IX   ILYA USES HIS WITS

ILYA ANDREITCH, having left Rimsky in a state of gorgeous befuddlement at the gypsy’s restaurant, hurried up the street to the house of Michael Kirsakoff and his daughter. It would be great news, the coming of an American who wished to find Kirsakoff. It might be a government matter, for as everybody with an ounce of brains in his head knew, the Americans were going to take full control of Russia—some wise folk even said that the Americans would annex Russia as a province of America. Others said the Czar had gone to America and had conquered it, including Venice. Those were matters which Ilya considered in spare moments; just now he felt that this news of the American needed full attention.

Ilya could see the glowing coals of a sentinels’ bonfire up near the church. Also, there were sounds of music and singing in the direction of a barrack, and the rattle of a droshky coming across the little bridge over the Ingoda. So he did not feel too lonely. There was no moon up yet, but the stars were out and hanging low. The thin, sweet air drenched his lungs, and cleared his brain somewhat.

Now he heard a man walking near by. Ilya stopped to listen, cocking his head to one side. But when Ilya stopped, the man stopped also—and then Ilya realized that it was his own footsteps which he had heard, crunching the hard snow musically. He laughed discreetly, taking care that the sentries should not hear him, and started on again toward the outer rim of the city.

But he was a little afraid that he might not get past some of the sentry groups without being stopped and questioned, or perhaps arrested. He got off the hard walk and into the center of the sandy street, so that his boots would not make a noise. He got out his bottle—the bottle which he had taken from the restaurant table—and had a swig from it to give himself courage. It would be no simple matter to go talking to Kirsakoff, who, though an Excellence, was a cruel old bones of a man.

But Ilya reflected that times had changed. He was as good as anybody now, and knew as much as anybody. The revolution had done that for him, and a revolution was good fun. Was not even Rimsky, who had once held himself to be better than a moujik, now buying vodka for moujiks? Hurrah for the revolution! And as for that, hadn’t he fooled Rimsky and drawn from him the news that the American had come to see Kirsakoff? That was proof enough as to who had the better wit. Ilya gave himself credit for the manner in which he had handled the whole matter.

Kirsakoff should give at least five rubles for the news, not a kopeck less. Ilya settled that to his own satisfaction, took another swig, and went on. A wolf howled in the hills above the city, and Ilya crossed himself against the wiles of the devil.

He passed the black dome of the church. The air was like crystal and nothing cast a shadow, not even the iron fence about the old cemetery of the church. And when the stars are so bright and hang so low that nothing throws a shadow, there are witches about.

Ilya hurried on, getting more nervous with every step, till he was in the outer limits of the city. Then he crossed some old gardens to get in among the log houses which stood at the end of the street. In that way he avoided a group of sentries who were singing about their fire.

He located Kirsakoff’s house. It stood on a corner of two streets, with a log wall enclosing the dvor, or courtyard—the garden, the well, the wagon-sheds. The windows let out no light, but stood out like tablets of ivory set into the dark house, their frosty panes glistening under the stars.

Ilya went round to the great gate. Some old water casks were lying about it in disorder. One of them was close to the wall of the court. Ilya moved it a little, and mounting it, reached up to some old cords and dead vines running along the top of the logs. He took off his mittens and felt for a cord that had tied in it a certain number of knots. He pulled it thrice, and then climbed down from the cask, and stood in close to the wall, so that any person looking up the street would not see him, for his figure would be merged with the dark background of the wall.

A sentry-fire burned redly out in the end of the street. A few dark figures were visible about it. Somewhere Ilya heard a Cossack challenge, and the rattle of a riflebolt in the crisp air. A pig began to squeal away in the direction of the Chinese quarter. Ilya missed the friendly barking of dogs, for the dogs of the city had somehow disappeared since the troubles came and many people were starving. The unnatural stillness of the night held a covert menace, as if all creatures, humans and wild beasts, were walking about on their toes in dread, or crouched to spring upon some lurking enemy. It was likely that hill tigers were about. The occasional howl of a wolf seemed to be tinged with a note of triumph, as if they were waiting for their old wilderness to be restored to them by men. The wolves were once more hunting close to the city and getting arrogant and fat. Men were too busy hunting each other to waste time or ammunition on the great packs of timber wolves.

A small door in the wall, close to where Ilya stood, opened inward a few inches, slowly and cautiously, for the frost cracked the ancient hinges with sharp complaints.

“It is Ilya—Ilya Andreitch,” he whispered into the aperture of the gate.

“You are a fool to come here in the starlight,” growled Wassili. “Are you blind, that you cannot see the brightness of the stars, or have you a mole for an uncle?”

“What does it matter?” whispered Ilya easily. He did not mind being insulted by Wassili, knowing in time that he would have the laugh on Kirsakoff’s moujik.

The gate opened a few more inches, and Ilya needed no greater hint, but slipped through, and the gate closed after him.

“You smell like a kabak,” grumbled Wassili.

“That is why you opened the gate,” said Ilya with a chuckle. “You have a nose for vodka, even if you are not civil to your friends.”

“But you will be seen by enemies, to come here so boldly,” went on Wassili, not so easily altered in his temper.

“I? No one saw me. I am as secret as an owl. Those fools of soldiers are all drunk and talking in their sleep. They shoot their guns at the moon every night, to scare honest folk away.”

“What brings you?” demanded Wassili. “Am I to stand here freezing because you want to gossip?”

“I came to talk with Michael Alexandrovitch,” said Ilya with pomposity. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, for the vodka he had drunk was again asserting its potency because he had been standing still so long outside the gate. He blew gently down into his whiskers to melt away the ice which had formed in the bristles from his breath.

“Hmf!” growled Wassili. “Perhaps you think Michael Alexandrovitch has baked a pig for your coming? Have you forgotten that Michael Alexandrovitch is an Excellence?”

“I am as good as he, Excellence or no Excellence,” retorted Ilya. “What I remember is the revolution, and that Ilya Andreitch is as good as the Czar. But I have brought news for the Excellence. Are we to stand here warming the night with our breaths, when Michael Alexandrovitch would be glad to know what I know?”

“He could salt his porridge with what you know,” scorned Wassili. “What news do you bring?” He was still doubtful of the legitimacy of Ilya’s visit, and suspected his coming to be a desire for drunken argument.

“When a man brings news in these times, he might have a glass of hot tea,” hinted Ilya. “It is about government, and I have come with big news about what is being done outside this place.”

“You have brought a monkey with you, that is what,” muttered Wassili, meaning that Ilya was foolishly drunk. But he fastened the bolt of the gate. He was now shivering with the cold and sulky about it, though he did not dare risk sending Ilya away if there was any chance of valuable information’s coming to the attention of his master, Kirsakoff.

“Whoosh! Is not a monkey smarter than a fox? You old pothead, you sit here all day looking at your feet, while I learn government news and risk my neck to bring it here and——”

“Be still!” commanded Wassili. “You can be heard to the hills a night like this! You smell of fresh-killed pig and vodka, for all your government talk. Is that the way to come to the house of Excellence? Follow along with that noisy tongue of yours, but keep your fingers on it, for it wags too freely and you will lose it along with your head, if you are not careful.”

“Yes, and I’ll bring a drink of vodka along for you, if you have a fire in your samovar, you old spider.”

“It is good you bring something besides talk,” grumbled Wassili, as he led the way under the overhanging roof of the shed and along through the gloom to the door of the kitchen. Ilya stumbled along after him, blundering among the kettles and other gear and making such a racket that Wassili cursed him for having too many legs. But Ilya, in a gay mood, chuckled into his beard and was only concerned lest he lose his footing and have a tumble that would break the precious bottle in his pocket.

They entered the kitchen, which had its windows hung with old blankets to keep the light hidden. There was a wall-stove and a cooking stove with ovens built of stone. A candle burned on the table. There were partridge feathers in a sink and the remnants of cabbages that had been cut up on a board. A big earthen jar of gooseberry jam stood open on the table and beside it a fat yellow bowl full of white honey, which gave off a sweet odor and made Ilya think of bees in the fields in summer.

Wassili sat down and rested his elbows on the table. His pockmarked face had a glum look, and his pale yellow whiskers bristled with belligerency for Ilya, as if the moujik were in for trouble unless his story should be of sufficient import for the visit. Wassili’s blue caftan, pale and washed out like the garment of a Chinese coolie, was strapped about him with a bit of scarlet cloth which had once been embroidered. His feet were wrapped in skins, ready to be slipped into the big boots standing limply by the bench upon which he sat. He had not put them on when he went out to admit Ilya.

“Let us be merry while we can,” began Ilya, anxious to improve the atmosphere of the kitchen as represented by the scowling Wassili. So Ilya threw himself down sprawlingly on a bench opposite Wassili, and loosened the old rope about his coat. Then he pulled his bottle from his pocket with a flourish of good-fellowship and slammed it down upon the table with a thump. “We will all be dead in time that will come soon enough, so I will have a glass of tea and a spice-cake before I talk with the Excellence.”

“The wind is full of news,” said Wassili sadly, but the sight of the bottle put him in slightly better humor. He leaned down and squinted across it, to gauge its contents.

“How is the health of Excellence?” asked Ilya, his courage bolstered by a sudden remembrance of his own importance and a desire to return to the subject of statecraft in connection with Michael Kirsakoff.

Without answering, Wassili poured himself a generous draft from the bottle into a thick glass, and nodding to Ilya in place of speaking a health, tossed the liquor off with a clicking sound in his throat and a harsh appreciative grunt.

“Bring the spice-cakes and the glasses for tea,” he called out to the other room. An old serving woman peered into the kitchen, appraised Ilya with critical eyes, and then shambled away for the cakes and glasses.

Ilya’s yellowed teeth grinned across the table at Wassili.

“Now when am I to talk with Michael Alexandrovitch, eh?” he demanded, crossing his legs importantly and rubbing one knee with his paw of a hand. “Don’t forget why I have come, Wassili, and that my business is with the master.”

“You will see Excellence when you see him,” said Wassili.

“True!” said Ilya. “But I shall not leave that to you, if I have to hammer him up myself. This is a matter of government.”

“There is no one in the house but the old woman and myself,” said Wassili, with a flourish of his arm. “Excellence is gone, and your whiskers will be longer before you see him.”

“May the devil tear out your tongue, for it does not speak the truth,” said Ilya without anger. “This is not a time for lying, when your master is waiting for news from me.”

Wassili flourished his arm as an expression of his annoyance, and blurted out surlily, “Then go above for yourself and see, if you know better than I.”

The old woman shuffled into the room, and put the glass and a plate of cakes before Ilya, giving him a suspicious eye, and glancing disapprovingly at Wassili for permitting what she regarded as a dangerous intrusion. But she did not linger at the table longer than was necessary to throw down the plate and the tea-glass.

Ilya picked up a spice-cake and inspected it carefully by the light of the candle, the maneuver being nothing but a way of delaying his speech till the old woman had disappeared.

“I have come with news about an American who is in the city,” he began, and bit into the cake.

Wassili turned upon him quickly.

“You are a liar!” he exclaimed with ferocity. “There are no Americans in the city here—they are only in Vladivostok, and you are blowing a trumpet in this house while you eat our cakes.” Wassili’s attitude was almost ferocious.

“Then you know better than I,” said Ilya, blinking at him across the table and munching the dry cake.

“You are drunk, and you dare come here in these times and put a fool’s cap on me—and the master!”

“True, I am drunk,” replied Ilya through a mouthful of dry cake. “And I hope I’ll die drunk and go to heaven. But do you think I’m fool enough to run my legs off and come here, risking bullets in my back when I might be sitting by the fire with my bottle? Do you think I come here just to look at your old mud-head? I cared nothing for your master before the revolution, but now that I’m as good as he, why should I not do him a good turn if I can—and he has a few spare rubles to make it worth my time?” Ilya blew crumbs of dry biscuit at Wassili with the words.

“Don’t come here and preach at me like a pope!” cautioned Wassili, who was puzzled by Ilya’s newly acquired attitude of independence. Ilya was evidently sure of his ground—or gone mad entirely.

“What!” cried Ilya. “You talk to me like that! And I have come to tell the master news! Very good. I know the way home again, and may your bones never know what it means to be buried.”

“Where are these Americans you talk about?” demanded Wassili, as he saw that it would be wiser to let Ilya have his say.

Ilya snorted, but showed his teeth in a grin of triumph. “I shall go and tell the American officer that Kirsakoff and his daughter have gone, eh? That is what you say. Very good. That will be all right, I suppose—till it happens that way, and then Excellence will kick you till you squeal. Then you will wish that you had listened to Ilya Andreitch and had not tried to make yourself into an Excellence with big manners.”

“Come, come,” protested Wassili amiably. “Let us not argue. Tell me what you know and——”

“I shall tell Excellence myself,” broke in Ilya. “I am a free man. What good is a revolution if one man cannot speak to another? Go and tell Excellence that Ilya Andreitch, who cut wood for him in the year of the pestilence, has come with news.”

Wassili laughed, and taking advantage of a fit of sneezing suffered by Ilya from having breathed particles of dry cake, helped himself to another draft from the bottle of vodka.

“Perhaps I had better tell Excellence that a Grand Duke has come to see him, eh?” and Wassili reached across the table and poked Ilya in the ribs.

“Am I not as good as a Grand Duke?” demanded Ilya. “I am alive to enjoy my vodka and many a Grand Duke would like to be able to say that, you old fish-gut! Go and tell the Excellence that I have come.”

Wassili got up. “See that you don’t finish the bottle while I’m gone,” he warned Ilya, and disappeared through a door into a hall, and Ilya heard him climbing a creaky stairs.