was the film of the water above the ice; the water caught the colour, but the ice below it was grey and still. Clouds of crimson and orange and faint gold streamed away in great waves of light from the sun. The long line of buildings and towers on the farther side was jet-black; the masts of the ships clustering against the Quay were touched at their tips with bright gold. It was all utterly still, not a sound nor a movement anywhere; only one figure, that of a woman, was coming slowly towards me. I felt, as one always does at the beginning of a Russian spring, a strange sense of expectation. Spring in Russia is so sudden and so swift that it gives an overwhelming impression of a powerful organising Power behind it. Suddenly the shutters are pulled back and the sun floods the world! Upon this afternoon one could feel the urgent business of preparation pushing forward, arrogantly, ruthlessly. I don’t think that I had ever before realised the power of the Neva at such close quarters. I was almost ashamed at the contrast of its struggle with my own feebleness.
I saw then that the figure coming towards me was Nina.
III
As she came nearer I saw that she was intensely preoccupied. She was looking straight in front of her but seeing nothing. It was only when she was quite close to me that I saw that she was crying. She was making no sound. Her mouth was closed; the tears were slowly, helplessly, rolling down her cheeks.
She was very near to me indeed before she saw me; then she looked at me closely before she recognised me. When she saw that it was I, she stopped, fumbled for her handkerchief, which she found, wiped her eyes, then turned away from me and looked out over the river.
“Nina, dear,” I said, “what’s the matter?”
She didn’t answer; at length she turned round and said:
“You’ve been ill again, haven’t you?”
One cheek had a dirty tear-stain on it, which made her inexpressibly young and pathetic and helpless.
“Yes,” I said, “I have.”
She caught her breath, put out her hand, and touched my arm.
“Oh, you _do_ look ill!… Vera went to ask, and there was a rough-looking man there who said that no one could see you, but that you were all right…. One of us ought to have forced a way in–M. Bohun wanted to–but we’ve all been thinking of ourselves.”
“What’s the matter, Nina?” I asked. “You’ve been crying.”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not. You ought to tell me. You trusted me once.”
“I don’t trust any one,” she answered fiercely. “Especially not Englishmen.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked again.
“Nothing…. We’re just as we were. Except,” she suddenly looked up at me, “Uncle Alexei’s living with us now.”
“Semyonov!” I cried out sharply, “living with you!”
“Yes,” she went on, “in the room where Nicholas had his inventions is Uncle Alexei’s bedroom.”
“Why, in Heaven’s name?” I cried.
“Uncle Alexei wanted it. He said he was lonely, and then he just came. I don’t know whether Nicholas likes it or not. Vera hates it, but she agreed at once.”
“And do you like it?” I asked.
“I like Uncle Alexei,” she answered. “We have long talks. He shows me how silly I’ve been.”
“Oh!” I said… “and what about Nicholas’ inventions?”
“He’s given them up for ever.” She looked at me doubtfully, as though she were wondering whether she could trust me. “He’s so funny now–Nicholas, I mean. You know he was so happy when the Revolution came. Now he’s in a different mood every minute. Something’s happened to him that we don’t know about.”
“What kind of thing?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He’s seen something or heard something. It’s some secret he’s got. But Uncle Alexei knows.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because he’s always saying things that make Nicholas angry, and we can’t see anything in them at all…. Uncle Alexei’s very clever.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed. “But you haven’t told me why you were crying just now.”
She looked at me. She gave a little shiver. “Oh, you do look ill!… Everything’s going wrong together, isn’t it?”
And with that she suddenly left me, hurrying away from me, leaving me miserable and apprehensive of some great trouble in store for all of us.
IV
It is impossible to explain how disturbed I was by Nina’s news. Semyonov living in the flat! He must have some very strong reason for this, to leave his big comfortable flat for the pokiness of the Markovitches’!
And then that the Markovitches should have him! There were already inhabitants enough–Nicholas, Vera, Nina, Uncle Ivan, Bohun. Then the inconvenience and discomfort of Nicholas’s little hole as a bedroom! How Semyonov must loathe it!
From that moment the Markovitches’ flat became for me the centre of my drama. Looking back I could see now how all the growing development of the story had centred round those rooms. I did not of course know at this time of that final drama of the Thursday afternoon, but I knew of the adventure with the policeman, and it seemed to me that the flat was a cup into which the ingredients were being poured one after another until at last the preparation would be complete, and then….
Oh, but I cared for Nina and Vera and Nicholas–yes, and Jerry too! I wanted to see them happy and at peace before I left them–in especial Nicholas.
And Semyonov came closer to them and closer, following some plan of his own and yet, after all, finally like a man driven by a power, constructed it might be, out of his own very irony.
I made a kind of bet with fate that by Easter Day every one should be happy by then.
Next day, the 15th of April, was the great funeral for the victims of the Revolution. I believe, although of course at that time I had heard nothing, that there had been great speculation about the day, many people thinking that it would be an excuse for further trouble, the Monarchists rising, or the “Soviet” attacking the Provisional Government, or Milyukoff and his followers attacking the Soviet. They need not have been alarmed. No one had as yet realised the lengths that Slavonic apathy may permit itself….
I went down about half-past ten to the Square at the end of the Sadovaya and found it filled with a vast concourse of peasants, not only the Square was filled, but the Sadovaya as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in perfect order, about eight in a row, arm in arm. Every group carried its banner, and far away into the distance one could see the words “Freedom,” “Brotherhood,” “The Land for All,” “Peace of the World,” floating on the breeze. Nevertheless, in spite of these fine words, it was not a very cheering sight. The day was wretched–no actual rain, but a cold damp wind blowing and the dirty snow, half ice and half water; the people themselves were not inspiring. They were all, it seemed, peasants. I saw very few workmen, although I believe that multitudes were actually in the procession. Those strange, pale, Eastern faces, passive, apathetic, ignorant, childish, unreasoning, stretched in a great cloud under the grey overhanging canopy of the sky. They raised if once and again a melancholy little tune that was more wail than anything else. They had stood there, I was told, in pools of frozen water for hours, and were perfectly ready to stand thus for many hours more if they were ordered to do so. As I regarded their ignorance and apathy I realised for the first time something of what the Revolution had already done.
A hundred million of these children–ignorant, greedy, pathetic, helpless, revengeful–let loose upon the world! Where were their leaders? Who, indeed, would their leaders be? The sun sometimes broke through for a moment, but the light that it threw on their faces only made them more pallid, more death-like. They did not laugh nor joke as our people at home would have done…. I believe that very few of them had any idea why they were there….
Suddenly the word came down the lines to move forward. Very slowly, wailing their little tune, they advanced.
But the morning was growing old and I must at once see Vera. I had made up my mind, during the night, to do anything that lay in my power to persuade Vera and Nina to leave their flat. The flat was the root of all their trouble, there was something in its atmosphere, something gloomy and ominous. They would be better at the other end of the town, or, perhaps, over on the Vassily Ostrov. I would show Vera that it was a fatal plan to have Semyonov to live with them (as in all probability she herself knew well enough), and their leaving the flat was a very good excuse for getting rid of him. I had all this in my head as I went along. I was still feeling ill and feeble, and my half-hour’s stand in the market-place had seriously exhausted me. I had to lean against the walls of the houses every now and then; it seemed to me that, in the pale watery air, the whole world was a dream, the high forbiding flats looking down on to the dirty ice of the canals, the water dripping, dripping, dripping…. No one was about. Every one had gone to join in the procession. I could see it, with my mind’s eye, unwinding its huge tails through the watery-oozing channels of the town, like some pale-coloured snake, crawling through the misty labyrinths of a marsh.
In the flat I found only Uncle Ivan sitting very happily by himself at the table playing patience. He was dressed very smartly in his English black suit and a black bow tie. He behaved with his usual elaborate courtesy to me but, to my relief, on this occasion, he spoke Russian.
It appeared that the Revolution had not upset him in the least. He took, he assured me, no interest whatever in politics. The great thing was “to live inside oneself,” and by living inside oneself he meant, I gathered, that one should be entirely selfish. Clothes were important, and food and courteous manners, but he must say that he could not see that one would be very much worse off even though one were ruled by the Germans–one might, indeed, be a great deal more comfortable. And as to this Revolution he couldn’t really understand why people made such a fuss. One class or another class what did it matter? (As to this he was, I fear, to be sadly undeceived. He little knew that, before the year was out, he would be shovelling snow in the Morskaia for a rouble an hour.) So centred was he upon himself that he did not notice that I looked ill. He offered me a chair, indeed, but that was simply his courteous manners. Very ridiculous, he thought, the fuss that Nicholas made about the Revolution–very ridiculous the fuss that he made about everything….
Alexei had been showing Nicholas how ridiculous he was.
“Oh, has he?” said I. “How’s he been doing that?”
Laughing at him, apparently. They all laughed at him. It was his own fault.
“Alexei’s living with us now, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, “what’s he doing that for?”
“He wanted to,” said Uncle Ivan simply. “He’s always done what he’s wanted to, all his life.”
“It makes it a great many of you in one small flat.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Uncle Ivan amiably. “Very pleasant–although, Ivan Andreievitch, I will admit to you quite frankly that I’ve always been frightened of Alexei. He has such a very sharp tongue. He discovers one’s weak spots in a marvellous manner…. We all have weak spots you know,” he added apologetically.
“Yes, we have,” I said.
Then, to my relief, Vera came in. She was very sweet to me, expressing much concern about my illness, asking me to stay and have my meal with them…. She suddenly broke off. There was a letter lying on the table addressed to her. I saw at once that it was in Nina’s handwriting.
“Nina! Writing to _me_!” She picked it up, stood back looking at the envelope before she opened it. She read it, then turned on me with a cry.
“Nina!… She’s gone!”
“Gone!” I repeated, starting at once.
“Yes…. Read!” She thrust it into my hand.
In Nina’s sprawling schoolgirl hand I read:
Dear Vera–I’ve left you and Nicholas for ever…. I have been thinking of this for a long time, and now Uncle Alexei has shown me how foolish I’ve been, wanting something I can’t have. But I’m not a child any longer. I must lead my own life…. I’m going to live with Boris who will take care of me. It’s no use you or any one trying to prevent me. I will not come back. I must lead my own life now. Nina.
Vera was beside herself.
“Quick! Quick! Some one must go after her. She must be brought back at once. Quick! _Scora! Scora_!… I must go. No, she is angry with me. She won’t listen to me. Ivan Andreievitch, you must go. At once! You must bring her back with you. Darling, darling Nina!… Oh, my God, what shall I do if anything happens to her!”
She clutched my arm. Even as she spoke, she had got my hat and stick.
“This is Alexei Petrovitch,” I said.
“Never mind who it is,” she answered. “She must be brought back at once. She is so young. She doesn’t know…. Boris–Oh! it’s impossible. Don’t leave without bringing her back with you.”
Even old Uncle Ivan seemed distressed.
“Dear, dear…” he kept repeating, “dear, dear…. Poor little Nina. Poor little Nina–“
“Where does Grogoff live?” I asked.
“16 Gagarinskaya…. Flat 3. Quick. You must bring her back with you. Promise me.”
“I will do my best,” I said.
I found by a miracle of good fortune an Isvostchick in the street outside. We plunged along through the pools of water in the direction of the Gagarinskaya. That was a horrible drive. In the Sadovaya we met the slow, winding funeral procession.
On they went, arm in arm, the same little wailing tune, monotonously repeating, but sounding like nothing human, rather exuding from the very cobbles of the road and the waters of the stagnant canals.
The march of the peasants upon Petrograd! I could see them from all the quarters of the town, converging upon the Marsovoie Pole, stubborn, silent, wraiths of earlier civilisation, omens of later dominations. I thought of Boris Grogoff. What did he, with all his vehemence and conceit, intend to do with these? First he would flatter them–I saw that clearly enough. But then when his flatteries failed, what then? Could he control them? Would they obey him? Would they obey anybody until education had shown them the necessities for co-ordination and self-discipline? The river at last was overflowing its banks–would not the savage force of its power be greater than any one could calculate? The stream flowed on…. My Isvostchick took his cab down a side street, and then again met the strange sorrowful company. From this point I could see several further bridges and streets, and over them all I saw the same stream flowing, the same banners blowing–and all so still, so dumb, so patient.
The delay was maddening. My thoughts were all now on Nina. I saw her always before me as I had beheld her yesterday, walking slowly along, her eyes fixed on space, the tears trickling down her face. “Life,” Nikitin once said to me, “I sometimes think is like a dark room, the door closed, the windows bolted and your enemy shut in with you. Whether your enemy or yourself is the stronger who knows?… Nor does it matter, as the issue is always decided outside…. Knowing that you can at least afford to despise him.”
I felt something of that impotence now. I cursed the Isvostchick, but wherever he went this slow endless stream seemed to impede our way. Poor Nina! Such a baby! What was it that had driven her to this? She did not love the man, and she knew quite well that she did not. No, it was an act of defiance. But defiance to whom–to Vera? to Lawrence?… and what had Semyonov said to her?
Then, thank Heaven, we crossed the Nevski, and our way was clear. The old cabman whipped up his horse and, in a minute or two we were outside 16 Gagarinskaya. I will confess to very real fears and hesitations as I climbed the dark stairs (the lift was, of course, not working). I was not the kind of man for this kind of job. In the first place I hated quarrels, and knowing Grogoff’s hot temper I had every reason to expect a tempestuous interview. Then I was ill, aching in every limb and seeing everything, as I always did when I was unwell, mistily and with uncertainty. Then I had a very shrewd suspicion that there was considerable truth in what Semyonov had said, that I was interfering in what only remotely concerned me. At any rate, that was certainly the view that Grogoff would take, and Nina, perhaps also. I felt, as I rang the bell of No. 3, that unpleasant pain in the pit of the stomach that tells you that you’re going to make a fool of yourself.
Well, it would not be for the first time.
“Boris Nicolaievitch, _doma_?” I asked the cross-looking old woman who opened the door.
“_Doma_,” she answered, holding it open to let me pass.
I was shown into a dark, untidy sitting-room. It seemed at first sight to be littered with papers, newspapers, Revolutionary sheets and proclamations, the _Pravda_, the _Novaya Jezn_, the _Soldatskaya Mwyssl_…. On the dirty wall-paper there were enormous dark photographs, in faded gilt frames, of family groups; on one wall there was a large garishly coloured picture of Grogoff himself in student’s dress. The stove was unlighted and the room was very cold. My heart ached for Nina.
A moment after Grogoff came in. He came forward to me very amiably, holding out his hand.
“Nu, Ivan Andreievitch…. What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling.
And how he had changed! He was positively swollen with self-satisfaction. He had never been famous for personal modesty, but he seemed now to be physically twice his normal size. He was fat, his cheeks puffed, his stomach swelling beneath the belt that bound it. His fair hair was long, and rolled in large curls on one side of his head and over his forehead. He spoke in a loud, overbearing voice.
“Nu, Ivan Andreievitch, what can I do for you?” he repeated.
“Can I see Nina?” I asked.
“Nina?…” he repeated as though surprised. “Certainly–but what do you want to say to her?”
“I don’t see that that’s your business,” I answered. “I have a message for her from her family.”
“But of course it’s my business,” he answered. “I’m looking after her now.”
“Since when?” I asked.
“What does that matter?… She is going to live with me.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said.
I knew that it was foolish to take this kind of tone. It could do no good, and I was not the sort of man to carry it through.
But he was not at all annoyed.
“See, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said, smiling. “What is there to discuss? Nina and I have long considered living together. She is a grown-up woman. It’s no one’s affair but her own.”
“Are you going to marry her?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” he answered; “that would not suit either of us. It’s no good your bringing your English ideas here, Ivan Andreievitch. We belong to the new world, Nina and I.”
“Well, I want to speak to her,” I answered.
“So you shall, certainly. But if you hope to influence her at all you are wasting your time, I assure you. Nina has acted very rightly. She found the home life impossible. I’m sure I don’t wonder. She will assist me in my work. The most important work, perhaps, that man has ever been called on to perform….”
He raised his voice here as though he were going to begin a speech. But at that moment Nina came in. She stood in the doorway looking across at me with a childish mixture of hesitation and boldness, of anger and goodwill in her face. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes heavy. Her hair was done in two long plaits. She looked about fourteen.
She came up to me, but she didn’t offer me her hand. Boris said:
“Nina dear, Ivan Andreievitch has come to give you a message from your family.” There was a note of scorn in his voice as he repeated my earlier sentence.
“What is it?” she asked, looking at me defiantly.
“I’d like to give it you alone,” I said.
“Whatever you say to me it is right that Boris should hear,” she answered.
I tried to forget that Grogoff was there. I went on:
“Well then, Nina, you must know what I want to say. They are heartbroken at your leaving them. You know of course that they are. They beg you to come back…. Vera and Nicholas too. They simply won’t know what to do without you. Vera says that you have been angry with her. She doesn’t know why, but she says that she will do her very best if you come back, so that you won’t be angry any more…. Nina, dear, you know that it is they whom you really love. You never can be happy here. You know that you cannot…. Come back to them! Come back! I don’t know what it was that Alexei Petrovitch said to you, but whatever it was you should not listen to it. He is a bad man and only means harm to your family. He does indeed….”
I paused. She had never moved whilst I was speaking. Now she only said, shaking her head, “It’s no good, Ivan Andreievitch…. It’s no good.”
“But why? Why?” I asked. “Give me your reasons, Nina.”
She answered proudly, “I don’t see why I should give you any reasons, Ivan Andreievitch. I am free. I can do as I wish.”
“There’s something behind this that I don’t know,” I said. “I ought to know…. It isn’t fair not to tell me. What did Alexei Petrovitch say to you?”
But she only shook her head.
“He had nothing to do with this. It is my affair, Ivan Andreievitch. I couldn’t live with Vera and Nicholas any longer.”
Grogoff then interfered.
“I think this is about enough….” he said. “I have given you your opportunity. Nina has been quite clear in what she has said. She does not wish to return. There is your answer.” He cleared his voice and went on in rather a higher tone: “I think you forget, Ivan Andreievitch, another aspect of this affair. It is not only a question of our private family disputes. Nina has come here to assist me in my national work. As a member of the Soviet I may, without exaggeration, claim to have an opportunity in my hands that has been offered in the past to few human beings. You are an Englishman, and so hidebound with prejudices and conventions. You may not be aware that there has opened this week the greatest war the world has ever seen–the war of the proletariats against the bourgeoisies and capitalists of the world.” I tried to interrupt him, but he went on, his voice ever rising and rising: “What is your wretched German war? What but a struggle between the capitalists of the different countries to secure greater robberies and extortions, to set their feet more firmly than ever on the broad necks of the wretched People! Yes, you English, with your natural hypocrisy, pretend that you are fighting for the freedom of the world. What about Ireland? What about India? What about South Africa?… No, you are all alike. Germany, England, Italy, France, and our own wretched Government that has, at last, been destroyed by the brave will of the People. We declare a People’s War!… We cry aloud to the People to throw down their arms! And the People will hear us!”
He paused for breath. His arms were raised, his eyes on fire, his cheeks crimson.
“Yes,” I said, “that is all very well. But suppose the German people are the only ones who refuse to listen to you. Suppose that all the other nations, save Germany, have thrown down their arms–a nice chance then for German militarism!”
“But the German people will listen!” he screamed, almost frothing at the mouth. “They are ready at any moment to follow our example. William and your George and the rest of them–they are doomed, I tell you!”
“Nevertheless,” I went on, “if you desert us now by making peace and Germany wins this war you will have played only a traitor’s part, and all the world will judge you.”
“Traitor! Traitor!” The word seemed to madden him. “Traitor to whom, pray? Traitor to our Czar and your English king? Yes, and thank God for it! Did the Russian people make the war? They were led like lambs to the slaughter. Like lambs, I tell you. But now they will have their revenge. On all the Bourgeoisie of the world. The Bourgeoisie of the world!…”
He suddenly broke off, flinging himself down on the dirty sofa. “Pheugh. Talking makes one hot!… Have a drink, Ivan Andreievitch…. Nina, fetch a drink.”
Through all this my eyes had never left her for a moment. I had hoped that this empty tub-thumping to which we had been listening would have affected her. But she had not moved nor stirred.
“Nina!” I said softly. “Nina. Come with me!”
But she only shook her head. Grogoff, quite silent now, lolled on the sofa, watching us. I went up to her and put my hand on her sleeve.
“Dear Nina,” I said, “come back to us.”
I saw her lip tremble. There was unshed tears in her eyes. But again she shook her head.
“What have they done,” I asked, “to make you take this step?”
“Something has happened….” she said slowly. “I can’t tell you.”
“Just come and talk to Vera.”
“No, it’s hopeless… I can’t see her again. But, Durdles… tell her it’s not her fault.”
At the sound of my pet name I took courage again.
“But tell me, Nina…. Do you love this man?”
She turned round and looked at Grogoff as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“Love?… Oh no, not love! But he will be kind to me, I think. And I must be myself, be a woman, not a child any longer.”
Then, suddenly clearing her voice, speaking very firmly, looking me full in the face, she said:
“Tell Vera… that I saw… what happened that Thursday afternoon–the Thursday of the Revolution week. Tell her that–when you’re alone with her. Tell her that–then she’ll understand.”
She turned and almost ran out of the room.
“Well, you see,” said Grogoff smiling lazily from the sofa.
“That settles it.”
“It doesn’t settle it,” I answered. “We shall never rest until we have got her back.”
But, I had to go. There was nothing more just then to be done.
V
On my return I found Vera alone waiting for me with restless impatience.
“Well?” she said eagerly. Then when she saw that I was alone her face clouded.
“I trusted you–” she began.
“It’s no good,” I said at once. “Not for the moment. She’s made up her mind. It’s not because she loved him nor, I think, for anything very much that her uncle said. She’s got some idea in her head. Perhaps you can explain it.”
“I?” said Vera, looking at me.
“Yes. She gave me a message for you.”
“What was it?” But even as she asked the question she seemed to fear the answer, because she turned away from me.
“She told me to tell you that she saw what happened on the afternoon of the Thursday in Revolution week. She said that then you would understand.”
Vera looked at me with the strangest expression of defiance, fear, triumph.
“What did she see?”
“I don’t know. That’s what she told me.”
Vera did a strange thing. She laughed.
“They can all know. I don’t care. I want them to know. Nina can tell them all.”
“Tell them what?”
“Oh, you’ll hear with the rest. Uncle Alexei has done this. He told Nina because he hates me. He won’t rest until he ruins us all. But I don’t care. He can’t take from me what I’ve got. He can’t take from me what I’ve got…. But we must get her back, Ivan Andreievitch. She _must_ come back–“
Nicholas came in and then Semyonov and then Bohun.
Bohun, drawing me aside, whispered to me: “Can I come and see you? I must ask your advice–“
“To-morrow evening,” I told him, and left.
Next day I was ill again. I had I suppose done too much the day before. I was in bed alone all day. My old woman had suddenly returned without a word of explanation or excuse. She had not, I am sure, even got so far as the Moscow Province. I doubt whether she had even left Petrograd. I asked her no questions. I could tell of course that she had been drinking. She was a funny old creature, wrinkled and yellow and hideous, very little different in any way from a native in the wilds of Central Africa. The savage in her liked gay colours and trinkets, and she would stick flowers in her hair and wear a tinkling necklace of bright red and blue beads. She had a mangy dog, hairless in places and rheumy at the eyes, who was all her passion, and this creature she would adore, taking it to sleep with her, talking to it by the hour together, pulling its tail and twisting its neck so that it growled with rage–and then, when it growled, she, too, would make strange noises as though sympathising with it.
She returned to me from no sort of sense of duty, but simply because, I think, she did not know where else to go. She scowled on me and informed me that now that there had been the Revolution everything was different; nevertheless the sight of my sick yellow face moved her as sickness and misfortune always move every Russian, however old and debased he may be.
“You shouldn’t have gone out walking,” she said crossly. “That man’s been here again?” referring to the Rat, whom she hated.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” I said, “I would have died.”
But she made the flat as cheerful as she could, lighting the stove, putting some yellow flowers into a glass, dusting the Benois water-colour, putting my favourite books beside my bed.
When Henry Bohun came in he was surprised at the brightness of everything.
“Why, how cosy you are!” he cried.
“Ah, ha,” I said, “I told you it wasn’t so bad here.”
He picked up my books, looked at Galleon’s _Roads_ and then _Pride and Prejudice_.
“It’s the simplest things that last,” he said. “Galleon’s jolly good, but he’s not simple enough. _Tess_ is the thing, you know, and _Tono-Bungay,_ and _The Nigger of the Narcissus_… I usen’t to think so. I’ve grown older, haven’t I?”
He had.
“What do you think of _Discipline_ now?” I asked.
“Oh, Lord!” he blushed, “I was a young cuckoo.”
“And what about knowing all about Russia after a week?”
“No–and that reminds me!” He drew his chair closer to my bed. “That’s what I’ve come to talk about. Do you mind if I gas a lot?”
“Gas as much as you like,” I said.
“Well, I can’t explain things unless I do…. You’re sure you’re not too seedy to listen?”
“Not a bit. It does me good,” I told him.
“You see in a way you’re really responsible. You remember, long ago, telling me to look after Markovitch when I talked all that rot about caring for Vera?”
“Yes–I remember very well indeed.”
“In a way it all started from that. You put me on to seeing Markovitch in quite a different light. I’d always thought of him as an awfully dull dog with very little to say for himself, and a bit loose in the top-story too. I thought it a terrible shame a ripping woman like Vera having married him, and I used to feel sick with him about it. Then sometimes he’d look like the devil himself, as wicked as sin, poring over his inventions, and you’d fancy that to stick a knife in his back might be perhaps the best thing for everybody.
“Well, you explained him to me and I saw him different–not that I’ve ever got very much out of him. I don’t think that he either likes me or trusts me, and anyway he thinks me too young and foolish to be of any importance–which I daresay I am. He told me, by the way, the other day, that the only Englishman he thought anything of was yourself–“
“Very nice of him,” I murmured.
“Yes, but not very flattering to me when I’ve spent months trying to be fascinating to him. Anyhow, although I may be said to have failed in one way, I’ve got rather keen on the pursuit. If I can’t make him like me I can at least study him and learn something. That’s a leaf out of your book, Durward. You’re always studying people, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.
“Yes, of course you are. Well, I’ll tell you frankly I’ve got fond of the old bird. I don’t believe you could live at close quarters with any Russian, however nasty, and not get a kind of affection for him. They’re so damned childish.”
“Oh yes, you could,” I said. “Try Semyonov.”
“I’m coming to him in a minute,” said Bohun. “Well, Markovitch was most awfully unhappy. That’s one thing one saw about him at once–unhappy of course because Vera didn’t love him and he adored her. But there was more in it than that. He let himself go one night to me–the only time he’s ever talked to me really. He was drunk a bit, and he wanted to borrow money off me. But there was more in it than that. He talked to me about Russia. That seemed to have been his great idea when the war began that it was going to lead to the most marvellous patriotism all through Russia. It seemed to begin like that, and do you know, Durward, as he talked I saw that patriotism _was_ at the bottom of everything, that you could talk about Internationalism until you were blue in the face, and that it only began to mean anything when you’d learnt first what nationality was–that you couldn’t really love all mankind until you’d first learnt to love one or two people close to you. And that you couldn’t love the world as a vast democratic state until you’d learnt to love your own little bit of ground, your own fields, your own river, your own church tower. Markovitch had it all as plain as plain. ‘Make your own house secure and beautiful. Then it is ready to take its place in the general scheme. We Russians always begin at the wrong end,’ he said. ‘We jump all the intermediate stages. I’m as bad as the rest.’ I know you’ll say I’m so easily impressed, Durward, but he was wonderful that night–and so _right_. So that as he talked I just longed to rush back and see that my village–Topright in Wiltshire–was safe and sound with the highgate at the end of the village street, and the village stores with the lollipop windows, and the green with the sheep on it, and the ruddy stream with the small trout and the high Down beyond…. Oh well, you know what I mean–“
“I know,” said I.
“I saw that the point of Markovitch was that he must have some ideal to live up to. If he couldn’t have Vera he’d have Russia, and if he couldn’t have Russia he’d have his inventions. When we first came along a month or two ago he’d lost Russia, he was losing Vera, and he wasn’t very sure about his inventions. A bad time for the old boy, and you were quite right to tell me to look after him. Then came the Revolution, and he thought that everything was saved. Vera and Russia and everything. Wasn’t he wonderful that week? Like a child who has suddenly found Paradise…. Could any Englishman ever be cheated like that by anything? Why a fellow would be locked up for a loony if he looked as happy as Markovitch looked that week. It wouldn’t be decent…. Well, then….” He paused dramatically. “What’s happened to him since, Durward?”
“How do you mean? What’s happened to him since?” I asked.
“I mean just what I say. Something happened to him at the end of that week. I can put my finger almost exactly on the day–the Thursday of that week. What was it? That’s one of the things I’ve come to ask you about?”
“I don’t know. I was ill,” I said.
“No, but has nobody told you anything?”
“I haven’t heard a word,” I said.
His face fell. “I felt sure you’d help me?” he said.
“Tell me the rest and perhaps I can put things together,” I suggested.
“The rest is really Semyonov. The queerest things have been happening. Of course, the thing is to get rid of all one’s English ideas, isn’t it? and that’s so damned difficult. It’s no use saying an English fellow wouldn’t do this or that. Of course he wouldn’t…. Oh, they _are_ queer!”
He sighed, poor boy, with the difficulty of the whole affair.
“Giving them up in despair, Bohun, is as bad as thinking you understand them completely. Just take what comes.”
“Well, ‘what came’ was this. On that Thursday evening Markovitch was as though he’d been struck in the face. You never saw such a change. Of course we all noticed it. White and sickly, saying nothing to anybody. Next morning, quite early, Semyonov came over and proposed lodging with us.
“It absolutely took my breath away, but no one else seemed very astonished. What on earth did he want to leave his comfortable flat and come to us for? We were packed tight enough as it was. I never liked the feller, but upon my word I simply hated him as he sat there, so quiet, stroking his beard and smiling at us in his sarcastic way.
“To my amazement Markovitch seemed quite keen about it. Not only agreed, but offered his own room as a bedroom. ‘What about your inventions?’ some one asked him.
“‘I’ve given them up,’ he said, looking at us all just like a caged animal–‘for ever.’
“I would have offered to retire myself if I hadn’t been so interested, but this was all so curious that I was determined to see it out to the end. And you’d told me to look after Markovitch. If ever he’d wanted looking after it was now! I could see that Vera hated the idea of Semyonov coming, but after Markovitch had spoken she never said a word. So then it was all settled.”
“What did Nina do?” I asked.
“Nina? She never said anything either. At the end she went up to Semyonov and took his hand and said, ‘I’m so glad you’re coming, Uncle Alexei,’ and looked at Vera. Oh! they’re all as queer as they can be, I tell you!”
“What happened next?” I asked eagerly.
“Everything’s happened and nothing’s happened,” he replied. “Nina’s run away. Of course you know that. What she did it for I can’t imagine. Fancy going to a fellow like Grogoff! Lawrence has been coming every day and just sitting there, not saying anything. Semyonov’s amiable to everybody–especially amiable to Markovitch. But he’s laughing at him all the time I think. Anyway he makes him mad sometimes, so that I think Markovitch is going to strike him. But of course he never does…. Now here’s a funny thing. This is really what I want to ask you most about.”
He drew his chair closer to my bed and dropped his voice as though he were going to whisper a secret to me.
“The other night I was awake–about two in the morning it was–and wanted a book–so I went into the dining-room. I’d only got bedroom slippers on and I was stopped at the door by a sound. It was Semyonov sitting over by the further window, in his shirt and trousers, his beard in his hands, and sobbing as though his heart would break. I’d never heard a man cry like that. I hate hearing a man cry anyway. I’ve heard fellers at the Front when they’re off their heads or something… but Semyonov was worse than that. It was a strong man crying, with all his wits about him…. Then I heard some words. He kept repeating again and again. ‘Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear!… Wait for me!… Wait for me! Wait for me!…’ over and over again–awful! I crept back to my room frightened out of my life. I’ve never known anything so awful. And Semyonov of all people!
“It was like that man in _Wuthering Heights_. What’s his name? Heathcliffe! I always thought that was a bit of an exaggeration when he dashed his head against a tree and all that. But, by Jove, you never know!… Now, Durward, you’ve got to tell me. You’ve known Semyonov for years. You can explain. What’s it all about, and what’s he trying to do to Markovitch?”
“I can scarcely think what to tell you,” I said at last. “I don’t really know much about Semyonov, and my guesses will probably strike you as insane.”
“No, they won’t,” said Bohun. “I’ve learnt a bit lately.”
“Semyonov,” I said, “is a deep-dyed sensualist. All his life he’s thought about nothing but gratifying his appetites. That’s simple enough–there are plenty of that type everywhere. But unfortunately for him he’s a very clever man, and like every Russian both a cynic and an idealist–a cynic in facts _because_ he’s an idealist. He got everything so easily all through his life that his cynicism grew and grew. He had wealth and women and position. He was as strong as a horse. Every ‘one gave way to him and he despised everybody. He went to the Front, and one day came across a woman different from any other whom he had ever known.”
“How different?” asked Bohun, because I paused.
“Different in that she was simpler and naiver and honester and better and more beautiful–“
“Better than Vera?” Bohun asked.
“Different,” I said. “She was younger, less strong-willed, less clever, less passionate perhaps. But alone–alone, in all the world. Every one must love her–No one could help it….”
I broke off again. Bohun waited.
I went on. “Semyonov saw her and snatched her from the Englishman to whom she was engaged. I don’t think she ever really loved the Englishman, but she loved Semyonov.”
“Well?” said Bohun.
“She was killed. A stray shot, when she was giving tea to the men in the trenches…. It meant a lot… to all of us. The Englishman was killed too, so he was all right. I think Semyonov would have liked that same end; but he didn’t get it, so he’s remained desolate. Really desolate, in a way that only your thorough sensualist can be. A beautiful fruit just within his grasp, something at last that can tempt his jaded appetite. He’s just going to taste it, when whisk! it’s gone, and gone, perhaps, into some one else’s hands. How does he know? How does he know anything? There may be another life–who can really prove there isn’t? and when you’ve seen something in the very thick and glow of existence, something more alive than life itself, and, click! it’s gone–well, it _must_ have gone somewhere, mustn’t it? Not the body only, but that soul, that spirit, that individual personal expression of beauty and purity and loveliness? Oh, it must be somewhere yet!… It _must_ be!… At any rate _he_ didn’t know. And he didn’t know either that she might not have proved his idealism right after all. Ah! to your cynic there’s nothing more maddening! Do you think your cynic loves his cynicism? Not a bit of it! Not he! But he won’t be taken in by sham any more. That he swears….
“So it was with Semyonov. This girl might have proved the one real exception; she might have lasted, she might have grown even more beautiful and more wonderful, and so proved his idealism true after all. He doesn’t know, and I don’t know. But there it is. He’s haunted by the possibility of it all his days. He’s a man now ruled by an obsession. He thinks of one thing and one thing only, day and night. His sensuality has fallen away from him because women are dull–sterile to him beside that perfect picture of the woman lost. Lost! he may recover her! He doesn’t know. The thought of death obsesses him. What is there in it? Is she behind there or no? Is she behind there, maddening thought, with her Englishman?
“He must know. He _must_ know. He calls to her–she won’t come to him. What is he to do? Suicide? No, to a proud man like Semyonov that’s a miserable confession of weakness. How they’d laugh at him, these other despicable human beings, if he did that! He’d prove himself as weak as they. No, that’s not for him. What then?
“This is a fantastic world, Bohun, and nothing is impossible for it. Suppose he were to select some one, some weak and irritable and sentimental and disappointed man, some one whose every foible and weakness he knew, suppose he were to place himself near him and so irritate and confuse and madden him that at last one day, in a fury of rage and despair, that man were to do for him what he is too proud to do for himself! Think of the excitement, the interest, the food for his cynicism, the food for his conceit such a game would be to Semyonov. Is this going to do it? Or this? Or this? Now I’ve got him far enough? Another five minutes!… Think of the hairbreadth escapes, the check and counter check, the sense, above all, that to a man like Semyonov is almost everything, that he is master of human emotions, that he can direct wretched, weak human beings whither he will.
“And the other–the weak, disappointed, excitable man–can’t you see that Semyonov has him close to his hand, that he has only to stretch a finger–“
“Markovitch!” cried Bohun.
“Now you know,” I said, “why you’ve got to stay on in that flat.”
VI
I have said already, I think, that the instinctive motive of Vera’s life was her independent pride. Cling to that, and however the world might rock and toss around her she could not be wrecked. Imagine, then, what she must have suffered during the weeks that followed her surrender to Lawrence. Not that for a moment she intended to go back on her surrender, which was, indeed, the proudest moment of her whole life. She never looked back for one second after that embrace, she never doubted herself or him or the supreme importance of love itself; but the rest of her–her tenderness, her fidelity, her loyalty, her self-respect–this was all tortured now by the things that she seemed compelled to do. It must have appeared to her as though Fate, having watched that complete abandonment, intended to deprive her of everything upon which she had depended. She was, I think, a woman of very simple instincts. The things that had been in her life–her love for Nina, her maternal tenderness for Nicholas, her sense of duty–remained with her as strongly after that tremendous Thursday afternoon as they had been before it. She did not see why they need be changed. She did not love Nina any the less because she loved Lawrence; indeed, she had never loved Nina so intensely as on the night when she had realised her love for Lawrence to the full, that night when they had sheltered the policeman. And she had never pretended to love Nicholas. She had always told him that she did not love him. She had been absolutely honest with him always, and he had often said to her, “If ever real love comes into your life, Vera, you will leave me,” and she had always answered him, “No, Nicholas, why should I? I will never change. Why should I?”
She honestly thought that her love for Lawrence need not alter things. She would tell Nicholas, of course, and then she would act as he wished. If she were not to see Lawrence she would not see him–that would make no difference to her love for him. What she did not realise–and that was strange after living with him for so long–was that he was always hoping that her tender kindliness towards him would, one day, change into something more passionate. I think that, subconsciously, she did realise it, and that was why she was, during those weeks before the Revolution, so often uneasy and unhappy. But I am sure that definitely she never admitted it.
The great fact was that, as soon as possible, she must tell Nicholas all about it. And the days went by, and she did not. She did not, partly because she had now some one else as well as herself to consider. I believe that in those weeks between that Thursday and Easter Day she never had one moment alone with Lawrence. He came, as Bohun had told me, to see them; he sat there and looked at her, and listened and waited. She herself, I expect, prevented their being alone. She was waiting for something to happen. Then Nina’s flight overwhelmed everything. That must have been the most awful thing. She never liked Grogoff, never trusted him, and had a very clear idea of his character. But more awful to her than his weakness was her knowledge that Nina did not love him. What could have driven her to do such a thing? She knew of her affection for Lawrence, but she had, perhaps, never taken that seriously. How could Nina really love Lawrence when he, so obviously, cared nothing at all for her? She reasoned then, as every one always does, on the lines of her own character. She herself could never have cared seriously for any one had there been no return. Her pride would not have allowed her….
But Nina had been the charge of her life. Before Nicholas, before her own life, before everything. Nina was her duty, her sacred cause–and now she was betraying her trust! Something must be done–but what? but what? She knew Nina well enough to realise that a false step would only plunge her farther than ever into the business. It must have seemed to her indeed that because of her own initial disloyalty the whole world was falling away from her.
Then there came Semyonov; I did not at this time at all sufficiently realise that her hatred of her uncle–for it _was_ hatred, more, much more than mere dislike–had been with her all her life. Many months afterwards she told me that she could never remember a time when she had not hated him. He had teased her when she was a very little girl, laughing at her naive honesty, throwing doubts on her independence, cynically ridiculing her loyalty. There had been one horrible winter month (then ten or eleven years of age) when she had been sent to stay with him in Moscow.
He had a fine house near the Arbat, and he was living (although she did not of course know anything about that at the time) with one of his gaudiest mistresses. Her mother and father being dead she had no protection. She was defenceless. I don’t think that he in any way perverted her innocence. I except that he was especially careful to shield her from his own manner of life (he had always his own queer tradition of honour which he effected indeed to despise), but she felt more than she perceived. The house was garish, over-scented and over-lighted. There were many gilt chairs and large pictures of naked women and numbers of coloured cushions. She was desperately lonely. She hated the woman of the house, who tried, I have no doubt, to be kind to her, and after the first week she was left to herself.
One night, long after she had gone to bed there was a row downstairs, one of the scenes common enough between Semyonov and his women. Terrified, she went to the head of the stairs and heard the smash of falling glass and her uncle’s voice raised in a scream of rage and vituperation. A great naked woman in a gold frame swung and leered at her in the lighted passage. She fled back to her dark room and lay, for the rest of that night, trembling and quivering with her head beneath the bed-clothes.
From that moment she feared her uncle as much as she hated him. Long afterwards came his influence over Nicholas. No one had so much influence over Nicholas as he. Nicholas himself admitted it. He was alternately charmed and frightened, beguiled and disgusted, attracted and repulsed. Before the war Semyonov had, for a time, seen a good deal of them, and Nicholas steadily degenerated. Then Semyonov was bored with it all and went off after other game more worthy of his doughty spear. Then came the war, and Vera devoutedly hoped that her dear uncle would meet his death at the hands of some patriotic Austrian. He did indeed for a time disappear from their lives, and it seemed that he might never come back again. Then on that fateful Christmas Day he did return, and Vera’s worst fears were realised. She hated him all the more because of her impotence. She could do nothing against him at all. She was never very subtle in her dealings with people, and her own natural honesty made her often stupid about men’s motives. But the thing for which she feared her uncle most was his, as it seemed to her, supernatural penetration into the thoughts of others.
She of course greatly exaggerated his gifts in that direction simply because they were in no way her gifts, and he, equally of course, discovered very early in their acquaintance that this was the way to impress her. He played tricks with her exactly as a conjurer produces a rabbit out of a hat….
When he announced his intention of coming to live in the flat she was literally paralyzed with fright. Had it been any one else she would have fought, but in her uncle’s drawing gradually nearer and nearer to the centre of all their lives, coming as it seemed to her so silently and mysteriously, without obvious motive, and yet with so stealthy a plan, against this man she could do nothing….
Nevertheless she determined to fight for Nicholas to the last–to fight for Nicholas, to bring back Nina, these were now the two great aims of her life; and whilst they were being realised her love for Lawrence must be passive, passive as a deep passionate flame beats with unwavering force in the heart of the lamp….
They had made me promise long before that I would spend Easter Eve with them and go with them to our church on the Quay. I wondered now whether all the troubles of the last weeks would not negative that invitation, and I had privately determined that if I did not hear from them again I would slip off with Lawrence somewhere. But on Good Friday Markovitch, meeting me in the Morskaia, reminded me that I was coming.
It is very difficult to give any clear picture of the atmosphere of the town between Revolution week and this Easter Eve, and yet all the seeds of the later crop of horrors were sewn during that period. Its spiritual mentality corresponded almost exactly with the physical thaw that accompanied it–mist, then vapour dripping of rain, the fading away of one clear world into another that was indistinct, ghostly, ominous. I find written in my Diary of Easter Day–exactly five weeks after the outbreak of the Revolution–these words: “From long talks with K. and others I see quite clearly that Russians have gone mad for the time being. It’s heartbreaking to see them holding meetings everywhere, arguing at every street corner as to how they intend to arrange a democratic peace for Europe, when meanwhile the Germans are gathering every moment force upon the frontiers.”
Pretty quick, isn’t it, to change from Utopia to threatenings of the worst sort of Communism? But the great point for us in all this–the great point for our private personal histories as well as the public one–was that it was during these weeks that the real gulf between Russia and the Western world showed itself! Yes, for more than three years we had been pretending that a week’s sentiment and a hurriedly proclaimed Idealism could bridge a separation which centuries of magic and blood and bones had gone to build. For three years we tricked ourselves (I am not sure that the Russians were ever really deceived) … but we liked the ballet, we liked Tolstoi and Dostoieffsky (we translated their inborn mysticism into the weakest kind of sentimentality), we liked the theory of inexhaustible numbers, we liked the picture of their pounding, steam-roller like, to Berlin… we tricked ourselves, and in the space of a night our trick was exposed.
Plain enough the reasons for these mistakes that we in England have made over that same Revolution, mistakes made by none more emphatically than by our own Social Democrats. Those who hailed the Revolution as the fulfilment of all their dearest hopes, those who cursed it as the beginning of the damnation of the world–all equally in the wrong. The Revolution had no thought for _them_. Russian extremists might shout as they pleased about their leading the fight for the democracies of the world–they never even began to understand the other democracies. Whatever Russia may do, through repercussion, for the rest of the world, she remains finally alone–isolated in her Government, in her ideals, in her ambitions, in her abnegations. For a moment the world-politics of her foreign rulers seemed to draw her into the Western whirlpool. For a moment only she remained there. She has slipped back again behind her veil of mist and shadow. We may trade with her, plunge into her politics, steal from her Art, emphasise her religion–she remains alone, apart, mysterious….
I think it was with a kind of gulping surprise, as after a sudden plunge into icy cold water, that we English became conscious of this. It came to us first in the form that to us the war was everything–to the Russian, by the side of an idea the war was nothing at all. How was I, for instance, to recognise the men who took a leading part in the events of this extraordinary year as the same men who fought with bare hands, with fanatical bravery through all the Galician campaign of two years before?
Had I not realised sufficiently at that time that Russia moves always according to the Idea that governs her–and that when that Idea changes the world, _his_ world changes with it….
Well, to return to Markovitch….
VII
I was on the point of setting out for the English Prospect on Saturday evening when there was a knock on my door, and to my surprise Nicholas Markovitch came in. He was in evening dress–rather quaint it seemed to me, with his pointed collar so high, his tail-coat so much too small, and his large-brimmed bowler hat. He explained to me confusedly that he wished to walk with me alone to the church… that he had things to tell me… that we should meet the others there. I saw at once two things, that he was very miserable, that he was a little drunk. His misery showed itself in his strange, pathetic, gleaming eyes, that looked so often as though they held unshed tears (this gave him an unfortunate ridiculous aspect), in his hollow pale cheeks and the droop of his mouth, not petulant nor peevish, simply unhappy in the way that animals or very young children express unhappiness. His drunkenness showed itself in quite another way. He was unsteady a little on his feet, and his hands trembled, his forehead was flushed, and he spoke thickly, sometimes running his words together. At the same time he was not very drunk, and was quite in control of his thoughts and intentions.
We went out together. It could not have been called a fine night–it was too cold, and there was a hint of rain in the air–and yet there is beauty, I believe, in every Russian Easter Eve. The day comes so wonderfully at the end of the long heavy winter. The white nights with their incredible, almost terrifying beauty are at hand, the ice is broken, the new world of sun and flowers is ready, at an instant’s magic word, to be born. Nevertheless this year there was an incredible pathos in the wind. The soul of Petrograd was indeed stirring, but mournfully, ominously. There were not, for one thing, the rows of little fairy lamps that on this night always make the streets so gay. They hang in chains and clusters of light from street to street, blazing in the square, reflected star-like in the canals, misty and golden-veiled in distance. To-night only the churches had their lights; for the rest, the streets were black chasms of windy desolation, the canals burdened with the breaking ice which moved restlessly against the dead barges. Very strong in the air was the smell of the sea; the heavy clouds that moved in a strange kind of ordered procession overhead seemed to carry that scent with them, and in the dim pale shadows of the evening glow one seemed to see at the end of every street mysterious clusters of masts, and to hear the clank of chains and the creak of restless boards. There were few people about and a great silence everywhere. The air was damp and thick, and smelt of rotten soil, as though dank grass was everywhere pushing its way up through the cobbles and paving-stones.
As we walked Markovitch talked incessantly. It was only a very little the talk of a drunken man, scarcely disconnected at all, but every now and again running into sudden little wildnesses and extravagances. I cannot remember nearly all that he said. He came suddenly, as I expected him to do, to the subject of Semyonov.
“You know of course that Alexei Petrovitch is living with us now?”
“Yes. I know that.”
“You can understand, Ivan Andreievitch, that when he came first and proposed it to me I was startled. I had other things–very serious things to think of just then. We weren’t–we aren’t–very happy at home just now… you know that… I didn’t think he’d be very gay with us. I told him that. He said he didn’t expect to be gay anywhere at this time, but that he was lonely in his flat all by himself, and he thought for a week or two he’d like company. He didn’t expect it would be for very long. No…. He said he was expecting ‘something to happen.’ Something to himself, he said, that would alter his affairs. So, as it was only for a little time, well, it didn’t seem to matter. Besides, he’s a powerful man. He’s difficult to resist–very difficult to resist….”
“Why have you given up your inventions, Nicolai Leontievitch?” I said to him, suddenly turning round upon him.
“My inventions?” he repeated, seeming very startled at that.
“Yes, your inventions.”
“No, no…. Understand, I have no more use for them. There are other things now to think about–more important things.”
“But you were getting on with them so well?”
“No–not really. I was deceiving myself as I have often deceived myself before. Alexei showed me that. He told me that they were no good–“
“But I thought that he encouraged you?”
“Yes–at first–only at first. Afterwards he saw into them more clearly; he changed his mind. I think he was only intending to be kind. A strange man… a strange man….”
“A very strange man. Don’t you let him influence you, Nicholas Markovitch.”
“Influence me? Do you think he does that?” He suddenly came close to me, catching my arm.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen you often together.”
“Perhaps he does… _Mojet bweet_… You may be right. I don’t know–I don’t know what I feel about him at all. Sometimes he seems to me very kind; sometimes I’m frightened of him, sometimes”–here he dropped his voice–“he makes me very angry, so angry that I lose control of myself–a despicable thing… a despicable thing… just as I used to feel about the old man to whom I was secretary. I nearly murdered him once. In the middle of the night I thought suddenly of his stomach, all round and white and shining. It was an irresistible temptation to plunge a knife into it. I was awake for hours thinking of it. Every man has such hours…. At the same time Alexei can be very kind.”
“How do you mean–kind?” I asked.
“For instance he has some very good wine–fifty bottles at least–he has given it all to us. Then he insists on paying us for his food. He is a generous-spirited man. Money is nothing to us–“
“Don’t you drink his wine,” I said.
Nicholas was instantly offended.
“What do you mean, Ivan Andreievitch? Not drink his wine? Am I an infant? Can I not look after myself?–_Blagadaryoo Vas_…. I am more than ten years old.” He took his hand away from my arm.
“No, I didn’t mean that at all,” I assured him. “Of course not–only you told me not long ago that you had given up wine altogether. That’s why I said what I did.”
“So I have! So I have!” he eagerly assured me. “But Easter’s a time for rejoicing… Rejoicing!”–his voice rose suddenly shrill and scornful–“rejoicing with the world in the state that it is. Truly, Ivan Andreievitch, I don’t wonder at Alexei’s cynicism. I don’t indeed. The world is a sad spectacle for an observant man.” He suddenly put his hand through my arm, so close to me now that I could feel his beating heart. “But you believe, don’t you, Ivan Andreievitch, that Russia now has found herself?” His voice became desperately urgent and beseeching. “You must believe that. You don’t agree with those fools who don’t believe that she will make the best of all this? Fools? Scoundrels! Scoundrels! That’s what they are. I must believe in Russia now or I shall die. And so with all of us. If she does not rise now as one great country and lead the world, she will never do so. Our hearts must break. But she will… she will! No one who is watching events can doubt it. Only cynics like Alexei doubt–he doubts everything. And he cannot leave anything alone. He must smear everything with his dirty finger. But he must leave Russia alone… I tell him….”
He broke off. “If Russia fails now,” he spoke very quietly, “my life is over. I have nothing left. I will die.”
“Come, Nicolai Leontievitch,” I said, “you mustn’t let yourself go like that. Life isn’t over because one is disappointed in one’s country. And even though one is disappointed one does not love the less. What’s friendship worth if every disappointment chills one’s affection? One loves one’s country because she is one’s country, not because she’s disappointing….” And so I went on with a number of amiable platitudes, struggling to comfort him somewhere, and knowing that I was not even beginning to touch the trouble of his soul.
He drew very close to me, his fingers gripping my sleeve–“I’ll tell you, Ivan Andreievitch–but you mustn’t tell anybody else. I’m afraid. Yes, I am. Afraid of myself, afraid of this town, afraid of Alexei, although that must seem strange to you. Things are very bad with me, Ivan Andreievitch. Very bad, indeed. Oh! I have been disappointed! yes, I have. Not that I expected anything else. But now it has come at last, the blow that I have always feared has fallen–a very heavy blow. My own fault, perhaps, I don’t know. But I’m afraid of myself. I don’t know what I may do. I have such strange dreams–Why has Alexei come to stay with us?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Then, thank God, we reached the church. It was only as we went up the steps that I realised that he had never once mentioned Vera.
VIII
And yet with all our worries thick upon us it was quite impossible to resist the sweetness and charm and mystery of that service.
I think that perhaps it is true, as many have said, that people did not crowd to the churches on that Easter as they had earlier ones, but our church was a small one, and it seemed to us to be crammed. We stumbled up the dark steps, and found ourselves at the far end of the very narrow nave. At the other end there was a pool of soft golden light in which dark figures were bathed mysteriously. At the very moment of our entering, the procession was passing down the nave on its way round the outside of the church to look for the Body of Our Lord. Down the nave they came, the people standing on either side to let them pass, and then, many of them, falling in behind. Every one carried a lighted candle. First there were the singers, then men carrying the coloured banners, then the priest in stiff gorgeous raiment, then officials and dignitaries, finally the crowd. The singing, the forest of lighted candles, the sudden opening of the black door and the blowing in of the cold night wind, the passing of the voices out into the air, the soft, dying away of the singing and then the hushed expectation of the waiting for the return–all this had in it something so elemental, so simple, and so true to the very heart of the mystery of life that all trouble and sorrow fell away and one was at peace.
How strange was that expectation! We knew so well what the word must be; we could tell exactly the moment of the knock of the door, the deep sound of the priest’s voice, the embracings and dropping of wax over every one’s clothes that would follow it–and yet every year it was the same! There _was_ truth in it, there was some deep response to the human dependence, some whispered promise of a future good. We waited there, our hearts beating, crowded against the dark walls. It was a very democratic assembly, bourgeoisie, workmen, soldiers, officers, women in evening dress and peasant women with shawls over their heads. No one spoke or whispered.
Suddenly there was a knock. The door was opened. The priest stood there, in his crimson and gold. “Christ is risen!” he cried, his voice vibrating as though he had indeed but just now, out there in the dark and wind, made the great discovery.
“He is risen indeed!” came the reply from us all. Markovitch embraced me. “Let us go,” he whispered, “I can’t bear it somehow to-night.”
We went out. Everywhere the bells were ringing–the wonderful deep boom of St. Isaac’s, and then all the other bells, jangling, singing, crying, chattering, answering from all over Petrograd. From the other side of the Neva came the report of the guns and the fainter, more distant echo of the guns near the sea. I could hear behind it all the incessant “chuck-chuck, chuck-chuck,” of the ice colliding on the river.
It was very cold, and we hurried back to Anglisky Prospect. Markovitch was quite silent all the way.
When we arrived we found Vera and Uncle Ivan and Semyonov waiting for us (Bohun was with friends). On the table was the _paskha_, a sweet paste made of eggs and cream, curds and sugar, a huge ham, a large cake or rather, sweet bread called _kulich_, and a big bowl full of Easter eggs, as many-coloured as the rainbow. This would be the fare during the whole week, as there was to be no cooking until the following Saturday–and very tired of the ham and the eggs one became before that day. There was also wine–some of Semyonov’s gift, I supposed–and a tiny bottle of vodka.
We were not a very cheerful company. Uncle Ivan, who was really distinguished by his complete inability to perceive what was going on under his nose, was happy, and ate a great deal of the ham and certainly more of the _paskha_ than was good for him.
I do not know who was responsible for the final incident–Semyonov perhaps–but I have often wondered whether some word or other of mine precipitated it. We had finished our meal and were sitting quietly together, each occupied with his own thoughts. I had noticed that Markovitch had been drinking a great deal.
I was just thinking it was time for me to go when I heard Semyonov say:
“Well, what do you think of your Revolution now, Nicholas?”
“What do you mean–my Revolution?” he asked.
(The strange thing on looking back is that the whole of this scene seems to me to have passed in a whisper, as though we were all terrified of somebody.)
“Well–do you remember how you talked to me?… about the saving of the world and all the rest of it that this was going to be? Doesn’t seem to be quite turning out that way, does it, from all one hears? A good deal of quarrelling, isn’t there? And what about the army–breaking up a bit, isn’t it?”
“Don’t, Uncle Alexei,” I heard Vera whisper.
“What I said I still believe,” Nicholas answered very quietly. “Leave Russia alone, Alexei–and leave me alone, too.”
“I’m not touching you, Nicholas,” Semyonov answered, laughing softly.
“Yes you are–you know that you are. I’m not angry–not yet. But it’s unwise of you–unwise….”
“Unwise–how?”
“Never mind. ‘Below the silent pools there lie hidden many devils.’ Leave me alone. You are our guest.”
“Indeed, Nicholas,” said Semyonov, still laughing, “I mean you no harm. Ask our friend Durward here whether I ever mean any one any harm. He will, I’m sure, give me the best of characters.”
“No–no harm perhaps–but still you tease me…. I’m a fool to mind…. But then I am a fool–every one knows it.”
All the time he was looking with his pathetic eyes and his pale face at Vera.
Vera said again, very low, almost in a whisper: “Uncle Alexei… please.”
“But really, Nicholas,” Semyonov went on, “you under-rate yourself. You do indeed. Nobody thinks you a fool. I think you a very lucky man. With your talents–“
“Talents!” said Nicholas softly, looking at Vera. “I have no talents.”
“–And Vera’s love for you,” went on Semyonov–
“Ah! that is over!” Nicholas said, so low that I scarcely heard it. I do not know what then exactly happened. I think that Vera put out her hand to cover Nicholas’. At any rate I saw him draw his away, very gently. It lay on the table, and the only sound beside the voices was the tiny rattle of his nails as his hand trembled against the woodwork.
Vera said something that I did not catch.
“No…” Nicholas said. “No… We must be true with one another, Vera. I have been drinking too much wine. My head is aching, and perhaps my words are not very clear. But it gives me courage to say what I have in my mind. I haven’t thought out yet what we must do. Perhaps you can help me. But I must tell you that I saw everything that happened here on that Thursday afternoon in the week of the Revolution–“
Vera made a little movement of distress
“Yes, you didn’t know–but I was in my room–where Alexei sleeps now, you know. I couldn’t help seeing. I’m very sorry.”
“No, Nicholas, I’m very glad,” Vera answered quietly.
“I would have told you in any case. I should have told you before. I love him and he loves me, just as you saw. I would like Ivan Andreievitch and Uncle Ivan and every one to know. There is nothing to conceal. I have never loved any one before, and I’m not ashamed of loving some one now…. It doesn’t alter our life, Nicholas. I care for you just as I did care, and I will do just as you tell me. I will never see him again if that’s what you wish, but I shall always love him.”
“Ah, Vera–you are cruel.” Nicholas gave a little cry like a hurt animal, then he went away from us, standing for a moment looking at us.
“We’ll have to consider what we must do. I don’t know. I can’t think to-night…. And you, Alexei, you leave me alone….”
He went stumbling away towards his bedroom.
Vera said nothing to any of us. She got up slowly, looked about her for a moment as though she were bewildered by the light and then went after Nicholas. I turned to Semyonov.
“You’d better go back to your own place,” I said.
“Not yet, thank you,” he answered, smiling.
IX
On the afternoon of Easter Monday I was reminded by Bohun of an engagement that I had made some weeks before to go that evening to a party at the house of a rich merchant, Rozanov by name. I have, I think, mentioned him earlier in this book. I cannot conceive why I had ever made the promise, and in the afternoon, meeting Bohun at Watkins’ bookshop in the Morskaia, I told him that I couldn’t go.
“Oh, come along!” he said. “It’s your duty.”
“Why my duty?”
“They’re all talking as hard as they can about saving the world by turning the other cheek, and so on; and a few practical facts about Germany from you will do a world of good.”
“Oh, your propaganda!” I said.
“No, it isn’t my propaganda,” he answered. “It’s a matter of life and death to get these people to go on with the war, and every little helps.”
“Well, I’ll come,” I said, shaking my head at the book-seller, who was anxious that I should buy the latest works of Mrs. Elinor Glyn and Miss Ethel Dell. I had in fact reflected that a short excursion into other worlds would be good for me. During these weeks I had been living in the very heart of the Markovitches, and it would be healthy to escape for a moment.
But I was not to escape.
I met Bohun at the top of the English Prospect, and we decided to walk. Rozanov lived in the street behind the Kazan Cathedral. I did not know very much about him except that he was a very wealthy merchant, who had made his money by selling cheap sweets to the peasant. He lived, I knew, an immoral and self-indulgent life, and his hobby was the quite indiscriminate collection of modern Russian paintings, his walls being plastered with innumerable works by Benois, Somoff, Dobeijinsky, Yakofflyeff, and Lanceray. He had also two Serovs, a fine Vrubel, and several Ryepins. He had also a fine private collection of indecent drawings.
“I really don’t know what on earth we’re going to this man for,” I said discontentedly. “I was weak this afternoon.”
“No, you weren’t,” said Bohun. “And I’ll tell you frankly that I’m jolly glad not to be having a meal at home to-night. Do you know, I don’t believe I can stick that flat much longer!”
“Why, are things worse?” I asked.
“It’s getting so jolly creepy,” Bohun said. “Everything goes on normally enough outwardly, but I suppose there’s been some tremendous row. Of course I don’t knew any-thing about that. After what you told me the other night though, I seem to see everything twice its natural size.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“You know when something queer’s going on inside a house you seem to notice the furniture of the rooms much more than you ordinarily do. I remember once a fellow’s piano making me quite sick whenever I looked at it. I didn’t know why; I don’t know why now, but the funny thing is that another man who knew him once said exactly the same thing to me about it. He felt it too. Of course we’re none of us quite normal just now. The whole town seems to be turning upside down. I’m always imagining there are animals in the canals; and don’t you notice what lots of queer fellows there are in the Nevski now, and Chinese and Japs–all sorts of wild men. And last night I had a dream that all the lumps of ice in the Nevski turned into griffins and went marching through the Red Square eating every one up on their way….” Bohun laughed. “That’s because _I’d_ eaten something of course–too much _paskha_ probably.
“But, seriously, I came in this evening at five o’clock, and the first thing I noticed was that little red lacquer musical box of Semyonov’s. You know it. The one with a sports-man in a top hat and a horse and a dog on the lid. He brought it with some other little things when he moved in. It’s a jolly thing to look at, but it’s got two most irritating tunes. One’s like ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland.’ You said yourself the other day it would drive you mad if you heard it often. Well, there it was, jangling away in its self-sufficient wheezy voice. Semyonov was sitting in the armchair reading the newspaper, Markovitch was standing behind the chair with the strangest look on his face. Suddenly, just as I came in he bent down and I heard him say: ‘Won’t you stop the beastly thing?’ ‘Certainly,’ said Semyonov, and he went across in his heavy plodding kind of way and stopped it. I went off to my room and then, upon my word, five minutes after I heard it begin again, thin and reedy through the walls. But when I came back into the dining-room there was no one there. You can’t think how that tune irritated me, and I tried to stop it. I went up to it, but I couldn’t find the hinge or the key. So on it went, over and over again. Then there’s another thing. Have you ever noticed how some chairs will creak in a room, just as though some one were sitting down or getting up? It always, in ordinary times, makes you jump, but when you’re strung up about something–! There’s a chair in the Markovitches’ dining-room just like that. It creaks more like a human being than anything you ever heard, and to-night I could have sworn Semyonov got up out of it. It was just like his heavy slow movement. However, there wasn’t any one there. Do you think all this silly?” he asked.
“No, indeed I don’t,” I answered.
“Then there’s a picture. You know that awful painting of a mid-Victorian ancestor of Vera’s–a horrible old man with bushy eyebrows and a high, rather dirty-looking stock?”
“Yes, I know it,” I said.
“It’s one of those pictures with eyes that follow you all round the room. At least it has now. I usen’t to notice them. Now they stare at you as though they’d eat you, and I know that Markovitch feels them because he keeps looking up at the beastly thing. Then there’s–But no, I’m not going to talk any more about it. It isn’t any good. One gets thinking of anything these days. One’s nerves are all on edge. And that flat’s too full of people any way.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed.
We arrived at Rozanov’s house, and went up in a very elegant heavily-gilt lift. Once in the flat we were enveloped in a cloud of men and women, tobacco smoke, and so many pictures that it was like tumbling into an art-dealer’s. Where there weren’t pictures there was gilt, and where there wasn’t gilt there was naked statuary, and where there wasn’t naked statuary there was Rozanov, very red and stout and smiling, gay in a tightly fitting black-tail coat, white waistcoat and black trousers. Who all the people were I haven’t the least idea. There was a great many. A number of Jews and Jewesses, amiable, prosperous, and kindly, an artist or two, a novelist, a lady pianist, two or three actors. I noticed these. Then there was an old maid, a Mlle. Finisterre, famous in Petrograd society for her bitterness and acrimony, and in appearance an exact copy of Balzac’s Sophie Gamond.
I noticed several of those charming, quiet, wise women of whom Russia is so prodigal, a man or two whom I had met at different times, especially one officer, one of the finest, bravest, and truest men I have ever known; some of the inevitable giggling girls–and then suddenly, standing quite alone, Nina!
Her loneliness was the first thing that struck me. She stood back against the wall underneath the shining frames, looking about her with a nervous, timid smile. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in the old way that she used to do when she was trying to imitate Vera, and I don’t know why but that seemed to me a good omen, as though she were already on her way back to us. She was wearing a very simple white frock.
In spite of her smile she looked unhappy, and I could see that during this last week experience had not been kind to her, because there was an air of shyness and uncertainty which had never been there before. I was just going over to speak to her when two of the giggling girls surrounded her and carried her off.
I carried the little picture of her in my mind all through the noisy, strident meal that followed. I couldn’t see her from where I sat, nor did I once catch the tones of her voice, although I listened. Only a month ago there would have been no party at which Nina was present where her voice would not have risen above all others.
No one watching us would have believed any stories about food shortage in Petrograd. I daresay at this very moment in Berlin they are having just such meals. Until the last echo of the last Trump has died away in the fastnesses of the advancing mountains the rich will be getting from somewhere the things that they desire! I have no memory of what we had to eat that night, but I know that it was all very magnificent and noisy, kind-hearted and generous and vulgar. A great deal of wine was drunk, and by the end of the meal every one was talking as loudly as possible. I had for companion the beautiful Mlle. Finisterre. She had lived all her life in Petrograd, and she had a contempt for the citizens of that fine town worthy of Semyonov himself. Opposite us sat a stout, good-natured Jewess, who was very happily enjoying her food. She was certainly the most harmless being in creation, and was probably guilty of a thousand generosities and kindnesses in her private life. Nevertheless, Mlle. Finisterre had for her a dark and sinister hatred, and the remarks that she made about her, in her bitter and piercing voice, must have reached their victim. She also abused her host very roundly, beginning to tell me in the fullest detail the history of an especially unpleasant scandal in which he had notoriously figured. I stopped her at last.
“It seems to me,” I said, “that it would be better not to say these things about him while you’re eating his bread and salt.”
She laughed shrilly, and tapped me on the arm with a bony finger.
“Oh, you English!… always so moral and strict about the proprieties… and always so hypercritical too. Oh, you amuse me! I’m French, you see–not Russian at all; these poor people see through nothing–but we French!”
After dinner there was a strange scene. We all moved into the long, over-decorated drawing-room. We sat about, admired the pictures (a beautiful one by Somoff I especially remember–an autumn scene with eighteenth-century figures and colours so soft and deep that the effect was inexpressibly delicate and mysterious), talked and then fell into one of those Russian silences that haunt every Russian party. I call those silences “Russian,” because I know nothing like them in any other part of the world. It is as though the souls of the whole company suddenly vanished through the windows, leaving only the bodies and clothes. Every one sits, eyes half closed, mouths shut, hands motionless, host and hostess, desperately abandoning every attempt at rescue, gaze about them in despair.
The mood may easily last well into the morning, when the guests, still silent, will depart, assuring everybody that they have enjoyed themselves immensely, and really believing that they have; or it may happen that some remark will suddenly be made, and instantly back through the windows the souls will come, eagerly catching up their bodies again, and a babel will arise, deafening, baffling, stupefying. Or it may happen that a Russian will speak with sudden authority, almost like a prophet, and will continue for half an hour and more, pouring out his soul, and no one will dream of thinking it an improper exhibition.
In fine, anything can happen at a Russian party. What happened on this occasion was this. The silence had lasted for some minutes, and I was wondering for how much longer I could endure it (I had one eye on Nina somewhere in the background, and the other on Bohun restlessly kicking his patent-leather shoes one against the other), when suddenly a quiet, ordinary little woman seated near me said:
“The thing for Russia to do now is to abandon all resistance and so shame the world.” She was a mild, pleasant-looking woman, with the eyes of a very gentle cow, and spoke exactly as though she were still pursuing her own private thoughts. It was enough; the windows flew open, the souls came flooding in, and such a torrent of sound poured over the carpet that the naked statuary itself seemed to shiver at the threatened deluge. Every one talked; every one, even, shouted. Just as, during the last weeks, the streets had echoed to the words “Liberty,” “Democracy,” “Socialism,” “Brotherhood,” “Anti-annexation,” “Peace of the world,” so now the art gallery echoed. The very pictures shook in their frames.
One old man in a white beard continued to cry, over and over again, “Firearms are not our weapons… bullets are not our weapons. It’s the Peace of God, the Peace of God that we need.”
One lady (a handsome Jewess) jumped up from her chair, and standing before us all recited a kind of chant, of which I only caught sentences once, and again:
“Russia must redeem the world from its sin… this slaughter must be slayed… Russia the Saviour of the world… this slaughter must be slayed.”
I had for some time been watching Bohun. He had travelled a long journey since that original departure from England in December; but I was not sure whether he had travelled far enough to forget his English terror of making a fool of himself. Apparently he had…. He said, his voice shaking a little, blushing as he spoke:
“What about Germany?”
The lady in the middle of the floor turned upon him furiously:
“Germany! Germany will learn her lesson from us. When we lay down our arms her people, too, will lay down theirs.”
“Supposing she doesn’t?”
The interest of the room was now centred on him, and every one else was silent.
“That is not our fault. We shall have made our example.”
A little hum of applause followed this reply, and that irritated Bohun. He raised his voice:
“Yes, and what about your allies, England and France, are you going to betray them?”
Several voices took him up now. A man continued:
“It is not betrayal. We are not betraying the proletariat of England and France. They are our friends. But the alliance with the French and English Capitalistic Governments was made not by us but by our own Capitalistic Government, which is now destroyed.”
“Very well, then,” said Bohun. “But when the war began did you not–all of you, not only your Government, but you people now sitting in this room–did you not all beg and pray England to come in? During those days before England’s intervention, did you not threaten to call us cowards and traitors if we did not come in? _Pomnite_?”
There was a storm of answers to this. I could not distinguish much of what it was. I was fixed by Mlle. Finisterre’s eagle eye, gleaming at the thought of the storm that was rising.
“That’s not our affair…. That’s not our affair,” I heard voices crying. “We did support you. For years we supported you. We lost millions of men in your service…. Now this terrible slaughter must cease, and Russia show the way to peace.”
Bohun’s moment then came upon him. He sprang to his feet, his face crimson, his body quivering; so desperate was his voice, so urgent his distress that the whole room was held.
“What has happened to you all? Don’t you see, don’t you see what you are doing? What has come to you, you who were the most modest people in Europe and are now suddenly the most conceited? What do you hope to do by this surrender?
“Do you know, in the first place, what you will do? You will deliver the peoples of three-quarters of the globe into hopeless slavery; you will lose, perhaps for ever, the opportunity of democracy; you will establish the grossest kind of militarism for all time. Why do you think Germany is going to listen to you? What sign has she ever shown that she would? When have her people ever turned away or shown horror at any of the beastly things her rulers have been doing in this war?… What about your own Revolution? Do you believe in it? Do you treasure it? Do you want it to last? Do you suppose for a moment that, if you bow to Germany, she won’t instantly trample out your Revolution and give you hack your monarchy? How can she afford to have a revolutionary republic close to her own gates? What is she doing at this moment? Piling up armies with which to invade you, and conquer you, and lead you into slavery. What have you done so far by your Revolutionary orders? What have you done by relaxing discipline in the army? What good have you done to any one or anything? Is any one the happier? Isn’t there disorder everywhere–aren’t all your works stopping and your industries failing? What about the eighty million peasants who have been liberated in the course of a night? Who’s going to lead them if you are not? This thing has happened by its own force, and you are sitting down under it, doing nothing. Why did it succeed? Simply because there was nothing to oppose it. Authority depended on the army, not on the Czar, and the army was the people. So it is with the other armies of the world. Do you think that the other armies couldn’t do just as you did if they wished. They could, in half an hour. They hate the war as much as you do, but they have also patriotism. They see that their country must be made strong first before other countries will listen to its ideas. But where is your patriotism? Has the word Russia been mentioned once by you since the Revolution? Never once…. ‘Democracy,’ ‘Brotherhood’–but how are Democracy and Brotherhood to be secured unless other countries respect you…. Oh, I tell you it’s absurd!… It’s more than absurd, it’s wicked, it’s rotten….”
Poor boy, he was very near tears. He sat down suddenly, staring blankly in front of him, his hands clenched.
Rozanov answered him, Rozanov flushed, his fat body swollen with food and drink, a little unsteady on his legs, and the light of the true mystic in his pig-like eyes. He came forward into the middle of the circle.
“That’s perhaps true what you say,” he cried; “it’s very English, very honest, and, if you will forgive me, young man, very simple. You say that we Russians are conceited. No, we are not conceited, but we see farther than the rest of the world. Is that our curse? Perhaps it is, but equally, perhaps, we may save the world by it. Now look at me! Am I a fine man? No, I am not. Every one knows I am not. No man could look at my face and say that I am a fine man. I have done disgraceful things all my life. All present know some of the things I have done, and there are some worse things which nobody knows save myself. Well, then…. Am I going to stop doing such things? Am I now, at fifty-five, about to become instantly a saint? Indeed not. I shall continue to do the things that I have already done, and I shall drop into a beastly old age. I know it.
“So, young man, I am a fair witness. You may trust me to speak the truth as I see it. I believe in Christ. I believe in the Christ-life, the Christ-soul. If I could, I would stop my beastliness and become Christlike. I have tried on several occasions, and failed, because I have no character. But does that mean that I do not believe in it when I see it? Not at all. I believe in it more than ever. And so with Russia–you don’t see far enough, young man, neither you nor any of your countrymen. It is one of your greatest failings that you do not care for ideas. How is this war going to end? By the victory of Germany? Perhaps…. Perhaps even it may be that Russia by her weakness will help to that victory. But is that the end? No…. If Russia has an Idea and because of her faith in that Idea, she will sacrifice everything, will be buffeted on both cheeks, will be led into slavery, will deliver up her land and her people, will be mocked at by all the world… perhaps that is her destiny…. She will endure all that in order that her Idea may persist. And her Idea will persist. Are not the Germans and Austrians human like ourselves? Slowly, perhaps very slowly, they will say to themselves: ‘There is Russia who believes in the peace of the world, in the brotherhood of man, and she will sacrifice everything for it, she will go out, as Christ did, and be tortured and be crucified–and then on the third day she will rise again.’ Is not that the history of every triumphant Idea?… You say that meanwhile Germany will triumph. Perhaps for a time she may, but our Idea will not die.
“The further Germany goes, the deeper will that Idea penetrate into her heart. At the end she will die of it, and a new Germany will be born into a new world…. I tell you I am an evil man, but I believe in God and in the righteousness of God.”
What do I remember after those words of Rozanov? It was like a voice speaking to me across a great gulf of waters–but that voice was honest. I do not know what happened after his speech. I think there was a lot of talk. I cannot remember.
Only just before I was going I was near Nina for a moment.
She looked up at me just as she used to do.
“Durdles–is Vera all right?”
“She’s miserable, Nina, because you’re not there. Come back to us.”
But she shook her head.
“No, no, I can’t. Give her my–” Then she stopped. “No, tell her nothing.”
“Can I tell her you’re happy?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered roughly, turning away from me.
X
But the adventures of that Easter Monday night were not yet over. I had walked away with Bohun; he was very silent, depressed, poor boy, and shy with the reaction of his outburst.
“I made the most awful fool of myself,” he said.
“No, you didn’t,” I answered.
“The trouble of it is,” he said slowly, “that neither you nor I see the humorous side of it all strongly enough. We take it too seriously. It’s got a funny side all right.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But you must remember that the Markovitch situation isn’t exactly funny just now–and we’re both in the middle of it. Oh! if only I could find Nina back home and Semyonov away, I believe the strain would lift. But I’m frightened that something’s going to happen. I’ve grown very fond of these people, you know, Bohun–Vera and Nina and Nicholas. Isn’t it odd how one gets to love Russians–more than one’s own people? The more stupid things they do the more you love them–whereas with one’s own people it’s quite the other way. Oh, I do _want_ Vera and Nina and Nicholas to be happy!”
“Isn’t the town queer to-night?” said Bohun, suddenly stopping. (We were just at the entrance to the Mariensky Square.)
“Yes,” I said. “I think these days between the thaw and the white nights are in some ways the strangest of all. There seems to be so much going on that one can’t quite see.”
“Yes–over there–at the other end of the Square–there’s a kind of mist–a sort of water-mist. It comes from the Canal.”
“And do you see a figure like an old bent man with a red lantern? Do you see what I mean–that red light?”
“And those shadows on the further wall like riders passing with silver-tipped spears? Isn’t it…? There they go–ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen….”
“How still the Square is? Do you see those three windows all alight? Isn’t there a dance going on? Don’t you hear the music?”
“No, it’s the wind.”
“No, surely…. That’s a flute–and then violins. Listen! Those are fiddles for certain!”
“How still, how still it is!”
We stood and listened whilst the white mist gathered and grew over the cobbles. Certainly there was a strain of music, very faint and dim, threading through the air.
“Well, I must go on,” said Bohun. “You go up to the left, don’t you? Good-night.” I watched Bohun’s figure cross the Square. The light was wonderful, like fold on fold of gauze, but opaque, so that buildings showed with sharp outline behind it. The moon was full and quite red. I turned to go home and ran straight into Lawrence.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Are you a ghost too?”
He didn’t seem to feel any surprise at meeting me. He was plainly in a state of tremendous excitement. He spoke breathlessly.