The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  VII

  Some three years before, when Ivan Petrovitch had gone to live with theMarkovitches, it had occurred to them that they had two empty rooms andthat these would accommodate one or two paying guests. It seemed to themstill more attractive that these guests should be English, and I expectthat it was Ivan Petrovitch who emphasised this. The British Consulatewas asked to assist them, and after a few inconspicuous clerks and youngbusiness men they entertained for a whole six months the Hon. CharlesTrafford, one of the junior secretaries at the Embassy. At the end ofthose six months the Hon. Charles, burdened with debt, and weakened bylittle sleep and much liquor, was removed to a less exciting atmosphere.With all his faults, he left faithful friends in the Markovitch flat,and he, on his side, gave so enthusiastic an account of Mme.Markovitch's attempts to restrain and modify his impetuosities that theEmbassy recommended her care and guidance to other young secretaries.The war came and Vera Michailovna declared that she could have lodgersno longer, and a terrible blow this was to Ivan Petrovitch. Thensuddenly, towards the end of 1916, she changed her mind and announced tothe Embassy that she was ready for any one whom they could send her.Henry Bohun was offered, accepted, and prepared for. Ivan Petrovitch wasa happy man once more.

  I never discovered that Markovitch was much consulted in these affairs.Vera Michailovna "ran" the flat financially, industrially, andspiritually. Markovitch meanwhile was busy with his inventions. I have,as yet, said nothing about Nicolai Leontievitch's inventions. Ihesitate, indeed, to speak of them, although they are so essential, andindeed important a part of my story. I hesitate simply because I do notwish this narrative to be at all fantastic, but that it should stickquite honestly and obviously to the truth. It is certain moreover thatwhat is naked truth to one man seems the falsest fancy to another, andafter all I have, from beginning to end, only my own conscience tosatisfy. The history of the human soul and its relation to divinitywhich is, I think, the only history worth any man's pursuit must pushits way, again and again, through this same tangled territory whichinfests the region lying between truth and fantasy; one passes suddenlyinto a world that seems pure falsehood, so askew, so obscure, so twistedand coloured is it. One is through, one looks back and it lies behindone as the clearest truth. Such an experience makes one tender to othermen's fancies and less impatient of the vague and half-definedtravellers' tales that other men tell. Childe Roland is not the onlytraveller who has challenged the Dark Tower.

  In the Middle Ages Nicolai Leontievitch Markovitch would have beencalled, I suppose, a Magician--a very half-hearted and unsatisfactoryone he would always have been--and he would have been most certainlyburnt at the stake before he had accomplished any magic worthy of thename. His inventions, so far as I saw anything of them, were innocentand simple enough. It was the man himself rather than his inventionsthat arrested the attention. About the time of Bohun's arrival upon thescene it was a new kind of ink that he had discovered, and for manyweeks the Markovitch flat dripped ink from every pore. He had nolaboratory, no scientific materials, nor, I think, any profoundknowledge. The room where he worked was a small box-like place off theliving-room, a cheerless enough abode with a little high barred windowin it as in a prison-cell, cardboard-boxes piled high with femininegarments, a sewing-machine, old dusty books, and a broken-downperambulator occupying most of the space. I never could understand whythe perambulator was there, as the Markovitches had no children. NicolaiLeontievitch sat at a table under the little window, and his favouriteposition was to sit with the chair perched on one leg and so, rocking inthis insecure position, he brooded over his bottles and glasses andtrays. This room was so dark even in the middle of the day that he wasoften compelled to use a lamp. There he hovered, with his ragged beard,his ink-stained fingers and his red-rimmed eyes, making strange noisesto himself and envolving from his materials continual little explosionsthat caused him infinite satisfaction. He did not mind interruptions,nor did he ever complain of the noise in the other room, terrific thoughit often was. He would be absorbed, in a trance, lost in another world,and surely amiable and harmless enough. And yet not entirely amiable.His eyes would close to little spots of dull, lifeless colour--the onlything alive about him seemed to be his hands that moved and stirred asthough they did not belong to his body at all, but had an independentexistence of their own--and his heels protruding from under his chairwere like horrid little animals waiting, malevolently, on guard.

  His inventions were, of course, never successful, and he contributed,therefore, nothing to the maintenance of his household. Vera Michailovnahad means of her own, and there were also the paying guests. But hesuffered from no sense of distress at his impecuniosity. I discoveredvery quickly that Vera Michailovna kept the family purse, and one ofthe earliest sources of family trouble was, I fancy, his constantdemands for money. Before the war he had, I believe, been drunk wheneverit was possible. Because drink was difficult to obtain, and in a floodof patriotism roused by the enthusiasm of the early days of the war, hedeclared himself a teetotaller, and marvellously he kept his vows. Thisabstinence was now one of his greatest prides, and he liked to tell youabout it. Nevertheless he needed money as badly as ever, and he borrowedwhenever he could. One of the first things that Vera Michailovna told mewas that I was on no account to open my purse to him. I was not alwaysable to keep my promise.

  On this particular evening of Bohun's arrival I came, by invitation, tosupper. They had told me about their Englishman, and had asked me indeedto help the first awkward half-hour over the stile. It may seem strangethat the British Embassy should have chosen so uncouth a host as NicolaiLeontievitch for their innocent secretaries, but it was only the moreenterprising of the young men who preferred to live in a Russian family;most of them inhabited elegant flats of their own, ornamented withcoloured stuffs and gaily decorated cups and bright trays from the Jews'Market, together with English comforts and luxuries dragged all the wayfrom London. Moreover, Markovitch figured very slightly in theconsciousness of his guests, and the rest of the flat was roomy andclean and light. It was, like most of the homes of the RussianIntelligentzia over-burdened with family history. Amazing the thingsthat Russians will gather together and keep, one must suppose, onlybecause they are too lethargic to do away with them. On the walls of theMarkovitch dining-room all kinds of pictures were hung--old familyphotographs yellow and dusty, old calendars, prints of ships at sea, andyoung men hanging over stiles, and old ladies having tea, photographs ofthe Kremlin and the Lavra at Kieff, copies of Ivan and his murdered sonand Serov's portrait of Chaliapine as Boris Godounov. Bookcases therewere with tattered editions of Pushkin and Lermontov. The middle of theliving-room was occupied with an enormous table covered by a dark redcloth, and this table was the centre of the life of the family. A largeclock wheezed and groaned against the wall, and various chairs ofdifferent shapes and sizes filled up most of the remaining space.Nevertheless, although everything in the room looked old except thewhite and gleaming stove, Vera Michailovna spread over the place theimpress of her strong and active personality. It was not a sluggishroom, nor was it untidy as so many Russian rooms are. Around the tableeverybody sat. It seemed that at all hours of the day and night somekind of meal was in progress there; and it was almost certain that fromhalf-past two in the afternoon until half-past two on the followingmorning the samovar would be found there, presiding with sleepy dignityover the whole family and caring nothing for anybody. I can smell nowthat especial smell of tea and radishes and salted fish, and can hearthe wheeze of the clock, the hum of the samovar, Nina's shrill laugh andBoris's deep voice.... I owe that room a great deal. It was there that Iwas taken out of myself and memories that fared no better for theirperpetual resurrection. That room called me back to life.

  On this evening there was to be, in honour of young Bohun, an especiallyfine dinner. A message had come from him that he would appear with hisboxes at half-past seven. When I arrived Vera was busy in the kitchen,and Nina adding in her bedroom extra ribbons and laces to her costume;Boris
Nicolaievitch was not present; Nicolai Leontievitch was working inhis den.

  I went through to him. He did not look up as I came in. The room wasdarker than usual; the green shade over the lamp was tilted wickedly asthough it were cocking its eye at Markovitch's vain hopes, and there wasthe man himself, one cheek a ghastly green, his hair on end and hischair precariously balanced.

  I heard him say as though he repeated an incantation--"_Nu Vot... NuVot... Nu Vot_."

  "_Zdras te_, Nicolai Leontievitch," I said. Then I did not disturb himbut sat down on a rickety chair and waited. Ink dripped from his tableon to the floor. One bottle lay on its side, the ink oozing out, otherbottles stood, some filled, some half-filled, some empty.

  "Ah, ha!" he cried, and there was a little explosion; a cork spurted outand struck the ceiling; there was smoke and the crackling of glass. Heturned round and faced me, a smudge of ink on one of his cheeks, andthat customary nervous unhappy smile on his lips.

  "Well, how goes it?" I asked.

  "Well enough." He touched his cheek then sucked his fingers. "I mustwash. We have a guest to-night. And the news, what's the latest?"

  He always asked me this question, having apparently the firm convictionthat an Englishman must know more about the war than a man of any othernationality. But he didn't pause for an answer--"News--but of coursethere is none. What can you expect from this Russia of ours?--and therest--it's all too far away for any of us to know anything aboutit--only Germany's close at hand. Yes. Remember that. You forget itsometimes in England. She's very near indeed.... We've got a guestcoming--from the English Embassy. His name's Boon and a funny name too.You don't know him, do you?"

  No, I didn't know him. I laughed. Why should he think that I always kneweverybody, I who kept to myself so?

  "The English always stick together. That's more than can be said for usRussians. We're a rotten lot. Well, I must go and wash."

  Then, whether by a sudden chance of light and shade, or if you like tohave it, by a sudden revelation on the part of a beneficent Providence,he really did look malevolent, standing in the middle of the dirtylittle room, malevolent and pathetic too, like a cross, sick bird.

  "Vera's got a good dinner ready. That's one thing, Ivan Andreievitch,"he said; "and vodka--a little bottle. We got it from a friend. But Idon't drink now, you know."

  He went off and I, going into the other room, found Vera Michailovnagiving last touches to the table. I sat and watched with pleasure hercalm assured movements. She really was splendid, I thought, with thefine carriage of her head, her large mild eyes, her firm strong hands.

  "All ready for the guest, Vera Michailovna?" I asked.

  "Yes," she answered, smiling at me, "I hope so. He won't be veryparticular, will he, because we aren't princes?"

  "I can't answer for him," I replied, smiling back at her. "But he can'tbe more particular than the Hon. Charles--and he was a great success."

  The Hon. Charles was a standing legend in the family, and we alwayslaughed when we mentioned him.

  "I don't know"--she stopped her work at the table and stood, her hand upto her brow as though she would shade her eyes from the light--"I wishhe wasn't coming--the new Englishman, I mean. Better perhaps as wewere--Nicholas--" she stopped short. "Oh, I don't know! They'redifficult times, Ivan Andreievitch."

  The door opened and old Uncle Ivan came in. He was dressed very smartlywith a clean white shirt and a black bow tie and black patent leathershoes, and his round face shone as the sun.

  "Ah, Mr. Durward," he said, trotting forward. "Good health to you! Whatexcellent weather we're sharing."

  "So we are, M. Semyonov," I answered him. "Although it did rain most ofyesterday you know. But weather of the soul perhaps you mean? In thatcase I'm very glad to hear that you are well."

  "Ah--of the soul?" He always spoke his words very carefully, clippingand completing them, and then standing back to look at them as thoughthey were china ornaments arranged on a shining table. "No--my soulto-day is not of the first rank, I'm afraid."

  It was obvious that he was in a state of the very greatest excitement;he could not keep still, but walked up and down beside the long table,fingering the knives and forks.

  Then Nina burst in upon us in one of her frantic rages. Her tempers werefamous both for their ferocity and the swiftness of their passing. Inthe course of them she was like some impassioned bird of brilliantplumages, tossing her feathers, fluttering behind the bars of her cageat some impertinent, teasing passer-by. She stood there now in thedoorway, gesticulating with her hands.

  "_Nu, Tznaiesh schto?_ Michael Alexandrovitch has put me off--says he isbusy all night at the office. He busy all night! Don't I know thebusiness he's after? And it's the third time--I won't see him again--no,I won't. He--"

  "Good-evening, Nina Michailovna," I said, smiling. She turned to me.

  "Durdles--Mr. Durdles--only listen. It was all arranged forto-night--the _Parisian_, and then we were to come straight back--"

  "But your guest--" I began.

  However the torrent continued. The door opened and Boris Grogoff camein. Instantly she turned upon him.

  "There's your fine friend!" she cried; "Michael Alexandrovitch isn'tcoming. Put me off at the last moment, and it's the third time. And Imight have gone to Musikalnaya Drama. I was asked by--"

  "Well, why not?" Grogoff interrupted calmly. "If he had something betterto do--"

  Then she turned upon him, screaming, and in a moment they were at it,tooth and nail, heaping up old scores, producing fact after fact toprove, the one to the other, false friendship, lying manners, deceitfulpromises, perjured records. Vera tried to interrupt, Markovitch saidsomething, I began a remonstrance--in a moment we were all at it, andthe room was a whirl of noise. In the tempest it was only I who heardthe door open. I turned and saw Henry Bohun standing there.

  I smile now when I think of that moment of his arrival, go fitting tothe characters of the place, so appropriate a symbol of what was tocome. Bohun was beautifully dressed, spotlessly neat, in a bowler hat alittle to one side, a light-blue silk scarf, a dark-blue overcoat. Hisface wore an expression of dignified self-appreciation. It was as thoughhe stood there breathing blessings on the house that he had sanctifiedby his arrival. He looked, too, with it all, such a boy that my heartwas touched. And there was something good and honest about his eyes.

  He may have spoken, but certainly no one heard him in the confusion.

  I just caught Nina's shrill voice: "Listen all of you! There you are!You hear what he says! That I told him it was to be Tuesday when,everybody knows--Verotchka! Ah--Verotchka! He says--" Then she paused; Icaught her amazed glance at the door, her gasp, a scream of stifledlaughter, and behold she was gone!

  Then they all saw. There was instant silence, a terrible pause, and thenBohun's polite gentle voice: "Is this where Mr. Markovitch lives? I begyour pardon--"

  Great awkwardness followed. It is quite an illusion to suppose thatRussians are easy, affable hosts. I know of no people in the world whoare so unable to put you at your ease if there is something unfortunatein the air. They have few easy social graces, and they are inclined toabandon at once a situation if it is made difficult for them. If itneeds an effort to make a guest happy they leave him alone and trust toa providence in whose powers, however, they entirely disbelieve. Bohunwas led to his room, his bags being carried by old Sacha, theMarkovitch's servant, and the Dvornik.

  His bags, I remember, were very splendid, and I saw the eyes of UncleIvan grow large as he watched their progress. Then with a sigh he drew achair up to the table and began eating zakuska, putting salt-fish andradishes and sausage on to his place and eating them with a fork.

  "Dyadya, Ivan!" Vera said reproachfully. "Not yet--we haven't begun.Ivan Andreievitch, what do you think? Will he want hot water?"

  She hurried after him.

  The evening thus unfortunately begun was not happily continued. Therewas a blight upon us all. I did my best, but I was in considerable painand very
tired. Moreover, I was not favourably impressed with my firstsight of young Bohun. He seemed to me foolish and conceited. Uncle Ivanwas afraid of him. He made only one attack.

  "It was a very fruitful journey that you had, sir, I hope?"

  "I beg your pardon," said Bohun.

  "A very fruitful journey--nothing burdensome nor extravagant?"

  "Oh, all right, thanks," Bohun answered, trying unsuccessfully to showthat he was not surprised at my friend's choice of words. But Uncle Ivansaw that he had not been successful and his lip trembled. Markovitch wassilent and Boris Nicolaievitch sulked. Only once towards the end of themeal Bohun interested me.

  "I wonder," he asked me, "whether you know a fellow called Lawrence? Hetravelled from England with me. A man who's played a lot of football."

  "Not Jerry Lawrence, the international!" I said. "Surely he can't havecome out here?" Of course it was the same. I was interested andstrangely pleased. The thought of Lawrence's square back and cheerysmile was extremely agreeable just then.

  "Oh! I'm very glad," I answered. "I must get him to come and see me. Iknew him pretty well at one time. Where's he to be found?"

  Bohun, with an air of rather gentle surprise, as though he could nothelp thinking it strange that any one should take an interest inLawrence's movements, told me where he was lodging.

  "And I hope you also will find your way to me sometime,"

  I added. "It's an out-of-place grimy spot, I'm afraid. You might bringLawrence round one evening."

  Soon after that, feeling that I could do no more towards retrieving anevening definitely lost, I departed. At the last I caught Markovitch'seye. He seemed to be watching for something. A new invention perhaps. Hewas certainly an unhappy man.