UNDERGROUND MIROSLAV.
Pavel dined at the major's house. He was in high spirits, but the hour
of his expected meeting with the girl of the Pievakin demonstration was
drawing near, and his impatience was getting keener every minute. He
reached the place, a little house occupied by a government clerk named
Orlovsky and his mother, ahead of time.
"Your name is Boulatoff, is it not?" asked the host, his square Slavic
nose curling up with the joy of his welcome. Then, crouching before the
absurdest looking samovar Pavel had ever seen, he explained that his
mother had gone to his sister's for the night, as she did very often to
avoid the noise of his gatherings. In the centre of a bare round table
lay an enormous loaf of rye bread and a great wedge of sugar, near which
stood an empty candy box, apparently used as a sugar bowl. Pavel divined
that at least one-half of Orlovsky's salary was spent on the tea, bread
and butter on which his guests regaled themselves while they talked
liberty.
"I'm only a private of the revolution," Orlovsky said, trying to blow
two charcoals into flame until his face glowed like the coals and his
eyes looked bleared. "But if there is anything I can do command me." At
his instance the two addressed each other in the familiar diminutives of
their Christian names--"Pasha" and "Aliosha." While Aliosha was
struggling with his smoking samovar, Pasha set to work cutting up the
sugar.
"Wait till you have seen our crowd," said Aliosha, flicking the open
side of an old top-boot at the samovar by way of bellows. "I tell you
Miroslav is destined to play a prominent part in the liberation of
Russia. We have some tip-top fellows and girls. Of course, we're mere
privates in the ranks of the revolution."
But Pavel's mind was on the speaker's sackcoat of checkered grey, which
was so tight on him that his prominent thighs were bulging out and the
garment seemed on the point of bursting. The sight of it annoyed Pavel
in the same way as Mme. Shubeyko's smile had done, and he asked Orlovsky
why he should not unbutton himself, to which the other answered, half in
jest, half in earnest, that he was getting so fat that he was beginning
to look "like a veritable bourgeois, deuce take it."
"But it makes a fellow uncomfortable to look at you," Pavel shouted,
irascibly.
"Ah, but that's a question of personal liberty, old man," Orlovsky
returned in all seriousness. "What right have you, for instance, to
impose upon me rules as to how I am to wear my coat?"
"That right which limits the liberty of one man by the liberty of other
men. But this is all foolishness, Aliosha. Upon my word it is. The days
of hair-splitting are dead and buried. There is plenty of work to
do--living, practical work."
Orlovsky leaped up from his samovar, a fishy look in his eye, and
grasping Pavel's hand he pressed it hard and long. Pavel felt in the
presence of the most provincial Nihilism he had ever come across.
Other members of the Circle came. They all knew the governor's nephew
by sight. Also that he was "a sympathiser," yet his presence here was a
stirring surprise to most of them, although they strove to conceal it.
One man, Orlovsky's immediate superior in office, shook Pavel's hand
with a grimace which seemed to say: "You're Prince Boulatoff and I am
only an ordinary government official, but then all titles and ranks will
soon go to smash." A Jewish gymnasium boy with two bubbling beads for
eyes made Pavel's acquaintance with a preoccupied air, as if in a hurry
to get down to more important business. His small, deep-seated eyes
spurted either merriment or gloom. Elkin had said there was not enough
of them to make one decent-sized eye, and dubbed him "Cyclops," which
had since been the boy's revolutionary nickname.
Orlovsky's superior had a vast snow-white forehead that gave his face a
luminous, aureole-lit effect, but he was an incurable liar. He was one
of the most devoted members of the Circle, however, and recently he had
sold all his real estate, turning over the proceeds to the party. As he
seated himself a telegraph operator in a dazzling uniform sat down by
his side, saying, in a whisper:
"That was an affected look of yours a moment ago."
"When? What are you talking about?" the man with the sainted forehead
asked, colouring.
"You know what. You made a face as if you were not glad to see
Boulatoff. You know you were, weren't you, now?"
"I confess I was."
"Now I like you, old boy. All that is necessary is to take one's self in
hand. Nothing like self-chastisement."
"Cyclops" bent over to an army captain with a pair of grandiose
side-whiskers and said something in order to hear himself address a
Gentile and an army officer in the familiar "thou." Another young Jew, a
red-headed gymnasium boy named Ginsburg, sat close to the lamp, reading
a book with near-sighted eyes, the yellow light playing on his
short-clipped red hair. His father was a notorious usurer and the chief
go-between in the governor's bribe-taking and money-lending
transactions. Young Ginsburg robbed his father industriously, dedicating
the spoils to the socialist movement.
* * * * *
The expectation that that hazy, featureless image which had resided in
his mind for the past five years would soon stand forth in the flesh and
with the mist lifted made Pavel restless. When a girl with short hair
and very sparse teeth told him that Clara Yavner was sure to be around
in less than fifteen minutes, his heart began to throb. The girl's name
was Olga Alexandrovna Andronova (Andronoff). She was accompanied by her
fiance, a local judge--a middle-aged man with a mass of fluffy hair. The
judge was perceptibly near-sighted, like Ginsburg, only when he screwed
up his eyes he looked angry, whereas the short-sightedness of the
red-headed young man had a beseeching effect. The two girls were great
friends, and Olga spoke of her chum in terms of persuasive enthusiasm.
That Boulatoff had special reasons to be interested in Clara Yavner she
was not aware.
"What has become of her?" she said, looking at the door impatiently.
"You are adding fuel to my curiosity, Olga Alexandrovna," Pavel said. "I
am beginning to feel somewhat as I once did in the opera, when I was
waiting to see Patti for the first time."
"And when she came out you were not disappointed, were you?" Olga
asked, exposing her sparse teeth in a broad, honest smile.
"No," he laughed.
"Well, neither will you be this time."
Pavel said to himself humorously: "I am so excited I am afraid I shall
fall in love with that girl. But then predictions seldom come true."
Then he added: "And now that I predict it won't, it will."
* * * * *
When she came at last he said inwardly: "That's what she looks like,
then! She certainly does not seem to be a fool whatever else she may
be." That was what people usually said upon their first meeting with
her: "She seems to be no fool." She was a fair-complexioned Jewish girl
of good height. To those unfamiliar with the many types of her race she
might have looked Teutonic. To her own people her face was
characteristically Jewish, of the blond, hazel-eyed variety. It was a
rather small face, round and with a slightly flattened effect between
eyes and mouth that aroused interest. Her good looks were due to a
peculiar impression of intelligence and character to which this effect
contributed and to the picturesqueness of her colouring--healthy white
flesh, clear and firm, set off by an ample crown of fair hair and
illuminated by the brown light of intense hazel eyes. She had with her a
two-year-old little girl, her sister's, and accompanying the two was
Elkin, from whose manner as he entered the crowded room it was easy to
see, first, that he had told Mlle. Yavner of the revolutionary "general"
he was going to introduce her to; second, that he was the leader of the
Circle and the connecting link between it and revolutionary generals.
"I tried to steal away from her," she said to Olga, meaning the little
girl, "but she ran after us and filled the streets with her cries." She
smiled--an embarrassed smile which made her intelligent face look still
more intelligent.
When Boulatoff was introduced to her, by Elkin, she blushed slightly. He
watched her with keen curiosity. At the same time the judge's fiancee
was watching him, in the fond hope that he would indorse her opinion of
her friend. When Clara averted her face, while speaking to somebody, her
features became blurred in Pavel's mind, and he sought another look at
her. Whether Elkin had told her of the effect her "speech" during the
Pievakin scene had had on him he had no knowledge.
Some of the men in the gathering made a point of ignoring the little
privileges of the sex, treating the girls "as human beings, not as
dolls," but Clara and Olga made a joke of it. When Orlovsky offered the
judge's fiancee a chair next to Clara's she thanked him much as an
"unemancipated" girl would have done; whereupon Mlle. Yavner shook her
finger at her, saying merrily:
"You're getting conservative, Olga. You had better look out."
The Circle was a loose, informal organisation. There were no fixed rules
or ceremonies for the admission of members nor anything like regularly
elected officers. Nor, indeed, did the members practise formal communism
among themselves, although the property of one was to a considerable
extent the property of all.
The gathering to-night was naturally larger than usual, owing to the
great news of the day. No one except Pavel knew anything about the
arrested man, each wondering whether the others did. To betray
inquisitiveness, however, would have been unconspiratorlike, so as they
sat about, whispering, in twos or threes, they were at once trying to
suppress their curiosity and to draw each other out.
The telegraph operator and Orlovsky's superior left early in the
evening, but there soon came two other members, a sergeant of the
captain's command and a gawky seminarist with a trick of drawing in his
neck and throwing out his Adam's apple when he laughed.
The sergeant took a seat beside his officer and the two fell into
conversation about their regiment, while the theological student at once
set to plying Pavel with questions. Elkin, in an embroidered
Little-Russian shirt, sat smoking a pipe and smiling non-committally.
Every little while he would remove the pipe from his mouth, take a grave
look at the theologian and resume his pipe and his smile.
The little girl sat on the captain's lap, quietly playing with his sword
until she fell asleep. When Clara beheld the officer struggling to keep
his luxurious side-whiskers from waking the child, she took her niece in
her arms and carried her, with noiseless kisses, toward the door.
"I'll soon be back. It isn't far," she whispered to Orlovsky, declining
his assistance.
The men followed her out of the room with fond glances. More than half
of them were in love with her.
When she got back, somewhat short of breath, Boulatoff was describing
the general feeling in the universities and among working people. His
talk was vague. His rolling baritone rang dry. And now his grip on the
subject was weakened still further by the reappearance of the girl in
whom, during the first few minutes, he instinctively felt a rival centre
of interest. No sooner, however, had the seminarist attacked the party
press than the prince became furious and made a favourable impression.
Once or twice he fell into Zachar's manner and even used several of his
arguments. The seminarist urged his objections chiefly because he wanted
to prove to himself and to the others that he was a man of convictions
and not one to quail before a revolutionary "general." But Pavel took
him seriously. Once when the seminarist attempted to interrupt him,
Clara said, forlornly:
"He's bound to be right. He's just bound to be right."
"Don't cry," said Cyclops. Several of the men laughed, and when Clara
joined them their eyes betrayed her power over them. Nothing betrays
your feelings toward another person more surely than the way you take
his merriment.
The most important topic of the evening was a circular letter from the
Executive Committee of the Will of the People, as Pavel's party was
called, as to the "preparatory work" that was to pave the way to a final
uprising. The discussion was left to the judge, Elkin and Pavel. The
gawky seminarist was silent, with an angry air which implied that the
arguments one was compelled to follow here were exasperatingly beneath
one's criticism. The others listened spellbound, though some of them
scarcely felt convinced. Ingrained in the consciousness of these was the
idea of an abstract elemental giant, tremendous and immutable as the
northern winter, of which the blind forces of the army were only a
personified detail. That this giant should some day, in the near future,
cease to be did not clearly appeal to their imagination. The boldness,
therefore, with which the judge and Pavel spoke of these things greatly
enhanced the fascination of their speeches.
Cyclops, a huge slice of rye bread in his hand, evidently had something
to say, but did not know how. He was quoting history, blushing,
sputtering, swallowing his own tongue, and finally he lost himself in a
jumble of words. Elkin was just the reverse. He was so calm, so glib and
so lucid of phrase that as long as his speech lasted one was
involuntarily nodding assent; yet when it was over one did not seem to
know exactly what he had said or whether he had had anything to say at
all. At one point he and the judge locked horns and fought long and hard
without clearly understanding each other, until they proved to be
arguing on the same side of the issue. Orlovsky, who took it for granted
that the theoretical discussion was beyond his mental powers, looked on
with stupid admiration. "Here is a bunch of cracks for you!" his beaming
face seemed to say.
In the course of a pause Clara whispered something to Olga.
"Why don't you ask it then?" the short-haired girl answered, aloud.
Clara turned pale, as she began to speak. She went straight to the
point, however, and presently cast off all restraint.
"All this is very well," she said, referring to a certain passage in the
circular letter, "provided the local authorities really desert the
throne. But suppose they don't, suppose they prove to be hardened
conservatives, devoted slaves of the crown? It seems to me as if we were
inclined to take things for granted--counting without the host, as it
were."
"Devoted to the crown!" said the gawky theologian. "The fact is that the
high officials are a mere lot of self-seeking curs."
"Exactly," Pavel thundered, bringing his hands together
enthusiastically.
Elkin removed the pipe from his mouth and bawled out: "Rats rather than
curs, I should say; rats that are sure to forsake the ship of state the
moment it shows signs of danger."
The seminarist was annoyed at this attempt to steal the applause from
him, but Boulatoff did not like Elkin's manner and offered him no
encouragement. This disarmed the seminarist's opposition. From this
moment on he listened to Pavel with friendly nods, as who should say:
"Now you are hitting it; now you are talking sense!"
"Of course," Pavel resumed, "the pamphlet means we should keep agitating
until we are sure of our ground. There is a large liberal-minded class
that does not stir merely because it is made up of a lot of cowards.
These fellows will rally around our banner the moment the government
begins to totter. As to the bureaucracy, it is so decayed, so
worm-eaten, that all it knows at present is how to bend double for an
increase of salary or promotion in rank. A lot of back-boneless
flunkeys, that's what they are. You don't actually think they serve the
Czar from principle?" he asked, addressing himself to Mlle. Yavner.
"The only principle they care for," Elkin interposed, "is, 'To the devil
with all principles!'"
"Exactly," Pavel assented, with some irritation.
"Yes," the seminarist chimed in, "and when they hear the tocsin of
Liberty, Equality and Fraternity--"
"Liberty, Equality and Fiddlesticks!" Clara mimicked him, mildly,
signing to him not to interrupt the speaker.
Pavel went on. He spoke at length, looking mostly at her. He was making
an effort to convince her that in the event of a revolution the high
officials would turn cowards, and her face seemed to be saying: "He's
the nephew of a governor, so he ought to know."
When the yard windows were thrown open the bewhiskered captain sat down
to the piano and struck up an old national tune, to the accompaniment of
two male voices. The others continued their talk under cover of the
music. Pavel made up his mind that the judge and Clara were the most
level-headed members of the Circle, and decided to seek their
cooperation in the business which had brought him to Miroslav. Only the
judge was the more reposeful of the two, as well as incomparably the
better informed. As a rule he was absorbed in his own logic, while Mlle.
Yavner was jarred by every false note in others, nervously sensitive to
all that went on about her, so that when Cyclops, for example, got
tangled in his own verbosity her eyes would cloud up with vexation and
she would come to his rescue, summing up his argument in a few clear,
unobtrusive sentences. There was a glow of enthusiasm in her look which
she was apparently struggling to suppress. Indeed, she was struggling to
suppress some feeling or other most of the time. Her outward calm seemed
to cover an interior of restlessness.
Pavel's unbounded faith in the party instilled new faith into her. The
great point was that he was a member of the aristocracy. If a man like
him had his whole heart in the struggle, the movement was certainly not
without foundation. Moreover, Boulatoff was close to the revolutionary
centre, and he obviously spoke from personal knowledge. All sorts of
questions worried her, many of which were answered at the present
gathering, partly by herself, partly by others. The new era, when there
would be neither poverty nor oppression, the enchanted era which had won
her heart, loomed clearer than ever. At one moment as she sat listening,
her blond hair gleaming golden in the lamplight, her face lit up by a
look of keen intelligence, Pavel said to himself: "And this Jewish girl
is the one who had the feeling and the courage to make that rumpus over
Pievakin! If I became a revolutionist it was the result of gradual
development, through the help of conditions, books, people; whereas this
girl acted like one, and in the teeth of grave danger, too, purely on
the spur of the moment and long before she knew there was any such thing
as a revolutionary movement; acted like one while I was still a blind,
hard-hearted milksop of a drone." In the capital he knew a number of
girls who were continually taking their lives in their hands and several
of whom were like so many saints to him, but then Mlle. Yavner belonged
to the realm of his home and his boyhood. What he regarded as an act of
heroism on her part was hallowed by that sense of special familiarity
and comprehensibility which clings to things like the old well that
witnessed our childish games.
She made a very favourable impression on him. If he had been a formal
candidate for her hand, come "bride-seeing," he could not have studied
her more closely than he did now. Indeed, so absorbed was he in her that
once while she was speaking to him laughingly her words fell on a deaf
ear because at that moment he was remarking to himself: "She laughs in a
little rising scale, breaking off in a rocket."
"There must be something in her, then," he thought "which was the source
of that noble feeling and of that courage." He took to scanning her
afresh, as though looking for a reflection of that something in her
face, and as he looked at her and thought of the Pievakin
"demonstration" it gave him pleasure to exaggerate her instrumentality
in his own political regeneration.
Olga had relieved her fiance at the piano, and later on when she, too,
rose from the keyboard, Clara eagerly took her place. There was no life
in Mlle. Yavner's tones, but the impassioned sway of her head and form
as she played told of a soul touched with ecstasy; told of the music
which her fingers failed to evoke from the instrument. And the eyes of
half a dozen love-stricken men added their rapture to the sounds.
Pavel listened to her melody and breathed the scented night air that
came in from the little garden in the yard. He reflected that Clara
might visit the warden's house as a piano teacher. At this it came home
to him that Makar was in prison, and that unless he escaped he was a
lost man. He was seized with terror. The piano sang of a lonely ship,
blue waves, and a starlit night, but to Pavel it spoke of his imprisoned
friend and his own anguish. He joined in the chorus with ferocious
ardour. His heart was crying for Makar's liberation and for a thousand
other things. When she left the piano stool he leaped up to her.
"Allow me to grasp your hand, Clara Rodionovna," he said, as though
thanking her for the merit of her playing. And then, all unmindful of
comment, he drew her into a secluded corner and said vehemently:
"I wish also to tell you, Clara Rodionovna, that I have a special reason
to be glad of knowing you; for if I have a right to be among good people
it is you whom I have to thank for it." A thick splash of crimson came
into her face; but before she had time to put her surprise into words,
he poured forth the story of his awakening and how he had all these five
years been looking forward to a meeting with her. As he spoke his face
bore an expression of ecstatic, almost amorous grimness. The girl was
taken by storm. She was literally dazed. An overwhelming, unspoken
intimacy established itself between them on the spot.
Olga's face was a blend of beaming triumph and tense perplexity. The men
were making an effort to treat Boulatoff's sally with discretion, as if
it were a bit of revolutionary conspiracy and they knew enough to mind
their own business.