FROM CELLAR TO PALACE.
Meanwhile Pavel, Mme. Shubeyko, Masha, Mlle. Andronoff and her fiance,
the near-sighted judge with the fluffy hair, went on with their plot. A
considerable sum was needed to bribe the warden, the head keeper (a
bustling little man who was known in the conspiracy as the Sparrow), and
others. The plotters had five thousand rubles, and in order to obtain
the rest without delay Pavel went so far as to take his mother into the
secret. The countess received his story with a thrill of gratitude and
of a sense of adventure. After a visit to the bank, she handed him ten
thousand rubles in crisp rainbow-coloured one hundred ruble notes. She
was pale with emotion as she did so. Her heart was deeper in his
movement than he supposed. It was as if every barrier standing between
her and her son had been removed. She was a comrade of his now.
"The only thing that worries me," she said for something to say, "is
uncle's visits. He has not been here for some time, but if he comes, I
shan't be able to look him in the face. He is a very good man at heart,
Pasha."
"Still, you had better make no haste about trying to convert him," Pavel
answered, with a smile, struggling with the pile of notes.
The bulk of the sum--eight thousand rubles--was to be paid by Mme.
Shubeyko to the warden, half of it in advance and the other half upon
the carrying out of the project. Rodkevich pretended to receive the four
thousand rubles as a loan. He barred all frank discussion of the scheme,
hinting that he was scarcely a master in his own prison and that all he
could do was to "overlook things under pressure of business at times."
As a matter of fact, he scarcely incurred any risks.
Pavel missed Clara keenly. A feverish yearning feeling had settled in
him, often moving him to tears, but he fought it bravely. Once or twice
he went to the Beak and indulged in a feast of self-torture, but
otherwise he worked literally day and night, seeing people,
deliberating, scheming. The only manifestation of his nervousness was an
exaggerated air of composure, and as this was lost on his fellow
plotters, nothing was farther from their thoughts than that he
experienced a sensation as though his heart were withering within his
breast and that the cause of it was Clara Yavner.
When he received word of her return he said to himself, in a turmoil of
joy, terror and impatience, that he could not bear it any longer and
that he would tell her all the next time they were alone.
He saw her the very next day, at the trunk shop. Both blushed violently.
The first minutes of their conversation were punctuated with nervous
pauses, like the first talk of people who have been reconciled after a
long estrangement. He said to himself: "Now is the time," and vaguely
felt confident of success, yet he was still in awe of her and all he
managed to do was to turn the conversation upon his mother.
"I should like you to meet her," he said. "She has heard of you."
"Your mother?" she asked in shamefaced astonishment.
"She is a very good woman," Pavel observed, gravely. "She is in sympathy
with the movement, you know, although it was only the other day I
brought her the first few things to read. If it isn't asking too much I
should like to introduce you to her, Clara Rodionovna. She would be
delighted."
He paused, but she maintained her air of respectful curiosity, so he
went on. "She is very enthusiastic. She would like to know some of the
Miroslav radicals, and I took the liberty of telling her about you. I
need not tell you that I spoke in a very, very general way about you."
* * * * *
One afternoon the Palace, which the trunk-dealer's daughter had known
all her life as a mysterious, awe-inspiring world whose threshold people
of her class could never dream of crossing, the Palace threw open its
imposing doors to her, and she was escorted by Pavel up the immense
staircase and into the favorite room of Countess Anna Nicolayevna
Varoff. As it was an unheard-of thing for a Jewish girl to visit the
Palace, it was agreed, as a safeguard against the inquisitiveness of the
servants, that she should be known to them by such a typically Russian
name as Daria Ivanovna Morosoff (Morosova).
Barring the two great statues and an ancient cabinet inlaid with ivory
and mother-of-pearl, the room was rather below her undefined
anticipations. Her preconceived notion of the place soon wore off,
however, under a growing sense of venerable solidity, of a quiet
magnificence that was a revelation to her.
"I'm awfully glad to know you, Clara Rodionovna, awfully," the countess
said when the first formalities of greeting were over, and they were
all seated. This Jewish girl was the first Nihilist she had ever met
(indeed, Pavel was only "Pasha" after all), and she identified her in
her mind with every revolutionary assassination and plot she had read
about. She was flushed with excitement and so put out that she was
playing with Pavel's fingers as she spoke, as a mother will do with
those of her little boy. As to Clara, she had an oppressive feeling as
though the pair of big musty statues, graceful, silent, imposing, were
haughtily frowning on her presence under this roof. Pavel seemed to be a
different young man. She scarcely seemed to be acquainted with him. Only
the sight of Anna Nicolayevna fondling his fingers warmed her heart to
both. On the other hand, her own smile won the hostess.
The countess released Pavel's hand, moved over to the other end of the
sofa and huddled herself into the corner, thrusting out her graceful
elbows and great pile of auburn hair. The presence of Pavel kept her ill
at ease. Finally she said: "I think you had better leave us two women to
ourselves, Pasha. We shall understand each other much better then, won't
we, Clara Rodionovna?"
"I hope so," Clara answered, awkwardly.
Pavel withdrew. In his absence their embarrassment only increased.
* * * * *
The next time Clara and Pavel met, in the trunk-shop, he asked her when
she would call on his mother again.
"Oh, I don't know. The point is I don't know what to do with my hands
there," she said, with a laugh. "I can't seem to shake off the feeling
that I am in the house of--in 'the Palace,' don't you know."
It was a hot day, but the air in the basement was quite cool. Motl was
silently painting a trunk, and Pavel was conscious of the oppressive
smell of the paint and of the impact of the brush against the wood as he
answered, with pained stress in his voice.
"But my mother does not feel like a countess. She is above and beyond
all such things."
"I know she is. Only I somehow don't manage to feel at home there."
"But it's only a matter of habit I am sure. You'll get over it. You
won't feel that way next time. You must promise me to call to-morrow."
It was as if Clara's was a superior position in life and as if that
superiority lay in this, that her home was a squalid trunk-shop, while
his was a palace.
"If I do, my mind will be in a whirl again," she laughed.
"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that. You must promise me to call on her."
"Can't we put it off--indefinitely?"
"Clara Rodionovna!"
His imploring voice threatened to draw from him the great yearning plea
that was waiting to be heard, but this same entreating voice of his
thrilled her so that she hastened to yield.
"Very well," she said.
"Will you come? Oh, it's so kind of you. I am ever so much obliged to
you--but I declare I am raving like a maniac," he interrupted himself
with a queer smile that forthwith lapsed into an expression of rage.
"What I really want to say is that I love you."
The lines of her face hardened. Her rich complexion burst into flame.
She looked gravely at nothing, as he proceeded:
"It seems to me as though I had felt that way ever since that Pievakin
episode, Clara Rodionovna. I owe so much to you. If it had not been for
you I might still be leading the life of a knave and an idiot. What you
did on that occasion served to open my eyes and showed me the difference
between light and darkness. And now it seems to me that if you were
mine, it would infuse great energy and courage into me. I have got so
used to seeing you, I hate to think of being apart from you for a single
moment. Oh, you are so dear to me, I am so happy to sit by your side, to
be allowed to say all this to you."
"You are dear to me, too," she said in great embarrassment.
He grasped her hand in silence, his face a burning amorous red.
On their way to the Beak, after another outburst from him, she spoke in
measured accents, firm and sad, like the voice of fate.
"I don't know where this will lead us, for either of us or both may be
arrested at any time, and then this happiness would add so much poison
to the horrors of prison life. Besides, even if we are not arrested, as
long as present conditions prevail our love would have to remain hidden
underground, like our dear movement----"
"My mother will know it. I want her to know it; and if it is possible to
tell your parents, too----"
"Oh, it would kill them. Theirs is an entirely different world."
"Then, for the present, let them be none the wiser for it. As to my
mother, she likes you very, very much already and when she hears of it
she will love you to distraction, Clara Rodionovna. My friends of the
party will know it, too, of course, and what do we care for the rest of
this wretched world? But oh, I do wish you could tell your mother, or
could I speak to her?"
"Oh, that's absolutely impossible," she said in a voice vibrant with a
suggestion of tears and the music of love at once. "Your mother may
understand me. We can speak in the same language at least, but my poor
parents--one might as well tell them I am dead. Well, when the Will of
the People has scored its great victory and Russia is free, then, if we
are alive, we shall announce it to my poor parents."
He picked up a stone and flung it with all his might. He was in a fidget
of suppressed exultation. Now that his suspense was over, they changed
parts, as it were. The gnawing gloom which had tantalised him during the
past few weeks had suddenly burst forth in torrents of sunshine; whereas
in her case the quiet light-hearted happiness which had been the colour
of her love had given way to an infatuated heart filled with anguish.
* * * * *
He told his mother the news the very next morning. The explanation took
place in the immense ball-room. It was a windy morning outside, and they
were marching up and down the parquette of polished light oak, arm in
arm. Presently they paused at one of the windows facing the garden. They
could faintly hear the soughing of the wind in the trees. They stood
gazing at the fluttering leaves, when he said, musingly:
"I have something to tell you, mother. I told Mlle. Yavner I loved her
and I want you to congratulate me."
"Mlle. Yavner?" she asked, with a look of consternation.
"Yes, Mamma dear, I love her and she loves me and she is the dearest
woman in the world and you are not going to look upon it in a manner
unworthy of yourself, are you, dear little mamma mine?" He seized her
fingers and fell to kissing them and murmuring: "My dear little mamma,
my dear little mamma." His endearments were too much for her.
"Pasha, Pasha! What are you doing with yourself," she sobbed bitterly.
"Mamma darling! Mamma darling!" he shouted fiercely. "You are not going
to give way to idiotic, brutal, Asiatic notions that are not really
yours. Another year or two, perhaps less, and all Russia will be free
from them and from all her chains, and then one won't have to be shocked
to hear that a man and a woman who love each other and belong to each
other are going to marry. Mamma dear, my darling little mamma! You are
the noblest woman to be found. You are not going to go back on your son
because he is trying to live like a real human being and not like a
hypocrite and a brute."
She dared not cry any more.
When Clara came, the countess, turning pale, clasped her vehemently, as
though pleading for mercy. Clara felt bewildered and terror-stricken,
and after some perfunctory kisses she loosened her arms, but the Gentile
woman detained her in an impetuous embrace, as she said: "Be good to me,
both of you. He is all I have in the world." As she saw an embarrassed
smile on Clara's beautifully coloured face, she bent forward with a
sudden impulse and drew her to her bosom again, as though she had just
made the discovery that the Jewish girl was not unlike other girls after
all, that there was nothing preternatural about her person or speech.
Whereupon Clara kissed her passionately and burst into tears.
The countess caressed her, poured out the innermost secrets of her heart
to her. This Jewish girl whom she had only seen once before heard from
her the story of her past life, of her childhood, of her two unhappy
marriages, of her thirst for comradeship with her son, of her
conversion. The two women became intimate friends, although Clara spoke
comparatively little.
Nevertheless, that night Anna Nicolayevna vainly courted sleep. Her
heart was in her mouth. She wished she could implore her son to break
the engagement, to sever connection with the movement, to abandon all
his perilous and unconventional pursuits. But she knew that she would
never have the courage to do so.