The seriousness of my plight came over me very clearly. I was without any means of identification. My passport was in the possession of a terrorist—or the police, having been found in the possession of a terrorist—my luggage contained one packet upon which a Russian would be sent to Siberia, another package which would send a Russian to prison, a revolver in my pocket at a time when the law permitted the military to shoot any person caught with a revolver with his own weapon, I was practically under arrest as a common thief because this gendarme’s money and papers had disappeared—the situation was so overwhelming that for the first time in my life I failed to see even a fighting chance.
Murder has never, at any time, been in my heart. But there in that ghastly light—with the gendarme officer sitting opposite me like a panther about to spring, with the shadow of arrest, prison, and the gallows itself over me, the thought did enter my head to shoot my captor. It was his life against mine. I felt sure I could draw my revolver and fire before he could prevent me. But then what? The report of the shot would startle the passengers in other compartments, it would bring the trainmen—I could not drop out of the window of an express train. I realized that that was out of the question. My brain was never more active, never half so clear, it seemed to me, and my nerves were under absolute control. Yet I could not think of the faintest loophole of escape. In despair I sank back on my improvised pillow—I would see what the officer’s next move would be.
A silhouette of a beam and cross-bar with a dangling rope weighted by a black mass set against a roseate eastern sky at dawn came before my eyes with all the clearness of a ship seen in mirage. At least I would be hung for an old sheep, I mused, remembering the array of points on which I would be arraigned, ranging in seriousness from the charge of being a pickpocket and common thief, to implication in a terroristic act.
After some minutes the gendarme summoned the conductor, who looked me over critically and shook his head. Then the two began to search with apparent diligence for the lost articles, in and under the officer’s bed. When they had looked there pretty thoroughly the gendarme approached my things.
Like a flash it came over me that he might have slipped his portfolio or money into my shoes, or under my coat. If this were the case I preferred finding them myself, so I sprang to my feet, angrily pushed him away, and began to shake out all of my things carefully before the officer and the train-guard. Nothing was found. The officer then turned to my dress suit-case. I knew I was lost if once he saw into that, so I began a veritable tirade, using all the Russian I knew, supplemented by German, French, and English. I saw that the conductor was beginning to be impressed by the fact that I might be a distinguished foreigner. Or (there was another thought) he might believe me a sympathizer of the cause, and, he also being a revolutionist, had determined to assist me.
Suddenly my eye fell on the alleged lost leather document case, under the officer’s pillow, where anybody must have seen it who looked at that end of his berth at all.
My discovery clearly embarrassed the officer, and disgusted the trainman, who slammed the door and left. The officer, too, looked as if he didn’t know what to do. I fell back on my pillow and went to sleep very shortly. I was weak from the strain, and I knew well that I was not out of the woods. I had merely put off the crisis till morning.
The train rolled into Moscow at half-past-eight. My gendarme was plainly agitated, and at a loss how to act. I sized up the situation in this way: He had been dispatched from St. Petersburg to follow me as a “suspect” and to take me prisoner on any pretext that might offer. His departure had of necessity been so hasty that his information concerning me was scanty. He had naturally supposed he was after a Russian. In the evening I had answered his simple questions in monosyllables which sounded all right, then in the night when he had tried to trap me I had revealed to him that I was not a Russian and this fact had completely disconcerted him. Also my leaning back in despair he had mistaken for genuine nonchalance. A guilty man, he had evidently thought, would not be so indifferent under the circumstances. When the train stopped I could see that he was uncertain how to act—to arrest me or not. I feared he would take the opportunity of winning a little glory for himself by taking me on chance, so I determined to take advantage of his stupidity and hesitancy. I held out my hand in a most friendly way, gave him a hearty grip, raised my hat, bade him a cheery good-by, and just as he started to act I sprang from the train, threw myself into the crowd—and—surprise of surprises! felt a hand reach for my suit-case and a familiar voice say:
“Let me take this.”
“Sasha!”