The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  XIII

  That night, whether as a result of my interview with Semyonov I do notknow, my old enemy leapt upon me once again. I had, during the nextthree days, one of the worst bouts of pain that it has ever been myfortune to experience. For twenty-four hours I thought it more than anyman could bear, and I hid my head and prayed for death; during the nexttwenty-four I slowly rose, with a dim far-away sense of deliverance; onthe third day I could hear, in the veiled distance, the growls of mydefeated foe....

  Through it all, behind the wall of pain, my thoughts knocked andthudded, urging me to do something. It was not until the Friday or theSaturday that I could think consecutively. My first thought was drivenin on me by the old curmudgeon of a doctor, as his deliberate opinionthat it was simply insanity to stay on in those damp rooms when Isuffered from my complaint, that I was only asking for what I got, andthat he, on his part, had no sympathy for me. I told him that I entirelyagreed with him, that I had determined several weeks ago to leave theserooms, and that I thought that I had found some others in a different,more populated part of the town. He grunted his approval, and,forbidding me to go out for at least a week, left me. At least aweek!... No, I must be out long before that. Now that the pain had leftme, weak though I was, I was wildly impatient to return to theMarkovitches. Through all these last days' torments I had been consciousof Semyonov, seen his hair and his mouth and his beard and his squaresolidity and his tired, exhausted eyes, and strangely, at the end of itall, felt the touch of his lips on mine. Oddly, I did not hate Semyonov;I saw quite clearly that I had never hated him--something too impersonalabout him, some sense, too, of an outside power driving him. No, I didnot hate him, but God! how I feared him--feared him not for my own sake,but for the sake of those who had--was this too arrogant?--been given asit seemed to me,--into my charge.

  I remembered that Monday was the 30th of April, and that, on thatevening, there was to be a big Allied meeting at the Bourse, at whichour Ambassador, Sir George Buchanan, the Belgian Consul, and others,were to speak. I had promised to take Vera to this. Tuesday the 1st ofMay was to see a great demonstration by all the workmen's and soldiers'committees. It was to correspond with the Labour demonstrations arrangedto take place on that day all over Europe, and the Russian date had beenaltered to the new style in order to provide for this. Many peopleconsidered that the day would be the cause of much rioting, of definitehostility to the Provisional Government, of anti-foreign demonstrations,and so on; others, idealistic Russians, believed that all the soldiers,the world over, would on that day throw down their arms and proclaim auniversal peace....

  I for my part believed that it would mark the ending of the first phaseof the Revolution and the beginning of the second, and that for Russiaat any rate it would mean the changing from a war of nations into a warof class--in other words, that it would mean the rising up of theRussian peasant as a definite positive factor in the world's affairs.

  But all that political business was only remotely, at that moment, myconcern. What I wanted to know was what was happening to Nicholas, toVera, to Lawrence, and the others. Even whilst I was restlesslywondering what I could do to put myself into touch with them, my oldwoman entered with a letter which she said had been brought by hand.

  The letter was from Markovitch.

  I give this odd document here exactly as I received it. I do not attemptto emphasise or explain or comment in any way. I would only add that noRussian is so mad as he seems to any Englishman, and no Englishman sofoolish as he seems to any Russian.

  I must have received this letter, I think, late on Sunday afternoon,because I was, I remember, up and dressed, and walking about my room. Itwas written on flimsy grey paper in pencil, which made it difficult toread. There were sentences unfinished, words misspelt, and the whole ofit in the worst of Russian handwritings. Certain passages, I am, evennow, quite unable to interpret:

  It ran as follows:

  Dear Ivan Andreievitch--Vera tells me that you are ill again. She hasbeen round to enquire, I think. I did not come because I knew that if Idid I should only talk about my own troubles, the same as you've alwayslistened to, and what kind of food is that for a sick man? All the same,that is just what I am doing now, but reading a letter is not liketalking to a man; you can always stop and tear the paper when perhaps itwould not be polite to ask a man to go. But I hope, nevertheless, thatyou won't do that with this--not because of any desire I may have tointerest you in myself, but because of something of much more importancethan either of us, something I want you to believe--something you _must_believe.... Don't think me mad. I am quite sane sitting here in my roomwriting.... Every one is asleep. Every one but not everything. I've beenqueer, now and again, lately... off and on. Do you know how it comes?When the inside of the world goes further and further within draggingyou after it, until at last you are in the bowels of darkness choking.I've known such moods all my life. Haven't you known them? Lately, ofcourse, I've been drinking again. I tell you, but I wouldn't own it tomost people. But they all know, I suppose.... Alexei made me startagain, but it's foolish to put everything on to him. If I weren't a weakman he wouldn't be able to do anything with me, would he? Do you believein God, and don't you think that He intended the weak to have somecompensation somewhere, because it isn't their fault that they're weak,is it! They can struggle and struggle, but it's like being in a net.Well, one must just make a hole in the net large enough to get out of,that's all. And now, ever since two days ago, when I resolved to makethat hole, I've been quite calm. I'm as calm as anything now writing toyou. Two days ago Vera told me that he was going back to England.... Oh,she was so good to me that day, Ivan Andreievitch. We sat together allalone in the flat, and she had her hand in mine, just as we used to doin the old days when I pretended to myself that she loved me. Now I knowthat she did not, but the warmer and more marvellous was her kindness tome, her goodness, and nobility. Do you not think, Ivan Andreievitch,that if you go deep enough in every human heart, there is this kernel ofgoodness, this fidelity to some ideal. Do you know we have a proverb:"In each man's heart there is a secret town at whose altars the trueprayers are offered!" Even perhaps with Alexei it is so, only there youmust go very deep, and there is no time.

  But I must tell you about Vera. She told me so kindly that he was goingto England, and that now her whole life would be led in Nina and myself.I held her hand very close in mine and asked her, Was it really truethat she loved him. And she said, yes she did, but that that she couldnot help. She said that she had spoken with him, and that they haddecided that it would be best for him to go away. Then she begged myforgiveness for many things, because she had been harsh or cross,--Idon't know what things.... Oh, Ivan Andreievitch, _she_ to begforgiveness of _me!_

  But I held her hand closer and closer, because I knew that it was thelast time that I would be able so truly to hold it. How could she notsee that now everything was over--everything--quite everything! Am I oneto hold her, to chain her down, to keep her when she has alreadyescaped? Is that the way to prove my fidelity to her?

  Of course I did not speak to her of this, but for the first time in allour years together, I felt older than her and wiser. But of courseAlexei saw it. How he heard I do not know, but that same day he came tome and he seemed to be very kind.

  I don't know what he said, but he explained that Vera would always beunhappy now, always, longing and waiting and hoping.... "Keep him herein Russia!" he whispered to me. "She will get tired of him then--theywill tire of one another; but if you send him away...." Oh! he is adevil, Ivan Andreievitch, and why has he persecuted me so? What have Iever done to him? Nothing... but for weeks now he has pursued me anddestroyed my inventions, and flung Russia in my face and made Nina, dearNina, laugh at me, and now, when the other things are finished, he showsme that Vera will be unhappy so long as I am alive. What have I everdone, Ivan Andreievitch? I am so unimportant, why has he taken such atrouble? To-day I gave him his last chance... or last night... it isfour in the morning now, and the bells
are already ringing for the earlyMass. I said to him:

  "Will you go away? Leave us all for ever? Will you promise never toreturn?"

  He said in that dreadful quiet sure way of his: "No, I will never goaway until you make me."

  Vera hates him. I cannot leave her alone with him, can I? I (here thereare three lines of illegible writing)... so I will think again andagain of that last time when we sat together and all the good thingsthat she said. What greatness of soul, what goodness, what splendour!And perhaps after all I am a fortunate man to be allowed to be faithfulto so fine a grandeur! Many men have poor ambitions, and God bestowsHis gifts with strange blindness, I often think. But I am tired, and youtoo will be tired. Perhaps you have not got so far. I must thank you foryour friendship to me. I am very grateful for it. And you, if afterwardsyou ever think of me, think that I always wished to... no, why shouldyou think of me at all? But think of Russia! That is why I write this.You love Russia, and I believe that you will continue to love Russiawhatever she will do. Never forget that it is because she cares sopassionately for the good of the world that she makes so many mistakes.She sees farther than other countries, and she cares more. But she isalso more ignorant. She has never been allowed to learn anything or totry to do anything for herself.

  You are all too impatient, too strongly aware of your own conditions,too ignorant of hers! Of course there are wicked men here and many idlemen, but every country has such. You must not judge her by that nor byall the talk you hear. We talk like blind men on a dark road.... Do youbelieve that there are no patriots here? Ah! how bitterly I have beendisappointed during these last weeks! It has broken my heart... but donot let your heart be broken. You can wait. You are young. Believe inRussian patriotism, believe in Russian future, believe in Russiansoul.... Try to be patient and understand that she is blindfolded,ignorant, stumbling... but the glory will come; I can see it shiningfar away!... It is not for me, but for you--and for Vera... for Vera...Vera....

  Here the letter ended; only scrawled very roughly across the paper theletters N.M....