The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  III

  I awoke that night with a sudden panic that I must instantly see Vera.I, even in the way that one does when, one is only half awake, struggledout of bed and felt for my clothes. Then I remembered and climbed backagain, but sleep would not return to me. The self-criticism andself-distrust that were always attacking me and paralysing my actionsprang upon me now and gripped me. What was I to do? How was I to act? Isaw Vera and Nina and Lawrence and, behind them, smiling at me,Semyonov. They were asking for my help, but they were, in some strange,intangible way, most desperately remote. When I read now in our papersshrill criticisms on our officials, our Cabinet, our generals, ourpropagandists, our merchants, for their failure to deal adequately withRussia, I say: Deal adequately? First you must catch your bird... andno Western snare has ever caught the Russian bird of paradise, and Idare prophesy that no Western snare ever will. Had I not broken myheart in the pursuit, and was I not as far as ever from attainment? Thesecret of the mystery of life is the isolation that separates every manfrom his fellow--the secret of dissatisfaction too; and the only purposein life is to realise that isolation, and to love one's fellow-manbecause of it, and to show one's own courage, like a flag to which theother travellers may wave their answer; but we Westerners have at leastthe waiting comfort of our discipline, of our materialism, of ourindifference to ideas. The Russian, I believe, lives in a world ofloneliness peopled only by ideas. His impulses towards self-confession,towards brotherhood, towards vice, towards cynicism, towards his beliefin God and his scorn of Him, come out of this world; and beyond it hesees his fellow-men as trees walking, and the Mountain of God as adistant peak, placed there only to emphasise his irony.

  I had wanted to be friends with Nina and Vera--I had even longed forit--and now at the crisis when I must rise and act they were so far awayfrom me that I could only see them, like coloured ghosts, vanishing intomist.

  I would go at once and see Vera and there do what I could. Lawrence mustreturn to England--then all would be well. Markovitch must bepersuaded.... Nina must be told.... I slept and tumbled into anightmare of a pursuit, down endless streets, of flying figures.

  Next day I went to Vera. I found her, to my joy, alone. I realised atonce that our talk would be difficult. She was grave and severe, sittingback in her chair, her head up, not looking at me at all, but beyondthrough the window to the tops of the trees feathery with snow againstthe sky of egg-shell blue. I am always beaten by a hostile atmosphere.To-day I was at my worst, and soon we were talking like a couple of themerest strangers.

  She asked me whether I had heard that there were very seriousdisturbances on the other side of the river.

  "I was on the Nevski early this afternoon," I said, "and I saw abouttwenty Cossacks go galloping down towards the Neva. I asked somebody andwas told that some women had broken into the bakers' shops on VassilyOstrov...."

  "It will end as they always end," said Vera. "Some arrests and a fewpeople beaten, and a policeman will get a medal."

  There was a long pause. "I went to 'Masquerade' the other night," Isaid.

  "I hear it's very good...."

  "Pretentious and rather vulgar--but amusing all the same."

  "Every one's talking about it and trying to get seats...."

  "Yes. Meyerhold must be pleased."

  "They discuss it much more than they do the war, or even politics. Everyone's tired of the war."

  I said nothing. She continued:

  "So I suppose we shall just go on for years and years.... And then theEmpress herself will be tired one day and it will suddenly stop." Sheshowed a flash of interest, turning to me and looking at me for thefirst time since I had come in.

  "Ivan Andreievitch, what do you stay in Russia for? Why don't you goback to England?"

  I was taken by surprise. I stammered, "Why do I stay? Why,because--because I like it."

  "You can't like it. There's _nothing_ to like in Russia."

  "There's _everything_!" I answered. "And I have friends here," I added.But she didn't answer that, and continued to sit staring out at thetrees. We talked a little more about nothing at all, and then there wasanother long pause. At last I could endure it no longer, I jumped to myfeet.

  "Vera Michailovna," I cried, "what have I done?"

  "Done?" she asked me with a look of self-conscious surprise. "What doyou mean?"

  "You know what I mean well enough," I answered. I tried to speak firmly,but my voice trembled a little. "You told me I was your friend. When Iwas ill the other day you came to me and said that you needed help andthat you wanted me to help you. I said that I would--"

  I paused.

  "Well?" she said, in a hard, unrelenting voice.

  "Well--" I hesitated and stammered, cursing myself for my miserablecowardice. "You are in trouble now, Vera--great trouble--I came herebecause I am ready to do anything for you--anything--and you treat melike a stranger, almost like an enemy."

  I saw her lip tremble--only for an instant. She said nothing.

  "If you've got anything against me since you saw me last," I went on,"tell me and I'll go away. But I had to see you and also Lawrence--"

  At the mention of his name her whole body quivered, but again only foran instant.

  "Lawrence asked me to come and see you."

  She looked up at me then gravely and coldly, and without the sign of anyemotion either in her face or voice.

  "Thank you, Ivan Andreievitch, but I want no help--I am in no trouble.It was very kind of Mr. Lawrence, but really--"

  Then I could endure it no longer. I broke out:

  "Vera, what's the matter. You know all this isn't true.... I don't knowwhat idea you have now in your head, but you must let me speak to you.I've got to tell you this--that Lawrence must go back to England, and assoon as possible--and I will see that he does--"

  That did its work. In an instant she was upon me like a wild beast,springing from her chair, standing close to me, her head flung back, hereyes furious.

  "You wouldn't dare!" she cried. "It's none of your business, IvanAndreievitch. You say you're my friend. You're not. You're my enemy--myenemy. I don't care for him, not in the very least--he is nothing tome--nothing to me at all. But he mustn't go back to England. It willruin his career. You will ruin him for life, Ivan Andreievitch. Whatbusiness is it of yours? You imagine--because of what you fancied yousaw at Nina's party. There was nothing at Nina's party--nothing. I lovemy husband, Ivan Andreievitch, and you are my enemy if you say anythingelse. And you pretend to be his friend, but you are his enemy if you tryto have him sent back to England.... He must not go. For the matter ofthat, I will never see him again--never--if that is what you want. See,I promise you never--never--" She suddenly broke down--she, VeraMichailovna, the proudest woman I had ever known, turning from me, herhead in her hands, sobbing, her shoulders bent.

  I was most deeply moved. I could say nothing at first, then, when thesound of her sobbing became unbearable to me, I murmured,

  "Vera, please. I have no power. I can't make him go. I will only do whatyou wish. Vera, please, please--"

  Then, with her back still turned to me, I heard her say,

  "Please, go. I didn't mean--I didn't... but go now... and comeback--later."

  I waited a minute, and then, miserable, terrified of the future, I went.