VIII
I was to meet Jerry Lawrence sooner than I had expected. And it was inthis way.
Two days after the evening that I have just described I was driven to goand see Vera Michailovna. I was driven, partly by my curiosity, partlyby my depression, and partly by my loneliness. This same loneliness was,I believe, at this time beginning to affect us all. I should beconsidered perhaps to be speaking with exaggeration if I were to borrowthe title of one of Mrs. Oliphant's old-fashioned and charming novelsand to speak of Petrograd as already "A Beleaguered City"--beleaguered,moreover, in very much the same sense as that other old city was. Fromthe very beginning of the war Petrograd was isolated--isolated not bythe facts of the war, its geographical position or any of the obviouscauses, but simply by the contempt and hatred with which it wasregarded. From very old days it was spoken of as a German town. "If youwant to know Russia don't go to Petrograd." "Simply a cosmopolitan townlike any other." "A smaller Berlin"--and so on, and so on. This sense ofoutside contempt influenced its own attitude to the world. It wasalways at war with Moscow. It showed you when you first arrived itsNevski, its ordered squares, its official buildings as though it wouldsay: "I suppose you will take the same view as the rest. If you don'twish to look any deeper here you are. I'm not going to help you."
As the war developed it lost whatever gaiety and humour it had. Afterthe fall of Warsaw the attitude of the Russian people in general becamefatalistic. Much nonsense was talked in the foreign press about "Russiacoming back again and again." "Russia, the harder she was pressed theharder she resisted," and the ghost of Napoleon retreating from Moscowwas presented to every home in Europe; but the plain truth was that,after Warsaw, the temper of the people changed. Things were going wrongonce more as they had always gone wrong in Russian history, and as theyalways would go wrong. Then followed bewilderment. What to do? Whosefault was it all? Shall we blame our blood or our rulers? Our rulers,certainly, as we always, with justice, have blamed them--our blood, too,perhaps. From the fall of Warsaw, in spite of momentary flashes ofsplendour and courage, the Russians were a blindfolded, naked people,fighting a nation fully armed. Now, Europe was vast continents away, andonly Germany, that old Germany whose soul was hateful, whose practicalspirit was terribly admirable, was close at hand. The Russian peopleturned hither and thither, first to its Czar, then to its generals, thento its democratic spirit, then to its idealism--and there was no hopeanywhere. They appealed for Liberty. In the autumn of 1916 a greatprayer from the whole country went up that the bandage might be takenfrom its eyes, and soon, lest when the light did at last come the eyesshould be so unused to it that they should see nothing. Nicholas had hisopportunity--the greatest opportunity perhaps ever offered to man. Herefused it. From that moment the easiest way was closed, and only a mostperilous rocky path remained.
With every week of that winter of 1916, Petrograd stepped deeper anddeeper into the darkness. Its strangeness grew and grew upon me as thedays filed through. I wondered whether my illness and the troubles ofthe preceding year made me see everything at an impossible angle--or itwas perhaps my isolated lodging, my crumbling rooms, with the greyexpanse of sea and sky in front of them that was responsible. Whateverit was, Petrograd soon came to be to me a place with a most terriblesecret life of its own.
There is an old poem of Pushkin's that Alexandre Benois has mostmarvellously illustrated, which has for its theme the rising of theriver Neva in November 1824. On that occasion the splendid animaldevoured the town, and in Pushkin's poem you feel the devastating powerof the beast, and in Benois' pictures you can see it licking its lips asit swallowed down pillars and bridges and streets and squares with poorlittle fragments of humanity clutching and crying and fruitlesslyappealing.
This poem only emphasised for me the suspicion that I had originallyhad, that the great river and the marshy swamp around it despisedcontemptuously the buildings that man had raised beside and upon it, andthat even the buildings in their turn despised the human beings whothronged them. It could only be some sense of this kind that could makeone so repeatedly conscious that one's feet were treading ancientground.
The town, raised all of a piece by Peter the Great, could claim noancient history at all; but through every stick and stone that had beenlaid there stirred the spirit and soul of the ground, so that out of oneof the sluggish canals one might expect at any moment to see the horridand scaly head of some palaeolithic monster with dead and greedy eyesslowly push its way up that it might gaze at the little black hurryingatoms as they crossed and recrossed the grey bridge. There are manyplaces in Petrograd where life is utterly dead; where some building,half-completed, has fallen into red and green decay; where the waterlies still under iridescent scum and thick clotted reeds seem to standat bay, concealing in their depths some terrible monster.
At such a spot I have often fancied that the eyes of countlessinhabitants of that earlier world are watching me, and that not far awaythe waters of Neva are gathering, gathering, gathering their mightymomentum for some instant, when, with a great heave and swell, they willtoss the whole fabric of brick and mortar from their shoulders, floodthe streets and squares, and then sink tranquilly back into great sheetsof unruffled waters marked only with reeds and the sharp cry of sometravelling bird.
All this may be fantastic enough, I only know that it was sufficientlyreal to me during that winter of 1916 to be ever at the back of my mind;and I believe that some sense of that kind had in all sober realitysomething to do with that strange weight of uneasy anticipation that weall of us, yes, the most unimaginative amongst us, felt at this time.
Upon this afternoon when I went to pay my call on Vera Michailovna, thereal snow began to fall. We had had the false preliminary attempt afortnight before; now in the quiet persistent determination, the solidsoft resilience beneath one's feet, and the patient aquiescence of roofsand bridges and cobbles one knew that the real winter had come. Already,although it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, there was darkness,with the strange almost metallic glow as of the light from an invertedlooking-glass that snow makes upon the air. I had not far to go, but thelong stretch of the Ekateringofsky Canal was black and gloomy anddesolate, repeating here and there the pale yellow reflection of somelamp, but for the most part dim and dead, with the hulks of barges lyinglike sleeping monsters on its surface. As I turned into AngliskyProspect I found stretched like a black dado, far down the street,against the wall, a queue of waiting women. They would be there untilthe early morning, many of them, and it was possible that then thebread would not be sufficient. And this not from any real lack, butsimply from the mistakes of a bungling, peculating Government. No wonderthat one's heart was heavy.
I found Vera Michailovna to my relief alone. When Sacha brought me intothe room she was doing what I think I had never seen her do before,sitting unoccupied, her eyes staring in front of her, her hands foldedon her lap.
"I don't believe that I've ever caught you idle before, VeraMichailovna," I said.
"Oh, I'm glad you've come!" She caught my hand with an eagerness verydifferent from her usual calm, quiet greeting. "Sit down. It's anextraordinary thing. At that very moment I was wishing for you."
"What is it I can do for you?" I asked. "You know that I would doanything for you."
"Yes, I know that you would. But--well. You can't help me because Idon't know what's the matter with me."
"That's very unlike you," I said.
"Yes, I know it is--and perhaps that's why I am frightened. It's sovague; and you know I long ago determined that if I couldn't define atrouble and have it there in front of me, so that I could strangleit--why I wouldn't bother about it. But those things are so easy tosay."
She got up and began to walk up and down the room. That again wasutterly unlike her, and altogether I seemed to be seeing, thisafternoon, some quite new Vera Michailovna, some one more intimate, morepersonal, more appealing. I realised suddenly that she had never before,at any period of our friendship, asked for my help--not eve
n for mysympathy. She was so strong and reliant and independent, cared so littlefor the opinion of others, and shut down so closely upon herself herprivate life, that I could not have imagined her asking help from anyone. And of the two of us, she was the man, the strong determined soul,the brave and self-reliant character. It seemed to me ludicrous thatshe should ask for my help. Nevertheless I was greatly touched.
"I would do anything for you," I said.
She turned to me, a splendid figure, her head, with its crown of blackhair, lifted, her hands on her hips, her eyes gravely regarding me.
"There are three things," she said, "perhaps all of them nothing.... Andyet all of them disturbing. First my husband. He's beginning to drinkagain."
"Drink?" I said; "where can he get it from?"
"I don't know. I must discover. But it isn't the actual drinking. Everyone in our country drinks if he can. Only what has made my husband breakhis resolve? He was so proud of it. You know how proud he was. And helies about it. He says he is not drinking. He never used to lie aboutanything. That was not one of his faults."
"Perhaps his inventions," I suggested.
"Pouf! His inventions! You know better than that, Ivan Andreievitch. No,no. It is something.... He's not himself. Well, then, secondly, there'sNina. The other night did you notice anything?"
"Only that she lost her temper. But she's always doing that."
"No, it's more than that. She's unhappy, and I don't like the life she'sleading. Always out at cinematographs and theatres and restaurants, andwith a lot of boys who mean no harm, I know--but they're idiotic,they're no good.... Now, when the war's like this and the suffering....To be always at the cinematograph! But I've lost my authority over her,Ivan Andreievitch. She doesn't care any longer what I say to her. Once,and not so long ago, I meant so much to her. She's changed, she'sharder, more careless, more selfish. You know, Ivan Andreievitch, thatNina's simply everything to me. I don't talk about myself, do I? but atleast I can say that since--oh, many, many years, she's been the wholeworld and more than the whole world to me. Our mother and father werekilled in a railway accident coming up from Odessa when Nina was verysmall, and since then Nina's been mine--all mine!"
She said that word with sudden passion, flinging it at me with a fiercegesture of her hands. "Do you know what it is to want that somethingshould belong to you, belong entirely to you, and to no one else? I'vebeen too proud to say, but I've wanted that terribly all my life. Ihaven't had children, although I prayed for them, and perhaps now it isas well. But Nina! She's known she was mine, and, until now, she's lovedto know it. But now she's escaping from me, and she knows that too, andis ashamed. I think I could bear anything but that sense that sheherself has that she's being wrong--I hate her to be ashamed."
"Perhaps," I suggested, "it's time that she went out into the world nowand worked. There are a thousand things that a woman can do."
"No--not Nina. I've spoilt her, perhaps; I don't know. I always liked tofeel that she needed my help. I didn't want to make her tooself-reliant. That was wrong of me, and I shall be punished for it."
"Speak to her," I said. "She loves you so much that one word from you toher will be enough."
"No," Vera Michailovna said slowly. "It won't be enough now. A year ago,yes. But now she's escaping as fast as she can."
"Perhaps she's in love with some one," I suggested.
"No. I should have seen at once if it had been that. I would rather itwere that. I think she would come back to me then. No, I suppose thatthis had to happen. I was foolish to think that it would not. But itleaves one alone--it--"
She pulled herself up at that, regarding me with sudden shyness, asthough she would forbid me to hint that she had shown the slightestemotion, or made in any way an appeal for pity.
I was silent, then I said:
"And the third thing, Vera Michailovna?"
"Uncle Alexei is coming back." That startled me. I felt my heart giveone frantic leap.
"Alexei Petrovitch!" I cried. "When? How soon?"
"I don't know. I've had a letter." She felt in her dress, found theletter and read it through. "Soon, perhaps. He's leaving the Front forgood. He's disgusted with it all, he says. He's going to take up hisPetrograd practice again."
"Will he live with you?"
"No. God forbid!"
She felt then, perhaps, that her cry had revealed more than sheintended, because she smiled and, trying to speak lightly, said:
"No. We're old enemies, my uncle and I. We don't get on. He thinks mesentimental, I think him--but never mind what I think him. He has a badeffect on my husband."
"A bad effect?" I repeated.
"Yes. He irritates him. He laughs at his inventions, you know."
I nodded my head. Yes, with my earlier experience of him I couldunderstand that he would do that.
"He's a cynical, embittered man," I said. "He believes in nothing and innobody. And yet he has his fine side--"
"No, he has no fine side," she interrupted me fiercely. "None. He is abad man. I've known him all my life, and I'm not to be deceived."
Then in a softer, quieter tone she continued:
"But tell me, Ivan Andreievitch. I've wanted before to ask you. You werewith him on the Front last year. We have heard that he had a great loveaffair there, and that the Sister whom he loved was killed. Is thattrue?"
"Yes," I said, "that is true."
"Was he very much in love with her?"
"I believe terribly."
"And it hurt him deeply when she was killed?"
"Desperately deeply."
"But what kind of woman was she? What type? It's so strange to me. UncleAlexei... with his love affairs!"
I looked up, smiling. "She was your very opposite, Vera Michailovna, ineverything. Like a child--with no knowledge, no experience, noself-reliance--nothing. She was wonderful in her ignorance and bravery.We all thought her wonderful."
"And she loved _him?_"
"Yes--she loved him."
"How strange! Perhaps there is some good in him somewhere. But to us atany rate he always brings trouble. This affair may have changed him.They say he is very different. Worse perhaps--"
She broke out then into a cry:
"I want to get away, Ivan Andreievitch! To get away, to escape, to leaveRussia and everything in it behind me! To escape!"
It was just then that Sacha knocked on the door. She came in to say thatthere was an Englishman in the hall inquiring for the other Englishmanwho had come yesterday, that he wanted to know when he would be back.
"Perhaps I can help," I said. I went out into the hall and there I foundJerry Lawrence.
He stood there in the dusk of the little hall looking as resolute andunconcerned as an Englishman, in a strange and uncertain world, isexpected to look. Not that he ever considered the attitudes fitting toadopt on certain occasions. He would tell you, if you inquired, that "hecouldn't stand those fellows who looked into every glass they passed."His brow wore now a simple and innocent frown like that of a healthybaby presented for the first time with a strange and alarming rattle. Itwas only later that I was to arrive at some faint conception ofLawrence's marvellous acceptance of anything that might happen to turnup. Vice, cruelty, unsuspected beauty, terror, remorse, hatred, andignorance--he accepted them all once they were there in front of him. Hesometimes, as I shall on a later occasion, show, allowed himself a freeexpression of his views in the company of those whom he could trust, butthey were never the views of a suspicious or a disappointed man. It wasnot that he had great faith in human nature. He had, I think, verylittle. Nor was he without curiosity--far from it. But once a thing wasreally there he wasted no time over exclamations as to the horror orbeauty or abomination of its actual presence. There was as he onceexplained to me, "precious little time to waste." Those who thought hima dull, silent fellow--and they were many--made of course an almostludicrous mistake, but most people in life are, I take it, too deeplyoccupied with their own personal history to do more than es
timate at itssurface value the appearance of others... but after all such adispensation makes, in all probability for the general happiness....
On this present occasion Jerry Lawrence stood there exactly as I hadseen him stand many times on the football field waiting for thereferee's whistle, his thick short body held together, his mouth shutand his eyes on guard. He did not at first recognise me.
"You've forgotten me," I said.
"I beg your pardon," he answered in his husky good-natured voice, likethe rumble of an amiable bull-dog.
"My name is Durward," I said, holding out my hand. "And years ago we hada mutual friend in Olva Dune."
That pleased him. He gripped my hand very heartily and smiled a big uglysmile. "Why, yes," he said. "Of course. How are you? Feeling fit? Damnedlong ago all that, isn't it? Hope you're really fit?"
"Oh, I'm all right," I answered. "I was never a Hercules, you know. Iheard that you were here from Bohun. I was going to write to you. Butit's excellent that we should meet like this."
"I was after young Bohun," he explained. "But it's pleasant to findthere's another fellow in the town one knows. I've been a bit at seathese two days. To tell you the truth I never wanted to come." I heard arumble in his throat that sounded like "silly blighters."
"Come in," I said. "You must meet Madame Markovitch with whom Bohun isstaying--and then wait a bit. He won't be long, I expect."
The idea of this seemed to fill Jerry with alarm. He turned back towardthe door. "Oh! I don't think... she won't want... better another time..."his mouth was filled with indistinct rumblings.
"Nonsense." I caught his arm. "She is delightful. You must make yourselfat home here. They'll be only too glad."
"Does she speak English?" he asked.
"No," I answered. "But that's all right."
He backed again towards the door.
"My Russian's so slow," he said. "Never been here since I was a kid. I'drather not, really--"
However, I dragged him in and introduced him. I had quite a fatherlydesire, as I watched him, that "he should make good." But I'm afraidthat that first interview was not a great success. Vera Michailovna wasstrange that afternoon, excited and disturbed as I had never known her,and I could see that it was only with the greatest difficulty that shecould bring herself to think about Jerry at all.
And Jerry himself was so unresponsive that I could have beaten him."Why, you're duller than you used to be," I thought to myself, andwondered how I could have suspected, in those days, subtle depths andmysterious comprehensions. Vera Michailovna asked him questions aboutFrance and London but, quite obviously, did not listen to his answers.
After ten minutes he pulled himself up slowly from his chair:
"Well, I must be going," he said. "Tell young Bohun I shall be waitingfor him to-night--7.30--Astoria--" He turned to Vera Michailovna to saygood-bye, and then, suddenly, as she rose and their eyes met, theyseemed to strike some unexpected chord of sympathy. It took both ofthem, I think, by surprise; for quite a moment they stared at oneanother.
"Please come whenever you want to see your friend," she said, "we shallbe delighted."
"Thank you," he answered simply, and went.
When he had gone she said to me:
"I like that man. One could trust him."
"Yes, one could," I answered her.
The Secret City Page 8