PART III

MARKOVITCH AND SEMYONOV

MARKOVITCH AND SEMYONOV.

I

On the evening of that very afternoon, Thursday, I again collapsed. I

was coming home in the dusk through a whispering world. All over the

streets, everywhere on the broad shining snow, under a blaze of stars so

sharp and piercing that the sky seemed strangely close and intimate, the

talk went on. Groups everywhere and groups irrespective of all class

distinction--a well-to-do woman in rich furs, a peasant woman with a

shawl over her head, a wild, bearded soldier, a stout, important

officer, a maid-servant, a cab-driver, a shopman--talking, talking,

talking, talking.... The eagerness, the ignorance, the odd fairy-tale

world spun about those groups, so that the coloured domes of the

churches, the silver network of the stars, the wooden booths, the mist

of candles before the Ikons, the rough painted pictures on the shops

advertising the goods sold within--all these things shared in that crude

idealistic, cynical ignorance, in that fairy-tale of brutality,

goodness, cowardice, and bravery, malice and generosity, superstition

and devotion that was so shortly to be offered to a materialistic,

hard-fighting, brave and unthinking Europe!...

That, however, was not now my immediate business--enough of that

presently. My immediate business, as I very quickly discovered, was to

pluck up enough strength to drag my wretched body home. The events of

the week had, I suppose, carried me along. I was to suffer now the

inevitable reaction. I felt exactly as though I had been shot from a gun

and landed, suddenly, without breath, without any strength in any of my

limbs in a new and strange world. I was standing, when I first realised

my weakness, beside the wooden booths in the Sadovaya. They were all

closed of course, but along the pavement women and old men had baskets

containing sweets and notepaper and red paper tulips offered in memory

of the glorious Revolution. Right across the Square the groups of people

scattered in little dusky pools against the snow, until they touched the

very doors of the church.... I saw all this, was conscious that the

stars and the church candles mingled... then suddenly I had to clutch

the side of the booth behind me to prevent myself from falling. My head

swam, my limbs were as water, and my old so well-remembered friend

struck me in the middle of the spine as though he had cut me in two with

his knife. How was I ever to get home? No one noticed me--indeed they

seemed to my sick eyes to have ceased to be human. Ghosts in a ghostly

world, the snow gleaming through them so that they only moved like a

thin diaphanous veil against the wall of the sky... I clutched my

booth. In a moment I should be down. The pain in my back was agony, my

legs had ceased to exist, and I was falling into a dark, dark pool of

clear jet-black water, at the bottom of which lay a star....

The strange thing is that I do not know who it was who rescued me. I

know that some one came. I know that to my own dim surprise an

Isvostchick was there and that very feebly I got into it. Some one was

with me. Was it my black-bearded peasant? I fancy now that it was. I can

even, on looking back, see him sitting up, very large and still, one

thick arm holding me. I fancy that I can still smell the stuff of his

clothes. I fancy that he talked to me, very quietly, reassuring me about

something. But, upon my word, I don't know. One can so easily imagine

what one wants to be true, and now I want, more than I would then ever

have believed to be possible, to have had actual contact with him. It is

the only conversation between us that can ever have existed: never,

before or after, was there another opportunity. And in any case there

can scarcely have been a conversation, because I certainly said nothing,

and I cannot remember anything that he said, if indeed he said anything

at all. At any rate I was there in the Sadovaya, I was in a cab, I was

in my bed. The truth of the rest of it any one may decide for

himself....

II

That Thursday was March 15. I was conscious of my existence again on

Sunday, April 1st. I opened my eyes and saw that there was a thaw. That

was the first thing of which I was aware--that water was apparently

dripping on every side of me. It is a strange sensation to lie on your

bed very weak, and very indifferent, and to feel the world turning to

moisture all about you.... My ramshackle habitation had never been a

very strong defence against the outside world. It seemed now to have

definitely decided to abandon the struggle. The water streamed down the

panes of my window opposite my bed. One patch of my ceiling (just above

my only bookcase, confound it!) was coloured a mouldy grey, and from

this huge drops like elephant's tears, splashed monotonously. (Already

_The Spirit of Man_ was disfigured by a long grey streak, and the green

back of Galleon's _Roads_ was splotched with stains.) Some one had

placed a bucket near the door to catch a perpetual stream flowing from

the corner of the room. Down into the bucket it pattered with a hasty,

giggling, hysterical jiggle. I rather liked the companionship of it. I

didn't mind it at all. I really minded nothing whatever.... I sighed my

appreciation of my return to life. My sigh brought some one from the

corner of my room and that some one was, of course, the inevitable Eat.

He came up to my bed in his stealthy, furtive fashion, and looked at me

reproachfully. I asked him, my voice sounding to myself strange and very

far away, what he was doing there. He answered that if it had not been

for him I should be dead. He had come early one morning and found me

lying in my bed and no one in the place at all. No one--because the old

woman had vanished. Yes, the neighbours had told him. Apparently on that

very Thursday she had decided that the Revolution had given her her

freedom, and that she was never going to work for anybody ever again.

She had told a woman-neighbour that she heard that the land now was

going to be given back to everybody, and she was returning therefore to

her village somewhere in the Moscow Province. She had not been back

there for twenty years. And first, to celebrate her liberty, she would

get magnificently drunk on furniture polish.

"I did not see her of course," said the Rat. "No. When I came, early in

the morning, no one was here. I thought that you were dead, Barin, and I

began collecting your property, so that no one else should take it. Then

you made a movement, and I saw that you were alive--so I got some

cabbage soup and gave it you. That certainly saved you.... I'm going to

stay with you now."

I did not care in the least whether he went or stayed. He chattered on.

By staying with me he would inevitably neglect his public duties.

Perhaps I didn't know that he had public duties? Yes, he was now an

Anarchist, and I should be astonished very shortly, by the things the

Anarchists would do. All the same, they had their own discipline. They

had their own processions, too, like any one else. Only four days ago he

had marched all over Petrograd carrying a black flag. He must confess

that he was rather sick of it. But they must have processions.... Even

the prostitutes had marched down the Nevski the other day demanding

shorter hours.

But of course I cannot remember all that he said. During the next few

days I slowly pulled myself out of the misty dead world in which I had

been lying. Pain came back to me, leaping upon me and then receding,

finally, on the third day suddenly leaving me altogether. The Rat fed me

on cabbage soup and glasses of tea and caviare and biscuits. During

those three days he never left me, and indeed tended me like a woman. He

would sit by my bed and with his rough hand stroke my hair, while he

poured into my ears ghastly stories of the many crimes that he had

committed. I noticed that he was cleaner and more civilised. His beard

was clipped and he smelt of cabbage and straw--a rather healthy smell.

One morning he suddenly took the pail, filled it with water and washed

himself in front of my windows. He scrubbed himself until I should have

thought that he had no skin left.

"You're a fine big man, Rat," I said.

He was delighted with that, and came quite near my bed, stretching his

naked body, his arms and legs and chest, like a pleased animal.

"Yes, I'm a fine man, Barin," he said; "many women have loved me, and

many will again..." Then he went back, and producing clean drawers and

vest from somewhere (I suspect that they were mine but I was too weak to

care), put them on.

On the second and third days I felt much better. The thaw was less

violent, the wood crackled in my stove. On the morning of Wednesday

April 14 I got up, dressed, and sat in front of my window. The ice was

still there, but over it lay a faint, a very faint, filmy sheen of

water. It was a day of gleams, the sun flashing in and out of the

clouds. Just beneath my window a tree was pushing into bud. Pools of

water lay thick on the dirty melting snow. I got the Rat to bring a

little table and put some books on it. I had near me _The Spirit of

Man_, Keats's _Letters_, _The Roads_, Beddoes, and _Pride and

Prejudice_. A consciousness of the outer world crept, like warmth,

through my bones.

"Rat," I said, "who's been to see me?"

"No one," said he.

I felt suddenly a ridiculous affront.

"No one?" I asked, incredulous.

"No one," he answered. "They've all forgotten you, Barin," he added

maliciously, knowing that that would hurt me.

It was strange how deeply I cared. Here was I who, only a short while

before, had declared myself done with the world for ever, and now I was

almost crying because no one had been to see me! Indeed, I believe in my

weakness and distress I actually did cry. No one at all? Not Vera nor

Nina nor Jeremy nor Bohun? Not young Bohun even...? And then slowly my

brain realised that there was now a new world. None of the old

conditions held any longer.

We had been the victims of an earthquake. Now it was--every man for

himself! Quickly then there came upon me an eager desire to know what

had happened in the Markovitch family. What of Jerry and Vera? What of

Nicholas? What of Semyonov...?

"Rat," I said, "this afternoon I am going out!"

"Very well, Barin," he said, "I, too, have an engagement."

In the afternoon I crept out like an old sick man. I felt strangely shy

and nervous. When I reached the corner of Ekateringofsky Canal and the

English Prospect I decided not to go in and see the Markovitches. For

one thing I shrank from the thought of their compassion. I had not

shaved for many days. I was that dull sickly yellow colour that offends

the taste of all healthy vigorous people. I did not want their pity.

No.... I would wait until I was stronger.

My interest in life was reviving with every step that I took. I don't

know what I had expected the outside world to be. This was April 14. It

was nearly a month since the outburst of the Revolution, and surely

there should be signs in the streets of the results of such a cataclysm.

There were, on the surface, no signs. There was the same little cinema

on the canal with its gaudy coloured posters, there was the old woman

sitting at the foot of the little bridge with her basket of apples and

bootlaces, there was the same wooden hut with the sweets and the fruit,

the same figures of peasant women, soldiers, boys hurrying across the

bridge, the same slow, sleepy Isvostchick stumbling along carelessly.

One sign there was. Exactly opposite the little cinema, on the other

side of the canal, was a high grey block of flats. This now was starred

and sprayed with the white marks of bullets. It was like a man marked

for life with smallpox. That building alone was witness to me that I had

not dreamt the events of that week.

The thaw made walking very difficult. The water poured down the sides of

the houses and gurgled in floods through the pipes. The snow was

slippery under the film of gleaming wet, and there were huge pools at

every step. Across the middle of the English Prospect, near the Baths,

there was quite a deep lake....

I wandered slowly along, enjoying the chill warmth of the soft spring

sun. The winter was nearly over! Thank God for that! What had happened

during my month of illness? Perhaps a great Revolutionary army had been

formed, and a mighty, free, and united Russia was going out to save the

world! Oh, I did hope that it was so! Surely that wonderful white week

was a good omen. No Revolution in history had started so well as this

one....

I found my way at last very slowly to the end of the Quay, and the sight

of the round towers of my favourite church was like the reassuring smile

of an old friend. The sun was dropping low over the Neva. The whole vast

expanse of the river was coloured very faintly pink. Here, too, there

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 naïver 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 naïve 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 Lançeray. 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?"