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 faceclouded.
"I trusted you--" she began.
"It's no good," I said at once. "Not for the moment. She's made up hermind. It's not because she loved him nor, I think, for anything verymuch that her uncle said. She's got some idea in her head. Perhaps youcan 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 theanswer, because she turned away from me.
"She told me to tell you that she saw what happened on the afternoon ofthe Thursday in Revolution week. She said that then you wouldunderstand."
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 tellthem all."
"Tell them what?"
"Oh, you'll hear with the rest. Uncle Alexei has done this. He told Ninabecause he hates me. He won't rest until he ruins us all. But I don'tcare. He can't take from me what I've got. He can't take from me whatI'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? Imust 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 aword of explanation or excuse. She had not, I am sure, even got so faras the Moscow Province. I doubt whether she had even left Petrograd. Iasked her no questions. I could tell of course that she had beendrinking. She was a funny old creature, wrinkled and yellow and hideous,very little different in any way from a native in the wilds of CentralAfrica. The savage in her liked gay colours and trinkets, and she wouldstick flowers in her hair and wear a tinkling necklace of bright red andblue beads. She had a mangy dog, hairless in places and rheumy at theeyes, who was all her passion, and this creature she would adore, takingit to sleep with her, talking to it by the hour together, pulling itstail and twisting its neck so that it growled with rage--and then, whenit growled, she, too, would make strange noises as though sympathisingwith it.
She returned to me from no sort of sense of duty, but simply because, Ithink, she did not know where else to go. She scowled on me and informedme that now that there had been the Revolution everything was different;nevertheless the sight of my sick yellow face moved her as sickness andmisfortune always move every Russian, however old and debased he may be.
"You shouldn't have gone out walking," she said crossly. "That man'sbeen 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 Benoiswater-colour, putting my favourite books beside my bed.
When Henry Bohun came in he was surprised at the brightness ofeverything.
"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 andPrejudice_.
"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 thinkso. 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'swhat 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 tooseedy 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 aboutcaring for Vera?"
"Yes--I remember very well indeed."
"In a way it all started from that. You put me on to seeing Markovitchin quite a different light. I'd always thought of him as an awfully dulldog with very little to say for himself, and a bit loose in thetop-story too. I thought it a terrible shame a ripping woman like Verahaving married him, and I used to feel sick with him about it. Thensometimes he'd look like the devil himself, as wicked as sin, poringover his inventions, and you'd fancy that to stick a knife in his backmight be perhaps the best thing for everybody.
"Well, you explained him to me and I saw him different--not that I'veever got very much out of him. I don't think that he either likes me ortrusts me, and anyway he thinks me too young and foolish to be of anyimportance--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 befascinating to him. Anyhow, although I may be said to have failed in oneway, I've got rather keen on the pursuit. If I can't make him like me Ican at least study him and learn something. That's a leaf out of yourbook, 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 ofthe old bird. I don't believe you could live at close quarters with anyRussian, however nasty, and not get a kind of affection for him. They'reso damned childish."
"Oh yes, you could," I said. "Try Semyonov."
"I'm coming to him in a minute," said Bohun. "Well, Markovitch was mostawfully unhappy. That's one thing one saw about him at once--unhappy ofcourse because Vera didn't love him and he adored her. But there wasmore in it than that. He let himself go one night to me--the only timehe's ever talked to me really. He was drunk a bit, and he wanted toborrow money off me. But there was more in it than that. He talked to meabout Russia. That seemed to have been his great idea when the war beganthat it was going to lead to the most marvellous patriotism all throughRussia. It seemed to begin like that, and do you know, Durward, as hetalked I saw that patriotism _was_ at the bottom of everything, that youcould talk about Internationalism until you were blue in the face, andthat it only began to mean anything when you'd learnt first whatnationality was--that you couldn't really love all mankind until you'dfirst learnt to love one or two people close to you. And that youcouldn't love the world as a vast democratic state until you'd learnt tolove your own little bit of ground, your own fields, your own river,your own church tower. Markovitch had it all as plain as plain. 'Makeyour own house secure and beautiful. Then it is ready to take its placein the general scheme. We Russians always begin at the wrong end,' hesaid. 'We jump all the intermediate stages. I'm as bad as the rest.' Iknow you'll say I'm so easily impressed, Durward, but he was wonderfulthat night--and so _right_. So that as he talked I just longed to rushback and see that my village--Topright in Wiltshire--was safe and soundwith the highgate at the end of the village street, and the villagestores 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 tolive up to. If he couldn't have Vera he'd have Russia, and if hecouldn't have Russia he'd have his inventions. When we first came alonga month or two ago he'd lost Russia, he was losing Vera, and he wasn'tvery sure about his inventions. A bad time for the old
boy, and you werequite right to tell me to look after him. Then came the Revolution, andhe thought that everything was saved. Vera and Russia and everything.Wasn't he wonderful that week? Like a child who has suddenly foundParadise.... Could any Englishman ever be cheated like that byanything? Why a fellow would be locked up for a loony if he looked ashappy 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 thatweek. I can put my finger almost exactly on the day--the Thursday ofthat week. What was it? That's one of the things I've come to ask youabout?"
"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 fellowwouldn'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 understandthem completely. Just take what comes."
"Well, 'what came' was this. On that Thursday evening Markovitch was asthough he'd been struck in the face. You never saw such a change. Ofcourse we all noticed it. White and sickly, saying nothing to anybody.Next morning, quite early, Semyonov came over and proposed lodging withus.
"It absolutely took my breath away, but no one else seemed veryastonished. What on earth did he want to leave his comfortable flat andcome to us for? We were packed tight enough as it was. I never liked thefeller, 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 cagedanimal--'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 theend. And you'd told me to look after Markovitch. If ever he'd wantedlooking after it was now! I could see that Vera hated the idea ofSemyonov 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 toSemyonov and took his hand and said, 'I'm so glad you're coming, UncleAlexei,' and looked at Vera. Oh! they're all as queer as they can be, Itell you!"
"What happened next?" I asked eagerly.
"Everything's happened and nothing's happened," he replied. "Nina's runaway. 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 dayand just sitting there, not saying anything. Semyonov's amiable toeverybody--especially amiable to Markovitch. But he's laughing at himall the time I think. Anyway he makes him mad sometimes, so that I thinkMarkovitch is going to strike him. But of course he never does.... Nowhere'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 hewere going to whisper a secret to me.
"The other night I was awake--about two in the morning it was--andwanted a book--so I went into the dining-room. I'd only got bedroomslippers on and I was stopped at the door by a sound. It was Semyonovsitting over by the further window, in his shirt and trousers, his beardin his hands, and sobbing as though his heart would break. I'd neverheard a man cry like that. I hate hearing a man cry anyway. I've heardfellers at the Front when they're off their heads or something... butSemyonov was worse than that. It was a strong man crying, with all hiswits about him.... Then I heard some words. He kept repeating again andagain. '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 roomfrightened out of my life. I've never known anything so awful. AndSemyonov 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 hedashed his head against a tree and all that. But, by Jove, you neverknow!... Now, Durward, you've got to tell me. You've known Semyonov foryears. You can explain. What's it all about, and what's he trying to doto Markovitch?"
"I can scarcely think what to tell you," I said at last. "I don't reallyknow much about Semyonov, and my guesses will probably strike you asinsane."
"No, they won't," said Bohun. "I've learnt a bit lately."
"Semyonov," I said, "is a deep-dyed sensualist. All his life he'sthought about nothing but gratifying his appetites. That's simpleenough--there are plenty of that type everywhere. But unfortunately forhim he's a very clever man, and like every Russian both a cynic and anidealist--a cynic in facts _because_ he's an idealist. He got everythingso easily all through his life that his cynicism grew and grew. He hadwealth and women and position. He was as strong as a horse. Every 'onegave way to him and he despised everybody. He went to the Front, and oneday came across a woman different from any other whom he had everknown."
"How different?" asked Bohun, because I paused.
"Different in that she was simpler and naiver and honester and betterand 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 onemust 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 towhom she was engaged. I don't think she ever really loved theEnglishman, but she loved Semyonov."
"Well?" said Bohun.
"She was killed. A stray shot, when she was giving tea to the men in thetrenches.... It meant a lot... to all of us. The Englishman was killedtoo, so he was all right. I think Semyonov would have liked that sameend; 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 fruitjust within his grasp, something at last that can tempt his jadedappetite. 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 knowanything? 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 thatsoul, that spirit, that individual personal expression of beauty andpurity 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 mightnot have proved his idealism right after all. Ah! to your cynic there'snothing more maddening! Do you think your cynic loves his cynicism? Nota bit of it! Not he! But he won't be taken in by sham any more. That heswears....
"So it was with Semyonov. This girl might have proved the one realexception; she might have lasted, she might have grown even morebeautiful 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 thepossibility of it all his days. He's a man now ruled by an obsession. Hethinks of one thing and one thing only, day and night. His sensualityhas fallen away from him because women are dull--sterile to him besidethat perfect picture of the woman lost. Lost! he may recover her! Hedoesn't know. The thought of death obsesses him. What is there in it? Isshe behind there or no? Is she behind there, maddening thought, with herEnglishman?
"He must know. He _must_ know. He calls to her--she won't come to him.What is he to do? Suic
ide? No, to a proud man like Semyonov that's amiserable confession of weakness. How they'd laugh at him, these otherdespicable human beings, if he did that! He'd prove himself as weak asthey. 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 andsentimental and disappointed man, some one whose every foible andweakness he knew, suppose he were to place himself near him and soirritate and confuse and madden him that at last one day, in a fury ofrage and despair, that man were to do for him what he is too proud to dofor himself! Think of the excitement, the interest, the food for hiscynicism, the food for his conceit such a game would be to Semyonov. Isthis 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 andcounter check, the sense, above all, that to a man like Semyonov isalmost everything, that he is master of human emotions, that he candirect wretched, weak human beings whither he will.
"And the other--the weak, disappointed, excitable man--can't you seethat Semyonov has him close to his hand, that he has only to stretch afinger--"
"Markovitch!" cried Bohun.
"Now you know," I said, "why you've got to stay on in that flat."
The Secret City Page 41
