Knight Without Armour by James Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

warning so far as he himself was concerned. As for A.J., he
received a polite note from police headquarters informing him that he must
leave Russia within a week.
    He felt this as a rather considerable blow, for in the first place he was
sorry to have brought so much trouble on Willenski, whom he had grown to
like; and besides, he had his own problems to solve. He did not wish to
return to England. He had no idea of anything that he could do if he did
return; he had no specialist qualifications except a knowledge of Russian,
which would be hardly as useful in London as was a knowledge of English in
Petersburg. Journalism was hopeless; he could realise now, over the
perspective of several years, what a complete failure he had been in Fleet
Street. Teaching, of which he had had some experience, would be impossible in
any good English school owing to his poor degree, while as for the other
professions, he neither inclined towards them nor had any hope that they
would incline towards him.
    Beyond even this he had grown to like Petersburg. He had lived in it now
for over a year, had seen it in all its climatic moods; and now it was April
again and the sledge-roads on the frozen Neva would soon be closing for the
thaw. The prospect of summer had been alluring to him more than he had
realised; he had been looking forward to many a swim at Peterhof and many an
excursion into the flower-decked woods that fringed the city on so many
sides.
    His permitted week expired on Easter Tuesday and on Easter Eve he strolled
rather sadly along the Nevski and watched the quaint and fascinating
ceremonial. Thousands of poor work-people had brought their Easter suppers to
be blest, and the priests were walking quickly amongst the crowds sprinkling
the holy water out of large buckets. The food was set out on glistening white
napkins on which stood also lighted tapers, and there was a fairy-like charm
in that panorama of flickering lights, vestmented priests, and rapt, upturned
faces. A.J. had seen it all the previous year, but it held additional
poignancy now that it seemed almost the last impression he would have of the
city. He was observing it with rather more than a sight-seer’s interest
when a well- dressed man in expensive furs, who happened to be pushed against
him by the pressure of the crowd, made some polite remark about the beauty of
the scene. A.J. answered appropriately and conversation followed. The man was
middle-aged and from his speech a person of culture. He was not, A.J. judged,
an Orthodox believer, but he showed a keen sympathy and understanding of the
religious motive, and was obviously as fascinated by the spectacle as A.J.
himself.
    The two, indeed, soon found that they had a great many common ideas and
interests, and talked for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the stranger
said: “Excuse my curiosity, but I’m just wondering if
you’re Russian. It isn’t the accent that betrays
you—don’t think that—merely a way of looking at things that
one doesn’t often find in this country. At a venture I should guess you
French.”
    “You’d be wrong,” answered A.J., smiling.
“I’m English.”
    “Are you, by Jove?” responded the other, dropping the Russian
language with sudden fervour. “That’s odd, because so am I. My
name’s Stanfield.”
    “Mine’s Fothergill.”
    They talked now with even greater relish, and though Stanfield did not say
who he was, A.J. surmised that he had some connection with the British
Embassy. They, discussed all kinds of things during the whole four-mile walk
down the Nevski and back, after which Stanfield said: “Did you ever go
to midnight Mass at St. Isaac’s?” A.J. shook his head, and the
other continued: “You ought to—it’s really worth seeing. If
you’ve nothing else on this evening we might go together.”
    They did, and the experience was one that A.J. was sure he would never
forget. They arrived at the church