“Yes, Poland,” said Boronowski. “Why not? You want to fight for a Great Cause. Is not a free and independent Poland the keystone of the arch of reconstructed Europe? It is a commonplace axiom. Poland overthrown3, overrun with Bolshevism, all Europe crumbles4 into dust. The world is convulsed. Fighting for Poland is fighting for the salvation5 of the world. Could there be a greater cause?”
His dark eyes glowed with compelling inspiration. His outflung arm ended in a pointing finger. And Triona saw it as the finger of Salvation Yeo in his boyhood’s picture.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” he said, below his breath.
“And simple. Come with me to Warsaw. I have friends of some influence. Otherwise I should not be here. The Polish Army would welcome you with open arms.”
Triona thrust out a sudden hand, which the other gripped.
“By God!” he cried, “I’ll come.”
An hour afterwards, his brain dominated by the new idea, he danced his way through the melancholy6 streets. Here, indeed, was salvation. Here he could live the life of Truth. Here was the glorious chance—although he would never see her on earth again—of justifying7 himself in Olivia’s eyes. And in itself it was a marvellous adventure. There would be endless days when he should live for the hour that he was alive, without thought of an unconjecturable to-morrow. Into the cause of Poland he would fling his soul. Yes, Boronowski was right. The sovereign remedy. His individual life—what did it matter to him? All the beloved things were past and gone. They lay already on the further side of the Valley of the Shadow of Death. His personality was merged8 into a self-annihilating creature that would henceforth be the embodiment of a spiritual idea.
Thus for the rest of the day, and during the night, his mind worked. Arrived in Poland, he would press for the fiercest section of the front. The bullet that killed him would be welcome. He would die gloriously. Olivia should know.
As John Briggs, with his papers in order, he found his passport a simple matter. Boronowski, with whom he spent most of his time, obtained a speedy visa at the Polish and other Consulates10. During the period of waiting he went carefully through the contents of the suit-case and removed all traces of the name and initials of Alexis Triona. The little black book he burned page by page with matches in the empty grate of his room. When it was consumed, he felt himself rid of an evil thing. In strange East London emporiums, unknown to dwellers11 in the West End, and discovered by restless wandering, he purchased an elementary kit12 for the campaign. Much of his time he spent in Boronowski’s quarters in Somers Town, reading propaganda pamphlets and other literature dealing13 with Polish actualities. When the Polish Army welcomed him with open arms, they must find him thoroughly14 equipped. He bought a Polish grammar, and compiled with Boronowski a phrase-book so as to be prepared with an elementary knowledge of the language. The Pole marvelled15 at his fervour.
“You spring at things like an intellectual tiger,” said he, “and then fasten on to them with the teeth of a bulldog.”
“I’m a quick worker when I concentrate,” said Triona.
And for many days he concentrated, sleeping and eating little, till his cheeks grew gaunt and his eyes bright and haggard. In his interminable talks with Boronowski, he concentrated all his faculties16, until the patriot would laugh and accuse him of a tigerish spring on the secrets of his soul.
“It’s true,” cried Triona, “it’s the soul of Poland I want to make enter my being. To serve you to any purpose I must see through Polish eyes and feel with a Polish heart, and feel my veins17 thrill with the spirituality of Poland.”
“Is that possible?”
“You shall see,” answered Triona.
And just as he had fallen under the obsession18 of the dead Krilov during the night watches in the North Sea, so did he fall under the obsession of this new Great Cause. Something fundamentally histrionic in his temperament19 flung him into these excesses of impersonation. Already he began to regret his resumption of the plain name of John Briggs. Even in the pre-war Russian days he had seldom been addressed by it. For the first social enquiry in Russia elicited20 the Christian21 name of a man’s father. And his father’s name being Peter, he was called by all and sundry22 Ivan Petrovitch. So that even then, in his fervent23 zeal24 to merge9 himself into the Russian spirit, he had grown to regard the two downright words of his name as meaningless monosyllables. But he strangled the regret fiercely as soon as it arose.
“No, by heaven!” said he, “No more lies.”
And yet, in spite of unalterable resolve, as he lay sleepless25 with overwrought nerves in the sour room in the Euston Road, he was haunted by lunatic Polish forms, Brigiovski, Brigowski, which he might adopt without breaking his vow26; he could not see himself in the part of a Polish patriot labelled as John Briggs; just as well might a great actor seek to identify himself with Hamlet while wearing cricketing flannels27 and a bowler28 hat.
Only once in his talks with Boronowski did he refer to the unhappiness to which he was to apply the sovereign remedy. The days were passing without sign of immediate29 departure. Boronowski, under the orders of his superiors, must await instructions. Triona chafed30 at the delay.
Boronowski smiled indulgently.
“The first element in devotion to a cause, or a woman, is patience. Illimitable patience. The demands of a cause are very much like those of a woman, apparently31 illogical and capricious, but really inexorable and unswerving in their purpose.”
Boronowski smiled again. “Histoire de femme——”
“How dare you twist my words like that?”
Boronowski looked at him for a puzzled moment, seeking the association of ideas. Then, grasping it:
“Forgive me, my friend,” he said courteously34. “My English, after all, is that of a foreigner. The word connection was far from my mind. I took your speech to mean that you were driven by unhappiness. And the unhappiness of a young man is so often—— Again, I beg your pardon.”
Triona passed his hand through his brown hair.
“All right,” he said, “I’m sorry. Yes. If you want to know, it’s a woman. She’s the day-spring from on high, and I’m damned beyond redemption. The best thing that could happen would be if she knew I were dead.”
Boronowski tugged35 at his little greyish-red beard. A follower36 of great causes was never the worse for having the Furies at his heels. But he was a man of kindly37 nature.
“No one while he is alive can be damned beyond redemption,” he said. “I don’t wish to press my indiscretion further. Yet, as an older man, could I be of service to you in any way?”
“No, you’re very kind, but no one can help me.” Then an idea flashed across his excited brain. “Not until I’m dead. Then, perhaps, you might do something for me.”
“You’re not going to die yet, my friend.”
“How do we know? I’m going to fight. The first day I may get knocked out. Should anything happen to me, would you kindly communicate with some one?”
“It’s all rather premature39, my friend,” said Boronowski. “But as you wish.” He took the scrap40 of paper which bore the name and address of Major Olifant. “This I may be liable to lose. I will enter it in my notebook.” He made the entry. Then, “May I say a serious word to you?”
“Anything you like.”
“There is such a thing as the fire of purification. But—” he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “you can’t call it down from Heaven. You must await its coming. So we get back to my original remark. Patience, more patience, and always patience.”
This was consoling for the moment; but after a few days’ further grappling with the Polish language, he burst into Boronowski’s lodgings41 and found the patriot at his table, immersed in work.
“If we don’t start soon,” he cried, “I’ll go mad. I haven’t slept for nights and nights. I’ll only sleep when we are on our journey, and I know that all this is reality and not a dream.”
“I’ve just had orders,” replied Boronowski. “We start to-morrow morning. Here are our tickets.”
That night, Triona wrote to Olivia. It was an eternal farewell. On the morrow he was leaving England to offer up his unworthy life as a sacrifice to the Great Cause of Poland. The only reparation he could make for the wrong he had done her was to beseech42 her to look on him as one already dead. It covered many pages.
When he returned to his musty room after this last hour’s heart-breaking communion with her, he sat on his bed overwhelmed by sudden despair. What guarantee had she of this departure for Poland greater than that of his mission to Helsingfors last summer? Would she not throw the letter aside in disgust—another romantic lie? He wished he had not written. He took faint hope again on the reflection that by posting another letter from Warsaw he could establish his veracity43. But why should he keep on worrying her with the details of his miserable44 existence? Better, far better that she should look on him as dead; better, far better that she should believe him dead, so that she could reconstruct her young and broken life. He might die in battle; but then he might not. He had already carried his life safely through battles by land and sea. Again he might come out unscathed. Even if he was killed, how should she hear of his death? And if he survived, was it fair that she should be bound by law eternally to a living ghost? Somebody had said that before. It was Olifant. Olifant, the fool out for Grails, yet speaking the truth of chivalry45. Well, this time—he summoned up the confidence of dismal46 hope—he would make sure that he was dead and that she heard the news. At any rate, he had prepared the ground; Boronowski would communicate with Olifant.
Then came a knock at his door—it was nearly midnight. The night porter entered. A man downstairs wished to see him—a foreigner. A matter of urgent importance.
“Show him up,” said Triona.
He groaned47, put both his hands up to his head. He did not want to see Boronowski to-night. His distraught brain could not stand the patriot’s tireless lucidity48 of purpose. Boronowski belonged to the inhuman49 band of fanatics50, the devotees to one idea, who had nothing personal to sacrifice. Just like lonely old maids who gave themselves up to church-going and good works, and thereby51 plumed52 themselves on the acquisition of immortal53 merit. What soul-shattering tragedy had Boronowski behind him, any more than the elderly virgins54 aforesaid? If Boronowski kept him up talking Poland till three o’clock in the morning—as he had already done—he would go mad. No, not to-night. The mounting steps on the uncarpeted stairs hammered at every nerve in his body. And when the door opened, it was not Boronowski who appeared, but a pallid55, swarthy wisp of a man whom Triona recognized as one Klinski, a Jew, and a trusted agent of Boronowski. He was so evilly dressed that the night porter, accustomed to the drab clientele of the sad hostelry, yet thought it his duty to linger by the door.
Triona dismissed him sharply.
Klinski did not know. He was but the bearer of a letter, a large envelope, which he drew from his breast pocket. Triona tore it open. It contained two envelopes and a covering letter. The letter ran:
“My Dear Friend,
“A sudden change in the political situation has made it necessary for me to go—where I must not tell you. So, to my great regret, I cannot accompany you. You, however, will start by the morning train, as arranged. The route, as you know, is Paris, Zurich, Saltzburg, and Prague. I enclose letters to sound friends in Prague and Warsaw who will relieve you of all worries and responsibilities. If you do not hear from me in Prague, where I should like you to remain one week—it is a beautiful city, and the Czecho-Slovak Republic is one of the most interesting outcomes of the war—await instructions at Warsaw. But I anticipate picking you up in Prague.
“Yours,
“Boronowski.”
A moment ago, he had dreaded57 the interruption of Boronowski on his nerve-racked vigil. Now the dismayed prospect58 of a journey across Europe alone awoke within him a sudden yearning59 for Boronowski’s society. A dozen matters could be cleared up in an hour’s talk. Suppose Boronowski’s return to Warsaw were indefinitely delayed.
“Thanks very much,” he said. “I’ll take back the answer to Mr. Boronowski myself.”
“There can be no answer,” said Klinski.
“Why?”
“Mr. Boronowski left his lodgings early this evening, and has gone—who knows where?”
Triona shrugged60 his shoulders. It was the uncomfortable way of conspirators61 all the world over. To himself he cursed it with heatedness, but to no avail.
“Why didn’t you bring the letter before?” he asked.
“I have had many messages to deliver to-night, sir,” said Klinski, “and I have not finished.”
The stunted62, pallid man looked tired out, half-starved. Triona drew from his pocket a ten-shilling note. Klinski drew back a step.
“I thank you. But in the service of my country I can only accept payment from my Government.”
Triona regarded him in admiration63.
“It must be a great country!”
“It is,” said Klinski, with a light in his eyes.
“And I’m proud to go and fight for her.”
“It’s a privilege that I envy you,” said Klinski. “May God preserve you.”
Driven by the impossibility of sleep in the frowsy room, by the incurable64 wander-fever which took him at periods of unrest, he found himself an hour later standing65 before the block of flats in the Buckingham Palace Road, staring up at the windows of his home. In the bedroom was a faint streak66 of light quite visible from below through a crack in the curtains. He remembered how, a year ago, he had been compelled by a similar impulse, to stand romantically beneath the building which housed her sacredness, and how the gods, smiling on him, had delivered her into his rescuing hands. And now there were no gods—or if there were, they did but mock him. No white wraith67 would appear on the pavement, turning to warm flesh and blood, demanding his succour. She was up there, wakeful, behind that streak of light.
He stood racked by an agony of temptation. The Yale latch68 key was still at the end of his watch-chain. He was her husband. He had the right of entrance. His being clamoured for her, and found utterance69 in a horrible little cry. The light invited him like a beacon70. Yes. He would cross the road. Perhaps the fool Olifant was right. She might yet love him. And then, as if in answer to his half-crazed imaginings, the light went out.
He turned, and walked wearily back across sleeping London.
It was four o’clock when the night porter admitted him. He stumbled to his room. As his train left Victoria at eight, it would be an absurdity71 to undress and go to bed. Utterly72 weary, he threw himself on it as he was, his brain whirling. There could be no question of sleep.
Yet suddenly he became conscious of daylight. He started up and looked at his watch. It was past seven. He had slept after all. He made a perfunctory toilet and hurriedly completed his neglected packing. The drowsy73 night porter, on duty till eight, tardily74 answered his summons, and took his suit-case to the shabby vestibule. Triona followed, with heavy great coat and canvas kit-bag, his purchases for the campaign. The porter suggested breakfast. There was no time. Luckily he had paid his bill the evening before. All he demanded was a taxi.
But at that early hour of the morning there were none, save a luggage-laden few bound for St. Pancras or King’s Cross.
“I can’t leave the hotel, sir,” said the porter, “or I would get you one from Euston.”
“I’ll find one, then,” said Triona, and putting on the heavy khaki coat and gripping suit-case in one hand and kit-bag in the other, he set off along the Euston Road. As he neared the station entrance, he staggered along, aching and sweating. What a fool he had been not to foresee this idiot difficulty! What a fool he had been to give way to sleep. He came in view of the clock. Given a cab, he would still have time to catch the train at Victoria. He had it on his brain that his salvation depended on his catching75 the train at Victoria. He stumbled into the outer court, past the hotel wings. An outgoing taxi-cab swirled76 towards him. He dropped his burdens and stood in its path with upheld arms. There was a sudden pandemonium77 of hoarse78 cries, a sounding of brakes. He glanced round just in time to see, for a fraction of a second, the entering motor-lorry which struck him down.
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1
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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consulates
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| n.领事馆( consulate的名词复数 ) | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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46
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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47
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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48
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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49
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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50
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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51
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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52
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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53
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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54
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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56
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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57
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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58
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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60
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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62
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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63
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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64
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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65
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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66
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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67
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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68
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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69
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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70
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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74
tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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75
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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76
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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78
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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