The compartment astonished Esmé. She had never heard of such things. She had expected, she told me, a row of cots, side by side in the carriage: a mobile dormitory. She discovered next door the little wash-basin, with its polished wooden top which could be a table when the basin was not in use. Even the lavatory was disguised to look like a chair, its livery matching the rest of the coupé. The whole effect was of dark pink and white, glowing in the snowy light from the windows. The upholstery was the colour of a confection later sold in Paris as Fraises a la Romanoff, presumably because it had been popular with the Tsar. The sheets were the purest white and the blankets matched the upholstery. There were small sets of drawers and tiny wardrobes. My fellow-traveller had already established himself. A smell of cologne filled the compartment and he had hung up an elaborate Arabian dressing-gown. I read the notices on the door. They were in Russian, French and German. They drew my attention to the bell, which could be reached from where one lay in bed, and to the various services available. We were required not to smoke in bed and to call the attention of a guard at the slightest hint of fire. The list included all the usual rules of rail travel.
Captain Brown said the compartment compared favourably with the best he had experienced (‘in India and elsewhere’) and that he would have enjoyed coming with me. Esmé agreed and said she envied me. I was now used to a certain amount of comfort, but to Esmé this carriage was more magical than anything she had ever seen. She could not stop touching the blankets, the sheets, the fixtures. She was almost mesmerised by them and asked me, ‘Was this what it was like at your uncle’s?’ I laughed, ‘It wasn’t, so different.’
She looked at me as if I had been elevated to the ranks of the gods. ‘You must do well at the Polytechnic,’ she said seriously, ‘It is a great honour, Maxim.’
I squeezed her hand. ‘Dimitri,’ I reminded her gently. ‘All this depends on my being Dimitri Mitrofanovitch, son of a priest from Kherson.’ (These details were in my papers.)
‘I hope you don’t meet any clerical friends from Kherson.’ Captain Brown patted my arm. ‘Make your mother happy, boy. It was her letters got you this. If she hadn’t bent her knee to your uncle... Well, he’s the only decent member of that family. I thought my own was bad enough, but at least they don’t pretend I’m dead.’
I had not heard this before. ‘I don’t understand you, Captain Brown?’
He smiled sympathetically, ‘It’s all right, boy. You’re not to blame and neither is she. They disapproved of your dad. Made themselves judge and jury. It’s the religion, I suppose.’
I was to hear no more. The guard shouted that visitors should leave the train. Whistles began to blow. Captain Brown patted my arm, Esmé kissed my cheek. I returned the kiss and made her blush. They stood outside the window of the coupé, smiling and nodding and making gestures until the whistle blew, the carriage jerked, and I was once again steaming towards the white landscape of the steppe.
This time my home-town was, in turn, obliterated by the falling snow. The train rushed into the silence of frozen lakes, stripped silver birches, pines, little stations whose telegraph cables were hung with icicles; old, grey, huddled villages where peasants dragged sledges containing babies, firewood, milk-churns, and the white, howling smoke of the train was the only warmth to fall upon that whole, cold landscape.
A large young man entered the compartment. He was flamboyantly dressed in a high-collared shirt, a lilac cravat, black silk waistcoat, tight-fitting trousers and a frock-coat. His fair hair was pomaded and piled into waves on his large, handsome head. He had wide blue eyes and a thick-lipped mouth of a sort I would normally mistrust. But he was very friendly in his greeting. He held out his big hand to shake mine. He bent his body forward in a pose which seemed familiar. He must be, I realised as he spoke, connected with the stage.
His accent was gushing, exaggerated. I replied with a dignified:
This ludicrous schoolroom exchange continued until names were presented.
He was Sergei Andreyovitch Tsipliakov and he was, he said, a day behind the rest of his ‘gang’. To our mutual relief, we returned to Russian.
‘Gang?’ I said, amused. ‘Are you a bandit?’
