The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  XVI

  I thought that night, as I lay cosily in my dusky room, of those oldstories by Wilkie Collins that had once upon a time so deeply engrossedmy interest--stories in which, because some one has disappeared on asnowy night, or painted his face blue, or locked up a room and lost thekey, or broken down in his carriage on a windy night at the cross-roads,dozens of people are involved, diaries are written, confessions aremade, and all the characters move along different roads towards the samelighted, comfortable Inn. That is the kind of story that intrigues me,whether it be written about out-side mysteries by Wilkie Collins orinside mysteries by the great creator of "The Golden Bowl" or mysteriesof both kinds, such as Henry Galleon has given us. I remember a friendof mine, James Maradick, once saying to me, "It's no use trying to keepout of things. As soon as they want to put you in--you're in. The momentyou're born, you're done for."

  It's just that spectacle of some poor innocent being suddenly caughtinto some affair, against his will, without his knowledge, but to themost serious alteration of his character and fortunes, that one watcheswith a delight almost malicious--whether it be _The Woman in White, TheWings of the Dove,_ or _The Roads_ that offer it us. Well, I had now toface the fact that something of this kind had happened to myself.

  I was drawn in--and I was glad. I luxuriated in my gladness, lying therein my room under the wavering, uncertain light of two candles, hearingthe church bells clanging and echoing mysteriously beyond the wall. Ilay there with a consciousness of being on the very verge of someadventure, with the assurance, too, that I was to be of use once more,to play my part, to fling aside, thank God, that old cloak of apatheticdisappointment, of selfish betrayal, of cynical disbelief. Semyonov hadbrought the old life back to me and I had shrunk from the impact of it;but he had brought back to me, too, the presences of my absent friendswho, during these weary months, had been lost to me. It seemed to methat, in the flickering twilight, John and Marie were bringing forwardto me Vera and Nina and Jerry and asking me to look after them.... Iwould do my best.

  And while I was thinking of these things Vera Michailovna came in. Shewas suddenly in the room, standing there, her furs up to her throat, herbody in shadow, but her large, grave eyes shining through thecandlelight, her mouth smiling.

  "Is it all right?" she said, coming forward. "I'm not in the way? You'renot sleeping?"

  I told her that I was delighted to see her.

  "I've been almost every day, but Marfa told me you were not well enough.She _does_ guard you--like a dragon. But to-night Nina and I are goingto Rozanov's, to a party, and she said she'd meet me here.... Shan't Iworry you?"

  "Worry me! You're the most restful friend I have--" I felt so glad tosee her that I was surprised at my own happiness. She sat down near tome, very quietly, moving, as she always did, softly and surely.

  I could see that she was distressed because I looked ill, but she askedme no tiresome questions, said nothing about my madness in living as Idid (always so irritating, as though I were a stupid child), praised theroom, admired the Benois picture, and then talked in her soft, kindlyvoice.

  "We've missed you so much, Nina and I," she said. "I told Nina that ifshe came to-night she wasn't to make a noise and disturb you."

  "She can make as much noise as she likes," I said. "I like the rightkind of noise."

  We talked a little about politics and England and anything that cameinto our minds. We both felt, I know, a delightful, easy intimacy andfriendliness and trust. I had never with any other woman felt such asense of friendship, something almost masculine in its comradeship andhonesty. And to-night this bond between us strengthened wonderfully. Iblessed my luck. I saw that there were dark lines under her eyes andthat she was pale.

  "You're tired," I said.

  "Yes, I am," she acknowledged. "And I don't know why. At least, I doknow. I'm going to use you selfishly, Durdles. I'm going to tell you allmy troubles and ask your help in every possible way. I'm going to letyou off nothing."

  I took her hand.

  "I'm proud," I said, "now and always."

  "Do you know that I've never asked any one's help before? I was ratherconceited that I could get on always without it. When I was very small Iwouldn't take a word of advice from any one, and mother and father, whenI was tiny, used to consult me about everything. Then they were killedand I _had_ to go on alone.... And after that, when I married Nicholas,it was I again who decided everything. And my mistakes taught menothing. I didn't want them to teach me."

  She spoke that last word fiercely, and through the note that came intoher voice I saw suddenly the potentialities that were in her, the othercreature that she might be if she were ever awakened.

  She talked then for a long time. She didn't move at all; her head restedon her hand and her eyes watched me. As I listened I thought of my otherfriend Marie, who now was dead, and how restless she was when she spoke,moving about the room, stopping to demand my approval, protestingagainst my criticism, laughing, crying out.... Vera was so still, sowise, too, in comparison with Marie, braver too--and yet the same heart,the same charity, the same nobility.

  But she was my friend, and Marie I had loved.... The difference in that!And how much easier now to help than it had been then, simply becauseone's own soul _was_ one's own and one stood by oneself!

  How happy a thing freedom is--and how lonely!

  She told me many things that I need not repeat here, but, as she talked,I saw how, far more deeply than I had imagined, Nina had been the heartof the whole of her life. She had watched over her, protected her,advised her, warned her, and loved her, passionately, jealously, almostmadly all the time.

  "When I married Nicholas," she said, "I thought of Nina more than anyone else. That was wrong.... I ought to have thought most of Nicholas;but I knew that I could give her a home, that she could have everythingshe wanted. And still she would be with me. Nicholas was only too readyfor that. I thought I would care for her until some one came who wasworthy of her, and who would look after her far better than I evercould.

  "But the only person who had come was Boris Grogoff. He loved Nina fromthe first moment, in his own careless, conceited, opinionated way."

  "Why did you let him come so often to the house if you didn't approve ofhim?" I asked.

  "How could I prevent it?" she asked me. "We Russians are not like theEnglish. In England I know you just shut the door and say, 'Not athome.'

  "Here if any one wanted to come he comes. Very often we hate him forcoming, but still there it is. It is too much trouble to turn him out,besides it wouldn't be kind--and anyway they wouldn't go. You can be asrude as you like here and nobody cares. For a long while Nina paid noattention to Boris. She doesn't like him. She will never like him, I'msure. But now, these last weeks, I've begun to be afraid. In some way,he has power over her--not much power, but a little--and she is soyoung, so ignorant--she knows nothing.

  "Until lately she always told me everything. Now she tells me nothing.She's strange with me; angry for nothing. Then sorry and sweetagain--then suddenly angry.... She's excited and wild, going out all thetime, but unhappy too.... I _know_ she's unhappy. I can feel it asthough it were myself."

  "You're imagining things," I said. "Now when the war's reached thisperiod we're all nervous and overstrung. The atmosphere of this town isenough to make any one fancy that they see anything. Nina's all right."

  "I'm losing her! I'm losing her!" Vera cried, suddenly stretching outher hand as though in a gesture of appeal. "She must stay with me. Idon't know what's happening to her. Ah, and I'm so lonely without her!"

  There was silence between us for a little, and then she went on.

  "Durdles, I did wrong to marry Nicholas--wrong to Nina, wrong toNicholas, wrong to myself, I thought it was right. I didn't loveNicholas--I never loved him and I never pretended to. He knew that I didnot. But I thought then that I was above love, that knowledge was whatmattered. Ideas--saving the world--and he had _such_ ideas! Wonderful!There was, I thought, nothing t
hat he would not be able to do if only hewere helped enough. He wanted help in every way. He was such a child, sounhappy, so lonely, I thought that I could give him everything that heneeded. Don't fancy that I thought that I sacrificed myself. I felt thatI was the luckiest girl in all the world--and still, now when I see thathe is not strong enough for his ideas I care for him as I did then, andI would never let any trouble touch him if I could help it. Butif--if--"

  She paused, turned away from me, looking towards the window.

  "If, after all, I was wrong. If, after all, I was meant to love. If lovewere to come now... real love... now...."

  She broke off, suddenly stood up, and very low, almost whispering, said:

  "I have fancied lately that it might come. And then, what should I do?Oh, what should I do? With Nicholas and Nina and all the trouble thereis now in the world--and Russia--I'm afraid of myself--and ashamed...."

  I could not speak. I was utterly astonished. Could it be Bohun of whomshe was speaking? No, I saw at once that the idea was ludicrous. But ifnot--.

  I took her hand.

  "Vera," I said. "Believe me. I'm much older than you, and I know. Love'salways selfish, always cruel to others, always means trouble, sorrow,and disappointment. But it's worth it, even when it brings completedisaster. Life isn't life without it."

  I felt her hand tremble in mine.

  "I don't know," she said, "I know nothing of it, except my love forNina. It isn't that now there's anybody. Don't think that. There is noone--no one. Only my self-confidence is gone. I can't see clearly anymore. My duty is to Nina and Nicholas. And if they are happy nothingelse matters--nothing. And I'm afraid that I'm going to do them harm."

  She paused as though she were listening. "There's no one there, isthere?" she asked me--"there by the door?"

  "No--no one."

  "There are so many noises in this house. Don't they disturb you?"

  "I don't think of them now. I'm used to them--and in fact I like them."

  She went on: "It's Uncle Alexei of course. He comes to see us nearlyevery day. He's very pleasant, more pleasant than he has ever beenbefore, but he has a dreadful effect on Nicholas--"

  "I know the effect he can have," I said.

  "I know that Nicholas has been feeling for a long time that hisinventions are no use. He will never own it to me or to any one--but Ican tell. I know it so well. The war came and his new feeling aboutRussia carried him along. He put everything into that. Now that hasfailed him, and he despises himself for having expected it to dootherwise. He's raging about, trying to find something that he canbelieve in, and Uncle Alexei knows that and plays on that.... He teaseshim; he drives him wild and then makes him happy again. He can doanything with him he pleases. He always could. But now he has some plan.I used to think that he simply laughed at people because it amused himto see how weak they can be. But now there's more than that. He's beenhurt himself at last, and that has hurt his pride, and he wants to hurtback.... It's all in the dark. The war's in the dark... everything...."Then she smiled and put her hand on my arm. "That's why I've come toyou, because I trust you and believe you and know you say what youmean."

  Once before Marie had said those same words to me. It was as though Iheard her voice again.

  "I won't fail you," I said.

  There was a knock on the door, it was flung open as though by the wind,and Nina was with us. Her face was rosy with the cold, her eyes laughedunder her little round fur cap. She came running across the room, pulledherself up with a little cry beside the bed, and then flung herself uponme, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me.

  "My dear Nina!" cried Vera.

  She looked up, laughing.

  "Why not? Poor Durdles. Are you better? _Biednie_... give me yourhands. But--how cold they are! And there are draughts everywhere. I'vebrought you some chocolates--and a book."

  "My dear!..." Vera cried again. "He won't like _that_," pointing to awork of fiction by a modern Russian literary lady whose heart and brainare of the succulent variety.

  "Why not? She's very good. It's lovely! All about impossible people!Durdles, _dear_! I'll give up the party. We won't go. We'll sit here andentertain you. I'll send Boris away. We'll tell him we don't want him."

  "Boris!" cried Vera.

  "Yes," Nina laughed a little uneasily, I thought. "I know you said hewasn't to come. He'll quarrel with Rozanov of course. But he said hewould. And so how was one to prevent him? You're always so tiresome,Vera.... I'm not a baby now, nor is Boris. If he wants to come he shallcome."

  Vera stood away from us both. I could see that she was very angry. I hadnever seen her angry before.

  "You know that it's impossible, Nina," she said. "You know that Rozanovhates him. And besides--there are other reasons. You know themperfectly well, Nina."

  Nina stood there pouting, tears were in her eyes.

  "You're unfair," she said. "You don't let me do anything. You give me nofreedom, I don't care for Boris, but if he wants to go he shall go. I'mgrown up now. You have your Lawrence. Let me have my Boris."

  "My Lawrence?" asked Vera.

  "Yes. You know that you're always wanting him to come--always lookingfor him. I like him, too. I like him very much. But you never let metalk to him. You never--"

  "Quiet, Nina." Vera's voice was trembling. Her face was sterner than I'dever seen it. "You're making me angry."

  "I don't care how angry I make you. It's true. You're impossible now.Why shouldn't I have my friends? I've nobody now. You never let me haveanybody. And I like Mr. Lawrence--"

  She began to sob, looking the most desolate figure.

  Vera turned.

  "You don't know what you've said, Nina, nor how you've hurt.... You cango to your party as you please--"

  And before I could stop her she was gone.

  Nina turned to me a breathless, tearful face. She waited; we heard thedoor below closed.

  "Oh, Durdles, what have I done?"

  "Go after her! Stop her!" I said.

  Nina vanished and I was alone. My room was intensely quiet.