Watson, Ian - Novel 11 by Chekhov's Journey (v1.1) Page B

. . .’’
                 “‘Ay,
there’s the rub,’ as Vasily Fedotik would say.’’
                 “This
taiga’s evil, Anton Pavlovich. The mosquitoes can eat you alive. Horses can
drown in the devilish bogs.’’
                 “So
we wait till it freezes—then the Winter swallows us.
It’s madness. Besides, have you considered the cost?’’
                 How
slowly yet valiantly the ferry moved ... A group of peasants shared the jetty
with them, perching on baskets of spring onions. A circuit judge sat pompously
upon his carriage. Anton’s thoughts drifted back over the strange chain of
events of the past few weeks . . .
                 Commencing
with his visit to the offices of the Krasnoyarets newspaper on the morning after he had first heard Sidorov tell his tale . .
. The editor insisted on holding a reception in Anton’s honour at his own home
that very evening. Present at that soiree had been a fairly fatuous company of
ladies, drummed up in haste, who oo-ed and ah-ed over him and tinkled pianos
and recited Pushkin—and the not-so-fatuous Countess Lydia Zelenina who was
playing it up as a ‘romantic exile . . .’
                 There
Anton had also met a Czech surveyor, Jaroslav Mirek by name, who had something
to do with a scheme for building a railway, but who was kicking his heels in Krasnoyarsk .
                 One
thing had led to another, which had led in turn to a third, till a fortnight
later Anton was still becalmed in Krasnoyarsk —as were Vershinin, Rode and Fedotik. It now
transpired that the three musketeers were in reality stuck for funds, having
extravagantly run through their allowances of two thousand roubles apiece. But
by then Vershinin was talking brashly of persuading the Governor to second him
from his assignment on the Amur, ‘for a real adventure’, while Ilya Sidorov who
had stopped behaving quite so superfluously, was all for hauling Anton off to
Kansk on a fact-finding investigation—a trip from which they were only now
returning . . .
                 Fate,
it seemed, had conspired. Yet what of the convicts and their women and children
still languishing all this while in Sakhalin ? Could it be that there was more than one
way to pay one’s dues to Science?
                 Presently
the ferry grounded against the jetty. Ropes were tossed ashore, and the judge’s
driver flicked his whip, catching a peasant across the rump.
                 Dismounting,
Anton and Sidorov hauled their own team and carriage out upon this mighty
warrior of rivers.
     
                 Once
he was back in the hotel on Blagoryeshtchenskaya Anton promptly drank five
glasses of tea in a row till his face glowed as red as a beetroot—and sorted
through his accumulated correspondence. Those troikas of the Imperial Postal
Service might run you down without a second thought, but they did deliver the
goods at wonderful speed.
                 His
article about the Tunguska Mystery’ was already in print in New Times ; already it had caused a bit
of a sensation in the newspapers, so Suvorin reported—there was even talk of
raising a fund.
                 Apart
from Suvorin’s epistle there were letters from sister Mariya—blessedly
accompanying a packet of decent tobacco, to spare him from the Siberian variety
which resembled pounded hay—and from mother Evgenia, also from Pleshcheyev.
Then there was a long reply to his own appeal for scientific advice, from Olga
Kundasova; and finally there was a bulky letter from some complete stranger who
lived in Borovsk, fourscore versts to the south of Moscow .
                 He
read the family news first while guzzling the fourth and fifth cups of tea and
enjoying a real Ukrainian smoke; then opened the lady astronomer’s letter.
                 This
was full of astronomical speculations about comets and