I
In the conduct of an invented story there are, no doubt, certain
proprieties to be observed for the sake of clearness and effect. A man
of imagination, however inexperienced in the art of narrative, has his
instinct to guide him in the choice of his words, and in the development
of the action. A grain of talent excuses many mistakes. But this is not
a work of imagination; I have no talent; my excuse for this undertaking
lies not in its art, but in its artlessness. Aware of my limitations and
strong in the sincerity of my purpose, I would not try (were I able) to
invent anything. I push my scruples so far that I would not even invent
a transition.
Dropping then Mr. Razumov’s record at the point where Councillor
Mikulin’s question “Where to?” comes in with the force of an insoluble
problem, I shall simply say that I made the acquaintance of these ladies
about six months before that time. By “these ladies” I mean, of course,
the mother and the sister of the unfortunate Haldin.
By what arguments he had induced his mother to sell their little
property and go abroad for an indefinite time, I cannot tell precisely.
I have an idea that Mrs. Haldin, at her son’s wish, would have set fire
to her house and emigrated to the moon without any sign of surprise or
apprehension; and that Miss Haldin--Nathalie, caressingly Natalka--would
have given her assent to the scheme.
Their proud devotion to that young man became clear to me in a
very short time. Following his directions they went straight to
Switzerland--to Zurich--where they remained the best part of a year.
From Zurich, which they did not like, they came to Geneva. A friend
of mine in Lausanne, a lecturer in history at the University (he had
married a Russian lady, a distant connection of Mrs. Haldin’s), wrote to
me suggesting I should call on these ladies. It was a very kindly
meant business suggestion. Miss Haldin wished to go through a course of
reading the best English authors with a competent teacher.
Mrs. Haldin received me very kindly. Her bad French, of which she was
smilingly conscious, did away with the formality of the first interview.
She was a tall woman in a black silk dress. A wide brow, regular
features, and delicately cut lips, testified to her past beauty. She sat
upright in an easy chair and in a rather weak, gentle voice told me that
her Natalka simply thirsted after knowledge. Her thin hands were lying
on her lap, her facial immobility had in it something monachal. “In
Russia,” she went on, “all knowledge was tainted with falsehood. Not
chemistry and all that, but education generally,” she explained.
The Government corrupted the teaching for its own purposes. Both her
children felt that. Her Natalka had obtained a diploma of a Superior
School for Women and her son was a student at the St. Petersburg
University. He had a brilliant intellect, a most noble unselfish nature,
and he was the oracle of his comrades. Early next year, she hoped he
would join them and they would then go to Italy together. In any other
country but their own she would have been certain of a great future for
a man with the extraordinary abilities and the lofty character of her
son--but in Russia....