Varichkine drained his glass. “We kill in series, like Mr. Ford. But not with automobiles.”
Lady Diana half parted her pretty lips, allowed some rings of cerulean smoke to circle slowly toward the ceiling, and said:
“Mr. Varichkine, you terrify me.”
The Russian protested, “Dear Lady Diana—you can’t be serious. I, such a modest little person, how could I frighten you? But I swear to you that you have all about you British aristocrats and cosmopolitan bankers who hide the minds of satraps beneath their harmless exteriors. Do you really believe that tyrants are born into the world just like musicians or taxpayers? After all, what does the cruelty of tyrants signify? It is but a manifestation of the instinct of self-preservation, nothing more nor less. A harmless piece of flesh and bone, forced by destiny to command a million individuals who hate him, is bound to become a perfect Caligula. Don’t think for a minute that he kills his equals to preserve a leader for them. He merely wipes them out to do away with eventual assassins. For there are Tamerlanes who don’t know their own proclivities in the same way that there are women of fathomless passion who have yet to be awakened.”
I waited until the roast had been served before I objected.
“You overlook the voluntary cruelty of the apostle who is convinced that he is working for the good of his kind, old man. Every profound faith has engendered an outrage on humanity. Torquemada and Ximenes, who applied the platform of the Council of Verona, have for a successor, Lenin, serving Death to impose upon the ideals of the Third International. Your heretics are those who repudiate happiness according to Marx’s formula and your unbelievers are the millions of civilized people, who worship the gods—false gods, according to you—of personal Liberty, equal Justice, and Tolerance. The cruelest irony in your case is that innumerable Russian Socialists who for more than thirty years submitted to the frightful hardships of Czarist oppression are now living, sheltered in the same jails by the order of their own revolutionary comrades of former times. There was less distance from reformist and pacifist Socialism under the absolutism of Nicholas II than there is under the Communist autocracy. And, moreover, the inhuman repressions of the old imperial régime have changed only in name; the Eagle has become the Red Star and the Tcheka has replaced the Okhrana.”
“No sincere Communist would deny your statement, my friend. But I answer by saying that if the human animal is awakened, it is the fault of your World War, which certainly whetted the appetite for death. War’s ambassador is presently at large upon the earth. A vicious fever is devouring it. Our planet has the plague. The value of life has sunk to nothing and the finer senses of men are numbed. The rats are battling in the fields. The microbes are destroying one another. Your imperialists have launched their legions across the frontiers. The struggle between classes waxes hotter than ever before. Everything is going at full speed. The French, the Germans, and the Bulgarians no longer fight each other; they fight among themselves without explosives—the better class with the proletariat in the interiors of nations. It is war in a tightly closed jar. The red and white corpuscles defy one another beneath the skin of the social body. There is not, as formerly, a single front, stretching from the sea to Switzerland. There are as many fighting fronts as there are villages, as many trenches as there are streets, and as many dugouts as there are houses. You refuse to understand, presumptuous occidentals that you are, that in your own countries you are living in a state of latent, cat-like conflict. You are mobilized from the first to the last day of the year. The hostile forces intermingle and observe one another, spy on and defy one another, always awaiting the first wave of assault.”
Lady Diana shook her head in protest.
Varichkine went on, “Be frank, Lady Wynham, and tell me if in your spacious house in Berkeley Square you are not camped day and night in the face of the enemy. What enemy? What enemy? Why, your maid, who envies you; your chef, who robs you in petty ways, hoping always for a better chance—and the plumber who installs your bathrooms—the locksmith who makes the keys to your doors. A beggar goes by beneath your windows. He dreams of getting into your house. He crosses the no man’s land of your vestibule and knocks. You fire on him with your seventy-five in the shape of a pound note. You repulse him with the hand-grenade of graciousness or with a promise. The enemy withdraws, but he will attack again one day and, in spite of your barrage of illusory philanthropy, he will drive you from your stronghold. You are, all of you, living in dubious security. Have you never asked yourself why the best seats in the theater are not invaded, some evening, by the thousands of common people whom the police would be powerless to dislodge? Or why, in the railroad stations, the poor people climb docilely into the third-class carriages when nothing would prevent their taking possession of the sleeping cars? Do you find in this tacit discipline, in this moral servitude, quite natural laws which no one would ever dare to transgress? Take heed. One day all the invisible barriers will fall and you will be astonished to discover, one night, that there are wolves’ teeth in the mouths of all the sheep.”
Lady Diana was enslaved by Varichkine’s eloquence. She listened with a sort of secret admiration, although the Slav’s prophecies were anything but reassuring. She listened with that same fearful voluptuousness which the lamas inspire in the Mongols when they talk to them of Bogdo Gheden, the living Buddha of Ourga.
“Mr. Varichkine,” she began hesitatingly, “after what you have said I no longer dare hope that you will see fit to further my cause.”
The Communist’s black eyes shone with a bright flame. His voice was more suave than ever.
“I don’t want you to entertain any such idea, Lady Diana. You know very well that there are exceptions to every rule. Besides, our friend Séliman will tell you that though Communism may be a rough bearskin we never forget to brush it carefully before we enter the salons of beautiful ladies.”
“You make me feel more cheerful, Mr. Varichkine.” And Lady Diana sighed superbly.
I watched her discreetly and I wondered if her charming and rather plaintive humility was not being skillfully affected. As we were having dessert, I decided to mention our business before I left them alone.
“My dear friend,” I said to Lady Diana, “it would be very wrong of you to suppose that Mr. Varichkine did not want with all his heart to make your wish come true. It seems that Moscow raises no objection.”
The Russian smiled. “Provided it is agreeable to Lady Diana to carry out the indispensable formalities, there is no doubt but that the oil lands of Telav will soon be paying dividends.”
Lady Diana assumed an air of innocence which Romney would surely have delighted in painting on canvas for the sake of posterity. Her brows raised, her eyes alight with an angelic candor, her hands clasped on the pearls of her necklace, the “Madonna of the Sleeping Cars” seemed almost defenseless. She played admirably the spoiled child of a well-policed society, which respects the peace and quiet of the rich and drives from its palaces the grumbling people who have failed. She gazed at Varichkine with fascinating coquettishness; she took a straw, wrapped in tissue paper, from its silver stand, tapped lightly the Slav’s hand and laughed.
“Unless, dear Mr. Varichkine, it is you who should carry out the indispensable formalities.”
Her listener was visibly disconcerted. He was at a loss to know whether she was joking or politely rebuking him. I, too, was puzzled. Whatever the case I judged that my presence was no longer necessary and I asked Lady Diana’s permission to retire.
It was a beautiful evening. The stars were shining above the bronze frieze of the Brandenburger Tor. I smoked a cigarette beside the Roland of Berlin and wandered about in the shadows of the Bellevuestrasse and past the Potsdam Station.
The dazzling globes of the lamps in the arch of the Leipzigerstrasse attracted me. I passed by the granite columns of the Cathedral where Mr. Wertheim sold his cotton goods and household articles, and I bought some matches from an aged Feldgrau with the Iron Cross. I ventured i
nto the Passage Panoptikum where I admired, in a shoemaker’s shop, a large colored portrait of the defunct Empress, ribboned with Prussian colors. At 11:30 I returned to the hotel. As I passed Lady Diana’s door, I heard an animated conversation and at the end of the corridor, I perceived the maitre d’hotel, who, a discreet sentinel, was guarding his sector. Remarking to myself that Varichkine was well protected, I went to bed and read myself to sleep with the final edition of the Berliner Tageblatt.
I awoke about one o’clock. Surprised not to have received a visit from Lady Diana, I listened at the communicating door. As they were still conversing in the salon I went back to sleep.
Some loud knocks on the same door awoke me again. It was then three o’clock in the morning. Lady Diana came in and turned on the light. I was blinded for an instant. She smiled, made an ironical reverence before my bed, and announced:
“Prince, I have the honor of informing you that Mr. Varichkine, Soviet delegate to Berlin, has just asked Lady Diana Wynham’s hand in marriage.”
I sat up straight. Incredulous at first, I interpreted what Lady Diana implied, and I replied:
“Come, my dear friend, no solemn formulas between us! What you call your hand in marriage is really but a temporary loan of yourself, isn’t it?”
“Not at all, Gerard,” she retorted gravely. “I call a spade a spade and I call Varichkine my future husband.”
I was so astounded that I very nearly fell out of bed. “What!”
“Come, Gerard, don’t go and catch cold because I tell you that I’m going to be married.… There.… Lie down quietly and let me talk.… And stop fidgeting.… You’ll get your bed all mussed up. What have I said that’s so extraordinary? Don’t you remember what I told you when you warned me that the Russian wanted to spend a night with me? I said, ‘That’s either too much or too little.’ ”
“Marry Varichkine! You must be insane!”
“Why, dear? Do you take me for the type of woman who would sell herself for a few gallons of oil? Gerard, you’re insulting. No, you’re not insulting because way down deep you’re a dear, brave boy whom I love very much. Just to please you, I’m going to tell you what happened after you left me alone with him.”
Lady Diana took one of my hands in both of hers and continued, “As you can well imagine, Varichkine was not long in proposing his bargain. I must admit that he wasn’t in the least brutal about it. We played turn for turn about, if you know what I mean. I employed all my diplomacy first to put my guest under the cold shower-bath of refusal and then on the burning flame of hope. That game lasted more than an hour. The chartreuse and brandy heated our discussion to a fever pitch. Ah, Gerard! That man may be indomitable where a counter-revolutionary is concerned, but he is a mere baby in the arms of a woman like me. Toward one o’clock in the morning he was in despair. He hadn’t another word to say. I gave him to understand that his proposition was altogether too injurious to merit my consideration, and that, after all, I would give up the idea of exploiting my lands in Telav—‘Unless, of course—’ He bit savagely at the hook of this last remark and repeated:
“ ‘Unless, of course, what?’ ”
“ ‘Unless you marry me, my dear Mr. Varichkine.’ ”
“Ah, Gerard! I would give anything in the world if you could have seen his expression when I said that. I have never in my life seen a sequence of such complex sentiments reflected on a man’s face. Incredulity, satisfaction, anxiety, pride, cupidity came and went on Varichkine’s features. When he was thoroughly convinced that I wasn’t mocking him, guess what he did—I’ll give you a thousand pounds if you can!”
“I have no idea.”
“He got down on his knees—yes, on his knees. He crossed himself, murmured a short prayer, seized my hands and covered them with kisses. You know, Gerard, that I have tried romance in all latitudes and in all attitudes; that, in the course of my travels on Continental railways, I have experienced every thrill that a woman can know and that nothing of a sentimental nature is a stranger to me. Nevertheless, I don’t believe that I have ever had the indefinable sensation which the sight of that Communist, impassioned to the point of remembering the illusions of his childhood, and so happy that he knelt to manifest his joy, gave me. A Soviet delegate at my feet! Gerard, it’s the most glorious feather in my multi-feathered cap!”
She was right. Still I was less astonished at Varichkine’s act than at Lady Diana’s abrupt decision. I could not refrain from expressing my stupefaction once again.
“But, my dear friend, what caused you to make this alarming resolution? Have you thought it over carefully?”
“Yes.”
“Now, listen to me. Let us proceed in systematic order. To begin with, I gather that you find Varichkine quite agreeable.”
“Yes, most attractive.”
“From a physical standpoint? He is anything but handsome.”
“Thank the Lord for that! His peculiar head is a point in his favor. Gerard, my husband was clean-shaven. Most of my lovers have been, too—Varichkine’s black beard is a novelty for me.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You’re not going to try to persuade me that you’re willing to marry this Russian because he wears a beard?”
“Gerard, I am going to bare my heart and mind to you. I admit frankly that I like Varichkine very much. His conversation interested me prodigiously. His way of speaking, his eyes, which are so gentle even when he is joking about death—all those things not only attract but seduce me. He is more than an ephemeral caprice. So much for the sentimental and strictly personal side of the question. How do you know that, once his desire was realized, he would have kept his word? Men have a way of quickly forgetting easy conquests. By exacting marriage I exercise a double control on him—not only because he wants me passionately, but because it will be to his advantage as well as mine to obtain the concession in Georgia. And that’s not all. There is ‘All London’ which I want to knock completely silly. Imagine it! Lord Wynham’s widow marrying a well-known Russian. What a splash that rock will make in the pond of Snobbism! You know how I scoff at conventions and at the prejudices of the British gentry. If there were no other reason, the thought that the entire London press will, one day soon, announce my marriage to friend Varichkine fills me with boundless joy. I can already hear the gossip in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and I can see the scandalized expression on the faces of the members of the Bath Club. I, who adore to throw mud at the mummies, to tear the spider-webs to pieces, to shock the dowagers and smash the old traditions, I tremble with impatience and would like at this very minute to present Mr. Varichkine, my husband, to the horrified duchesses.”
“There is no denying that you know what you want and there is no refuting your opinion. If, after your nude dance you still want people to criticize you, my dear, I can think of nothing better than such an unheard-of betrothal. But allow me to dampen your enthusiasm with a few objections.”
“Fire away, Gerard. I can anticipate that horrid logic of yours which inevitably throws the wild horses of imagination with its lasso.”
“In the first place, would it be a legal marriage? It is commonly said that free love holds sway in Soviet Russia and that women being national luxuries, no one man has a right to possess a woman to the exclusion of other men.”
“I asked Varichkine about that. He told me that when Communism was in its infancy certain radicals introduced advanced theories on the subject. Actually, marriage still exists. The formalities are, however, reduced to a minimum. There are no more banns, no more ridiculous certificates. The engaged couple simply take their passports to police headquarters. A stamp, a few rubles, and you have a man and wife. Then, when I want to, we can be officially married in London.”
“All right. But when Varichkine marries a foreign aristocrat won’t he lose favor with his party and won’t he be accused of siding with the counter-revolutionaries?”
“There are two possible eventualities. He will be able to justify himself in the eyes
of his equals by proving that he has married a person of the first rank, also that he is in a better position to keep advised as to the activities of their adversaries in the United Kingdom. You know that the Soviet leaders admit quite frankly that their delegates in foreign countries enjoy all the comforts of upper class life and only howl with the wolves to understand better the degree of their hostility. If, on the contrary, Moscow should throw him out, he would burn his ideals of yesterday and, out of love for me, would consent to an unusually acceptable exile.”
“And then what would happen to the Telav concession? Wouldn’t that be compromised?”
“We have also discussed that problem. We agreed that the marriage would not take place until the concession had been officially granted and the Anglo-American association formed and commissioned to exploit the land. Do you think that Moscow would be liable, under such conditions, to expose itself to diplomatic complications with England and the United States solely for the sake of avenging itself on a renegade comrade?”
“Then Varichkine must wait until all that business is completed before he can take you in his arms?”
“Which means that he will move heaven and earth to hurry it through!”
“You think he is really sincerely in love with you?”
“What better proof could he give me?”
Lady Diana had overruled my every objection. I had only one card left to play. “What about Madam Mouravieff?”
She hesitated. “Varichkine, as a matter of fact, did mention Irina Mouravieff. He was very frank about her. He warned me that we were both laying ourselves open to a frightful enmity. He asked me if I had the courage to face Irina. I answered, ‘Yes, but what about you?’ He impressed on me that I had better not weigh the woman’s vindictiveness too lightly and that he didn’t want me to be able to reproach him later on for having allowed me to undertake a hazardous adventure. I accepted the risk. Then he begged me to seal the pact solemnly with a kiss. We stood up. He took me in his arms, pushed my head back and contemplated me for what seemed an age, through half-closed eyes. He murmured something in Russian which sounded very sweet to my ears, pressed me close, and gave me one of those kisses which mean something in the life of a woman. And that, Gerard, was the period which concluded a very consequential prologue.… But you are tired; so am I. You must unfasten my dress because it’s too late to call Juliette. After that, I’ll let you go to sleep.”
The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars Page 8
