The Samovar Girl

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

PETER paced the floor of his room, his head bent in thought, after Katerin left him. He considered the possibilities of the proposed trip to Harbin in relation to himself and Michael. An escape from Chita, he saw now, would be most desirable for his own purpose, providing he was not being walked into a trap in Harbin. It was quite possible that Katerin and Michael would try to elude him in Harbin. It was inconceivable that they were not quite as anxious to escape from Peter as they were from the Ataman, for they were in full possession of his secret. And once clear of the cordon of Cossack guards surrounding Chita, they might be able to give him the slip.

He had a desire to play out the intricate game in which he found himself enmeshed. He knew he would find it amusing to watch Katerin and Michael play at being fugitives from the Ataman with him, and then play at stalking Michael himself in Harbin—to see a man pretend to seek himself. And at any time, Peter could turn to Michael, and say, “Thou art the man I seek.”

The sheer chicanery of it had an irresistible appeal to Peter. Like all Slavs, he loved the dramatic for the sake of itself, and he enjoyed proceeding by devious ways. Besides, the fact that Katerin and Michael were deliberately deceiving him, justified his own deception. Peter had actually been sorry, as he sat thinking through the night, that the identity of Michael had been made known so abruptly. It had all come with such amazing clarity and finality that he had found himself rather helpless when he realized that the whole business could be settled by the simple expedient of killing Michael without any more delay. He shrank from so hasty a conclusion to an affair which he had been dreaming about for twenty years. He thought that perhaps the Russian people had been caught in just such a staggering position by the easy success of their revolution. A whole nation thrown back upon its haunches, so to speak, and asking itself what it was to do now! Their minds had been so occupied for years in planning and plotting to overthrow the Czar and his government that they had neglected entirely to think of what might face them once they were successful. Their plans had not gone beyond the destruction of the Czar, and when he was destroyed, they needed more years to give thought to what was necessary for the good of the country and the people. It did not seem quite fair to them that the Czar had allowed himself to be overthrown so easily—he had destroyed their game, their one interest in life. So they began to sulk, and intrigue against each other.

In the same way, Peter rather resented Lutoff’s directness in revealing the fact that the “old exile” was Michael Kirsakoff. It made the matter of killing Michael so absurdly easy! And the Slav insists upon making all things difficult—life, war, government—before he can enjoy them. He demands that Life shall be a puzzle, and examines its hidden purposes to discover why the Creator has tricked him into being a living being. He seeks a sinister motive behind his birth, and not being able to find one or to construct one out of his fancy, he kills himself because life is not worth living unless it can be proved to be a sort of divine persecution. The Slav needs a lot of trouble to keep himself happy. Convince him that the purpose of Life is to make him miserable and he is content.

But Peter had become almost wholly Russian again, so he could not fully consider himself in the proper light. He had no intention of letting Michael escape. But he had the bothersome idea that he had to begin all over again to run Michael into a snare—a snare of Peter’s own devising, and built so leisurely that the joy of vengeance would have a satisfactory accretion of mental torture for Michael.

The old general knew that Peter lusted for his life, and this knowledge must in itself fill Kirsakoff with terror. Did not Kirsakoff live in dread of a look, a word, an intonation of the voice, which would betray him to Peter? And Peter knew that he had the power to precipitate the dreaded catastrophe for Michael at any instant. All Peter waited for now was the moment which would intensify the terror for Michael—that moment, perhaps, when Michael would consider himself safest. It might come at the instant when Michael would be ready to slip away from Peter in Harbin, exulting in the thought that he was about to escape from the man who sought to slay him. Safe at last! And then Peter could smile, and instead of saying, “Good-by, my friend,” could say instead, “Now, Michael Alexandrovitch, you die!”

And so utterly Russian such a moment would be! And how fitting, thought Peter. Was not Michael Kirsakoff living in a fool’s paradise and thinking that he could use his enemy to save his life from the Ataman? When he saw it from this angle, Peter was glad that he knew the old man was Michael. Now he could build Michael’s hopes, only to shatter them at the end.

Once again Peter was master of himself and of the situation. He would play the covert game with the Kirsakoffs—and Michael could not escape. Harbin would be better than Chita after all, for it offered a better chance for Peter to cover his tracks.

He had come to this decision when he heard the rattle of boots on the other side of the door which led into Michael’s room. Then the door opened slowly, cautiously, and presently Michael, the blanket over his shoulders and clutching the loose ends of the covering to his breast, looked in. The old man was crouched forward and he was visibly trembling.

Peter thought at first that Michael had come sneaking in during the absence of Katerin below, to attack him. But he saw at once that Michael was alarmed—he stood hesitating in the door, looking back over his shoulder, listening. He had a blanket over his shoulders, and his hair stood up stiffly on the back of his head behind the bandages about his face, like the crest of an angry cockatoo.