“For Madame de S--. That lady observes a special diet, or something
of the sort. It seems she complained the day before to Peter Ivanovitch
that the eggs were not rightly prepared. Peter Ivanovitch suddenly
remembered this against the poor woman, and flew out at her. It was most
astonishing. I stood as if rooted.”
“Do you mean to say that the great feminist allowed himself to be
abusive to a woman?” I asked.
“Oh, not that! It was something you have no conception of. It was an
odious performance. Imagine, he raised his hat to begin with. He made
his voice soft and deprecatory. ‘Ah! you are not kind to us--you will
not deign to remember....’ This sort of phrases, that sort of tone.
The poor creature was terribly upset. Her eyes ran full of tears.
She did not know where to look. I shouldn’t wonder if she would have
preferred abuse, or even a blow.”
I did not remark that very possibly she was familiar with both on
occasions when no one was by. Miss Haldin walked by my side, her head up
in scornful and angry silence.
“Great men have their surprising peculiarities,” I observed inanely.
“Exactly like men who are not great. But that sort of thing cannot
be kept up for ever. How did the great feminist wind up this very
characteristic episode?”
Miss Haldin, without turning her face my way, told me that the end
was brought about by the appearance of the interviewer, who had been
closeted with Madame de S--.
He came up rapidly, unnoticed, lifted his hat slightly, and paused to
say in French: “The Baroness has asked me, in case I met a lady on my
way out, to desire her to come in at once.”
After delivering this message, he hurried down the drive. The _dame de
compagnie_ flew towards the house, and Peter Ivanovitch followed her
hastily, looking uneasy. In a moment Miss Haldin found herself alone
with the young man, who undoubtedly must have been the new arrival
from Russia. She wondered whether her brother’s friend had not already
guessed who she was.
I am in a position to say that, as a matter of fact, he had guessed.
It is clear to me that Peter Ivanovitch, for some reason or other, had
refrained from alluding to these ladies’ presence in Geneva. But Razumov
had guessed. The trustful girl! Every word uttered by Haldin lived in
Razumov’s memory. They were like haunting shapes; they could not be
exorcised. The most vivid amongst them was the mention of the sister.
The girl had existed for him ever since. But he did not recognize her
at once. Coming up with Peter Ivanovitch, he did observe her; their eyes
had met, even. He had responded, as no one could help responding, to
the harmonious charm of her whole person, its strength, its grace, its
tranquil frankness--and then he had turned his gaze away. He said to
himself that all this was not for him; the beauty of women and the
friendship of men were not for him. He accepted that feeling with a
purposeful sternness, and tried to pass on. It was only her outstretched
hand which brought about the recognition. It stands recorded in the
pages of his self-confession, that it nearly suffocated him physically
with an emotional reaction of hate and dismay, as though her appearance
had been a piece of accomplished treachery.
He faced about. The considerable elevation of the terrace concealed them
from anyone lingering in the doorway of the house; and even from the
upstairs windows they could not have been seen. Through the thickets run
wild, and the trees of the gently sloping grounds, he had cold, placid
glimpses of the lake. A moment of perfect privacy had been vouchsafed
to them at this juncture. I wondered to myself what use they had made of
that fortunate circumstance.
“Did you have time for more than a few words?” I asked.
That animation with which she had related to me the incidents of her
visit to the Chateau Borel had left her completely. Strolling by my
side, she looked straight before her; but I noticed a little colour on
her cheek. She did not answer me.
After some little time I observed that they could not have hoped to
remain forgotten for very long, unless the other two had discovered
Madame de S-- swooning with fatigue, perhaps, or in a state of morbid
exaltation after the long interview. Either would require their devoted
ministrations. I could depict to myself Peter Ivanovitch rushing busily
out of the house again, bareheaded, perhaps, and on across the terrace
with his swinging gait, the black skirts of the frock-coat floating
clear of his stout light grey legs. I confess to having looked upon
these young people as the quarry of the “heroic fugitive.” I had the
notion that they would not be allowed to escape capture. But of that I
said nothing to Miss Haldin, only as she still remained uncommunicative,
I pressed her a little.
“Well--but you can tell me at least your impression.”
She turned her head to look at me, and turned away again.
“Impression?” she repeated slowly, almost dreamily; then in a quicker
tone--
“He seems to be a man who has suffered more from his thoughts than from
evil fortune.”
“From his thoughts, you say?”
“And that is natural enough in a Russian,” she took me up. “In a young
Russian; so many of them are unfit for action, and yet unable to rest.”
“And you think he is that sort of man?”
“No, I do not judge him. How could I, so suddenly? You asked for my
impression--I explain my impression. I--I--don’t know the world, nor yet
the people in it; I have been too solitary--I am too young to trust my
own opinions.”
“Trust your instinct,” I advised her. “Most women trust to that, and
make no worse mistakes than men. In this case you have your brother’s
letter to help you.”
She drew a deep breath like a light sigh. “Unstained, lofty, and
solitary existences,” she quoted as if to herself. But I caught the
wistful murmur distinctly.
“High praise,” I whispered to her.
“The highest possible.”
“So high that, like the award of happiness, it is more fit to come
only at the end of a life. But still no common or altogether unworthy
personality could have suggested such a confident exaggeration of praise
and...”
“Ah!” She interrupted me ardently. “And if you had only known the heart
from which that judgment has come!”
She ceased on that note, and for a space I reflected on the character of
the words which I perceived very well must tip the scale of the girl’s
feelings in that young man’s favour. They had not the sound of a
casual utterance. Vague they were to my Western mind and to my Western
sentiment, but I could not forget that, standing by Miss Haldin’s side,
I was like a traveller in a strange country. It had also become clear to
me that Miss Haldin was unwilling to enter into the details of the only
material part of their visit to the Chateau Borel. But I was not hurt.
Somehow I didn’t feel it to be a want of confidence. It was some other
difficulty--a difficulty I could not resent. And it was without the
slightest resentment that I said--
“Very well. But on that high ground, which I will not dispute, you, like
anyone else in such circumstances, you must have made for yourself
a representation of that exceptional friend, a mental image of him,
and--please tell me--you were not disappointed?”
“What do you mean? His personal appearance?”
“I don’t mean precisely his good looks, or otherwise.”
We turned at the end of the alley and made a few steps without looking
at each other.
“His appearance is not ordinary,” said Miss Haldin at last.
“No, I should have thought not--from the little you’ve said of your
first impression. After all, one has to fall back on that word.
Impression! What I mean is that something indescribable which is likely
to mark a ‘not ordinary’ person.”
I perceived that she was not listening. There was no mistaking her
expression; and once more I had the sense of being out of it--not
because of my age, which at any rate could draw inferences--but
altogether out of it, on another plane whence I could only watch her
from afar. And so ceasing to speak I watched her stepping out by my
side.
“No,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I could not have been disappointed with a
man of such strong feeling.”
“Aha! Strong feeling,” I muttered, thinking to myself censoriously: like
this, at once, all in a moment!
“What did you say?” inquired Miss Haldin innocently.
“Oh, nothing. I beg your pardon. Strong feeling. I am not surprised.”
“And you don’t know how abruptly I behaved to him!” she cried
remorsefully.
I suppose I must have appeared surprised, for, looking at me with a
still more heightened colour, she said she was ashamed to admit that she
had not been sufficiently collected; she had failed to control her words
and actions as the situation demanded. She lost the fortitude worthy of
both the men, the dead and the living; the fortitude which should have
been the note of the meeting of Victor Haldin’s sister with Victor
Haldin’s only known friend. He was looking at her keenly, but said
nothing, and she was--she confessed--painfully affected by his want of
comprehension. All she could say was: “You are Mr. Razumov.” A slight
frown passed over his forehead. After a short, watchful pause, he made a
little bow of assent, and waited.
At the thought that she had before her the man so highly regarded by her
brother, the man who had known his value, spoken to him, understood him,
had listened to his confidences, perhaps had encouraged him--her lips
trembled, her eyes ran full of tears; she put out her hand, made a step
towards him impulsively, saying with an effort to restrain her emotion,
“Can’t you guess who I am?” He did not take the proffered hand. He
even recoiled a pace, and Miss Haldin imagined that he was unpleasantly
affected. Miss Haldin excused him, directing her displeasure at
herself. She had behaved unworthily, like an emotional French girl.
A manifestation of that kind could not be welcomed by a man of stern,
self-contained character.
He must have been stern indeed, or perhaps very timid with women, not
to respond in a more human way to the advances of a girl like Nathalie
Haldin--I thought to myself. Those lofty and solitary existences (I
remembered the words suddenly) make a young man shy and an old man
savage--often.
“Well,” I encouraged Miss Haldin to proceed.
She was still very dissatisfied with herself.
“I went from bad to worse,” she said, with an air of discouragement very
foreign to her. “I did everything foolish except actually bursting into
tears. I am thankful to say I did not do that. But I was unable to speak
for quite a long time.”
She had stood before him, speechless, swallowing her sobs, and when
she managed at last to utter something, it was only her brother’s
name--“Victor--Victor Haldin!” she gasped out, and again her voice
failed her.
“Of course,” she commented to me, “this distressed him. He was
quite overcome. I have told you my opinion that he is a man of deep
feeling--it is impossible to doubt it. You should have seen his face.
He positively reeled. He leaned against the wall of the terrace. Their
friendship must have been the very brotherhood of souls! I was grateful
to him for that emotion, which made me feel less ashamed of my own lack
of self-control. Of course I had regained the power of speech at once,
almost. All this lasted not more than a few seconds. ‘I am his sister,’
I said. ‘Maybe you have heard of me.’”
“And had he?” I interrupted.
“I don’t know. How could it have been otherwise? And yet.... But what
does that matter? I stood there before him, near enough to be touched
and surely not looking like an impostor. All I know is, that he put
out both his hands then to me, I may say flung them out at me, with
the greatest readiness and warmth, and that I seized and pressed them,
feeling that I was finding again a little of what I thought was lost
to me for ever, with the loss of my brother--some of that hope,
inspiration, and support which I used to get from my dear dead....”
I understood quite well what she meant. We strolled on slowly. I
refrained from looking at her. And it was as if answering my own
thoughts that I murmured--
“No doubt it was a great friendship--as you say. And that young man
ended by welcoming your name, so to speak, with both hands. After that,
of course, you would understand each other. Yes, you would understand
each other quickly.”
It was a moment before I heard her voice.
“Mr. Razumov seems to be a man of few words. A reserved man--even when
he is strongly moved.”
Unable to forget---or even to forgive--the bass-toned expansiveness of
Peter Ivanovitch, the Archpatron of revolutionary parties, I said that
I took this for a favourable trait of character. It was associated with
sincerity--in my mind.
“And, besides, we had not much time,” she added.
“No, you would not have, of course.” My suspicion and even dread of the
feminist and his Egeria was so ineradicable that I could not help asking
with real anxiety, which I made smiling--
“But you escaped all right?”
She understood me, and smiled too, at my uneasiness.
“Oh yes! I escaped, if you like to call it that. I walked away quickly.
There was no need to run. I am neither frightened nor yet fascinated,
like that poor woman who received me so strangely.”
“And Mr.--Mr. Razumov...?”
“He remained there, of course. I suppose he went into the house after I
left him. You remember that he came here strongly recommended to Peter
Ivanovitch--possibly entrusted with important messages for him.”
“Ah yes! From that priest who...”
“Father Zosim--yes. Or from others, perhaps.”
“You left him, then. But have you seen him since, may I ask?”
For some time Miss Haldin made no answer to this very direct question,
then--
“I have been expecting to see him here to-day,” she said quietly.
“You have! Do you meet, then, in this garden? In that case I had better
leave you at once.”
“No, why leave me? And we don’t meet in this garden. I have not seen Mr.
Razumov since that first time. Not once. But I have been expecting
him....”
She paused. I wondered to myself why that young revolutionist should
show so little alacrity.
“Before we parted I told Mr. Razumov that I walked here for an hour
every day at this time. I could not explain to him then why I did not
ask him to come and see us at once. Mother must be prepared for such a
visit. And then, you see, I do not know myself what Mr. Razumov has to
tell us. He, too, must be told first how it is with poor mother. All
these thoughts flashed through my mind at once. So I told him hurriedly
that there was a reason why I could not ask him to see us at home, but
that I was in the habit of walking here.... This is a public place,
but there are never many people about at this hour. I thought it would
do very well. And it is so near our apartments. I don’t like to be very
far away from mother. Our servant knows where I am in case I should be
wanted suddenly.”
“Yes. It is very convenient from that point of view,” I agreed.
In fact, I thought the Bastions a very convenient place, since the
girl did not think it prudent as yet to introduce that young man to
her mother. It was here, then, I thought, looking round at that plot of
ground of deplorable banality, that their acquaintance will begin and go
on in the exchange of generous indignations and of extreme sentiments,
too poignant, perhaps, for a non-Russian mind to conceive. I saw these
two, escaped out of four score of millions of human beings ground
between the upper and nether millstone, walking under these trees, their
young heads close together. Yes, an excellent place to stroll and talk
in. It even occurred to me, while we turned once more away from the wide
iron gates, that when tired they would have plenty of accommodation to
rest themselves. There was a quantity of tables and chairs displayed
between the restaurant chalet and the bandstand, a whole raft of painted
deals spread out under the trees. In the very middle of it I observed a
solitary Swiss couple, whose fate was made secure from the cradle to
the grave by the perfected mechanism of democratic institutions in a
republic that could almost be held in the palm of ones hand. The man,
colourlessly uncouth, was drinking beer out of a glittering glass; the
woman, rustic and placid, leaning back in the rough chair, gazed idly
around.
There is little logic to be expected on this earth, not only in the
matter of thought, but also of sentiment. I was surprised to discover
myself displeased with that unknown young man. A week had gone by since
they met. Was he callous, or shy, or very stupid? I could not make it
out.
“Do you think,” I asked Miss Haldin, after we had gone some distance up
the great alley, “that Mr Razumov understood your intention?”
“Understood what I meant?” she wondered. “He was greatly moved. That
I know! In my own agitation I could see it. But I spoke distinctly. He
heard me; he seemed, indeed, to hang on my words...”
Unconsciously she had hastened her pace. Her utterance, too, became
quicker.