Paul and his unsought companion walked a mile or two farther until they came to the Admiralty Quay. To their left, in all its lifelike bronze majesty, rose the statue of Peter the Great mounted on his rearing horse.
“Cursed tsar of the barons!” sneered Paul’s guide, continuing with several derogatory remarks under his breath.
Paul heard, but continued to gaze in awe as they passed. Here was a symbol of all he had come to despise, of the detestable Romanovs, of the hated tsarist government. Yet Peter also represented the very essence of the Motherland and its history, a history he had acquired a deep fondness for during his year at the Gymnasium.
Would his loyalties always be so torn? Would he ever find peace within himself?
They crossed Isaac’s Bridge to Vassily Island. The water below teemed with ships, small steamers, and pleasure barges, all taking advantage of the river now that the winter’s ice was at last melting and breaking up.
Paul had to admit he was fascinated and enthralled by this beautiful, odd, interesting, many-faceted city. St. Petersburg was contemptible to many Russians since Peter’s time because of its decidedly Western atmosphere, yet its buildings and streets and statues and broad avenues were so picturesque that they could not help but draw admiration—especially from a sheltered country boy. His old friends would no doubt scold him for his romantic notions of a city rife with poverty and corruption, housing all the hated bureaucracy of the tsar. He wished someone could help him put all his confusion into proper perspective.
As if to mock his youthful naivete, the first sight to meet Paul’s view as they reached the end of the bridge were the buildings of St. Petersburg University. He should have one day been a student here! He had cherished such a dream. His instructors at the Gymnasium had been hopeful.
But it would never happen now; he was branded as a troublemaker! And even though universities throughout the land were known for their wealth of troublemakers, Paul knew he would never have another chance of being accepted. They had told him upon leaving the Pskov jail that his name had been added to the government’s list of radicals. Should a purge occur, he was likely to be among the first arrested.
He was a fool to be so bedazzled by the stories and characters of Russia’s history. What was history but a whitewashed accounting of the government’s atrocities toward the common man? All the history that mattered lay in the books the teachers at the Gymnasium conveniently omitted from their curriculum; accounts of ill-fated boys fallen victim to evil—victims of selfish systems, corrupt governments!
Suddenly Paul was more anxious than ever to see his old friend Kazan. There was work to be done, wrongs to right, truths to be proclaimed to the unsuspecting masses.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“Some ways yet . . . do you need a rest?”
Indeed, Paul was quite out of breath. He had attributed his light-headedness to his growing agitation of spirit, but in truth he had eaten very little in the last week, and they had been walking at a brisk pace. And they did not possess enough coppers between them to hire even the poorest droshky.
“I’ll rest later,” he replied, shaking his head.
Except for a few nicer flats on the waterfront, Vassily Island drew its population largely from the working classes, minor civil servants, factory workers, and poverty-stricken students. Off the bridge they turned onto the street called Maly Prospect, to which the lowest of these lower classes had gravitated. Perhaps it was not the worst of slums in St. Petersburg, as it was rivaled by the Tartar district of Grafsky Lane and the shabby fisherman’s hovels along the Chernaya River, but the area was bad enough that even policemen were not apt to patrol the deplorably filthy and overcrowded section of the island except in pairs.
Paul had already spent more time than he wanted to in such places. He hoped his acquaintance might be leading him to better appointments. But apparently this was not to be the case.
They paused before a row of dingy tenements. Smudge-faced children with rags of clothing hanging from them played at some game with a faded, lopsided ball. An old woman with bent shoulders and a tattered black shawl wrapped around her shuffled past, giving the two young strangers a sour appraisal before moving on with a scowl.
Paul followed his guide as he ducked into a dark, drab courtyard between two buildings.
The structures towered above them, letting no sunlight reach the ground. The dirt in the narrow passageway was littered about with trash, old newspapers, rotting food, broken bottles, a dilapidated old chair, and discarded bits of clothing. The stale air reeked of filth, urine, and dog droppings. A breeze blew through the stinking corridor, and the odors rose up anew, as if to defend their right to hang putrid over this black hole.
At last Paul’s guide stopped in front of a door toward the rear of the narrow courtyard. He gave several sharp raps with his fist.
“Who is it?” came a muffled voice from inside.
“Valiev,” replied Paul’s companion. “I have brought you a visitor.”
“What visitor?” said the voice in guarded tone.
Paul’s heart leaped as he recognized his friend. “It is I . . . Pavushka!” he shouted, unable to restrain himself.
The next instant the door opened wide. Paul’s face brightened.
“Kazan!” he cried joyfully.
“It is you, my little protege!” said Kazan amiably, throwing his arms around Paul in welcome. “So, you’ve finally come.”
“I’ve been in the city two days.”
“Two days! And not come to see me in all that time?”
“I didn’t know where to find you,” said Paul.
“Well, no matter, my friend. You are here now. I thank you, Valiev, for finding him and bringing him here.”
“I will be on my way,” said the man known as Valiev. “I have other business to attend to. I am certain I will see you again,” he added, looking at Paul.
“How can I ever thank you?” said Paul, embracing the man warmly. “I am in your debt.”
“There is no debt among brothers in the cause, eh?” replied Valiev.
Again Paul wondered if he had misjudged this fellow.
“You are right there,” added Kazan. “And here is a true brother, you can be sure of that!”
Kazan closed the door firmly. The moment they were alone, he turned to Paul with a look of concern on his animated face.
“You look dreadful, Pavushka! How long has it been since you have eaten?”
Paul shrugged. The truth was easily apparent.
“Come,” Kazan went on. “Sit and tell me your story while I fix tea. I am afraid I can offer you no feast, but I do think I may find enough to fill that empty stomach of yours.”