The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  XVIII

  I arrived at the Baron's punctually at eight o'clock. His flat was in asmall side street off the English Quay. I paused for a moment, beforeturning into its dark recesses, to gather in the vast expanse of thefrozen river and the long white quay. It was as though I had found myway behind a towering wall that now closed me in with a smile ofcontemptuous derision. There was no sound in the shining air and theonly figure was a guard who moved monotonously up and down outside theWinter Palace.

  I rang the bell and the "Schwitzer," bowing very ceremoniously, told methe flat was on the second floor. I went up a broad stone staircase andfound a heavy oak door with brass nails confronting me. When this slowlyswung open I discovered a very old man with white hair bowing before me.He was a splendid figure in a uniform of dark blue, his tall thin figurestraight and slim, his white moustaches so neat and fierce that theyseemed to keep guard over the rest of his face as though they warnedhim that they would stand no nonsense. There was an air of hushedsplendour behind him, and I could hear the heavy, solemn ticking of aclock keeping guard over all the austere sanctities of the place. When Ihad taken off my Shuba and goloshes I was ushered into a magnificentroom with a high gold clock on the mantlepiece, gilt chairs, heavy darkcarpets and large portraits frowning from the grey walls. The whole roomwas bitterly silent, save for the tick of the clock. There was no firein the fireplace, but a large gleaming white stove flung out a closescented heat from the further corner of the room. There were two longglass bookcases, some little tables with gilt legs, and a fine Japanesescreen of dull gold. The only other piece of furniture was a huge grandpiano near the window.

  I sat down and was instantly caught into the solemn silence. There wassomething threatening in the hush of it all. "We do what we're told,"the clock seemed to say, "and so must you." I thought of the ice andsnow beyond the windows, and, in spite of myself, shivered.

  Then the door opened and the Baron came in. He stood for a moment by thedoor, staring in front of him as though he could not penetrate the heavyand dusky air, and seen thus, under the height and space of the room, heseemed so small as to be almost ridiculous. But he was not ridiculousfor long. As he approached one was struck at once by the immaculateefficiency that followed him like a protecting shadow. In himself he wasa scrupulously neat old man with weary and dissipated eyes, but behindthe weariness, the neatness, and dissipation was a spirit of indomitabledetermination and resolution. He wore a little white Imperial and a longwhite moustache. His hair was brushed back and his forehead shone likemarble. He wore a black suit, white spats, and long, pointed, blackpatent-leather shoes. He had the smallest feet I have ever seen on anyman.

  He greeted me with great courtesy. His voice was soft, and he spokeperfect English, save for a very slight accent that was rather charming;this gave his words a certain naivete. He rubbed his hands and smiled ina gentle but determined way, as though he meant no harm by it, but haddecided that it was a necessary thing to do. I forget of what we talked,but I know that I surrendered myself at once to an atmosphere that hadbeen strange to me for so long that I had almost forgotten itscharacter--an atmosphere of discipline, order, comfort, and above all,of security. My mind flew to the Markovitches, and I smiled to myself atthe thought of the contrast.

  Then, strangely, when I had once thought of the Markovitch flat thepicture haunted me for the rest of the evening. I could see the Baron'sgilt chairs and gold clock, his little Imperial and shining shoes onlythrough the cloudy disorder of the Markovitch tables and chairs. Therewas poor Markovitch in his dark little room perched on his chair withhis boots, with his hands, with his hair... and there was poor Uncleand there poor Vera.... Why was I pitying them? I gloried in them. Thatis Russia... This is....

  "Allow me to introduce you to my wife," the Baron said, bending forward,the very points of his toes expressing amiability.

  The Baroness was a large solid lady with a fine white bosom and strongwhite arms. Her face was homely and kind; I saw at once that she adoredher husband; her placid smile carried beneath its placidity a tremulousanxiety that he should be pleased, and her mild eyes swam in the lightof his encouragement. I was sure, however, that the calm and disciplinethat I felt in the things around me came as much from her domesticity asfrom his discipline. She was a fortunate woman in that she had attainedthe ambition of her life--to govern the household of a man whom shecould both love and fear.

  Lawrence came in, and we went through high folding doors into thedining-room. This room had dark-blue wall-paper, electric lights heavilyshaded, and soft heavy carpets. The table itself was flooded withlight--the rest of the room was dusk. I wondered as I looked about mewhy the Wilderlings had taken Lawrence as a paying guest. Before myvisit I had imagined that they were poor, as so many of the better-classRussians were, but here were no signs of poverty. I decided that.

  Our dinner was good, and the wine was excellent. We talked, of course,politics, and the Baron was admirably frank.

  "I won't disguise from you, M. Durward," he said, "that some of us watchyour English effort at winning the heart of this country with sympathy,but also, if I am not offending you, with some humour. I'm not speakingonly of your propaganda efforts. You've got, I know, one or two literarygentlemen here--a novelist, I think, and a professor and a journalist.Well, soon you'll find them inefficient, and decide that you must havesome commercial gentlemen, and then, disappointed with them, you'lldecide for the military... and still the great heart of Russia willremain untouched."

  "Yes," I said, "because your class are determined that the peasant shallremain uneducated, and until he is educated he will be unable toapproach any of us."

  "Quite so," said the Baron smiling at me very cheerfully. "I perceive,M. Durward, that you are a democrat. So are we all, these days.... Youlook surprised, but I assure you that the good of the people in theinterests of the people is the only thing for which any of us care. Onlysome of us know Russia pretty well, and we know that the Russian peasantis not ready for liberty, and if you were to give him liberty to-nightyou would plunge his country into the most desperate torture of anarchyand carnage known in history. A little more soup?--we are offering youonly a slight dinner."

  "Yes, but, Baron," I said, "would you tell me when it is intended thatthe Russian peasant shall begin his upward course towards light andlearning? If that day is to be for ever postponed?"

  "It will not be for ever postponed," said the Baron gently. "Let usfinish the war, and education shall be given slowly, under wisedirection, to every man, woman, and child in the country. Our Czar isthe most liberal ruler in Europe--and he knows what is good for hischildren."

  "And Protopopoff and Stuermer?" I asked.

  "Protopopoff is a zealous, loyal liberal, but he has been made to seeduring these last months that Russia is not at this moment ready forfreedom. Stuermer--well, M. Stuermer is gone."

  "So you, yourself, Baron," I asked, "would oppose at this moment allreform?"

  "With every drop of blood in my body," he answered, and his hand flatagainst the tablecloth quivered. "At this crisis admit one change andyour dyke is burst, your land flooded. Every Russian is asked at thismoment to believe in simple things--his religion, his Czar, his country.Grant your reforms, and in a week every babbler in the country will beoff his head, talking, screaming, fighting. The Germans will occupyRussia at their own good time, you will be beaten on the West andcivilisation will be set back two hundred years. The only hope forRussia is unity, and for unity you must have discipline, and fordiscipline, in Russia at any rate, you must have an autocracy."

  As he spoke the furniture, the grey walls, the heavy carpets, seemed towhisper an echo of his words: "Unity... Discipline... Discipline...Autocracy... Autocracy... Autocracy...."

  "Then tell me, Baron," I said, "if it isn't an impertinent question, doyou feel so secure in your position that you have no fears at all? Doessuch a crisis, as for instance Milyukoff's protest last November, meannothing? You know the discontent.... Is there no fear...
.?"

  "Fear!" He interrupted me, his voice swift and soft and triumphant. "M.Durward, are you so ignorant of Russia that you consider the outpouringsof a few idealistic Intelligentzia, professors and teachers and poets,as important? What about the people, M. Durward? You ask any peasant inthe Moscow Government, or little Russia, or the Ukraine whether he willremain loyal to his Little Father or no! Ask--and the question yousuggested to me will be answered."

  "Then, you feel both secure and justified?" I said.

  "We feel both secure and justified"--he answered me, smiling.

  After that our conversation was personal and social. Lawrence was veryquiet. I observed that the Baroness had a motherly affection for him,that she saw that he had everything that he wanted, and that she gavehim every now and then little friendly confidential smiles. As the mealproceeded, as I drank the most excellent wine and the warm austerity ofmy surroundings gathered ever more closely around me, I wondered whetherafter all my apprehensions and forebodings of the last weeks had notbeen the merest sick man's cowardice. Surely if any kingdom in the worldwas secure, it was this official Russia. I could see it stretchingthrough the space and silence of that vast land, its servants in everyvillage, its paths and roads all leading back to the central citadel,its whispered orders flying through the air from district to district,its judgements, its rewards, its sins, its virtues, resting upon a basisof superstition and ignorance and apathy, the three sure friends ofautocracy through history!

  And on the other side--who? The Rat, Boris Grogoff, Markovitch. Yes, theBaron had reason for his confidence.... I thought for a moment of thatfigure that I had seen on Christmas Eve by the river--the strong gravebearded peasant whose gaze had seemed to go so far beyond the bounds ofmy own vision. But no! Russia's mystical peasant--that was an old tale.Once, on the Front, when I had seen him facing the enemy with barehands, I had, myself, believed it. Now I thought once more of theRat--_that_ was the type whom I must now confront.

  I had a most agreeable evening. I do not know how long it had beensince I had tasted luxury and comfort and the true fruits ofcivilisation. The Baron was a most admirable teller of stories, with acapital sense of humour. After dinner the Baroness left us for half anhour, and the Baron became very pleasantly Rabelaisian, speaking of hisexperiences in Paris and London, Vienna and Berlin so easily and with soready a wit that the evening flew. The Baroness returned and, seeingthat it was after eleven, I made my farewells. Lawrence said that hewould walk with me down the quay before turning into bed. My host andhostess pressed me to come as often as possible. The Baron's last wordsto me were:

  "Have no fears, M. Durward. There is much talk in this country, but weare a lazy people."

  The "we" rang strangely in my ears.

  "He's of course no more a Russian than you or I," I said to Lawrence, aswe started down the quay.

  "Oh yes, he is!" Lawrence said. "Quite genuine--not a drop of Germanblood in spite of the name. But he's a Prussian at heart--a Prussian ofthe Prussians. By that I don't mean in the least that he wants Germanyto win the war. He doesn't--his interests are all here, and you mayn'tbelieve me, but I assure you he's a Patriot. He loves Russia, and hewants what's best for her--and believes that to be Autocracy."

  After that Lawrence shut up. He would not say another word. We walkedfor a long time in silence. The evening was most beautiful. A goldenmoon flung the snow into dazzling relief against the deep black of thepalaces. Across the Neva the line of towers and minarets and chimneysran like a huge fissure in the golden, light from sky to sky.

  "You said there was something you wanted to ask my advice about?"

  I broke the silence.

  He looked at me with his long slow considering stare. He mumbledsomething; then, with a sudden gesture, he gripped my arm, and his heavybody quivering with the urgency of his words he said:

  "It's Vera Markovitch.... I'd give my body and soul and spirit for herhappiness and safety.... God forgive me, I'd give my country and myhonour.... I ache and long for her, so that I'm afraid for my sanity.I've never loved a woman, nor lusted for one, nor touched one in mywhole life, Durward--and now... and now... I've gone right in. I'vespoken no word to any one; but I couldn't stand my own silence....Durward, you've got to help me!"

  I walked on, seeing the golden light and the curving arc of snow and thelittle figures moving like dolls from light to shadow. Lawrence! I hadnever thought of him as an urgent lover; even now, although I couldstill feel his hand quivering on my arm, I could have laughed at theludicrous incongruity of romance, and that stolid thick-set figure. Andat the same time I was afraid. Lawrence in love was no boy on thethreshold of life like Bohun... here was no trivial passion. I realisedeven in that first astonished moment the trouble that might be in storefor all of us.

  "Look here, Lawrence!" I said at last. "The first thing that you may aswell realise is that it is hopeless. Vera Michailovna has confided in mea good deal lately, and she is devoted to her husband, thinks of nothingelse. She's simple, naive, with all her sense and wisdom...."

  "Hopeless!" he interrupted, and he gave a kind of grim chuckle ofderision. "My dear Durward, what do you suppose I'm after?... rape andadultery and Markovitch after us with a pistol? I tell you--" and herehe spoke fiercely, as though he were challenging the whole ice-boundworld around us--"that I want nothing but her happiness, her safety,her comfort! Do you suppose that I'm such an ass as not to recognise thekind of thing that my loving her would lead to? I tell you I'm afternothing for myself, and that not because I'm a fine unselfish character,but simply because the thing's too big to let anything into it butherself. She shall never know that I care twopence about her, but she'sgot to be happy and she's got to be safe.... Just now, she's neither ofthose things, and that's why I've spoken to you.... She's unhappy andshe's afraid, and that's got to change. I wouldn't have spoken of thisto you if I thought you'd be so short-sighted...."

  "All right! All right!" I said testily. "You may be a kind of Galahad,Lawrence, outside all natural law. I don't know, but you'll forgive meif I go for a moment on my own experience--and that experience is, thatyou can start on as highbrow an elevation as you like, but love doesn'tstand still, and the body's the body, and to-morrow isn't yesterday--notby no means. Moreover, Markovitch is a Russian and a peculiar one atthat. Finally, remember that I want Vera Michailovna to be happy quiteas much as you do!"

  He was suddenly grave and almost boyish in his next words.

  "I know that--you're a decent chap, Durward--I know it's hard to believeme, but I just ask you to wait and test me. No one knows of this--thatI'd swear--and no one shall; but what's the matter with her, Durward,what's she afraid of? That's why I spoke to you. You know her, and I'llthrottle you here where we stand if you don't tell me just what thetrouble is. I don't care for confidences or anything of the sort. Youmust break them all and tell me--"

  His hand was on my arm again, his big ugly face, now grim and obstinate,close against mine.

  "I'll tell you," I said slowly, "all I know, which is almost nothing.The trouble is Semyonov, the doctor. Why or how I can't say, althoughI've seen enough of him in the past to know the trouble he _can_ be.She's afraid of him, and Markovitch is afraid of him. He likes playingon people's nerves. He's a bitter, disappointed man, who loveddesperately once, as only real sensualists can... and now he's in lovewith a ghost. That's why real life maddens him."

  "Semyonov!" Lawrence whispered the name.

  We had come to the end of the quay. My dear church with its round greywall stood glistening in the moonlight, the shadows from the snowrippling up its sides, as though it lay under water. We stood and lookedacross the river.

  "I've always hated that fellow," Lawrence said. "I've only seen himabout twice, but I believe I hated him before I saw him.... All right,Durward, that's what I wanted to know. Thank you. Good-night."

  And before I could speak he had gripped my hand, had turned back, andwas walking swiftly away, across the golden-lighted quay.