquilly down the street. 
 One of the detectives, a tall, red-haired man in 
 a white apron and a soiled cap, rushed immedi- 
 ately into a cab. The other two ran after 
 him. But a ' likhach ' ^ drove empty up the 
 street and Fedor hired him. The whole pack 
 rushed after him — ^the pack of hare hounds. 
 I thought him lost. 
 
 I myself did not remain unobserved. I 
 saw very queer people near me. There was 
 a man in an overcoat which was obviously 
 not his own. He stood with his head bent 
 low, and his red hands folded behind his back. 
 Then I saw a lame man in tatters, a beggar 
 from the market-place. Presently I noticed 
 also my recent acquaintance, the Jew. He 
 was in a top-hat with a black clipped beard. 
 I realised that I was about to be arrested. 
 
 The clock struck twelve. At one o'clock I 
 had an appointment with Vania in a lane. 
 Vania had not yet sold his horse. He was 
 
 1 Superior class of cab-drivers, provided with fast-running 
 horses and smart carriages. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 81 
 
 still a cab-driver, I secretly hoped that he 
 would manage to drive me quickly away. 
 
 I turned into the main street, where I hoped 
 to get lost in the crowd. But there was again 
 the same figure in front of me with its hands 
 folded behind, and its legs tangled in the tails 
 of the too long overcoat. And the Jew in the 
 top -hat walked persistently at my side. I 
 noticed that he did not turn his eyes from me 
 for a moment. I turned into the lane. Vania 
 was not there. I walked the whole length 
 of it and turned sharply round. Some one's 
 eyes penetrated me like nails. Some one was 
 watching with sharp eyes, some one was quick 
 to follow every step I made. 
 
 I returned to the main street. I calculated 
 that at the next turning there was a passage 
 with a door leading into the lane. I rushed 
 into the passage and took refuge behind the 
 entrance gate. I pressed my back to the wall 
 and remained motionless. The minutes passed 
 slowly like hours. I knew that the black Jew 
 was close by. He was watching and waiting 
 for me. He was the cat and I the mouse. 
 The door could be reached in four steps. With 
 a sudden spring I was in the lane. I saw 
 
 F 
 
82 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Vania driving slowly in front of me. I rushed 
 towards him. 
 
 ' Drive as fast as you can, Vania ! ' 
 
 The wheels rattled on the pavement, the 
 springs creaked at the turnings. We turned 
 round a corner. Vania lashed his poor horse. 
 I looked back ; the street was empty at the 
 turning. No one was following us. We were 
 safe. 
 
 But we are being watched ; there is no doubt 
 about that. But I am not losing hope. Perhaps 
 we had attracted the notice of the detectives 
 merely by accident ? They may not know 
 who we are. And we may still carry out our 
 plan before they catch us. 
 
 But I suddenly recalled Fedor. What has 
 become of him ? Has he been arrested ? 
 
 May 12. 
 
 I went to the restaurant where Fedor was 
 to meet me. I had to make sure as to what 
 had happened to him. If he was captured, our 
 project was doomed. If he managed to escape 
 safely, we might by to-morrow execute our 
 plan, and then . . . 
 
 I sat down at a table by the window. I 
 
THE PALE HORSE 83 
 
 could see the street, the poKceman in his wet 
 cloak, the driver on the seat of the closed 
 carriage, the umbrella of an occasional passer- 
 by. The rain was beating on the window-panes 
 and streaming depressingly down the roofs. It 
 was altogether grey and dull. 
 
 Fedor entered with his spurs clanking. He 
 shook hands with me. The familiar figures 
 loomed in the street, in the rain. Two men, 
 hiding their wet faces in their collars, were 
 watching the entrance door. Two more were 
 standing with the policeman at the corner. 
 One of them was the lame beggar I saw yester- 
 day. My eyes sought the Jew : there he was 
 in the gateway. 
 
 ' Fedor,' I said, ' we are being watched.' 
 
 ' No ? ' 
 
 ' Well, we are.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' 
 
 I took him by his sleeve. 
 
 ' Look,' I said. 
 
 He looked intently out of the window. 
 
 ' Oh, that lame man . . . wet like a dog. 
 . . . Yes, indeed. . . . Danm it ! . , . What 
 are we to do, George ? ' 
 
 The house was surrounded. We had little 
 
84 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 chance of escaping. We would be stopped in 
 the street. 
 
 ' Is your revolver ready, Fedor ? * 
 
 ' Eight cartridges.' 
 
 ' Let us go, then.' 
 
 We came down the stairs. The hall-porter 
 in his braided livery respectfully opened the 
 front door for us. 
 
 We walked out shoulder to shoulder. 
 Fedor' s sword trailed after him with a clang. 
 I knew : Fedor was ready for anything, and 
 so was I. 
 
 Suddenly Fedor nudged me with his elbow 
 and whispered hurriedly : ' Look, George, look.' 
 
 A single ' likhdch ' was standing at the corner. 
 
 ' Here is a quick horse for you, sir. . . .' 
 
 ' Be quick, run. . . . There will be five 
 roubles for your tip.' 
 
 The prize trotter went at a quick trot. Clods 
 of mud flew in our faces. A net of rain stretched 
 across the sky. A voice shouted from behind : 
 ' Stop ! ' 
 
 The horse was steaming heavily. I shook 
 the driver by his shoulder. 
 
 ' Go on, driver ! You will have another 
 five roubles ! ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 86 
 
 Once in the park, we jumped into the bushes. 
 The grass was wet, the trees were heavy with 
 rain. The rain made hollows in the roads. We 
 ran across the puddles. 
 
 * Good-bye, Fedor. Leave town this evening.' 
 
 His uniform showed for an instant among 
 the green bushes and disappeared. I returned 
 to town in the evening, but did not go back to 
 the hotel. Our plan was completely ruined. 
 And what has become of Vania, of Heinrich, 
 and of Erna ? 
 
 I had no lodging to go to, and I spent the 
 long night walking the streets. The time 
 dragged on slowly. I felt tired and chilled, 
 and my feet were aching. But I was not dis- 
 heartened. My hope remained within me. 
 
 May 18. 
 I sent a note to Elena, and made an appoint- 
 ment with her. She came to meet me in the 
 park. She had sparkling eyes and black curls. 
 ' The great waters cannot quench love,' I said 
 to her, ' nor can the streams drown it : love 
 is strong hke death. . . . Say one word, Elena, 
 and I will give up everything to be your slave.' 
 
86 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 She looked at me and smiled. Then she said 
 musingly, 'No.' 
 
 I bent closely to her and said in a 
 whisper : 
 
 ' Do you love him, Elena ? ... Do you ? * 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' You don't love me, Elena ? ' 
 
 With a rapid movement she suddenly 
 stretched out her long, slender arms and 
 embraced me. She whispered : 
 
 ' I love you, I love ypu, I love you.' 
 
 I heard her words and felt the contact of 
 her body. A fierce joy flamed up within me, 
 and I said with an effort : 
 
 ' I am going away, Elena.' 
 
 She grew pale. I looked straight into her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Listen, Elena,' I said. ' You don't love 
 me. You don't know me. If you loved me 
 you would be worried about me. I am being 
 shadowed; my life hangs by a thread. But 
 it is all the same to me since you do not 
 love me.' 
 
 ' What ? ' she asked in agitation. ' Did 
 you say they are shadowing you ? ' 
 
 The evening wind was rustling dryly, there 
 
THE PALE HORSE 87 
 
 was a smell of rain in the air. No one was 
 to be seen in the park : we were alone. 
 
 ' Yes, I am being shadowed,' I said in a 
 loud voice. 
 
 ' George dear, get away quickly ! . . . 
 quickly ! . . .* 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Not to return,' I said. ' Is that what you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no,' she said. ' I love you, George.' 
 
 ' Don't mock at me. How dare you speak 
 of love ? Is that love ? You are living with 
 your husband; how can you love a stranger 
 at the same time ? ' 
 
 ' I love you, George.' 
 
 ' You love me ? . . . But there is your 
 husband.' 
 
 ' Oh, my husband. . . . Don't speak about 
 him, please.' 
 
 ' But you do love him. Don't you ? ' 
 
 Again she did not reply, and I went on : 
 
 ' I love you, Elena,' I said. ' I will come 
 back and you shall be mine. You shall.' 
 
 ' I am with you, dearest ; I am yours. . . .' 
 
 ' And his as well. Do you mean that ? and 
 his?' 
 
88 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 I left her. The evening was passing. The 
 lanterns showed a yellow light. Anger was 
 stifling me. I went on repeating to myself: 
 his and mine, mine and his. And his, and his, 
 and his. 
 
 May 15. 
 
 To-day's papers announce that preparations 
 have been discovered for an attempt on the 
 governor's life ; that, in consequence of timely 
 measures, the criminal gang did not succeed 
 in its devilish plot, but that the plotters have 
 managed to escape and are not yet arrested. 
 Measures have been taken to find them. 
 
 ' Measures have been taken.' But have 
 not we taken our measures as well ? We 
 have not scored a victory, yet that does not 
 mean a defeat. Fedor^ Erna, and Heinrich 
 have already left ; Vania and I are leaving 
 to-day. We will come back. 
 
PART II 
 
 July 4. 
 Six weeks have elapsed, and I am back in N. 
 I have spent these weeks on an old estate 
 belonging to a family of nobles. A streak of 
 road was visible outside the white gates, the 
 old green wood was bordered with young 
 birches on the outskirts. The fields to both 
 sides of the road shone yellow. The corn was 
 whispering, the oats were drooping their heavy 
 heads. In the midday heat I used to stretch 
 myself out on the soft ground ; the ears of 
 corn stood up like an army, the poppies shone 
 red. A smell of clover, of sweet peas, filled 
 the air. The clouds melted away languidly. 
 A vulture soared leisurely in the clouds. It 
 flapped its wings gracefully and paused motion- 
 less in the air. And all Nature seemed to pause 
 motionless with it : there was only the heat 
 and the black dot above. 
 
 My eyes followed it intently. . . . 
 
 But in the town the air is foul and full of 
 
90 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 corrosive dust. Long rows of carts drag along 
 the dusty streets. The wheels rumble heavily. 
 Heavy exertions are made by the heavy horses. 
 The carriages go on ceaselessly. Then there 
 are the street organs, the loud clank of the 
 tram-bells. Human voices scold and shout. 
 
 I am waiting for night. At night the city 
 will go to sleep, human spite will subside. 
 In the deep of the night hope will again shine 
 forth. 
 
 * I will give thee the morning star.' 
 
 July 6. 
 I am no more an Englishman. I am a 
 merchant's son : Frol Semenov Titov, timber 
 merchant from the Ural. I live in cheap 
 apartments ; I go to Mass to the parish church 
 on Sunday. The most experienced eye would 
 not recognise me as George O'Brien. The 
 table in my room has a dirty tablecloth, and 
 near it stands a lame chair. A bouquet of 
 faded geraniums is on the window-sill : portraits 
 of the Tsars are hanging on the wall. The 
 dirty samovar hums in the morning, there is 
 the slamming of doors in the corridor. .1 am 
 alone in my cage. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 91 
 
 Our first failure has embittered me. and I 
 am full of hate. All my thoughts are con- 
 centrated on him, on the governor. I can't 
 sleep at night — I whisper his name all the time ; 
 and in the morning my first thought is of him. 
 I can see him before me, the grey old man with 
 the pale smile on his bloodless lips. He has 
 an utter contempt for us. 
 
 I hate his white house, his coachmen, his 
 guard, his horses. I hate his gold spectacles, 
 his steel eyes, his sunken cheeks, his stature, 
 his idle life, his clean, well-fed children. I 
 hate his selfish assurance, his hatred for us. 
 I hate him. 
 
 Erna and Heinrich are already back here. 
 I am expecting Vania and Fedor. The town 
 is calm; they have forgotten us. On the 
 fifteenth the governor will drive to the theatre. 
 We will catch him on the way. 
 
 July 10. 
 
 Andrei Petrovich has come again. I saw 
 his lemon-coloured face, his wedge-shaped beard. 
 He had an embarrassed look as he stirred his 
 tea. 
 
 ' Have you read it, George ? ' 
 
92 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Well. . . . That 's the sort of thing. . . .' 
 
 He wore an old-fashioned suit, a black tie, 
 and held a cheap cigar in his mouth. 
 
 ' How are things getting on, George ? * 
 
 ' What things ? ' 
 
 ' Well, you know . . .' 
 
 ' Things are getting on well.' 
 
 ' But rather slowly. . . . You should strike 
 just now. . . . Most convenient moment. . . .' 
 
 ' If we are slow, Andrei Petrovich, do it more 
 quickly yourself.' 
 
 He looked very embarrassed, and drummed 
 with his fingers on the table. 
 
 ' Listen, George.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' The committee has decided to act vigorously.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' I say that in view of present circumstances 
 it has been decided to act vigorously.' 
 
 I gave no answer. We were sitting in a 
 dirty tavern, the ' Progress.' The gramo- 
 phone was rumbling hoarsely. The aprons 
 of the waiters showed white through the blue 
 smoke. Andrei Petrovich went on friendlily : 
 
 ' Are you satisfied, George ? ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 98 
 
 * Why should I be satisfied, Andrei Petro- 
 vich ? ' 
 
 ' Well, because of the decision to act vigor- 
 ously ? ' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, God . . . but I 've just told you.' 
 
 He was sincerely pleased to have given me 
 pleasure. I laughed. 
 
 * Oh, you have decided to act vigorously ? 
 . . . Very well.' 
 
 ' But what do you think about it ? ' 
 
 'I? Nothing.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 I rose from my chair. 
 
 ' I am very pleased, Andrei Petrovich, with 
 the decision of the committee, but I don't 
 mean to act more vigorously than I am acting 
 now.' 
 
 ' But why, George ? Why ? ' 
 
 ' Try it yourself.' 
 
 In sheer amazement he let his hands fall on 
 the table. He had yellow hands, and his 
 fingers were stained with tobacco. 
 
 ' Is that a joke, George ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am not joking.' 
 
 I left him. He probably sat a long time 
 
94 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 there, sipping his glass of tea, pondering over 
 the question as to whether I had not made 
 fun of him, and whether he had not offended 
 me. And again I said to myself : poor old 
 man, poor grown-up child ! 
 
 July 12. 
 
 Vania and Fedor are already here. I have 
 settled all the details with them. Our plan 
 remains the same. In three days, on July 15, 
 the governor is going to the theatre. 
 
 At seven o'clock Erna will hand me the 
 bombs. She will make them in the hotel, in 
 her room. She will dry the mercury on the 
 spirit-lamp, solder the glass tubes, put in the 
 fuse. She knows her work well. I don't 
 anticipate any accidents. 
 
 At eight o'clock I will distribute the bombs. 
 Vania will take his post at one gate, Fedor at 
 the second, Heinrich at the third. We are 
 no longer under observation. I am sure of 
 that. That gives us power — a sharp sword. 
 
 July 14. 
 I remember the time I was in the north, 
 beyond the polar circle, in a Norwegian fishing 
 village. There was not a tree in the place, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 95 
 
 not a bush, not even grass. There was nothing 
 but the bare chffs, the grey sky, the grey, 
 gloomy ocean. The fishermen in leather jackets 
 were drawing in the wet nets. There was a 
 smell of fish and blubber. I felt such a com- 
 plete stranger to all the sights — to the sky, 
 the sea, the cliffs, the blubber, to those sombre 
 people and their unfamiliar talk. I lost myself. 
 I was a stranger to myself. 
 
 And to-day again I felt out of touch with 
 everything. I went to the Tivoli gardens and 
 took a seat in front of the open-air stage. The 
 bald-headed conductor was swinging his bow : 
 the flutes in the orchestra emitted dismal 
 sounds. Rope-dancers in pink tights appeared 
 on the well-lit platform. They climbed up 
 the posts, like cats, and leapt downwards ; 
 they turned round in the air, jumped over 
 each other, and, bright in the night darkness, 
 caught hold of the trapezes with firm hands. 
 I looked indifferently at their strong, elastic 
 bodies. What am I to them and they to me ? 
 . . . The dull crowd was passing by, the dry 
 sand was crunching under their feet. Shop 
 assistants with frizzed hair and fat tradesmen 
 were walking lazily up and down the garden. 
 
96 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 They drank their brandy in a bored way, and 
 abused each other and laughed. The women 
 sought something greedily with their eyes. 
 
 The evening sky grew dark, the night mist 
 obscured the sky. To-morrow is our day. A 
 clear, distinct thought, as sharp as steel, came 
 to me. There is no love, no world, no life. 
 There is only death. Death is the crown— 
 the crown of thorns. 
 
 July 16. 
 
 The heat was stifling all day yesterday. 
 The trees in the park were sullenly silent. 
 There were signs of an approaching thunder- 
 storm. The first peal of thunder came from 
 behind a white cloud. A black shadow fell 
 upon the earth. The tops of the firs began to 
 murmur, the yellow dust rose in the air. The 
 rain fell among the leaves noisily. The first 
 lightning flashed restrainedly with a blue 
 flame. 
 
 At seven o'clock Erna came to the appointed 
 place to meet me. She was dressed like a 
 woman of the lower class ; she wore a green 
 skirt and a knitted shawl. Her disobedient 
 curls showed from under the shawl. She 
 carried a basket with linen. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 97 
 
 I cautiously took from her what she brought 
 me and put it in my portfoho. It made my 
 hand ache with its weight. 
 
 Erna heaved a sigh. 
 
 ' Are you tired ? ' I asked. 
 . ' No, George, I am all right.' 
 
 ' Well, what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 ' Georgie, may I go with you ? ' 
 
 ' No, Erna.' 
 
 * O George, please.' 
 
 ' No ; impossible.' 
 
 I saw a timid entreaty in her eyes. 
 
 ' Go home,' I said to her, ' and come back 
 to this very place at midnight.' 
 
 ' George . . .' 
 
 ' The time is up, Erna.' 
 
 It was still wet ; the birches were trembling, 
 but the glovv of the sunset already appeared in 
 the sky. I left Erna sitting alone on the 
 bench. She would be alone until midnight. 
 
 At eight o'clock sharp all were standing at 
 their posts. I walked about near the governor's 
 house. I waited for his carriage to drive up. 
 
 The lanterns of the carriage suddenly flashed 
 in the darkness. I heard the glass door slam. 
 A grey shadow appeared on the white steps, 
 a 
 
98 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 The black horses turned slowly round the 
 entrance and drove on at a slow trot. . . . 
 
 The governor had already reached the third 
 gate. . . . 
 
 I waited. 
 
 The minutes passed slowly like days, like 
 long years. 
 
 I waited. 
 
 The darkness became denser, the square 
 blacker, the towers higher, the silence deeper. 
 
 I waited. 
 
 The tower clock struck again. 
 
 I strolled slowly to the third gate and saw 
 Heinrich standing there motionlessly, in his 
 blue peasant coat and his cap. 
 
 ' Heinrich ! ' 
 
 ' Is that you, George ? ' 
 
 ' Heinrich, the governor has passed by.' 
 
 ' Where ? Who has passed by ? ' 
 
 ' The governor. He drove past you.' 
 
 ' Past me ? ' 
 
 He grew pale. His dilated eyes gleamed 
 feverishly. 
 
 ' Past me ? ' 
 
 ' Where were you ? Yes, where were you ? ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 99 
 
 ' Where ? . . . I was here ... at the gate.' 
 
 ' And didn't you see ? ' 
 
 ' No. . . .' 
 
 We stood under the dim hght of the street 
 lamp. The flame burned evenly. 
 
 ' George,' said Fedor. 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' I can't. ... I '11 drop it. Take it quickly.' 
 
 We stood under the gaslight and looked 
 into each other's eyes. We did not speak. 
 The clock struck a third time. 
 
 ' I '11 see you to-morrow.' 
 
 He waved his hand in despair. 
 
 ' To-morrow. . . .' 
 
 I went back to my room. There was noise 
 in the corridor, drunken voices were heard. At 
 last I was alone in the darkness. 
 
 July 17. 
 Heinrich spoke excitedly : 
 
 ' I stood in the gateway at first,' he said. 
 
 ' I stood there for about ten minutes. . . . 
 
 Then I noticed that I had been seen. I walked 
 
 up the street . . . then I returned and stood 
 
 again. There was no sign of the governor. I 
 
 walked away. . . . And that was probably the 
 
 time he drove past. . . .' 
 
100 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 He covered his face with his hands. 
 
 ' What shame . . . what shame ! ' 
 
 He had not slept that night. He had blue 
 shadows under his eyes and red spots on his 
 cheeks. 
 
 * George, do you beheve me ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 We were silent for a moment, and then I said : 
 
 ' Look here, Heinrich, why are you engaged 
 at this ? If I were in your place, I should do 
 peaceful work.' 
 
 ' I can't.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, why ? . . . Has this to be done or not ? 
 You know it 's needed.' 
 
 ' Well, what of that ? ' 
 
 ' Then how can I be out of it ? What right 
 have I not to do it ? How could I accept it 
 in principle and shrink from carrying it out. 
 . . . How could I ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? . . . I can't say. Other people 
 might be like that. ... I am not. ... I 
 can't. . . .' 
 
 ^And again; he buried his face in his hands; 
 again he whispered as in a dream : 
 
THE PALE H0R;3E iOl 
 
 'OGod! O God! . . ; 
 
 A silence followed. 
 
 ' George,' he said at last, ' be frank with me ; 
 do you believe me or not ? ' 
 
 ' I told you I do.' 
 
 ' And will you give me another chance ? ' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 He insisted. 
 
 ' Yes ; you must let me . . .' he said slowly. 
 
 I was again silent. 
 
 ' Oh, if that is so . . . then . . . then . . .' 
 
 There was terror in his voice. 
 
 ' Calm yourself, Heinrich,' I said, ' you shall 
 have all you want.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' he whispered. 
 
 Once at home, I asked myself: Why is he 
 here ? And whose fault is it ? Mine ? 
 
 July 18. 
 Erna complained : 
 
 ' When will it all end, George ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' When ? ' 
 
 ' What wiirend, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' I can't live for murder. I can't.' 
 
 The four of us were sitting in a private room 
 
 of a dingy restaurant. The dirty mirrors had 
 
102 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 names traoe^d on them ; a piano put out of 
 tune stood at the window. Behind the thin 
 partition some one was playing ' Matchiche.' 
 
 Although it was hot in the room, Erna 
 wrapped herself in a shawl. Fedor was drink- 
 ing beer. Vania put his pale hands on the 
 table and rested his head on them. All were 
 silent. At last Fedor spat on the floor and 
 said : 
 
 ' That 's what comes from too much haste — 
 we made fools of ourselves. . . . That beast 
 Heinrich spoiled our game. . . .' 
 
 Vania raised his eyes and looked at him. 
 
 ' How . can you, Fedor ? ' he said. ' Why 
 do you say that ? We must not blame Hein- 
 rich. All of us are to blame.' 
 
 ' Why all of us ? . . . What I say is : if a 
 man calls himself a terrorist he ought to know 
 what it means and take the consequences.' 
 
 There was a pause. Then Erna said in a 
 whisper : 
 
 ' O God ! . . . What does it matter who is 
 right and who is wrong ? I can't bear it. I 
 can't.' 
 
 Vania tenderly kissed her hand. 
 
 ' You are suffering, Erna dear,' he said. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 108 
 
 ' But think of Heinrich. How hard it is for 
 him. . . ; 
 
 The ^ Matchiche ' went on behind the parti- 
 tion. Drunken voices were singing music-hall 
 songs. 
 
 ' Oh, Vania, it is not only Heinrich. ... I 
 too can't endure this life. . . .' 
 
 She began to sob. 
 
 Fedor frowned ; Vania said nothing. And I 
 wondered : why suffer, why seek consolation ? 
 
 July 20. 
 
 I am lying with closed eyes. The noise of 
 the street comes in through the open window ; 
 the stone city breathes heavily. In a sort of 
 half-dream I see Erna before me. 
 
 She is locking the door, and I can hear the 
 sharp click of the lock. She slowly walks to 
 the table and slowly lights the spirit-lamp. 
 A greyish powder is spread on the cast-iron 
 board — it is oxy hydrogen mercury. The blue 
 tongues of flame — like serpents' fangs — lick the 
 iron. The explosive powder is drying. The 
 little grains glitter and crackle. The small 
 leaden load moves along the glass. This load 
 is to break the vent tube. One of my com- 
 
104 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 rades perished in doing similar work. His 
 corpse, or, rather, pieces of it, was found in 
 the room : the splashed brains, the blood- 
 covered chest, the lacerated legs and arms. All 
 this was heaped into a cart and carried away to 
 the police station. Erna runs the same risk. 
 
 What if she should actually be blown up ? 
 If, instead of flaxen hair and wondering blue 
 eyes, there should remain only a red heap of 
 flesh ? . . . Then Vania would have to do the 
 work in her place. He is also a chemist, and 
 can do the work well. 
 
 I open my eyes. A ray of sunlight has 
 pierced the curtain, and is shining on the floor. 
 I fall again into reverie. And the same 
 thoughts come back to me. Why Heinrich ? 
 Heinrich is not a coward. Yet a blunder is 
 worse than fear. Or is it only chance ? His 
 majesty. Chance ? 
 
 It is all the same to me. All the same to 
 me. Suppose I am responsible for Heinrich 
 being with us. Suppose it is his fault that 
 the governor is still alive. Suppose Erna is 
 blown up. Suppose Vania and Fedor are 
 hanged. But the governor shall be killed. 
 Such is my wilL 
 
THE PALE HORSE 105 
 
 I rise. The people are bustling in the square 
 under my window like black ants, each intent 
 on his personal cares, on petty everyday 
 interests. I despise them. 
 
 July 21. 
 
 Chance brought me to-day near Elena's house. 
 Huge and dirty, it looks sullenly on the square. 
 Force of habit impelled me to look for the bench 
 on the boulevard. Force of habit also made me 
 count the minutes, as I whispered : I shall see 
 her to-day. When I think of her I am somehow 
 reminded of a strange southern flower, a plant 
 of the tropics — of the burning sun and the 
 scorched cliffs. I see the hard leaf of the cactus, 
 the zigzags of the stems, and in the centre of 
 the pointed thorns a full scarlet flower. One 
 might think a drop of red blood had spurted 
 forth and coagulated into purple. I had seen 
 such a flower in the south, in a strange luxuriant 
 garden, among palms and orange-trees. I had 
 stroked its leaves ; its thorns pricked my hands ; 
 I breathed in its poignant, penetrating, and 
 intoxicating perfume. The sea glittered, the 
 sun was at its height, a mysterious spell was 
 at work. The red flower bewitched me and 
 tortured my soul. 
 
106 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 But I have no desire for Elena now. I don't 
 want to think of her. I don't want to remember 
 her. I am possessed by my strange passion for 
 vengeance. And I ask myself no longer : Is 
 vengeance worth while ? 
 
 July 22. 
 
 He drives in his carriage to his office twice a 
 week, between three and five. He never takes 
 the same route or goes on the same days. We 
 will mark his departure, and in a day or two 
 we will post our men at all the roads. Vania 
 will wait for him on Post Street, Fedor in the 
 Crooked Lane, Heinrich will be posted in reserve 
 on a street further off. We can hardly fail this 
 time. 
 
 What would I be doing if I had not taken up 
 this work ? I don't know. It is hard to tell. 
 But I am certain of one thing : I don't want a 
 peaceful life. 
 
 The opium smokers have blissful dreams ; 
 they see the serene groves of paradise. I don't 
 smoke opium, and I have not blissful dreams. 
 But what would my life be worth without the 
 struggle and the joyous feeling that the laws of 
 life are non-existent for me ? And I may even 
 say : ' Thrust in thy sickle and reap : for the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 107 
 
 time is come for thee to reap ' — ^it is time to get 
 rid of those who are not with us. 
 
 July 25. 
 
 ' You, Fedor, take up your post in Crooked 
 Lane. The governor is more Ukely to take the 
 way held by Vania. But you nmst be also 
 ready to strike. And remember : I depend on 
 you absolutely.' 
 
 He had given up long ago his uniform of the 
 dragoons, and now wears the regulation cap of 
 an official in the Ministry of Justice. He is 
 clean shaven and his black moustaches are 
 turned up. 
 
 ' They shall get it this time, George.' 
 
 ' Are you sure ? ' 
 
 ' Quite. He can't escape.' 
 
 We were on the outskirts of the town, in the 
 park. 
 
 ' Fedor ! ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' If you are going to be tried, you mustn't 
 forget to have a counsel for your defence,' 
 > ' A counsel ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' You mean, some lawyer ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly.' 
 
108 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' I don't want one. I hate those lawyers.' 
 
 ' Well, do as you like.' 
 
 ' And there will be no trial. . . . What do I 
 want a trial for ? I will reserve the last shot 
 for myself . . . that will settle it.' 
 
 And I knew by his voice : his last shot would 
 be for himself. 
 
 July 27. 
 
 I sometimes think of Vania, of his love, of his 
 
 deep faith. I don't believe in his words. I 
 
 don't understand how a man can believe in love, 
 
 love God, and live for the sake of love. If it 
 
 were not Vania who said these words, I would 
 
 have laughed. But I don't laugh at him. Vania 
 
 could apply to himself the lines of Pushkin's 
 
 Prophet : 
 
 ' Tormented by a spiritual thirst, I wearily passed 
 across the bleak desert. And a six-winged seraph 
 appeared before me at the crossing of the roads.' 
 
 And these lines also : 
 
 * And he struck my breast with his sword, and 
 took out my trembling heart — and a coal, aflame 
 with fire, he put into the open breast.' 
 
 Vania will die. He will cease to exist. * The 
 coal aflame with fire ' will become extinguished. 
 And I ask myself : Is there a difference between 
 
 m 
 
THE PALE HORSE 109 
 
 him and, say, Fedor ? Both will kill. Both 
 will die. Both will be forgotten. The differ- 
 ence is not in their actions, but in their words. 
 And when I think like that, I laugh. 
 
 July 29. 
 
 ' You don't love me at all,' said Erna. ' You 
 have forgotten me. ... I am a stranger to you 
 now.' 
 
 ' Yes, you are a stranger to me,' I answered 
 reluctantly. 
 
 ' George. . . .' 
 
 ' What, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' Don't speak like that.' 
 
 She was not crying to-day. She was calm. 
 So I said : 
 
 ' What can you be thinking of, Erna — at such 
 a moment? Don't you see? We are having 
 failure after failure.' 
 
 She repeated in a whisper : 
 
 ' Failure after failure ! ' 
 
 * And you ask for love. There is no love in 
 me now.' 
 
 ' You love another woman.' 
 
 * Perhaps.' 
 
 ' Tell me the truth,' 
 
110 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' I told it you long ago : yes, I love another,' 
 
 Her whole body was drawing towards me. 
 
 ' I don't care,' she said. ' Love whomsoever 
 you will. I can't live without you. I will love 
 for ever.' 
 
 I looked into her sad blue eyes. 
 
 ' Erna ! ' 
 
 ' George dear. . , .' 
 
 ' Erna, you had better go.' 
 
 She kissed me. 
 
 ' Oh, George, I want nothing ; I ask for 
 nothing. I only want you to be with me now 
 and then.' 
 
 The night fell slowly upon us. 
 
 July 31. 
 
 I said : I don't want to remember Elena. 
 Yet all my thoughts are with her. I cannot 
 forget her eyes : they hold the midday light. 
 I cannot forget her hands, her long, transparently 
 rosy fingers. The eyes and the hands reflect 
 the soul. How can there be an ugly soul in a 
 beautiful body ? . . . But suppose she is not 
 free and proud, but a slave. What does it 
 matter ? I want her, and there is none superior 
 to her ; none stronger or more joyous than she. 
 My love for her gives her beauty and strength. 
 
 » 
 
 # 
 
THE PALE HORSE 111 
 
 There are summer nights dim with mist, A 
 turbid milk-white fog rises from the soil satu- 
 rated with dew. The bushes, the dim outlines 
 of the wood, are submerged in its warm waves. 
 The stars gleam faintly. The air is thick and 
 d«ump, and smells of new-mown hay. These are 
 the nights when the meadow-spirit hovers over 
 the swamps and casts its spells. 
 
 Am I not bewitched now ? Why should I 
 be concerned with Elena, her thoughtless life, 
 her military husband, her future as wife and 
 mother ? And yet I am fettered to her with 
 an iron chain. And I have not the strength to 
 break the chain. Why should I, after all ? 
 
 August 3. 
 To-morrow is our day. It will be again 
 Erna, again Fedor, Vania, and Heinrich. I don't 
 want to think of to-morrow. Is it because I 
 am afraid to think ? Yet I am full of antici- 
 pation, and I believe in to-morrow. 
 
 August 5. 
 This is what happened yesterday : 
 At two o'clock I took the bombs from Erna. 
 I said good-bye to her and went to meet Hein- 
 rich, Vania, and Fedor on the boulevard. 
 
112 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Fedor took up his post in Crooked Lane, Vania ^ 
 in Post Street, Heinrich in a distant small 
 street. 
 
 I entered a tea-room, ordered a glass of tea, 
 and sat down at the window. The air was 
 stifling. The wheels were rattling on the pave- 
 ment, the roofs of the houses were exhaling heat. 
 I had not long to wait, hardly more than five 
 minutes. I remember quite distinctly : the 
 clear noise of the street was suddenly interrupted 
 by a heavy, strange, loud noise. It was as if 
 some one had struck a ponderous blow with a 
 cast-iron hammer on a cast-iron bar. This was 
 followed immediately by a crash of broken glass. 
 Then all was silent again. The people in the 
 street rushed in a noisy crowd in the direction 
 of Crooked Lane. A ragged boy shouted some- 
 thing in a loud voice. A woman with a basket 
 in her hand threatened some one with her fist 
 and spoke violently. The house-porters came 
 running out of the gateways. The Cossacks 
 galloped down the street. Some one said : 
 
 ' The governor has been killed.' 
 
 I made my way through the crowd with great 
 difficulty. The crowd swarmed in the lane. The 
 smell of hot smoke still lingered in the air. Bits 
 
THE PALE HORSE 118 
 
 of glass were scattered on the pavement, the 
 broken wheels were lying in a black heap. I 
 could see that the carriage had been smashed 
 to pieces. A tall workman in a blue shirt stood 
 in front of me. He was swinging his bony arms 
 and saying something quickly and excitedly. I 
 was about to push him aside in order to come 
 nearer the carriage, when suddenly I heard sharp 
 shots coming in quick succession from another 
 street on the right. I rushed in that direction. 
 I knew that it was Fedor who fired. The crowd 
 pressed me hard, almost crushed me in its em- 
 brace. The reports of firing sounded again, but 
 further away, and they were shorter and fainter. 
 Then there was silence. The workman turned 
 his consumptive face to me and said : 
 
 ' I say, doesn't he fire ! . . .' 
 
 I gripped his hand and pushed him violently 
 aside. But the crowd closed in tighter in front 
 of me. I could see nothing but necks and beards 
 and broad backs. And suddenly I heard the 
 words : 
 
 ' But the governor is safe. . . .' ~ 
 
 ' And have they been caught ? ' 
 
 ' Not that I know of.' 
 
 ' They certainly will be. . . . They must. . . .' 
 
 H 
 
114 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Y — yes. . . . They are a great many now- 
 adays . . . these . . .' 
 
 I returned home very late that evening. All 
 I remembered was : ' The governor is safe.' 
 
 August 6. 
 
 It was published in to-day's papers that, ' as 
 the governor's carriage turned into Crooked 
 Lane, a young man, wearing the uniform 
 of an official in the Ministry of Justice, 
 stepped from the sidewalk on the pavement. 
 He carried in one hand a box tied with a 
 ribbon. 
 
 ' As he approached the carriage he took the 
 box in both hands and threw it under the wheels. 
 A terrible explosion followed. Fortunately, 
 the governor was unhurt. He rose to his feet 
 unaided and walked to the nearest house porch, 
 where he remained until the arrival of his escort, 
 which had been ordered by telephone. The 
 governor's coachman was badly wounded in the 
 head. He died after he had arrived at the 
 hospital. The assassin, after having accom 
 plished his deed, began to run. The policeman 
 on duty and a detective ran after him. The 
 assassin fired two successful shots while running, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 115 
 
 and killed both his pursuers. Another police- 
 man made an attempt to stop him, but was 
 severely wounded in the stomach. In Post 
 Street the assassin was stopped by the inspector 
 of the first police district and the house-porters. 
 He killed two house-porters with two shots, 
 and took refuge in the courtyard of the house 
 No, 8. The house was immediately surrounded 
 by foot and horse police, and a battalion of the 
 N. regiment summoned by telephone. The pre- 
 mises of the house were searched and the criminal 
 was discovered hiding in a back corner of the 
 yard, behind piles of firewood. He responded 
 to the invitations to surrender with more shots, 
 one of which killed the colonel. A running fire 
 was directed at him after that. Hiding behind 
 the woodpiles, the assassin fired several more 
 shots. He slightly wounded two soldiers and 
 a non-commissioned officer. When the firing 
 ceased the grenadiers, penetrating behind the 
 woodpiles, discovered the dead body of the 
 criminal ; it contained four wounds, two of 
 which were fatal. The assassin is a young man 
 of about twenty-six, with dark hair, tall and 
 strongly built. No documents were found on 
 him. In the pockets of his trousers he had two 
 
11« THE PALE HORSE 
 
 revolvers of the Browning patent and a box of 
 cartridges. 
 
 * Measures are being taken to ascertain his 
 identity.' 
 
 August 7. 
 
 I am lying with my face buried in the hot 
 pillows. The day is breaking. 
 
 Again a failure ! Worse than a failure — a 
 catastrophe. We are absolutely beaten. Fedor 
 certainly did all he could. At any rate he did 
 not miss the carriage. 
 
 I don't feel sorry for Fedor. I am not even 
 sorry that I was unable to come to his rescue. 
 Well, I might have killed another five house- 
 porters and policemen. That is far from my 
 purpose. . . . But I regret that I did not know 
 the governor was only a few steps from me, 
 in a house porch. I would have watched for 
 him. 
 
 We will not leave town. We will not sur- 
 render. If we cannot waylay him in the street, 
 we will go to his house. He is calm now : he 
 is enjoying his triumph. He has no cares, no 
 fears. But our day must come. Then it will 
 be done. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 117 
 
 August 8. 
 
 ' Everything is lost, George,' said Heinrich 
 to me. 
 
 All my blood rushed to my face. 
 
 ' Shut up ! ' 
 
 He stepped back, frightened. 
 
 ' George, what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 ' Stop that nonsense ! Nothing is lost. You 
 ought to be ashamed to speak like that.' 
 
 ' But Fedor . . .' 
 
 'Don't talk to me of Fedor. . . . Fedor is 
 dead.' 
 
 ' Oh, George. . . . But that means . . . that , . .' 
 
 ' Well, go on.' 
 
 'No. . . . Just think. . . . No. . . . But I 
 thought . . . What are we to do now ? ' 
 
 ' What do you mean by " what are we to do " ? ' 
 
 ' They are after us.' 
 
 'They always are.' 
 
 The rain was drizzling. The sullen sky was 
 weeping. Heinrich was soaked all through, and 
 the water was dripping from his worn cap. He 
 had grown thinner and had sunken eyes. 
 
 ' George ! ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 'Believe me. . . . I . . . What I want to 
 
118 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 say is this . . . We are two now, Vania and 
 myself. Two are not enough.' 
 
 ' We are three.' 
 
 ' Who is the third ? ' 
 
 ' I am. You forget that.' 
 
 ' You ? ' 
 
 ' Why, of course.' 
 
 A silence followed. 
 
 ' It 's very difficult to do it in the street, 
 George.' 
 
 ' What 's difficult ? ' 
 
 ' Difficult to do it in the street, I say.' 
 
 ' We will go to his house.' 
 
 ' To his house ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Why are you so astonished ? ' 
 
 ' You still have hope, George ? ' 
 
 ' I am certain. . . . You ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself, Heinrich.' 
 
 He took my hand wdth an embarrassed air. 
 
 ' Forgive me, George.' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly. But remember : now that 
 Fedor has been killed, it is our turn. Do you 
 understand ? ' 
 
 He answered in an agitated whisper : ' Yes.' 
 
 But at that instant I regretted that Fedor 
 was no more at my side. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 119 
 
 August 9. 
 
 I forgot to light the candles. In the grey 
 twilight I could see Erna's vacillating silhouette 
 in the corner. She came stealthily to my room 
 to-day and did not speak. She did not even 
 smoke. 
 
 ' George/ she said at last. 
 
 ' What is it, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' It is — it is my fault.' 
 
 ' What is your fault ? ' 
 
 ' That Fedor . . .' 
 
 She spoke slowly, and this time there were 
 no tears in her voice. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Erna. Don't you torment your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Oh, it was I ; it was I who . . .' 
 
 1 took her hand. 
 
 ' It is not your fault, Erna. Take my word 
 for it.' 
 
 ' He might have remained alive . . .' 
 
 ' Don't, Erna. You simply bore me.' 
 
 She got up from her chair, walked a few steps, 
 and again sat down heavily. I said : 
 
 ' Heinrich thinks we had better give it up.' 
 
 ' Who thinks that ? ' 
 
 ' Heinrich,' 
 
120 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 'Give up? Why?' 
 
 ' Ask him, Erna.' 
 
 ' Should we really give up our efforts, George ? ' 
 
 ' You think so too, don't you, Erna ? ' 
 
 ' I wish you would say first.' 
 
 ' Well, of course not. We must go on.' 
 
 Then she asked with anxiety : 
 
 ' Who is going to be the third ? ' 
 
 ' I, Erna.' 
 
 'You?' 
 
 ' Well, yes.' 
 
 She dropped her head and, pressing her face 
 to the window, looked out on the dark square. 
 Then she suddenly rose and walked over to me, 
 and kissed my lips passionately. 
 
 ' George dear. . . . Shall we die together ? 
 . . . George ? ' 
 
 Again the night fell silently upon us. 
 
 August 11. 
 There are two alternatives left to us : the first 
 is to let a few days pass, and to waylay him 
 again in the street ; the second to go to his house. 
 I know that we are being sought for. We will 
 find it very difficult to stay another week in 
 town. And even more difficult to take up the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 121 
 
 same posts. Well, let us say, I will take Fedor's 
 place ; Vania will return to his previous post, and 
 Heinrich will again remain in reserve. 
 
 But the police are on the alert. The streets 
 are full of detectives. They are watching for 
 us. They may surround us and seize us by 
 surprise. And will the governor drive through 
 the same streets ? He could easily choose some 
 roundabout way. . . . But what if we go to 
 his house ? Of course, I don't care who dies in 
 the explosion — whether his family, his detec- 
 tives, or his escort. But the risk is great, The 
 house is a large one and has many rooms. . . . 
 I have great doubts after carefully considering 
 all the ' pros ' and ' cons.' I am not sure whether 
 we ought to go there. How hard it is to decide. 
 Yet we must decide. 
 
 August 18. 
 
 Vania is a gentleman now : he wears a soft 
 hat, a light-coloured tie, a grey jacket. His hair 
 is curly as before, and his pensive eyes sparkle. 
 
 ' How sad that we have lost Fedor,' he said 
 to me. 
 
 ' Very sad indeed.' 
 
 He smiled a melancholy smile. 
 
 ' It is not Fedor you miss,' he said. 
 
122 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' What do you mean, Vania ? ' 
 
 ' You are sorry you lost a fellow- worker ? 
 Isn't that so ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' You see yourself. There was a worker, a 
 genuine, fearless worker. And now he is no 
 longer here. And you say to yourself : How 
 shall we get on without him ? ' 
 
 ' It 's quite true.' 
 
 ' There, you see. ... As for Fedor personally, 
 you have forgotten him. You don't miss him.' 
 
 A military band was playing on the boulevard. 
 It was Sunday. The working-men were strolling 
 in red shirts, with concertinas in their hands. 
 They were chatting and laughing. 
 
 ' Listen — I can't help thinking of Fedor,' said 
 Vania. ' To me he was not merely a fellow- 
 worker, not merely a revolutionary. . . . Just 
 think what he felt hiding behind the piles of 
 firewood. He was firing, and he knew all the 
 time, he knew with every drop of his blood, that 
 his death was coming. How long did he look 
 into the face of death ? ' 
 
 ' Vania, Fedor was not afraid.' 
 
 ' I don't mean that, Georgie. I know he was 
 not. . . . But can you actually realise his agony ? 
 
THE PALE HORSE 128 
 
 Can you imagine how he suffered after he had 
 been wounded — ^when his eyes grew dim and his 
 hfe was going from him ? Have you thought 
 of that ? ' 
 
 ' No, Vania, I have not.' 
 
 ' Then you never loved him,' he said in a 
 whisper. 
 
 ' Fedor is dead,' I said. . . . « It would be 
 better if you told me now whether we ought to 
 go to . . . there, his house ? ' 
 
 ' To his house ? * 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I mean whether we should blow up the whole 
 house.' 
 
 ' And the people ? ' 
 
 ' What people ? ' 
 
 ' His family, the children ? ' 
 
 ' Is that what you are thinking of ? , . . 
 Nonsense. . . .' 
 
 Vania was silent for a while. ' 
 
 ' George,' he said at last. 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' I can't agree to that.' 
 
 ' Agree to what ? ' 
 
 ' To go there.' 
 
124 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Nonsense. . . . Why ? ' 
 
 ' I can't . . . because of the children. . . . 
 No, George,' he went on in great agitation, 
 ' don't do it. How can you take such a respon- 
 sibihty ? Who gave you the right ? Who has 
 permitted you to do it ? ' 
 
 I answered coldly : 
 
 ' I myself.' 
 
 ' You yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I.' 
 
 He was trembling all over. 
 
 ' George, the children . . .' 
 
 ' The children don't matter.' 
 
 ' George, and what about Christ ? ' 
 
 ' What has Christ to do with it ? ' 
 
 ' George, don't you remember ? «' I am come 
 in my Father's name and ye receive me not ; 
 if another shall conie in his own name, him you 
 will receive." ' 
 
 ' What is the use of quoting texts, Vania ? ' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' You are right ; what is the use ? . . .' 
 
 We were silent for a long time. At last I 
 said : 
 
 ' Very well. . . . Let us watch for him in the 
 street.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 125 
 
 His face brightened up in a smile. Then I 
 asked him : 
 
 ' Perhaps you think I changed my mind 
 because of the texts ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not, George. What an idea ! ' 
 
 ' I have simply decided that in the street there 
 is less chance of failure.' 
 
 ' Of course, much less. . . . And you shall 
 see : we will succeed. God will hear our 
 prayers.' 
 
 I left him. I was vexed with myself. After 
 all, would it not be better to go to the governor's 
 house ? 
 
 August 15. 
 
 My thoughts are again with Elena. Where 
 is she ? I ask myself. Why doesn't she try to 
 find me ? How can she live without knowing 
 what has become of me ? That means she does 
 not love me. She has forgotten me. Her kisses 
 were lies. But eyes like hers do not lie. 
 
 I don't know. I don't want to know any- 
 thing. I have seen the joy of her love ; I have 
 heard words which spoke of joy. I want her, 
 and I will come and take her. Perhaps this is 
 not love. Perhaps to-morrow her eyes shall 
 grow dim, and the laugh so dear to me shall bore 
 
126 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 me. But to-day I love her, and I have no care 
 about to-morrow. Just now, at this moment, 
 she stands before my eyes as if she were actually 
 here. I can see her plaited black hair, the 
 severe outline of her face, the bashful rosiness 
 of her cheeks. I call her, I repeat her name to 
 myself. Our day will soon arrive — ^it will be 
 the last, sure to be the last. . . . Shall I ever 
 
 see her or not ? 
 
 August 17. 
 To-morrow we will wait again for the governor 
 on his drive. I would pray if I could. 
 
 August 18. 
 
 Erna prepared the explosives for the third 
 time. At three o'clock sharp we took up our 
 posts. I had a box in my hands. Its contents 
 shook rhythmically with every step I made. I 
 walked on the left side of the street. There 
 was a smell of autumn in the warm air. In the 
 morning I already observed a few yellow leaves 
 on the birches. Heavy clouds were creeping 
 along the sky. A few drops of rain came down 
 now and then. 
 
 I was very careful lest any one should push 
 me. . . . There were many eyes watching on 
 
THE PALE HORSE 12T 
 
 the sidewalks and at the crossings. I pretended 
 not to see any one. 
 
 I turned round. The street was very quiet. 
 I was afraid the governor would drive past me 
 just at that moment. I was not sure I would 
 recognise his carriage. And what if I were not 
 quick enough ? . . . 
 
 I walked up and down for about half an hour. 
 When, for the third time, I reached the corner 
 of the square and the clock pavilion, I suddenly 
 saw a narrow spout rising up from the ground 
 next to Surikov's house. A column of greyish- 
 yellow smoke, almost completely black on the 
 edges, was broadening out into a funnel shape 
 and filling the whole street. And at the same 
 moment I heard the familiar odd cast-iron 
 rumble. A cab-driver's horse rose on its hind 
 legs startled by the noise. A lady in a large black 
 hat, who was walking in front of me, shrieked 
 and sat down on the sidewalk. A policeman 
 stood still with a pale face for a moment, 
 then rushed in the direction of the sound. 
 
 I ran to the Surikov house. Again there was 
 the crash of glass and the smell of smoke. I 
 forgot all about my box, the contents of which 
 beat against its sides with quick measured 
 
128 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 knocks. I heard cries, and I knew for certain : 
 this time he was killed. 
 
 An hour later extra editions announcing the 
 news were sold in the streets. 
 
 I held the paper in my hands, and my eyes 
 were dim with excitement. 
 
 August 20. 
 
 Vania has managed to send us a letter from 
 prison : 
 
 ' Contrary to my desire,' he wrote, ' I was 
 not killed. I threw the bomb from a distance 
 of three paces right into the window of the 
 carriage. I saw the governor's face. He leaned 
 hastily back when he saw me and threw up his 
 hands to protect himself. I saw how the carriage 
 was smashed to pieces : the smoke and the 
 splinters flew in my face. I fell down. When 
 I got up I looked round and saw bits of clothing 
 and the dead body lying a few steps away. I 
 was not wounded, although blood was streaming 
 from my face and the sleeves of my coat were 
 burned away. I walked on, but the next 
 moment some one seized me from behind with 
 strong hands. I made no resistance. They 
 took me away. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 129 
 
 ' I have done my duty. I am waiting for the 
 trial and shall meet the sentence calmly. I 
 think that even if I had managed to escape I 
 should not, in any case, be able to go on living 
 after what I have done. I embrace you, my dear 
 friends and companions, and I thank you with 
 all my heart for your love and your friendship. 
 
 ' In bidding you farewell, I should like to 
 remind you of the words : " Hereby perceive 
 we the love of God, because He laid down His 
 life for us ; and we ought to lay down our lives 
 for the brethren." ' 
 
 Vania addressed a special postscript to me. 
 He wrote : 
 
 ' You may wonder how I, who had always 
 spoken of love, made up my mind to kill, and 
 committed the greatest sin against God and 
 men. 
 
 ' I had no choice. If I had the pure and 
 innocent faith of true disciples it would surely 
 have been different. I know : the world shall 
 be saved not by the sword — but by love, and 
 love will rule it. But I did not feel in me the 
 strength to live for the sake of love, and I under- 
 stood that I could and ought to die for the sake 
 of it. 
 
 I 
 
 / 
 
180 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' I do not repent, but neither do I rejoice in 
 what I have done. My blood torments me and 
 I KNOW : death alone is not redemption. But I 
 ,also know : " I am the Truth, the Way, and the 
 Life." Men will judge me, and I pity them. 
 But I must face this — I firmly believe — divine 
 judgment. My sin is infinitely great, but the 
 mercy of Christ is also boundless. 
 
 ' I kiss you. May you be happy, very 
 happy. ... 
 
 ' But remember : " He that loveth not, 
 knoweth not God : for God is love." ' 
 
 I read these leaves of cigarette paper, and I 
 ask myself : who knows but that Vania is right ? 
 ... Oh no ; the sun is shining hot to-day, the 
 falling leaves are rustling. ... I am strolling 
 on the familiar paths, and a great radiant joy 
 flames in my soul. I pluck the autumn flowers. 
 I breathe in their vanishing scent and I kiss 
 their pale petals. 
 
 I feel as if it were Easter. Like the solemn 
 words of Resurrection sound the prophetic 
 words : 
 
 ' And there came a great voice of the temple of 
 heaven from the throne, saying : '' It is done." ' 
 
 I am happy : it is done. 
 
PART III 
 
 August 22. 
 I AM still hiding here, still unable to leave. The 
 police are trying hard to lay hands on us. I have 
 given up my room in the hotel and have changed 
 my mask for the third time. I am no more Frol 
 Semenov Titov — nor the Englishman O'Brien. 
 I live like one invisible. I have no name and 
 no home. In the daytime I stroll in the streets, 
 in the evening I seek lodgings for the night. I 
 sleep where I can : in a hotel one day, in the 
 street the next ; then in the houses of people 
 who are perfect strangers to me, such as mer- 
 chants, officials, and priests. I laugh sometimes 
 maliciously : my hosts look at me apprehen- 
 sively, and treat me with a shy respect. 
 
 The autumn is advanced. The old park 
 gleams golden, the leaves rustle underfoot. The 
 pools, covered over with a thin crust of brittle 
 ice, glisten in the early morning sun. I love the 
 sad autumn. I like to sit down on a bench in 
 the open and to listen to the wood's rustling. I 
 
 181 
 
182 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 am enveloped in an atmosphere of serene peace. 
 I feel as if there were no death, no blood — ^but 
 only the earth sacred to all, and the sacred 
 heaven above it. 
 
 The recent events are already forgotten. Only 
 the authorities remember — and we too, it goes 
 without saying. Vania is to be tried. There 
 will be the usual proceedings and speeches, the 
 sentence will be passed and carried out. . . . 
 Life will come again to a standstill. 
 
 August 28. 
 
 I wrote a note to Elena asking her to meet 
 me. She came, and I felt at once happy and 
 serene. 
 
 I felt as though I had not lived through long 
 days of anxiety and expectation ; as though I 
 had not been- possessed by a passionate desire 
 of vengeance, had not planned murder in cold 
 blood. Such a state of joy and inner peace 
 overcomes one sometimes on summer nights, 
 when the stars come out and the garden is filled 
 with the warm, strong scent of flowers. 
 
 Elena was in a white dress ; she radiated 
 freshness and health. She is twenty years old. 
 Her eyes were not smiling. She asked shyly : 
 
THE PALE HORSE 188 
 
 ' Have you been here all this time ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of course, I 've been here.' 
 
 ' Then you . . .' 
 
 And she dropped her eyes. 
 
 I had the greatest desire to take her in my 
 arms, to lift her up and to kiss her like a child. 
 At that moment, looking at her and into her 
 shining eyes, I knew I loved her childish laugh, 
 the simple beauty of her life, and I listened 
 enraptured to her voice : 
 
 ' Oh, God, if you knew how anxious I was.' 
 
 And she added in a whisper : 
 
 ' How awful ! . . .' 
 
 She blushed, and then suddenly, as she did 
 the other day, she put her arms softly and 
 caressingly on my shoulders. 
 
 Her breath was burning my face, and our 
 lips met in unutterable anguish. 
 
 When I recovered my senses she was sitting 
 in the armchair. I still felt her kiss on my 
 lips, and she seemed so near to me and yet so 
 distant. 
 
 ' George, dear George, don't be sad.' 
 
 And she drew towards me — so bashfully and 
 so passionately. I kissed her. I kissed her 
 hair and her eyes, her pale fingers, her dear lips. 
 
184 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 I could think of nothing else. I only knew that 
 I held her palpitating young body in my 
 arms. 
 
 The glow of the sunset came in through the 
 window. A red ray wandered on the ceiling. 
 She lay white in my arms, and there was no 
 more remorse for the blood that had been spilt. 
 
 Everything ceased to exist. 
 
 August 24. 
 
 Erna leaves town to-day. She looked some- 
 how suddenly faded when she came to see me. 
 The red of her cheeks was gone, and only her 
 hair was helplessly entangled as before — implor- 
 ing as it were for pity. I took a long farewell 
 of her. 
 
 She stood before me — so fragile and with such 
 a sad face. Her dropped eyelids were trembling. 
 She spoke in a low voice : 
 
 ' Well, Georgie, it is done.' 
 
 ' Are you glad ? ' 
 
 ' And you ? ' 
 
 I wanted to tell her that I felt happy and 
 proud, but there was no exultation in my soul 
 at that moment. I remained gloomily silent. 
 She sighed. Her breast heaved nervously and 
 heavily under the lace of her dress. She obvi- 
 
THE PALE HORSE 185 
 
 ously wanted to say something, but felt flustered, 
 had not the courage to speak. I asked : 
 
 ' At what time does your train start ? ' 
 
 She shuddered. 
 
 ' At nine.' 
 
 I looked indifferently at my watch. 
 
 ' You will be late, Erna.' 
 
 ' George . . .' 
 
 Her courage failed her again. I knew she 
 would speak of love, ask for pity. But I had 
 no love for her and could not help her. 
 
 ' George . . . must it be ? ' 
 
 ' What must it be ? ' 
 
 ' That we must part ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Erna, we are not parting for ever.' 
 
 ' Yes, for ever.' 
 
 I could hardly hear her, she spoke, in a low 
 whisper. 
 
 I answered in a loud voice : 
 
 ' You are tired, Erna. You must rest and 
 forget.' 
 
 And I heard her whisper : 
 
 ' I shall never forget.' 
 
 And the next moment her eyes became red, 
 and many profuse tears streamed down her 
 face, like water. She shook her head ungrate- 
 
136 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 fully. Her locks of hair were wet with tears 
 and dropped helplessly on her neck. She sobbed, 
 and whispered incoherent words, as though she 
 were swallowing them : 
 
 ' George dear, don't leave me . . . darling, 
 don't leave me.' 
 
 A picture of Elena rose up before me. I 
 seemed to hear her clear, happy laugh, and to see 
 her sparkling eyes. And I said coldly to Erna : 
 
 ' Don't cry.' 
 
 She stopped instantly, wiped her tears, and 
 looked sadly out of the window. Then she rose 
 and approached me with unsteady steps. 
 
 ' Good-bye, George, good-bye ! ' 
 
 I repeated like an echo : 
 
 ' Good-bye ! ' 
 
 She stopped at the door before she opened it, 
 and waited. And then still she kept on whisper- 
 ing in distress : 
 
 ' You will come to me. . . . Will you, 
 George ? ' 
 
 August 28. 
 
 Erna is gone. Only Heinrich remains with 
 me here, but he will follow Erna. I know he 
 loves her, and he, of course, believes in love. It 
 seems so ridiculous, and it irritates me. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 187 
 
 I remember the time I was in prison and 
 expected to be executed. There was a smell of 
 cheap tobacco and of prison soup in the corridor. 
 The sentry was passing up and down under my 
 window. Now and then bits of life and frag- 
 ments of conversations reached me from the 
 street. And it seemed strange : outside were 
 the sea, the sun and life — and in my cell were 
 solitude and inevitable death. ... 
 
 In the daytime I used to lie on my iron couch 
 and to read an old literary magazine. In the 
 evening the lamps twinkled dimly. I some- 
 times climbed stealthily on the table and looked 
 out of the window, while gripping the iron bars 
 with my hands. I saw the dark sky, the 
 southern stars. Venus was shining bright. I 
 used to say to myself : There are still many days 
 before me ; there will be more mornings and days 
 and nights for me. I will see the sun, I will 
 hear human voices. 
 
 I somehow could not believe in death. It 
 seemed unnecessary and therefore impossible. 
 I did not even feel joy or calm pride at the 
 thought that I was dying for my cause. I felt 
 strangely indifferent. I did not care to live, 
 but did not care to die either. I did not question 
 
188 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 myself as to my past life, nor as to what there 
 might be beyond the dark boundary. I re- 
 member I was much more concerned as to 
 whether the rope would cut my neck, whether 
 there would be pain in suffocation. And often 
 in the evening, after the roll-call, when the drum 
 ceased beating in the courtyard, I used to look 
 intently at the yellow light of the lamp, stand- 
 ing on the prison table, among the bread-crumbs. 
 I asked myself : Do I fear or not ? And my 
 answer was : T do not. I was not afraid — I 
 was only indifferent. 
 
 And then I escaped. During the first days 
 there was the same dead indifference in my 
 heart. I did mechanically all that was necessary 
 to avoid being recaptured. But why I did it, 
 why I fled from the prison — that I could not 
 tell. While in the prison I thought at times 
 that the world was beautiful, and I longed for 
 the open air, for the hot sun. But once free I 
 felt a weariness again. But a day came when 
 I was walking alone in the evening. The sky 
 was already dark in the east, and the early 
 stars made their appearance. The mountains 
 were veiled with a rose-blue mist. The night 
 breeze blew from the river below. There was 
 
THE PALE HORSE 139 
 
 a strong smell of grass. The grasshoppers 
 made a loud noise. The air was sweet and 
 creamy. 
 
 And I suddenly realised at that moment that 
 I was alive, that death was far off, that life was 
 before me, that I was young and strong and in 
 perfect health. . . . 
 
 I have the same feeling now. I am young, 
 strong, and in perfect health. I have escaped from 
 death once more. And I ask myself for the 
 hundredth time : Was it wrong on my part to 
 kiss Ema ? But it might have been worse to 
 have ignored her, to have repulsed her. A 
 woman came to me and brought me love and 
 affection. Why does affection create sorrow ? 
 Why does not love give joy, but pain ? Love. 
 . . . Love. . . . Vania used also to speak of 
 love, but of what kind of love ? Do I know 
 love of any kind ? I do not know, cannot know, 
 and do not try to. Vania knows, but he is no 
 more with me. 
 
 September 1. 
 
 Andrei Petrovich has come again. He had 
 the greatest difficulty in finding me, and when 
 we met at last he shook my hand a long time 
 and with great joy. His old face was beaming. 
 
140 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 He was happy. The wrinkles round his eyes 
 relaxed into a smile. 
 
 ' I congratulate you, George,' he said. 
 
 ' What about, Andrei Petrovich ? ' 
 
 He screwed up his eyes with a cunning air, 
 and shook his bald head. 
 
 ' For achieving a triumph in your under- 
 taking.' 
 
 His presence bored me, and I had a desire to 
 leave him. His words and silly congratula- 
 tions annoyed me. But he went on with a 
 candid smile : 
 
 ' Yes, George,' he said, ' we had lost all hope 
 — ^to tell you the truth. After all those con- 
 tinual failures. And I can tell you ' — he stooped 
 and whispered in my ear — ' we even thought 
 of dismissing you.' 
 
 ' Dismissing me ? . . . What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' It is now a thing of the past, and I don't 
 mind telling you. We did not believe anything 
 would come off. It took such a long time, 
 and nothing whatever was done. ... So we 
 thought : would it not be better to dismiss you 
 altogether ? It seemed all so hopeless. . . . Are 
 we not old fools ? . . . Eh ? ' 
 
 I looked at him in sheer amazement. He was 
 
THE PALE HORSE 141 
 
 the same grey, decrepit old man. His fingers 
 were stained with tobacco as before. 
 
 ' And you . . . you thought of dismissing 
 us?' 
 
 ' There, George, you are cross ! ' 
 
 ' I am not. . . . But tell me, do you really 
 think it possible to dismiss us ? ' 
 
 He patted me affectionately on my shoulder. 
 
 ' Oh, you are ... It 's impossible to joke 
 with you.' 
 
 Then he added in a businesslike tone : 
 
 ' Well, and what do you intend to do now ? 
 Tell me.' 
 
 ' Nothing, as far as I can see.' 
 
 ' Nothing ? . . . The committee has de- 
 cided . . .' 
 
 ' The conunittee may decide whatever it likes. 
 But as for me . . .' 
 
 'Oh, George! . . .' 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Well, why are you so upset, Andrei Petro- 
 vich ? I only say : Give me time.' 
 
 .He lapsed into thought, and kept on munching 
 with his lips in the manner of an old man. 
 
 ' Do you remain here, George ? ' he asked at 
 last. 
 
142 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' You had better go.' 
 
 ' I have some business to attend to.' 
 
 ' Some business ? ' 
 
 He looked grieved : what sort of business 
 could I have ? But he did not dare to ask me. 
 
 ' Well, George, we will talk things over when 
 you come.' 
 
 And he shook hands with me with renewed 
 good spirits. 
 
 Andrei Petrovich acted like a judge : he 
 approved and disapproved. I did not contra- 
 dict him. He was so sincerely convinced that 
 I appreciated his approval. - Poor old man ! 
 
 September 5. 
 
 Vania's trial took place to-day. I am lying 
 on the couch in chance lodgings, my head buried 
 in the hot pillows. It is night. I can see the 
 sky through the window frame. A necklace of 
 stars glimmers in the sky : the Great Bear. 
 
 I know : Vania was lying the whole day on his 
 prison couch, got up now and then, went to the 
 table and wrote. And at present the Great Bear 
 shines to him as it does to me. And he is awake 
 as I am. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 148 
 
 I also know : a man in a red shirt will come 
 to him to-morrow with a rope and a whip in his 
 hands. He will tie Vania's hands behind his 
 back, and the rope will penetrate deep into his 
 flesh. The spurs will clank under the vaults ; 
 the sentries, with dull expressions on their faces, 
 will present arms. The gates will swing wide 
 open. ... A warm vapour is curling upward 
 on the sandbank, the feet sink into the wet sand. 
 The sky assumes a rosy hue in the east. A 
 hooked pole stands out against the pale-rose sky. 
 That is the law. Vania ascends the platform. 
 He looks quite grey in the morning mist ; his 
 eyes and his hair are of the same colour. It is 
 cold and he shrinks, draws in his neck into the 
 upturned collar. And then the hangman puts 
 on the shroud, draws the string. The shroud 
 is white, and close by stands the red hangman. 
 The stool is pushed back with a sudden noise. 
 The body hangs in the air. Vania has been 
 hanged. 
 
 The pillows burn my face. The bedcover 
 slips to the floor. I feel so uncomfortable. I 
 see Vania before me ; I see his enthusiastic eyes, 
 his brown hair. And I timidly ask myself: 
 Why? Why? Why? 
 
144 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 September 5. 
 
 I say to myself: There is no Vania. The 
 words are simple, yet I cannot believe them. 
 I cannot believe that he is actually dead. I 
 feel as if there might be a knock at the door, 
 and that he will enter quietly, and I will hear 
 him saying again : 
 
 ' He that loveth not, knoweth not God : for 
 God is love.' 
 
 Vania believed in Christ. I don't. Yet what 
 difference does it make ? I lie, I spy, and I kill. 
 Vania also lied, spied, and killed. We all live by 
 deceit and blood. Is it all done for the sake 
 of love ? 
 
 Christ ascended Golgotha. He did not kill. 
 He gave life to men. He did not lie. He 
 taught men the truth. He betrayed none — 
 He was betrayed by His disciple. Then it 
 must be one or the other. Either there is the 
 way up to Christ, or/. . . or, as Vania said, 
 the way down to Smerdiakov. In that case I 
 too am Smerdiakov. 
 
 I know : there was sanctity in Vania : his 
 truth was in his sufferings. But sanctity and 
 truth are inaccessible, incomprehensible to me. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 145 
 
 I will die as he died, but my death will be dark : 
 there is wormwood in the bitter waters. 
 
 September 6. 
 Elena said to me : 
 
 ' I felt so afraid for you. ... I did not dare 
 to think of you. . . . You are . . . so strange.' 
 
 We were in the park as before. There were 
 signs of autumn here, the withered leaves swirled 
 in the wind. It was cold, and there was a smell 
 of earth in the air. 
 
 ' How happy I am, dearest. . . .' 
 
 I took her hands and kissed her slender 
 fingers, and my lips whispered : 
 
 ' My love, my love, my love ! . . .' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' Don't be sad,' she said. ' Be happy.' 
 
 But I answered : 
 
 ' Listen, Elena. I love you. Come with me.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' I love you.' 
 
 She pressed her graceful body close to me and 
 whispered : 
 
 ' I also love you. You do know that ? ' 
 
 ' But your husband . . .' 
 
 ' What about my husband ? ' 
 
 K 
 
146 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' You are with him.' 
 
 ' Oh, dearest. . . . What does it matter ? 
 Now I am with you.' 
 
 ' Stay with me always.' 
 
 She laughed her clear, sonorous laugh. 
 
 ' I can't say, I can't say,' she answered. 
 
 ' Don't laugh and don't joke, Elena.' 
 
 ' I am not joking.' 
 
 And again she embraced me. 
 
 ' Must one love for ever ? Is it possible to 
 love for ever ? You want me to love only 
 you and no one else. ... I can't. ... I am 
 going . . .' 
 
 ' To your husband ? ' 
 
 She nodded without saying a word. 
 
 ' Then you love him ? ' 
 . ' George dear, the sunset is ablaze, the wind 
 blows, the grass whispers. We love each other. 
 What more do you want ? Why think of the 
 past ? Why should we know of what will be in 
 the future ? Don't torment me. I don't want 
 to be miserable. Let us be happy. Let us live. 
 I hate sorrow and tears. . . .* 
 
 I answered : 
 
 ' You said — you are his and mine. Is that 
 so — ^tell me ? Is that true ? ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 147 
 
 ' Yes, it is true.' 
 
 A shadow passed over her face. Her eyes 
 grew sad and dark. The white dress was 
 becoming lost in the growing darkness. 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, why ? ' 
 
 I bent low to her. 
 
 ' But if ... If you had not your husband ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. ... I don't know any- 
 thing. . . . Does love last for ever ? Don't 
 ask me, dear. . . . And, please, stop thinking 
 about it.' 
 
 She kissed me passionately. I was silent. 
 Jealousy crept slowly into my soul : I don't 
 want to share her with any one, and I shan't. 
 
 September 10. 
 Elena visits me secretly, and the hours and 
 the weeks flow on rapidly like fast waters. The 
 whole world is now centred for me only in my 
 love for her. The roll of memories is sealed, the 
 mirror of life is dimmed. I have before my eyes 
 Elena, her lips, her dear hands, all her youth 
 and her love. I hear her laugh, her joyous voice. 
 I play with her hair, and kiss greedily her happy, 
 passionate body. The night descends upon us. 
 
148 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Her eyes become more radiant in the night, her 
 laughter sounds louder, her kisses sting sharper. 
 And the old vision comes back like a spell — ^the 
 strange southern flower, the blood-red cactus, 
 enchanting and passionate. What do I care for 
 terrorism, the revolution, the gallows and death, 
 since she is with me ? . . . 
 
 She enters shyly with downcast eyes, and then 
 suddenly her cheeks are ablaze and I hear her 
 sonorous laugh. She sings in a happy, clear 
 voice as she sits on my knees. What are her 
 songs about ? I don't know. I don't hear, I 
 feel her entire being acting upon me. Her joy 
 resoimds in my heart, and there is no sadness 
 left in me. She kisses me and whispers : 
 
 ' I don't care. . . . You may be gone to- 
 morrow, but to-day you are mine. ... I love 
 you, dearest.' 
 
 I can't understand her. I know that women 
 love those who love them ; that it is love they 
 love. But her husband to-day, I the next day, 
 and the husband's kisses the day after. . . . 
 Once I said to her : 
 
 ' How can you kiss two men ? ' 
 
 She raised her fine eyebrows. 
 
 ' Why not, dearest ? ' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 149 
 
 I didn't know what to answer. I said 
 violently : 
 
 ' I don't want you to kiss him.' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' And he doesn't want me to kiss you.' 
 
 'Elena!' 
 
 ' What, dearest ? ' 
 
 ' Don't speak to me like that.' 
 
 ' Oh, dearest. . . . What does it matter to 
 you whom I kiss and when ? Do I know whom 
 you kissed before me ? I want to know, but 
 can I, really ? To-day I love you. . . . Aren't 
 you glad ? Aren't you happy ? ' 
 
 I wanted to tell her : You have no shame, no 
 love. . . . But I said nothing. Was there any 
 shame left in my own soul ? 
 
 ' Listen,' said Elena laughingly : ' why do you 
 speak Uke that ? Why do you say this is per- 
 missible and that is not ? Have the courage to 
 live, to be happy, to get love out of Ufe ! All 
 resentment is idle, and there is no need to think 
 of death. The world is big, and there is plenty 
 of joy and love for every one. There is no sin in 
 joy, no deceit in kisses. ... So give up think- 
 ing, and kiss. . , .' 
 
 Then she added : 
 
150 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' You, dearest, you don't know what it is to be 
 happy. . . . Your whole life is centred on death. 
 You are of iron; the sun is not for you. . . . Why 
 think of death ? You would do better to live 
 in joy. . . . Don't you think I am right ? ' 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 September 12. 
 I am thinking again of Elena. It may be that 
 she loves neither me nor her husband. I think 
 she only loves love. Her radiant life is only in 
 her love ; she was born for love and she will die 
 for it. And when my thoughts take that turn, 
 I feel a grim satisfaction. What is the good of 
 Elena's coming to me, of my kissing her beautiful 
 body, and looking into her eyes resplendent with 
 love ? . . . She leaves me to return smilingly to 
 her husband, to share lovingly his life. ... I 
 am painfully obsessed by the thought of him — 
 of that slim, fair-haired youth. Sometimes, in 
 the silence, I catch myself nursing deep and 
 secret desires. And it seems to me then that 
 it is not he I am thinking of, but the one who 
 is no more and whom I once hated. I have then 
 the feeling that the governor is still alive, 
 I walk on a thorny road. He — ^her husband — 
 
THE PALE HORSE 151 
 
 stands on my narrow way and obstructs it : 
 she loves him. ' 
 
 I watch the weary dechne of autumn in the 
 gardens. The asters are glowing red, the dry 
 leaves are falling, the grass is crisp with the 
 morning frost. The old famihar thought assumes 
 an increased distinctness in my inind during 
 these days of decay. I recall the old words : 
 
 If a louse in your shirt 
 Mocks you : ' you are a flea/ 
 Then go out and kill ! 
 
 September 18. 
 
 Heinrich has been staying here all this time. 
 His family lives in the district across the river. 
 He is leaving to-day to join Erna. 
 
 He looks stronger and fuller : his rest has 
 done him good. His eyes sparkle, and he 
 does not speak in the dejected way that he 
 got into of late. This was our first meeting 
 for some days. 
 
 We went to a tavern — the same where 
 Vania used to join us. He asked me over his 
 meal: 
 
 ' Have you read, George, what they say in 
 the News 1' 
 
152 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' What about ? ' 
 
 ' Why, about the governor.' 
 
 ' No, I haven't.' 
 
 He was indignant at my indifference, and 
 produced a thin sheet of printed matter. 
 
 ' There it is. Read it, George.' 
 
 I had no desire to Hsten to him, or to read 
 the paper. I pushed it away and said in a bored 
 voice : 
 
 ' Take it away. I don't care to read.' 
 
 ' You don't care ? How can you take it like 
 that ? That 's what we did it for.' 
 
 ' For a paragraph in the papers ? ' 
 
 ' You make fun of it. . . . But the printed 
 word has a great importance.' 
 
 I felt extremely bored, and I said : 
 
 ' Don't let us discuss that question. Look 
 here, Heinrich : you love Erna, don't you ? ' 
 
 He dropped his spoon into the plate and 
 blushed violently. Then he asked in a trembling 
 voice : 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' 
 
 ' I know.' 
 
 He was silent in his confusion. 
 
 ' Well, take care of her,' I said. ' I wish you 
 happiness.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 158 
 
 He rose, and for a long time walked up and 
 down the filthy private room we were in. At 
 last he said in a low voice : 
 
 ' George, I trust you. Tell me the truth.' 
 
 ' What do you want to know ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you love Erna ? ' 
 
 His gloomy face, with the two red spots on it, 
 amused me. I laughed outright. 
 
 ' I — love Erna ? What an idea ! ' 
 
 ' And you never — never loved her ? ' 
 
 I answered clearly and distinctly : 
 
 ' No, I never loved her.' 
 
 His face beamed with happiness. He shook 
 my hand warmly. 
 
 ' Well, I am off,' he said. ' Good-bye.' 
 
 He left me. I remained for a long time at the 
 untidy table with the greasy plates before me. 
 And suddenly it all became so utterly ridiculous 
 to me. 
 
 I love, he loves, she loves. . . . What a 
 tedious tale ! z 
 
 September 14. 
 
 I have not seen Elena to-day. I went to the 
 Tivoli in the evening. As usual, the orchestra 
 rattled provokingly, the gipsies sang. As always, 
 women walked about between the tables, rust- 
 
154 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ling their silken dresses. And I felt bored — as 
 usual. 
 
 A naval officer was sitting at the next table : 
 he was drunk. Wine sparkled in the glasses, 
 the women's jewels glittered. Sounds of laugh- 
 ing and incoherent talk came to me from all 
 sides. The hands of the clock moved slowly. 
 
 Suddenly I heard : 
 
 * You look lonely.' 
 
 The officer, tottering on his feet, came to my 
 table, and stretched his wine-glass to touch mine. 
 He had purple cheeks and short-clipped mous- 
 taches — the governor had the same sort of 
 moustaches. 
 
 ' Aren't you ashamed of being bored ? ' he 
 said. ' Let me introduce myself : my name is 
 Berg. Come to our table. . . . The ladies would 
 like to have the pleasure of your company. . . .' 
 
 I rose and gave my name : 
 
 ' Engineer Malinovsky.' 
 
 I did not care where I sat, so I sat down lazily 
 at their table. The party laughed gaily. All 
 touched glasses with me. The violins were 
 wailing; through the window I could see the 
 grey dawn breaking. 
 
 And then I heard some one ask : 
 
THE PALE HORSE 155 
 
 ' Where is Ivanov ? ' 
 
 ' What Ivanov ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Colonel Ivanov. What has become 
 of him ? ' 
 
 I instantly thought of Ivanov, the head of the 
 secret police department. Was it he they were 
 expecting at their table ? I bent down my head 
 to my neighbour : 
 
 ' Do you mean the gendarmerie Colonel 
 Ivanov ? ' I asked him. 
 
 ' Yes, of course — the very same — a dear friend 
 of mine. . . .' 
 
 A great temptation stirred within me. Oh 
 no, I was not going to get up and leave them at 
 once. I knew : that man Ivanov must have 
 my photograph with him. I waited. 
 
 Ivanov came in. He looked like a man of the 
 merchant class. He was stout and had a red 
 beard. He sat down heavily and helped himself 
 to a glass of vodka. The party introduced us 
 to each other : 
 
 ' Malinovsky,' 
 
 ' Ivanov.' 
 
 He had come to drink, and I felt bored again. 
 Yet the temptation was great to go near him, 
 and to whisper into his ear : 
 
156 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' I am George O'Brien, coloneL' 
 
 But I did not do that. I rose from the table 
 without saying anything. The rain was weep- 
 ing outside, the stone city was asleep. I was 
 alone. I felt cold and darkness within me. 
 
 September 15. 
 
 I ask myself : Why do I remain here ? What 
 can I attain ? Elena is only my mistress. She 
 never will be my wife. I know that, and yet 
 I cannot go. I also know that every day in- 
 creases my danger ; that I am risking my life. 
 But such is my desire. 
 
 At Versailles, in the park, the lakes are visible 
 from the terrace. Their borders are stretching 
 in clear outlines along the graceful groves and 
 the dainty flower-beds. The fountains are en- 
 veloped in vapour, the mirror-like waters are 
 motionless. A drowsy restfulness hovers over 
 them. 
 
 I shut my eyes and imagine myself back at 
 Versailles. I want to forget Elena, to be at rest 
 to-day. The stream of life flows on, the day 
 comes and goes — ^but I am with my love, like a 
 slave in chains. 
 
 Somewhere, very far, there is ice on the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 157 
 
 mountain tops. The mountains gleam blue, 
 covered with the virginal snow. Men live 
 peacefully at the foot of the mountains ; they 
 live in peace and they die in peace. The sun 
 shines over them, love warms their hearts. But 
 in order to live as they do neither anger nor 
 the sword is wanted. . . . And I recall Vania. 
 Perhaps he was right ; but the white robes are 
 not for me : Christ is not with me. 
 
 September 16. 
 
 * Why are you always sad ? ' asked Elena. 
 ' Do I not love you ? Look here, I will make 
 you a present of a pearl.' 
 
 She took off a ring from her finger ; a large 
 pearl glittered like a tear in the gold ring. 
 
 ' Take care of it. . . . It is my love.' 
 
 And she embraced me confidingly. 
 
 ' You are sad because I am not your wife ? 
 But I know : marriage is love made a habit, a 
 dull love without a bright spark. And I want 
 to love you. ... I long for beauty and love. . . .' 
 
 She added pensively : 
 
 ' Why do people put down letters, make words 
 out of letters and laws out of words ? There are 
 libraries full of those laws. Don't live, don't 
 
158 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 love, don't think. There is a don't for every 
 single day. . . . Isn't it ridiculous and silly ? 
 Why must I love only one man ? Say, why ? ' 
 
 And again I was without an answer. 
 
 ' Well, you have nothing to reply, George. 
 You don't know either. Can you say you loved 
 no one before me ? ' 
 
 I felt disturbed. I certainly loved more than 
 one woman, and I never believed in the use of 
 laws. She was repeating my own words. But 
 now I felt they were a lie. And I wanted to tell 
 her that, but I did not dare. 
 
 Her heavy, black plaits of hair came down on 
 her shoulders, and her face looked more pale 
 and thin in the dark frame of her loosened hair. 
 Her eyes were waiting for my answer. 
 
 I silently kissed her. I kissed her innocent 
 hands, her strong young body. To kiss her was 
 a torture to me : my mind was again hypno- 
 tised by the recurring thought of him who was 
 kissing her as I did, and whom she loved. And 
 I said : 
 
 ' No, Elena, it cannot go on : it must be he 
 or I. . . .' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' There you are. I must be the slave, you her 
 
THE PALE HORSE 159 
 
 master. And what if I don't want to choose ? 
 Why should I ? Tell me.' 
 
 The rain came down noisily outside the window. 
 I saw her outline in the dim light ; her large eyes 
 gleamed dark in the night. I said, growing pale : 
 
 ' Such is my wish, Elena.' 
 
 She was silent. Her face grew sad. 
 
 ' Choose ! ' I said. 
 
 ' Dearest, I can't. . . .' 
 
 ' I ask you to choose.' 
 
 She rose quickly from her chair, and said 
 firmly and quietly : ' I love you, George. You 
 know that. But I will never be your wife.' 
 
 She was gone. I remained alone — with only 
 her pearl in my possession. 
 
 September 17. 
 Elena loves her beautiful body, her young life. 
 There might be freedom in such a love — people 
 say there is. But I don't care : let Elena be 
 a slave and I the master ; let me be a slave and 
 she free. ... All I know with certainty is that 
 I will not share her love with any one. I cannot 
 kiss her if another kisses her. Vania sought for 
 Christ, Elena seeks for freedom. As for me, 
 I am not seeking anything : let it be Christ, or 
 
160 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 the Antichrist, or Dionysus — I don't care. I 
 desire to possess her. And my desire is my 
 right. 
 
 The thought of the scarlet flower is intoxi- 
 cating me again. The mysterious spell is at 
 work once more. I am like a stone in the desert, 
 but I have a sharp sickle in my hand. 
 
 September 18. 
 
 Something happened yesterday which I anti- 
 cipated, and yet secretly hoped would not happen. 
 It was a day of sorrow and shame. I was walk- 
 ing in the main street. A milky fog was creep- 
 ing up and melting in waves of darkness. 
 
 I walked on without any aim, without any 
 thoughts, like a ship drifting after it had lost its 
 rudder. Suddenly a spot thickened in the fog, 
 a dim shadow moved unsteadily forward. An 
 officer walked impetuously toward me. He 
 looked at me and stopped. It was Elena's 
 husband. I looked fixedly into his eyes and I 
 could see anger in the dark pupils. I took his 
 arm softly and said : 
 
 ' I have looked for you for a long time.' 
 
 We walked up the street in silence. We 
 walked a long time in the dark mist, but we both 
 
THE PALE HORSE 161 
 
 knew our way. And we felt as near to one 
 another as brothers. We entered the park. 
 
 Autumn had set in. The branches were bare 
 — hke prison bars. The fog was dispersing, the 
 grass was drenched with the mist. There was a 
 smell of decay and of moss. 
 
 Deep in the park, in the thicket, I chose a 
 path. I sat down on a stump of a felled tree 
 and said coldly : 
 
 ' You know who I am ? ' 
 
 He nodded silently. 
 
 ' You know why I am here ? ' 
 
 He nodded again. 
 
 ' But I also must tell you that I don't intend 
 to leave.' 
 
 He said with a contemptuous smile : 
 
 ' Are you sure of that ? ' 
 
 Was I sure ? I didn't know. Could any one 
 be sure whom it was that Elena loved ? But I 
 only said : 
 
 ' And you ? ' 
 
 There was a silence. Then I said : 
 
 ' Look here. You are to go. Is that clear ? 
 You.' 
 
 He flushed in an outburst of anger. But he 
 said coolly : 
 
 h 
 
162 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 ' You are mad.' 
 
 Then I silently produced my revolver. I 
 measured eight paces on the grass, and marked 
 the barriers with wet rods. He watched me 
 attentively. When I finished he said with a 
 smile : 
 
 * You intend to fight, I see ? ' 
 ' I insist on your departure.' 
 
 Fair-haired and slim, he looked straight into 
 my eyes and repeated sarcastically : 
 
 * You are mad.' 
 
 I asked, after a silence : 
 
 ' Will you fight ? ' 
 
 He unfastened his revolver case, and reluct- 
 antly took out his revolver. After some hesita- 
 tion he said : 
 
 ' Very well. ... I am at your service.' 
 
 A moment later he stood at his appointed 
 place. I knew I could hit an ace from a dis- 
 tance of ten paces. I could not possibly miss 
 my mark this time. 
 
 I raised my revolver and fixed the black 
 mark : a button of his overcoat. I waited. 
 After a pause I said in a loud voice : 'One. . . .' 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 ' Two and three.' 
 
THE PALE HORSE 168 
 
 He stood motionless, pushing his breast 
 forward, and holding his revolver downward. 
 He would not raise it — he obviously mocked at 
 me. ... A hot and hard lump suddenly 
 clutched my throat. I shouted furiously : -- 
 
 ' Fire, I say ! ' 
 
 Not a sound came from him. Then, with a 
 sudden joy, I pressed slowly the trigger. There 
 was a flash of yellow, a white smoke crept 
 along. . . . 
 
 I walked across the wet grass, and stooped 
 over the body. He was lying on the path face 
 downwards in the cold, soft mud. His arm was 
 awkwardly bent, the legs were stretched widely 
 apart, A thin rain was falling. It was misty. 
 I turned into the thick of the wood. The night 
 was coming on. It was pitch dark under the 
 trees. I walked on aimlessly, like a ship without 
 a rudder. 
 
 September 20. 
 
 Men were falling in the Tsushima battle. The 
 night was dark, the sea wrapped in a fog, the 
 waves rose high. The battleship was hiding like 
 a monstrously big wounded animal. The black 
 funnels were hardly visible, the guns were silent. 
 
164 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 They fought in the daytime, at night they fled 
 from possible attacks. Hundreds of eyes were 
 searching the darkness. And suddenly there 
 came a wail — like the scream of a frightened sea- 
 gull : ' Torpedo-boat along the side. . . .' The 
 searchlights flared up, blinding the night with 
 the white glare. And then . . . Whoever was 
 on deck jumped into the sea. Those who were 
 within, behind the steel armour, were dashing 
 against the hatchway. The boat gradually 
 began to sink, going down with its nose into 
 the water. The machinists in the engine-room 
 dropped down like sacks, the iron chains striking 
 them, the wheels mangling them, the smoke 
 stifling them, the vapour scorching them. So 
 they perished, all of them. And the waves 
 went on beating against the sides with a rock- 
 ing movement. . . ; A senseless, nameless death 
 And then there is another kind of death. 
 Imagine a northern sea, a northern gale. The 
 wind strains the sails, lashes the sea into white 
 foam. A fishing boat is tossing on the grey 
 waves. The grey day dissolves in a pale sunset. 
 The flash of a lighthouse appears from a dis- 
 tance — first red, then white, then again red. 
 The men ^re motionless on the foredeck, they 
 
THE PALE HORSE 165 
 
 clutch tightly on the ropes. The waves roar, 
 the rain splashes. ... 
 
 Then suddenly a bell is heard to toll slowly 
 through the wailing of the wind. A bell is beat- 
 ing in the water against the low sides of the boat, 
 causing it to ring. It is the can-buoy. They 
 have struck a sandbank. It means death. . . . 
 Then again there is the wind, the sky, and the 
 waves. But the men are no longer to be seen. . . . 
 
 Here is still another death. I have killed a 
 man. . . . Earlier I had an excuse : I was killing 
 for the sake of an ideal, for a cause. Those who 
 sank the Japanese reasoned as I did : Russia 
 needed their death. But now I have killed /or 
 my own sake. I wanted to kill, and I killed. 
 Who IS the judge ? Who will judge me guilty ? 
 Who will justify me ? I have scorn for my 
 judges and their hard sentences. Who will 
 come to me and say with genuine faith : Thou 
 shalt not kill. Who will dare to throw a stone 
 at me ? There is no definite distinction, no 
 difference. Why is it right to kill for the sake 
 of an ideal, for one's country, and not for one's 
 own sake ? Who will answer me ? 
 
 I look out of my window. I can see the gleam- 
 ing stars, the brilUant Bear, the silvery stream 
 
 \ 
 
166 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 of the Milky Way, the timid brightness of the 
 Pleiades. What is behind them ? . . . Vania 
 had faith. He knew. But I am standing 
 alone, the night is incomprehensibly silent. 
 The earth breathes with mystery, the stars shine 
 enigmatically. I have walked a hard road. 
 Where is the end ? Where is my well-deserved 
 rest ? Blood begets blood, and vengeance lives 
 by vengeance. ... It is not him alone that I 
 have killed. . . . Where shall I go ? where shall 
 I fly ? 
 
 September 22. 
 
 It has rained since morning — a drizzly autumn 
 rain. I look into its spider-like net, and weary 
 thoughts disturb me lazily, like falling drops. 
 
 Vania had lived and died. Fedor had lived 
 and was killed. The governor, too, had lived 
 and is gone. . . . Men live and die, and new 
 men are born. They live and die. . . . The sky 
 is gloomy, the rain pours in streams. 
 
 I do not repent. Yes, I did kill. ... I feel 
 
 ^;' no yearning for Elena. . . . My murderous shot 
 
 \\ seems to have burnt my love out of me. I am 
 
 indifferent to her grief. I don't know where she 
 
 is and what she is doing. Does she mourn her 
 
 loss, her own life, or has she already forgotten ? 
 
 '■'y 
 
THE PALE HORSE 167 
 
 He and I ? Again he ! We are chained to 
 one another even now. 
 
 The rain is coming down rapidly, and is 
 making a noise on the iron roofs. Vania said : 
 How can one Hve without love ? It was Vania 
 who said that, not I. ... Oh no — I have made 
 a business of blood. ... I will take up my 
 trade again. I will watch and spy day after 
 day, one weary hour after another. I will live 
 by death, and a day will come with its intoxi- 
 cating joy : I will have accomplished my purpose 
 — scored a victory. And such will be my life 
 until I go to the gallows, until I go into my grave. 
 
 But men will praise me, will rejoice loudly in 
 my victory. What is their anger, their pitiful 
 joy^ to me ? . . . 
 
 A milk-white fog has enveloped the town 
 again. The chimneys rise sullenly, a long- 
 drawn whistle comes from the factory. The 
 cold darkness is creeping up. The rain is still 
 falling. 
 
 September 23. 
 
 Christ said : ' Do not kill,' and His disciple 
 Peter unsheathed the sword in order to kill. 
 Christ said: 'Love one another,' and Judas 
 betrayed Him. Christ said : ' I came not to 
 
168 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 judge the world, but to save the world,' and 
 sentence was passed upon Him. Two thousand 
 years ago, perspiring with blood, He prayed, and 
 His disciples were asleep. Two thousand years 
 ago the people dressed Him in a purple robe : 
 ' Take Him and crucify Him.' And Pilate 
 said : ' Shall I crucify your king ? ' But the 
 chief priests answered : ' We have no king but 
 Csesar.' 
 
 And now Peter continues to unsheathe his 
 sword ; Annas to judge together with Caiaphas ; 
 Judas, son of Simon, to betray. And we go on 
 crucifying Jesus as of old. 
 
 But if that is so, then He is not the vine, we 
 are not the branches. Then His word is but an 
 earthen vessel. Then Vania was not right. . . . 
 Poor, loving Vania ! ... He sought a justifica- 
 tion of life. Why need it be justified ? 
 
 The Huns have passed over the fields, and 
 trampled down the young sprouts. The pale 
 horse stepped on the grass and the grass withered. 
 Men have heard the word — and the word has 
 been defiled. 
 
 Vania wrote with faith : ' The world shall be 
 saved not by the sword but by love — and love 
 will rule.' Yet Vania did kill. He ' has com- 
 
THE PALE HORSE 169 
 
 mitted the greatest sin against men and God.' 
 If I had had his faith I should not have been able 
 to kill. And, as I have killed, I am unable to 
 think as he thought. 
 
 As for Heinrich, he does not trouble about 
 riddles. The world to him is simple as an 
 alphabet. There are slaves on one side, masters 
 on the other. The slaves revolt against the 
 masters. It is right that a slave should kill. 
 It is wrong that a slave should be killed. A day- 
 will come when the slaves shall conquer. Then 
 there will be a paradise on earth. All men will 
 be equal ; all will be well fed, and all will be free. 
 Excellent, indeed. I don't believe in a paradise 
 on earth, and don't believe in a paradise m 
 heaven. I don't want to be a slave, not even a 
 free slave. All my life has been a clash. I 
 can't exist without it. But what is the purpose 
 of my clashing ? That I don't know. Such is 
 my desire. I drink my wine undiluted. 
 
 September 24. 
 
 I live again in lodgings : I am Engineer Malin- 
 ovsky. I live as I choose. Nothing matters to 
 me now : let them find me, let them arrest n:c. 
 
 It is a cold evening. An illusive moon shines 
 
170 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 above the bare factory chimney. The moon- 
 light streams down on the roofs, the shadow 
 stretches sleepily. The town is asleep. But I 
 cannot sleep. 
 
 I am thinking of Elena. It seems strange to 
 me now that I could have loved her, that I could 
 have killed for the sake of love. I w^ant to re- 
 suscitate her kisses in my memory. But memory 
 is false : it gives no joy, no exultation. The 
 words sound weary, the caressing hands are 
 languid. Love has gone out like an evening 
 flame. Once more twilight, once more dulness. 
 '^I ask myself: Why did I kill? Have 1 
 gained anything through death ? Oh yes ; I 
 believed that it was permissible to kill. But now 
 I am sad : 1 killed not only him, but love as well. 
 And the autumn seems mournful : the dead 
 leaves are lainng — ^the dead leaves of my lost 
 days. 
 
 September 25. 
 I took a paper to-day by chance, and came 
 across a paragraph in small print : ' The police 
 visited last night the Grand Hotel, with an 
 order to arrest Madam Petrova, a lady residing 
 there. In answer to the demand for her to 
 open the door, a shot was heard. When the 
 
THE PALE HORSE 171 
 
 police broke open the door they found the still 
 warm body of the suicide. An inquest is being 
 held; 
 
 It was Erna who stayed at the hotel under 
 the assumed name of Petrova. 
 
 September 26. 
 I can see how it all happened. In the night, 
 towards daybreak, there was a knock on the 
 door — not a loud knock. It was dark and quiet 
 in the room. She slept lightly, and was at once 
 awake. Then came another knock — this time 
 louder and more persistent. She quickly ad- 
 justed her hair and rose from her bed. Without 
 turning on the light she went barefoot to the 
 large table on the right, near the piano. She felt 
 her way with her hands and noiselessly took her 
 revolver out of a drawer. I know the revolver : 
 it was I who made her a present of it. Then 
 she began to dress — still in the dark, still feeling 
 her way. A third knock came — ^the last. Half 
 dressed she rushed into a corner, near the window. 
 She drew aside the dark curtain and saw the 
 narrow, paved courtyard, wet with rain. There 
 were no stars— only the dim light of the lamp 
 below. The police were already breaking in. 
 
172 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 She turned to the door, and, with a quick, deter- 
 mined movement, pressed the revolver to her 
 breast, to the naked flesh, to the very heart. 
 They found her lying on her back in the corner. 
 The revolver outlined itself black on the carpet. 
 And then again all was dark and quiet. 
 
 And now, at this very moment, I can see her 
 standing at my door as if she were aUve. Her 
 hair is in disorder, her blue eyes are dim. Her 
 frail body is trembling as she whispers : 
 
 ' You will come to me, George. . . . Won't 
 you? . . . 
 
 I walked in the streets to-day. The crosses 
 on the churches were gleaming. The bells were 
 ringing gloomily for vespers. The streets were 
 full of noise and bustle. All seemed so famihar 
 and yet so distant. That was the place where 
 Vania had killed the governor. There, in the 
 lane below, Fedor died. . . . This was where I 
 met Elena. ... In the park Ema cried. . . . 
 All that is gone. There had been a flame, now 
 the last smoke is vanishing. 
 
 September 27. 
 
 I am tired of life. To-day is just hke yester- 
 day, and yesterday was like to-day. The same 
 
THE PALE HORSE 178 
 
 milky fog, the same grey everyday life. The 
 same iov6, the same deatb. lAfe is like a narrow 
 street with old low houses, j3at roofs and factory 
 chimneys. A black wood of stone chimneys. 
 
 Or is it not all a puppet show ? The curtain 
 is up, we arc en the stage. The pale Pierrot 
 loves Pierrette. He swears eternal love to her. 
 Pierrette has a lover. A toy pistol cracks, 
 blood flows — it is only cranberry juice. A street 
 organ squeaks. Curtain. 
 
 Then the second number: the pursuit of a 
 man. He has a hat with a cock-feather stuck 
 in it. He is an admiral in the Swiss fleet. We 
 have red mantles and masks. Rinaldo di 
 Rinaldini is with us. The carabineers pursue 
 us but cannot catch us. The pistol cracks 
 again ; the street organ squeaks. Curtain. 
 
 Number three : Athos, Porthos, Aramis, the 
 three musketeers, are on the stage. Their 
 jackets are splashed with wine. They have 
 pasteboard swords in their hands. They drink, 
 kiss and sing. Now and then they kill. Whr 
 can surpass Athos in courage ? Or Porthos -'i 
 strength ? Or Aramis in cunning ? The finale. 
 The street organ drones an elaborate march 
 tune. 
 
174 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 Bravo ! The gallery and the stalls are pleased. 
 The actors have done their jobs. They are 
 being dragged by their three-cornered hats, by 
 their cock-feathers, and thrown into a box. The 
 strings get entangled. Which is the admiral 
 Rinaldo, which the enamoured Pierrot? Who 
 can make head or tail of it ? Good-night until 
 to-morrow. 
 
 To-day I am on the stage with Vania, Fedor, 
 and the governor. Blood is flowing. To-morrow 
 I will be dragged on again. Carabineers are 
 on the scene. Blood is flowing. In a week it 
 will be again the admiral, Pierrette, Pierrot. 
 Blood is flowing — ^that is, cranberry juice. 
 
 Will men find sense in that ? And am I 
 searching for the links of the chain ? And does 
 Vania believe in God ? And does Heinrich 
 believe in freedom ? . . . Oh no, the world is 
 certainly simpler than that. The tedious merry- 
 go-round goes on turning : men fly at the light 
 like moths. They perish in the flame. And 
 really, is it not all the same ? 
 
 I am weary. Days come and go. The street 
 organ will continue to squeak behind the scene. 
 Pierrot will make his escape. Come to the show 
 — it is open to the public. 
 
THE PALE HORSE 175 
 
 I recall one night on the seashore, in the late 
 autumn. The sea was sighing languidly ; it 
 crept slowly upon the beach and immersed it. 
 There was a fog. All boundaries became ob- 
 literated in the white mist. The waves merged 
 with the sky, the beach with the water. The 
 wet watery mist enveloped me. I breathed in 
 the salt moisture. I heard the noise of the 
 water. There was not a single star, not a glimpse 
 of light. A transparent darkness surrounded 
 me. 
 
 It is just like that now. There is no visible 
 outline, no end and no beginning. Is it vaude- 
 ville or is it drama ? Cranberry juice or blood ? 
 Puppet show or life ? I don't know. Who 
 knows ? 
 
 October 1. 
 
 I have left town. Last night I went to the 
 station, and mechanically seated myself in the 
 train. The buffers were clanging noisily, the 
 springs were bending. The engine whistled. 
 Lights gleamed hurriedly by. The wheels 
 rattled on speedily. There is autumn mud here. 
 The morning is gloomy. The water in the river 
 is like lead. And across the river there is a 
 shadow in the fog. It is that of a sharp* spire. 
 
176 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 At three o'clock the dayhght is gone, the street 
 lamps are lit. A howling wind comes from the 
 sea ; the river rises turbulently against the 
 granite banks ; an inundation is threatening. 
 
 I am weary. There are the crosses^— here are 
 the soldiers. Monasteries and barracks. . . . 
 I am waiting for night. My hour comes at night 
 — ^the hour of oblivion and peace. 
 
 October 3. 
 
 I came across Andrei Petrovich yesterday. 
 He was pleased to see me : his eyes smiled. He 
 did not stop me, but cautiously followed me. 
 
 I did not care to see him. I did not want to 
 talk to him about business matters. I knew all 
 he was going to say — all his common-sense 
 sermons. I increased my pace and turned into 
 a lane. He overtook me. 
 
 ' You are back, George ? ' he said. ' Thank 
 God.' 
 
 And he vigorously shook my hand. 
 
 ' Let us go to a tavern.' 
 
 As always, the damaged gramophone rattled 
 on hoarsely. The waiters were running back 
 and forth. The tobacco smoke, the strong 
 smell of alcohol, victuals, and beer irritated me, 
 
THE PALE HORSE 1T7 
 
 ' We wanted you badly. Listen, George.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 He whispered mysteriously : 
 
 ' The work must be organised again. We 
 have decided it.' 
 
 His grey beard trembled ; his eyes twinkled, 
 as is often the case with old men. He waited 
 for my answer. 
 
 There was a pause. Then he said : 
 
 ' We have decided to entrust it to you. It 
 will be hard work. But you are the man for 
 it, George.' 
 
 I listened to him, but did not take in what he 
 said. It was as if a stranger were speaking 
 words which had nothing to do with me. He 
 was calling me somewhere. But I do not wish 
 to kill. Why should I? 
 
 And I said: 'Why?' ' j. -, 
 
 ' What do you mean, George ? ' ^ ^ 
 
 '\Vrhykill?' . ' " 
 
 He did not understand what I meant. He 
 poured out a glass of cold water. 
 
 ' Have some water. You are tired.' 
 
 ' I am not.' 
 
 ' George. . . . What is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 He looked anxiously at me and stroked my 
 
 M 
 
178 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 hand affectionately, like a father. But I knew 
 for certain : I was not with him, nor with Vania, 
 nor with Erna. I w as with no one. 
 
 I took my hat. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Andrei Petrovich.' 
 
 ' George . . .' 
 
 ^Well?' 
 
 • George, you are ill ; you must rest.' 
 
 There was another pause. I said slowly : 
 
 ' I am not tired, and I am quite well. But I 
 won't do anything more. Good-bye.' 
 
 There was thg same mud in the street, and 
 the same spire was visible across the river. It 
 was grey, damp, and miserable. 
 
 October 4. ' 
 Now^ I know : I am tired of life. I am tired 
 of my words, my thoughts, my desires — tired 
 of all men and their life. There is a bar between 
 them and me. There are sacred boundaries. 
 My boundary is the red-stained sworcl. 
 
 I used to look at the sun when 1 was a child. 
 It blinded me, it scorched me with its radiant 
 light. I knew love when I was a child — the 
 tender affections of my mother. I loved all men 
 innocently, I loved the joy of life. Now I do 
 
THE PALE HORSE 179 
 
 not love any one. I do not want to love, and I 
 cannot love. Life has become an accursed and 
 empty thing to me in a single hour : all is a lie 
 and all is vanity. 
 
 October 5. 
 
 There was the desire, and I accomplished my 
 task. Now the desire is gone. Why should I 
 do anything ? For the stage ? For the puppet 
 show ? 
 
 I recall : ' He that loveth not, knoweth not 
 God : for God is love.' I do not love, and I do 
 not know God. Vania knew. Did he really 
 know ? 
 
 Furthermore : ' Blessed are they that have 
 not seen and yet have believed.' To believe — 
 in what ? To pray — ^to whom ? . . . I don't 
 want the prayers of slaves. . . . Suppose Christ 
 has set the world alight with the Word. I don't 
 want serene light. Suppose love can save the 
 world. I don't want love I am alone, I will 
 leave the dull puppet show. And should a 
 temple open to me in heaven — I would still say : 
 All is vanity and all is a lie. 
 
 It is a clear and pensive day. The river 
 glitters in the sun. I love its majestic smooth- 
 ness, the bed of deep and still waters. The 
 
180 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 melancholy sunset dies in the sea, the purple 
 skies are aflame. There is sadness in the splash 
 of waters. The tops of the firs are bending. 
 There is a smell of resin. When the stars come 
 out and the autumn night falls, I will say my 
 lact word : my revolver is with me. 
 
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 at the Edinburgh University Press, Scotland 
 
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