And he has to go and get himself some more booze.... We shot an out-and-out blackguard today, one of Denikin's spies—he caught him hiding among the rushes himself... so of course he has to get drunk and start philosophising.
He comes out with such a farrago—I was standing outside the window just now, and I felt as if I'd been eating offal. Another man would long ago have sent him to the Special Department for this 'philosophy,' he's become utterly demoralized. After this sort of thing he's ill for two days and can't command the regiment...."
"Didn't you shoot my university comrade?"
Sapozhkov spoke with narrowed eyes, his nostrils quivering.
Gimza made no reply, as if he had not heard him.
Telegin bent his head. Thrusting his perspiring nose towards Gimza's face, Sapozhkov continued:
"All right, he was a Denikin spy.
But he and I used to go to the
'Philosophical Evenings' together.
Why he joined the White Guards, the devil alone knows! Perhaps out of sheer desperation... I took him to you myself.... Isn't it enough for you that I did my duty?
Should I have danced a jig when he was led to the edge of the gully?
I followed, I saw...."
He looked steadily into the dark hollows of Gimza's eyes.
"Am I entitled to human feelings, or must I consume everything within me?"
Gimza replied in his deliberate tones:
"You are not.... I don't know about other people, but you must consume everything within you. It's precisely from feelings like yours that counterrevolution springs."
There was a long silence.
The air was heavy.
All sounds outside the dark window had died down.
Gimza poured himself out some tea, broke off a great hunk of greyish bread and began eating it slowly, as people do when they are really hungry.
Then he began to talk about the Czechs, in muffled tones.
The news was disquieting.
In all the trains, from Penza to Vladivostok, the Czechs were rising.
Before the Soviet power had time to look round, the railways and towns were threatened.
The troop trains in western Russia had already cleared out Penza, proceeded to Syzran, seized it, and continued on their way to Samara.
They were splendidly disciplined, well armed, brave and able fighters.
As yet it would have been hard to say whether it was a mere case of mutiny, or whether some sort of outside influence was being exercised.
Apparently it was something of both.
However that might be, a new front had sprung up, like a train of gunpowder laid from the Pacific to the Volga, and was threatening appalling disasters.
Somebody approached the window from outside.
Gimza stopped talking, frowned, turned.
A voice called him:
"Comrade Gimza, come here...."
"What's the matter?"
"It's confidential."
Drawing his brows down above his eye sockets, Gimza sat for a moment with his hands digging into the seat, rose with an effort, and went out, his shoulders brushing the doorway on either side.
He sat down on the top step of the carriage, and leaned forward.
A tall figure in a cavalry greatcoat emerged with jingling spurs from the darkness.
Whoever it was whispered something hurriedly right into Gimza's ear.
When Gimza went out, Sapozhkov began taking hasty puffs at his pipe, and spat viciously several times through the window.
Removing his pince-nez, he tossed them aside and gave a sudden laugh.
"The great thing is to give direct answers to all questions. Is there or is there not a God? There is not.
Is it permissible to kill? It is.
What is our first aim? World revolution. There you are, brother, without any complicated emotions...."
He broke off, stretching and listening.
The whole carriage shook—that was Gimza banging on the wall with his fist.
His voice, hoarsely fierce, rang out:
"If you're lying to me, you son-of-a-bitch...."
Sergei Sergeyevich caught at Telegin's sleeve.
"Hear him?