THE SILVER PINE

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 33, 9 February 1939, Page 26

THE SILVER PINE

Short Story —

THFS is a story (if prewar Runsia, the Uussia ~f tin- ( /.ur*. And, <><I,l|\ enough, it was not told tn inc in !i night chili in Mont iiiurl re liy a waitci who lined t<i he ii prince, or a ui'juli who linil IM-tTi a grand duke. It wh lulil tn me in |ttlilsi|ii>r(t one evening ii. Anoint. We were -it ti 11 ur mi Ihe Cor*o. tlmi mo-t agreeable «,f promenade*, where n<. traffic rutin between tin , terraces mil ■dde the cafe* an<l tin- glittering bread! i of th« DaniilM-; where all fawhionabh litldapewt <tri>llw iif> and down listening to the i.i <lif~f i ;i- nf the variolic In.te,.Hri they \i\ny to the .liner* in the o|ien nil , ; where the impulse is tn t-it indefinitely (i\er \our a peri I if. watching lli I pU , |m««. hearing tin- music, and wait in , .' for the II High! ing to spring tip on tile tardier lunik ot tlie river, and turn the palace and the citadel and the pftlien'i 11; i-1 11.11 in old liinla into the likenesse* (if illustrations to u fairy ■>torv.

I I was siding there with Ttonald Williams, a newspaper man and bird-nf-passage, whom one a I way* lmii\|>s up iigainnt in tin- (jiieerer corner* of the globe, and who lui -. a wider circle of acquaintance than anyone I know. We were drinking Hungarian brandy —-which is delicious ..nee you yet used to it and considering it* price when I i»aw an old trout lenimi walking slowly along the ('.>!»<> in our direct inn, and pointed him out to Ronnie. "f *uppoM>," I said ironically, "that you'll tell me you know him." Ronnie looked, then jjrinned all over his ugly face. •'As '» matter of fact," he said. "I do." "Wry well** T went on hurriedly to conceal my irritation, "then |>erhti|M you i can tell inn why any man should wear a military, overcoat and cape over tweed tro Use ix and what look <to me like elantiet-ided bootr> —particularly in this Heather?" Kven after sunset it was warm en.iuj.-h for me to be wearing a tlaniiel unit au<l m> hat. l-ionnie finished hie drink and put down his <rla*ri. "If you want to know." he 1 -aid. deliberately, "he wear* ■them for the simple reason that he has nothing ele<e to wear. He may have a vent under that overcoat, I doubt it. If you look at. hi* epnnlette* you'll *«•(> that they're those wtiff flat Russian thing*. Xo. he's not an ex-grandee or anything. Just ii. former colonel of Ihe Siberian Rifle Regiment, and none the hve a capital chap for Wing a* hard tip a« any tramp." I felt properly ashamed of myself. I felt more ashiinied when I saw the old man nalttte politely as he eausflit eight of Ronnie, nnd approach our table in rwpoiww to the latterV signal. We were and he sat down, pulling his eont carefully round his knees. Hi* face was very thin, coloured 'ike parchment, and as wrinkled a-- a longstored apple. He wore a bonrd and iT'omtache after the fashion of t'ie late C/.ar. Both were white. His hands were beautiful, but they shook uncontrollably, and bore all the signs of hard manual' labour. Konnie told me later that he did casual work on the quays— when he could get i*. Hie eyes had the tired, kind dignity that you see in the eyes of an old dog. He refused a drink, but accepted a cigarette and euioked it with an intensity that could only be called hungry. His voice was ihin and sapless, but he spoke French—he could speak no Knglish —exquisitely. It was like talking to a ghost of all the glories of Imperial Ru«sia. And from further along the Corso the melancholy melodiea of Magyari's famous gipsies sounded an appropriately mournful accompaniment. We were talking of duelling. There had l>een a meeting that morning between two officer*, of the Regent's riuard, and the police had interfered— an unprecedented concession to the prejudices of post-war civilisation. Ronnie was very indignant about it. He posed as an unabashed romantic. Hut t(.e Russian colonel—his name was Kalmykov— disagreed. "No, my friend," said he. "Duelling, like other gentlemanly occupations, .ike waltz music and cavalrj* charges, is out of date. It has no place in the modern world." '"I euppoee," aaid Ronnie, "that after all it only settled one thing; which of two men was the straighter shot!" Colonel Kalmykov's thin lips twitched. ."I have known occasions on which a duel decided something beside* that," he murmured. And then he told n» this story. Of all the young officers who clinked their epurn and clattered their swords along the pavements of St. Petersburg in that hot summer of 1014 —the last summer of the old world—none was more notorious than Michael Konski, lieutenant in the (iuard Cossacks. Of an old and noble Polish family, physically Auperh in a brutal way, famous for skill both with weapons and horses, lie gambled as recklessly ns he rode and made love as successfully as he shot. Michael Konski was not popular with hi* comrades, partly owing to his Polish blood, partly because he chose to walk by himself, caring it ncemcd for the good opinion of no man. But he was too good n regimental officer for his superiors to take exception to his private life. And hi* record an a duellist was not only successful, but quite ruthletw. On two occasions, when his opponent had fired first and missed, Michael Konski had waited deliberately for more than a minute before pistolling the other in cold blood.

One summer evening in early June, a young officer of the Line, spending hie leave in St. Petersburg on a visit to •ome cousins, and finding himself at a loose end, made his way out to one of the Islands in the Neva—those island* which on ttuminer evenings held the night life of the Russian capital, as Montinartre used to hold the night life of Paris. Hie ear was caught by the outpouring* of a gipsy orchestra ("They were playing 'Black Eyes,' as Magyari is playing it at this moment," said Kalrnykov, "and playing it better!"), and the young linesman turned into the boite over whose entrance stood the silhouette of a pine tree painted in glittering silver paint: "The Silver Pine," one of the most funioiiM of the night resorts on the island*—restaurant, cabaret »nd gambling hell in one. The ncene was picturesque enough, kittle tables with gaily coloured cloths «tood under the trees, and all round a Miufll <!anting floor. Oipsies, wearing t ii-ir tra,«itir#al costumes, played their nu1iti.,,,,,1 inelodJea. the leader wanderng among the tables a e he plied his bow. rhern wa« a good deal of rather high-pitched feminine laughter and the clinking ■ at glasses. But what chiefly .aught *hc eye- of the young officer of the Line--hi» name wae Andrei—was a group of uniformed eoldiere, who »tood

round one long tnble playing roulette 't the ii.M.l of the table and holding lie hank \ms a big man in the uniforin I" tlic (Jiinnl Cossacks. He stood quit" •I :>in. mi,! liis great chest seemed U t r=l in the I'Ut'ons of his tunic. .ice was d'-eply tanned, and mngniiiin teeth .i:].-«ii 1 lietween a curled lack nioiistn.he and a sliort pointed ilaek heard. 'Tlie li»ht from (lie p.tro '•Uin lamps in the trees overhead glitred on tlie silver hilts of sword anil • igg-er in l.i. belt. Inder liis i i^ht Mid was :: pile of counters, at liis left • gln-s of ciiani[nigiic. He-ide him sat i iiirl. wli(,.-,• eyes watched tlie rouletti wiccl iiiiwinkiiijily. as though its movei"iil liy punt jsed her.

One of the players recognised Andrei lie had ii.ct him earlier in the year on raii.ieiivre.s ~ear Kiev—and seeing that ie was i\l.inc. invited him to j,,in the ••"•>- Tin-re were imirniiired intlolilelions nil round, and much clicking of heels. |~,t f,, r t | l( . , nnßt |w) . t „((,.„?•„,„ <■• maiiied concentrated on the spinniii" "heel, and soon even liis sponsor for..,it "II al.ont the in si jrni |i,.,. n t « u ; w | u . ril ' ~f "he line. Andrei, who had not hill- of I lie Liai.ililer'.: temperament, and little ■■pare ea*h, played very interiiiittent Iv. throwing ~ coin ~„ 1( , t | |( , ( .| ot ], ~n j v often en.,iiuh to avoid appearing unsociable <r mean. JSiit he was ii.,t in the least !„,,•,•((. He found it altogeiher la>cinatiiif to watch Michael Konski— for if was he at the head of the talili— and hi* lovely, mysterious companion, l-'or loviiv she was; young,' dmkhaned. with a pale, creamy skin, and those nrehed eyebrows anil delicately moulded features which are so faini'i.ir to all lovers of the Itussian JJallet. While as for mystery—she snt there, still, silent ;,s a flower, without m.iveiiient nave when she raised two lingers to slide another counter on to the .•loth. She seemed entirely unaware of the hiiighiiig. tlie drinking, the music; even of the niugiiilleent specimen of manhood at her elbow. And she lost and lost, and ]»»t again with every turn of the wheel. C'nidi wily .Andrei worked his way round the table till he was within arm's length of the girl. Xo one took the least notice of him. The light was dying nut of the sky overhead. The gipsy music swelled, and nobbed, and failed. Champagne corks popped more and more frequently, glasses were riling heedlessly nnd smashed to splinters', bursts of <i!.ging fume from slmdo.ved corner*, and little «cream« of protest from others more shadowed still. And all the time Michael Konski spun his wheel, nnd drank his wine, and piled up hi* winnings, like some huge joyless automaton. and the girl beside ' him watched, nnd lost, till the last of her counters v< re gone, and her found no liing left for them to claspThen Andrei sow her pale face go chalky white, her black eyes dilate UII they looked enormous; heard her draw a quick breath of pain, almost as though she had been stabbed. Then she pushed back her chr.ir and staggeTed to her feet. "Clenned out. Xadya?" called half a dozen voices. She n'odded and tried to smile. Several offers to be her banker were cried across the table, but «ne ehook her head. She was turning to go when Michael Konski thrust out one of his great hands and stopped the wheel. "I've had enough!" he said abruptly, sweeping his counters into a pile. "Xndya. I'll take you home." The girl protested. She would prefer Jo go alone. She didn't want to .spoil his evening. Michael took no notice. I H change these things, and be with you in three minutes," ),<» said, and xwung away across the grass. The re-t of .the party had returned to he game. Andrei saw the girl jerk up her head, clutch at her long" S kirts, and run gracefully towards the gateway. Hardly knowing what he was doinoAndrei followed her. He felt suddenly frightened. Surely there must have been some impulse of terror in that eirl'e heart to make her run like that? In the light of the lamp beside the gateway to "The Silver Pine" he saw her stop, make a cramped helpless little movement of her hands, and turn backAndrei felt a choking sensation in his tiiroat. She looked somehow absurdly .ke a lout child, standing there in the lamplight, her face so pale and strained under her gleaming black hair. m C ?»*J be of assist anee to mademoiselle? he asked, stepping out of the shadow and saluting. Nadya stared at him. Then ehe laughed uncertainly. °

"You were at the table,"she eaid. Andrei nodded. . "Then perhaps we were introduced— we might be friends?" There was a desperate intensity in her warm clear voice. "I should l>e honoured," said Andrei, wondering if after all he had walked into a fairy tale or were dreaming. "I eaid I could go home alone?' said Xadya. "I forgot that I had thrown away my last rouble. lam really very stupid." J "Perhaps you would allow me to take you home T"

By Val Gielgud

He saluted gravely and walked awav along the Corso, perfectly self-possessed in spite of his odd clothes and the elastic-sided shabby boots.

She drew back a little. "If you would lend me a little money," she said slow Iv.

Slie stopped, and Andrei realised that she u:is m> lon-jer looking at him. but over his shoulder. He felt bewiUeied. .1 little hurt, by Xad.va's refusal of his escort. Hut he'had 110 time to consider her possible motive. He heard behind him the clink of metal, turned, and found hi,ii<clf facinjr Michael Konski. The CiixHiick's li[« were parted, and lie was wolfi-Oilv. "I am escorting this lady." be said. Xadya cried out in protest. '"I think." said Andrei, "you are makinir a mistake." ■"The mistake, you young fool," snarled Michael Kon«ki, "is yours!"' and he struck Andrei across tlie face with one of his riding gloves. There was a little silence. The «i|>sies had -Mopped playing, and for '"the moment the revellers in the little ■.rardeii were quiet. Andrei became suddenly conscious of various absurdly dill'erent things; that the moon was rNiiiLi: tiiat one of Michael's epaulette* was !00-"«; that Xadya had a minute scar on her Upper lip; that lie felt cold: that the night was unbelievably beautiful: that lie was bitterly loath' to die. yet \vn« somehow not particularly afraid. "Will you make your excuse* to the lady and go home'.'" said Michael Kon>ki. "Or shall we settle the matter out of baud? 1 have always had a fancy to see if shooting by moonlight is as difficult as people say." Me paused for a moment. I hen went on urgently: '"(io home, you young fool, and forget it!" To Andrei the Cowsaek's sincerity was as iiiioiiestionable as it was bewildering, lint he had eyes only for Xndya, {ii whose eyes, lie seonied'to read a iuaver that he would not abandon her.

'■r am at your service." he said finally. "As you choose." s;l i,i Mjchael. frowiiIllg. "We have our revolver* with us. nnd a short walk will take us to i place where we. shall not be disturbed.'" Andrei could hardly remember any details of that short walk, with Xadv'a clinging to hU slc«.\e. and the lieiitenant stalking on ahead. Hut it, seemed an interminable time before he found himself facing Michael Konski at twenty-live paces } ,e,oss a moonlit stretch of grass, his revolver in his hand. In their dark uniforms against a background of trees, the two men were hardly distinguishable. Andrei realised with a certain distaste that be must lire at his opponent's face, as the oulv target lie could see. Away to his right Xadya in her white frock that was" no whiter tiian her face, looked like some lovely phantom. She held in her outstretched hand one of her handkerchief* whose fall was to be the signal for the duellists to aim and fire . . . It fluttered clear of her finders Andrei, with no experience of fighting! swung up his weapon nnd pressed the trigger. Kven in the moment he knew that his aim was false. Through the curling emoke lie saw Michael Konski's tall figure standing perfectly still, unharmed; saw his hand rise slowly remorselessly, the fingers holding the revolver steady as a rock. Andrei fooked directly into the muzzle of his enemy's weapon. It was all he could do not'to cry out to Michael to finish the business to shoot and be damned to him! He felt in anticipation the numbing crash of the bullet crashing into hisT brain He clenched his teeth savagely, and shut liis eyee. The second report rang out. Utterly incredulous, Andrei realised that he was still alive; that tlie celebrated Michael Konski had missed his shot for once. And then he realised something else Ihe ghost no longer stood at the edge of the clearing. Xadya lav still on the ground. And when Andrei" lifted her he raised in his arms a girl not fainting l»nt dead; dead with a bullet wound iu her breast. "She has beon blackmailing me for months," said Michael Konski quietly oecause our affair had reached iU end' as these things will. 1 hafl intended to finish the matter in the decent privacy of her own apartment when I took her home, when it would have been put <lown to suicide. You interfered, so it will now l>e put down to a regrettable accident, resulting from shooting bv moonlight, a practice dangerously inaccurate, as every expert will tell von " ♦ • ♦ Colonel Andrei Kalmykov rose slowly to his feet. "The biggest scoundrel I ever met, Voon« ,?° nski '" lle said ' " He di «l 1920 fighting against the Reds in Poland and died most gallantly. I expected as much. Xadya had no hold on him you know. He killed her—and risked standing my fire first—because he knew her for what she was—the worst of bad lots, for all her beauty and her innocent expression, and hrr helplessness—and because he saw a raw subaltern from the country walking into the spider's parlour like any silly fly! Yet he was a wicked man by any standards. Life is really very quaint."

"I don't believe a word of it!" I said violently. Ronnie grinned. "Nor does Kalmykov," he said. "But he has no money to buy us. a drink. He cannot even offer us a cigarette. He has pawned his case. But he is a gentleman. a?id he made what return he could for our friendliness. That elaborate piece of fiction was a charming example of good manners. Or would you prefer to be so very up-to-date, and just call it a silly He?" I replied that I would prefer to have a drink. And it was so.

(THK END.)