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But the adventures of that Easter Monday night were not yet over. I hadwalked away with Bohun; he was very silent, depressed, poor boy, and shywith the reaction of his outburst.
"I made the most awful fool of myself," he said.
"No, you didn't," I answered.
"The trouble of it is," he said slowly, "that neither you nor I see thehumorous side of it all strongly enough. We take it too seriously. It'sgot a funny side all right."
"Maybe you're right," I said. "But you must remember that the Markovitchsituation isn't exactly funny just now--and we're both in the middle ofit. Oh! if only I could find Nina back home and Semyonov away, I believethe strain would lift. But I'm frightened that something's going tohappen. I've grown very fond of these people, you know, Bohun--Vera andNina and Nicholas. Isn't it odd how one gets to love Russians--more thanone's own people? The more stupid things they do the more you lovethem--whereas with one's own people it's quite the other way. Oh, I do_want_ Vera and Nina and Nicholas to be happy!"
"Isn't the town queer to-night?" said Bohun, suddenly stopping. (We werejust at the entrance to the Mariensky Square.)
"Yes," I said. "I think these days between the thaw and the white nightsare in some ways the strangest of all. There seems to be so much goingon that one can't quite see."
"Yes--over there--at the other end of the Square--there's a kind ofmist--a sort of water-mist. It comes from the Canal."
"And do you see a figure like an old bent man with a red lantern? Do yousee what I mean--that red light?"
"And those shadows on the further wall like riders passing withsilver-tipped spears? Isn't it...? There they go--ten, eleven, twelve,thirteen...."
"How still the Square is? Do you see those three windows all alight?Isn't there a dance going on? Don't you hear the music?"
"No, it's the wind."
"No, surely.... That's a flute--and then violins. Listen! Those arefiddles for certain!"
"How still, how still it is!"
We stood and listened whilst the white mist gathered and grew over thecobbles. Certainly there was a strain of music, very faint and dim,threading through the air.
"Well, I must go on," said Bohun. "You go up to the left, don't you?Good-night." I watched Bohun's figure cross the Square. The light waswonderful, like fold on fold of gauze, but opaque, so that buildingsshowed with sharp outline behind it. The moon was full and quite red. Iturned to go home and ran straight into Lawrence.
"Good heavens!" I cried. "Are you a ghost too?"
He didn't seem to feel any surprise at meeting me. He was plainly in astate of tremendous excitement. He spoke breathlessly.
"You're exactly the man. You must come back with me. My diggings now areonly a yard away from here."
"It's very late," I began, "and--"
"Things are desperate," he said. "I don't know--" he broke off. "Oh!come and help me, Durward, for God's sake!"
I went with him, and we did not exchange another word until we were inhis rooms.
He began hurriedly taking off his clothes. "There! Sit on the bed.Different from Wilderling's, isn't it? Poor devil.... I'm going to havea bath if you don't mind--I've got to clear my head."
He dragged out a tin bath from under his bed, then a big can of waterfrom a corner. Stripped, he looked so thick and so strong, with hisshort neck and his bull-dog build, that I couldn't help saying,
"You don't look a day older than the last time you played Rugger forCambridge."
"I am, though." He sluiced the cold water over his head, grunting. "Notnear so fit--gettin' fat too.... Rugger days are over. Wish all my otherdays were over too."
He got out of the bath, wiped himself, put on pyjamas, brushed histeeth, then his hair, took out a pipe, and then sat beside me on thebed.
"Look here, Durward," he said. "I'm desperate, old man." (He said"desprite.") "We're all in a hell of a mess."
"I know," I said.
He puffed furiously at his pipe.
"You know, if I'm not careful I shall go a bit queer in the head. Get soangry, you know," he added simply.
"Angry with whom?" I asked.
"With myself mostly for bein' such a bloody fool. But not onlymyself--with Civilisation, Durward, old cock!--and also with that swineSemyonov."
"Ah, I thought you'd come to him," I said.
"Now the points are these," he went on, counting on his thick stubblyfingers. "First, I love Vera--and when I say love I mean love. Neverbeen in love before, you know--honest Injun, never.... Never had affairswith tobacconists' daughters at Cambridge--never had an affair with awoman in my life--no, never. Used to wonder what was the matter with me,why I wasn't like other chaps. Now I know. I was waitin' for Vera. Quitesimple. I shall never love any one again--never. I'm not a kid, youknow, like young Bohun--I love Vera once and for all, and that's that..."
"Yes," I said. "And the next point?"
"The next point is that Vera loves me. No need to go into that--but shedoes."
"Yes, she does," I said.
"Third point, she's married, and although she don't love her man she'ssorry for him. Fourth point, he loves her. Fifth point, there's adamned swine hangin' round called Alexei Petrovitch Semyonov.... Well,then, there you have it."
He considered, scratching his head. I waited. Then he went on:
"Now it would be simpler if she didn't want to be kind to Nicholas, ifNicholas didn't love her, if--a thousand things were different. But theymust be as they are, I suppose. I've just been with her. She's nearlyout of her mind with worry."
He paused, puffing furiously at his pipe. Then he went on:
"She's worrying about me, about Nina, and about Nicholas. And especiallyabout Nicholas. There's something wrong with him. He knows about mykissing her in the flat. Well, that's all right. I meant him to know.Everything's just got to be above-board. But Semyonov knows too, andthat devil's been raggin' him about it, and Nicholas is just like abloomin' kid. That's got to stop. I'll wring that feller's neck. Buteven that wouldn't help matters much. Vera says Nicholas is not to behurt whatever happens. 'Never mind us,' she says, 'we're strong and canstand it.' But he can't. He's weak. And she says he's just goin' off hisdot. And it's got to be stopped--it's just got to be stopped. There'sonly one way to stop it."
He stayed: suddenly he put his heavy hand on my knee.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I've got to clear out. That's what I mean. Right away out. Back toEngland."
I didn't speak.
"That's it," he went on, but now as though he were talking to himself."That's what you've got to do, old son.... She says so, and she's right.Can't alter our love, you know. Nothing changes that. We've got to holdon... Ought to have cleared out before...."
Suddenly he turned. He almost flung himself upon me. He gripped my armsso that I would have cried out if the agony in his eyes hadn't held me.
"Here," he muttered, "let me alone for a moment. I must hold on. I'mpretty well beat. I'm just about done."
For what seemed hours we sat there. I believe it was, in reality, only afew minutes. He sat facing me, his eyes staring at me but not seeing me,his body close against me, and I could see the sweat glistening on hischest through the open pyjamas. He was rigid as though he had beenstruck into stone.
He suddenly relaxed.
"That's right," he said; "thanks, old man. I'm better now. It's a bitlate, I expect, but stay on a while."
He got into bed. I sat beside him, gripped his hand, and ten minuteslater he was asleep.
The Secret City Page 46
