The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  X

  We were approaching Christmas. The weather of these weeks waswonderfully beautiful, sharply cold, the sky pale bird's-egg blue, theice and the snow glittering, shining with a thousand colours. Therebegan now a strange relationship between Markovitch and myself.

  There was something ineffectual and pessimistic about me that madeRussians often feel in me a kindred soul. At the Front, Russians hadconfided in me again and again, but that was not astonishing, becausethey confided in every one. Nevertheless, they felt that I was lessEnglish than the rest, and rather blamed me in their minds, I think, forbeing so. I don't know what it was that suddenly decided Markovitch to"make me part of his life." I certainly did not on my side make anyadvances.

  One evening he came to see me and stayed for hours. Then he came two orthree times within the following fortnight. He gave me the effect of notcaring in the least whether I were there or no, whether I replied orremained silent, whether I asked questions or simply pursued my ownwork. And I, on my side, had soon in my consciousness his odd,irascible, nervous, pleading, shy and boastful figure paintedpermanently, so that his actual physical presence seemed to beunimportant. There he was, as he liked to stand up against the whitestove in my draughty room, his rather dirty nervous hands waving infront of me, his thin hair on end, his ragged beard giving his eyes anadded expression of anxiety. His body was a poor affair, his legs thinand uncertain, an incipient stomach causing his waistcoat suddenly tofall inwards somewhere half-way up his chest, his feet in ill-shapenboots, and his neck absurdly small inside his high stiff collar. Hisstiff collar jutting sharply into his weak chin was perhaps his moststriking feature. Most Russians of his careless habits wore soft collarsor students' shirts that fastened tight about the neck, but this highwhite collar was with Markovitch a sign and a symbol, the banner of hisearly ambitions; it was the first and last of him. He changed it everyday, it was always high and sharp, gleaming and clean, and it must havehurt him very much. He wore with it a shabby black tie that ran as farup the collar as it could go, and there was a sense of pathos andstruggle about this tie as though it were a wild animal trying to escapeover an imprisoning wall. He would stand clutching my stove as though itassured his safety in a dangerous country; then suddenly he would breakaway from it and start careering up and down my room, stopping for aninstant to gaze through my window at the sea and the ships, then offagain, swinging his arms, his anxious eyes searching everywhere forconfirmation of the ambitions that still enflamed him.

  For the root and soul of him was that he was greatly ambitious. He hadbeen born, I learnt, in some small town in the Moscow province, and hisfather had been a schoolmaster in the place--a kind of Perodonov, Ishould imagine, from the things that Markovitch told me about him. Thefather, at any rate, was a mean, malicious, and grossly sensualcreature, and he finally lost his post through his improper behaviourtowards some of his own small pupils. The family then came to evil days,and at a very early age young Markovitch was sent to Petrograd to earnwhat he could with his wits. He managed to secure the post of asecretary to an old fellow who was engaged in writing the life of hisgrandfather--a difficult book, as the grandfather had been a voluminousletter-writer, and this correspondence had to be collected andtabulated. For months, and even years, young Markovitch laboriouslyendeavoured to arrange these old yellow letters, dull, pathetic,incoherent. His patron grew slowly imbecile, but through the fogs thatincreasingly besieged him saw only this one thing clearly, that theletters must be arranged. He kept Markovitch relentlessly at his table,allowing him no pleasures, feeding him miserably and watching himpersonally undress every evening lest he should have secreted certainletters somewhere on his body. There was something almost sadistapparently in the old gentleman's observation of Markovitch's labours.

  It was during these years that Markovitch's ambitions took flame. He wasalways as he told me having "amazing ideas." I asked him--What kind ofideas? "Ideas by which the world would be transformed.... Those letterswere all old, you know, and dusty, and yellow, and eaten, some of them,by rats, and they'd lie on the floor and I'd try to arrange them inlittle piles according to their dates.... There'd be rows of littlepackets all across the floor..., and then somehow, when one's back wasturned, they'd move, all of their own wicked purpose--and one would haveto begin all over again, bending with one's back aching, and seeingalways the stupid handwriting.... I hated it, Ivan Andreievitch, ofcourse I hated it, but I had to do it for the money. And I lived in hishouse, too, and as he got madder it wasn't pleasant. He wanted me tosleep with him because he saw things in the middle of the night, andhe'd catch hold of me and scream and twist his fat legs round me... no,it wasn't agreeable. _On ne sympatichne saff-szem_. He wasn't a nice manat all. But while I was sorting the letters these ideas would come to meand I would be on fire.... It seemed to me that I was to save the world,and that it would not be difficult if only one might be resolute enough.That was the trouble--to be resolute. One might say to oneself, 'OnFriday October 13th I will do so and so, and then on Saturday November3rd I will do so and so, and then on December 24th it will be finished.'But then on October 13th one is, may be, in quite another mood--one iseven ill possibly--and so nothing is done and the whole plan is ruined.I would think all day as to how I would make myself resolute, and Iwould say when old Feodor Stepanovitch would pinch my ear and deny memore soup, 'Ah ha, you wait, you old pig-face--you wait until I'vemastered my resolution--and then I'll show you!' I fancied, forinstance, that if I could command myself sufficiently I could just go topeople and say, 'You must have bath-houses like this and this'--I hadall the plans ready, you know, and in the hottest room you have coucheslike this, and you have a machine that beats your back--so, so, so--notthose dirty old things that leave bits of green stuff all over you--andso on, and so on. But better ideas than that, ideas about poverty andwealth, no more kings, you know, nor police, but not your cheapSocialism that fellows like Boris Nicolaievitch shout about; no, realhappiness, so that no one need work as I did for an old beast who didn'tgive you enough soup, and have to keep quiet, all the same and saynothing. Ideas came like flocks of birds, so many that I couldn'tgather them all but had sometimes to let the best ones go. And I had noone to talk to about them--only the old cook and the girl in thekitchen, who had a child by old Feodor that he wouldn't own,--but sheswore it was his, and told every one the time when it happened and whereit was and all.... Then the old man fell downstairs and broke his neck,and he'd left me some money to go on with the letters...."

  At this point Markovitch's face would become suddenly triumphantlymalevolent, like the face of a schoolboy who remembers a trick that heplayed on a hated master. "Do you think I went on with them, IvanAndreievitch? no, not I... but I kept the money."

  "That was wrong of you," I would say gravely.

  "Yes--wrong of course. But hadn't he been wrong always? And after all,isn't everybody wrong? We Russians have no conscience, you know, aboutanything, and that's simply because we can't make up our minds as towhat's wrong and what's right, and even if we do make up our minds itseems a pity not to let yourself go when you may be dead to-morrow.Wrong and right.... What words!... Who knows? Perhaps it would have beenthe greatest wrong in the world to go on with the letters, wastingeverybody's time, and for myself, too, who had so many ideas, that lifesimply would never be long enough to think them all out."

  It seemed that shortly after this he had luck with a little invention,and this piece of luck was, I should imagine, the ruin of his career, aspieces of luck so often are the ruin of careers. I could neverunderstand what precisely his invention was, it had something to do withthe closing of doors, something that you pulled at the bottom of thedoor, so that it shut softly and didn't creak with the wind. A Jewbought the invention, and gave Markovitch enough money to lead himconfidently to believe that his fortune was made. Of course it was not,he never had luck with an invention again, but he was bursting withpride and happiness, set up house for himself in a little flat on theVassily Ostrov--and met Vera
Michailovna. I wish I could give some trueidea of the change that came over him when he reached this part of hisstory. When he had spoken of his childhood, his father, his firststruggles to live, his life with his old patron, he had not attempted tohide the evil, the malice, the envy that there was in his soul. He hadeven emphasised it, I might fancy, for my own especial benefit, so thatI might see that he was not such a weak, romantic, sentimental creatureas I had supposed--although God knows I had never fancied him romantic.Now when he spoke of his wife his whole body changed. "She married meout of pity," he told me. "I hated her for that, and I loved her forthat, and I hate and love her for it still."

  Here I interrupted him and told him that perhaps it was better that heshould not confide in me the inner history of his marriage.

  "Why not?" he asked me suspiciously.

  "Because I'm only an acquaintance, you scarcely know me. You may regretit afterwards when you're in another mood."

  "Oh, you English!" he said contemptuously; "you're always to be trusted.As a nation you're not, but as one man to another you're not interestedenough in human nature to give away secrets."

  "Well, tell me what you like," I said. "Only I make no promises aboutanything."

  "I don't want you to," he retorted; "I'm only telling you what every oneknows. Wasn't I aware from the first moment that she married me out ofpity, and didn't they all know it, and laugh and tell her she was afool. She knew that she was a fool too, but she was very young, andthought it fine to sacrifice herself for an idea. I was ill and I talkedto her about my future. She believed in it, she thought I could dowonderful things if only some one looked after me. And at the same timedespised me for wanting to be looked after.... And then I wasn't so uglyas I am now. She had some money of her own, and we took in lodgers, andI loved her, as I love her now, so that I could kiss her feet and thenhate her because she was kind to me. She only cares for her sister,Nina; and because I was jealous of the girl and hated to see Vera goodto her I had her to live with us, just to torture myself and show that Iwas stronger than all of them if I liked.... And so I am, than herbeastly uncle the doctor and all the rest of them--let him do what helikes...."

  It was the first time that he had mentioned Semyonov.

  "He's coming back," I said.

  "Oh, is he?" snarled Markovitch. "Well, he'd better look out." Then hisvoice, his face, even the shape of his body, changed once again. "I'mnot a bad man, Ivan Andreievitch. No, I'm not.... You think so ofcourse, and I don't mind if you do. But I love Vera, and if she loved meI could do great things. I could astonish them all. I hear them say,'Ah, that Nicholas Markovitch, he's no good... with his inventions.What did a fine woman like that marry such a man for?' I know what theysay. But I'm strong if I like. I gave up drink when I wished. I can giveup anything. And when I succeed they'll see--and then we'll have enoughmoney not to need these people staying with us and despising us...."

  "No one despises you, Nicolai Leontievitch," I interrupted.

  "And what does it matter if they do?" he fiercely retorted. "I despisethem--all of them. It's easy for them when everything goes well withthem, but with me everything goes wrong. Everything!... But I'm strongenough to make everything go right--and I will."

  This was, for the time, the end of his confidences. He had, I was sure,something further to tell me, some plan, some purpose, but he decidedsuddenly that he would keep it to himself, although I am convinced thathe had only told me his earlier story in order that I might understandthis new idea of his. But I did not urge him to tell me. My interest inlife had not yet sufficiently revived; it was, after all, none of mybusiness.

  For the rest, it seemed that he had been wildly enthusiastic about thewar at its commencement. He had had great ideas about Russia, but now hehad given up all hope. Russia was doomed; and Germany, whom he hated andadmired, would eat her up. And what did it matter? Perhaps Germany would"run Russia," and then there would be order and less thieving, and thishorrible war would stop. How foolish it had been to suppose that any onein Russia would ever do anything. They were all fools and knaves andidle in Russia--like himself.

  And so he left me.