The Secret City

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  IX

  ...We were all gathered together in the office. I heard one of theRussians say in an agitated whisper, "Don't turn on the light!... Don'tturn on the light! They can see!"

  We were all in half-darkness, our faces mistily white. I could hearPeroxide breathing in a tremulous manner, as though in a moment shewould break into hysteria.

  "We'll go into the inside room. We can turn the light on there," saidBurrows. We all passed into the reception-room of the office, a niceairy place with the library along one wall and bright coloured maps onthe other. We stood together and considered the matter.

  "It's real!" said Burrows, his red, cheery face perplexed and strained."Who'd have thought it?"

  "Of course it's real!" cried Bohun impatiently (Burrows' optimism hadbeen often difficult to bear with indulgence).

  "Now you see! What about your beautiful Russian mystic now?"

  "Oh dear!" cried the little Russian typist. "And my mother!... What evershall I do? She'll hear reports and think that I'm being murdered. Ishall never get across."

  "You'd better stay with me to-night, Miss Peredonov," said Peroxidefirmly. "My flat's quite close here in Gagarinsky. We shall be delightedto have you."

  "You can telephone to your mother, Miss Peredonov," said Burrows. "Nodifficulty at all."

  It was then that Bohun took me aside.

  "Look here!" he said. "I'm worried. Vera and Nina were going to theAstoria to have tea with Semyonov this afternoon. I should think theAstoria might be rather a hot spot if this spreads. And I wouldn't trustSemyonov. Will you come down with me there now?"

  "Yes," I said, "of course I'll come."

  We said a word to Burrows, put on our Shubas and goloshes, and starteddown the stairs. At every door there were anxious faces. Out of one flatcame a very fat Jew.

  "Gentlemen, what is this all about?"

  "Riots," said Bohun.

  "Is there shooting?"

  "Yes," said Bohun.

  "_Bozhe moi! Bozhe moi!_ And I live over on Vassily Ostrov! What do youadvise, _Gaspoda_? Will the bridges be up?"

  "Very likely," I answered. "I should stay here."

  "And they are shooting?" he asked again.

  "They are," I answered.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen--stay for a moment. Perhaps together we couldthink.... I am all alone here except for a lady... mostunfortunate...."

  But we could not stay.

  The world into which we stepped was wonderful. The background of snowunder the star-blazing sky made it even more fantastic than it naturallywas. We slipped into the crowd and, becoming part of it, were at once,as one so often is, sympathetic with it. It seemed such a childish,helpless, and good-natured throng. No one seemed to know anything ofarms or directions. There were, as I have already said, many women andlittle children, and some of the civilians who had rifles looked quitehelpless. I saw one boy holding his gun upside down. No one paid anyattention to us. There was as yet no class note in the demonstration,and the only hostile cries I heard were against Protopopoff and thepolice. We moved back into the street behind the Fontanka, and here Isaw a wonderful sight. Some one had lighted a large bonfire in themiddle of the street and the flames tossed higher and higher into theair, bringing down the stars in flights of gold, flinging up the snowuntil it seemed to radiate in lines and circles of white light high overthe very roofs of the houses. In front of the fire a soldier, mounted ona horse, addressed a small crowd of women and boys. On the end of hisrifle was a ragged red cloth.

  I could not see his face. I saw his arms wave, and the fire behind himexaggerated his figure and then dropped it into a straggling silhouetteagainst the snow. The street seemed deserted except for this group,although now I could hear distant shouting on every side of me, and themonotonous clap-clap-clap-clap of a machine-gun.

  I heard him say, "_Tovaristchi!_ now is your time! Don't hesitate in thesacred cause of freedom! As our brethren did in the famous days of theFrench Revolution, so must we do now. All the Army is coming over to ourside. The Preobrojenski have come over to us and have arrested theirofficers and taken their arms. We must finish with Protopopoff and ourother tyrants, and see that we have a just rule. _Tovaristchi_! therewill never be such a chance again, and you will repent for ever if youhave not played your part in the great fight for freedom!"

  So it went on. It did not seem that his audience was greatly impressed.It was bewildered and dazed. But the fire leapt up behind him giving hima legendary splendour, and the whole picture was romantic and unreallike a gaudy painting on a coloured screen.

  We hurried through into the Nevski, and this we found nearly deserted.The trams of course had stopped, a few figures hurried along, and oncean Isvostchick went racing down towards the river.

  "Well, now, we seem to be out of it," said Bohun, with a sigh of relief."I must say I'm not sorry. I don't mind France, where you can tell whichis the front and which the back, but this kind of thing does get onone's nerves. I daresay it's only local. We shall find them all as easyas anything at the Astoria, and wondering what we're making a fussabout."

  At that moment we were joined by an English merchant whom we both knew,a stout elderly man who had lived all his life in Russia. I wassurprised to find him in a state of extreme terror. I had always knownhim as a calm, conceited, stupid fellow, with a great liking for Russianladies. This pastime he was able as a bachelor to enjoy to the full.Now, however, instead of the ruddy, coarse, self-confident merchantthere was a pallid, trembling jelly-fish.

  "I say, you fellows," he asked, catching my arm. "Where are you off to?"

  "We're off to the Astoria," I answered.

  "Let me come with you. I'm not frightened, not at all--all the same Idon't want to be left alone. I was in the 1905 affair. That was enoughfor me. Where are they firing--do you know?"

  "All over the place," said Bohun, enjoying himself. "They'll be downhere in a minute."

  "Good God! Do you really think so? It's terrible--these fellows--oncethey get loose they stick at nothing.... I remember in 1905.... Goodheavens! Where had we better go? It's very exposed here, isn't it?"

  "It's very exposed everywhere," said Bohun. "I doubt whether any of usare alive in the morning."

  "Good heavens! You don't say so! Why should they interfere with us?"

  "Oh, rich, you know, and that kind of thing. And then we're Englishmen.They'll clear out all the English."

  "Oh, I'm not really English. My mother was Russian. I could show them mypapers...."

  Bohun laughed. "I'm only kidding you, Watchett," he said. "We're safeenough. Look, there's not a soul about!" We were at the corner of theMoika now; all was absolutely quiet. Two women and a man were standingon the bridge talking together. A few stars clustered above the bend ofthe Canal seemed to shift and waver ever so slightly through a gatheringmist, like the smoke of blowing candles.

  "It seems all right," said the merchant, sniffing the air suspiciouslyas though he expected to smell blood. We turned towards the Morskaia.One of the women detached herself from the group and came to us.

  "Don't go down the Morskaia," she said, whispering, as though somehostile figure were leaning over her shoulder. "They're firing round theTelephone Exchange." Even as she spoke I heard the sharp clatter of themachine-gun break out again, but now very close, and with an intimatenote as though it were the same gun that I had heard before, which hadbeen tracking me down round the town.

  "Do you hear that?" said the merchant.

  "Come on," said Bohun. "We'll go down the Moika. That seems safeenough!"

  How strangely in the flick of a bullet the town had changed! Yesterdayevery street had been friendly, obvious, and open; they were now nolonger streets, but secret blind avenues with strange trees, fantasticdoors, shuttered windows, a grinning moon, malicious stars, and snowthat lay there simply to prevent every sound. It was a town trulybeleaguered as towns are in dreams. The uncanny awe with which I movedacross the bridge was increased when the man with the women turnedtowards
me, and I saw that he was--or seemed to be--that same gravebearded peasant whom I had seen by the river, whom Henry had seen in theCathedral, who remained with one, as passing strangers sometimes do,like a symbol or a message or a threat.

  He stood, with the Nevski behind him, calm and grave, and even it seemeda little amused, watching me as I crossed. I said to Bohun, "Did youever see that fellow before?"

  Bohun turned and looked.

  "No," he said.

  "Don't you remember? The man that first day in the Kazan?"

  "They're all alike," Bohun said. "One can't tell...."

  "Oh, come on," said the merchant. "Let's get to the Astoria."

  We started down the Moika, past that faded picture-shop where there arealways large moth-eaten canvases of cornfields under the moon andRussian weddings and Italian lakes. We had got very nearly to the littlestreet with the wooden hoardings when the merchant gripped my arm.

  "What's that?" he gulped. The silence now was intense. We could not hearthe machine-gun nor any shouting. The world was like a picture smokingunder a moon now red and hard. Against the wall of the street two womenwere huddled, one on her knees, her head pressed against the thighs ofthe other, who stood stretched as though crucified, her arms out,staring on to the Canal. Beside a little kiosk, on the space exactly infront of the side street, lay a man on his face. His bowler-hat hadrolled towards the kiosk; his arms were stretched out so that he lookedoddly like the shadow of the woman against the wall.

  Instead of one hand there was a pool of blood. The other hand with allthe fingers stretched was yellow against the snow.

  As we came up a bullet from the Morskaia struck the kiosk.

  The woman, not moving from the wall, said, "They've shot my husband...he did nothing."

  The other woman, on her knees, only cried without ceasing.

  The merchant said, "I'm going back--to the Europe," and he turned andran.

  "What's down that street?" I said to the woman, as though I expected herto say "Hobgoblins." Bohun said, "This is rather beastly.... We ought tomove that fellow out of that. He may be alive still."

  And how silly such a sentence when only yesterday, just here, there wasthe beggar who sold boot-laces, and just there, where the man lay, anold muddled Isvostchick asleep on his box!

  We moved forward, and instantly it was as though I were in the middle ofa vast desert quite alone with all the hosts of heaven aiming at memalicious darts. As I bent down my back was so broad that it stretchedacross Petrograd, and my feet were tiny like frogs.

  We pulled at the man. His head rolled and his face turned over, and themouth was full of snow. It was so still that I whispered, whether toBohun or myself, "God, I wish somebody would shout!" Then I heard thewood of the kiosk crack, ever so slightly, like an opening door, andpanic flooded me as I had never known it do during all my time at theFront.

  "I've no strength," I said to Bohun.

  "Pull for God's sake!" he answered. We dragged the body a little way; myhand clutched the thigh, which was hard and cold under the stuff of hisclothing. His head rolled round, and his eyes now were covered withsnow. We dragged him, and he bumped grotesquely. We had him under thewall, near the two women, and the blood welled out and dripped in aspreading pool at the women's feet.

  "Now," said Bohun, "we've got to run for it."

  "Do you know," said I, as though I were making a sudden discovery, "Idon't think I can." I leaned back against the wall and looked at thepool of blood near the kiosk where the man had been.

  "Oh, but you've got to," said Bohun, who seemed to feel no fear. "Wecan't stay here all night."

  "No, I know," I answered. "But the trouble is--I'm not myself." And Iwas not. That _was_ the trouble. I was not John Durward at all. Somestranger was here with a new heart, poor shrivelled limbs, an enormousnose, a hot mouth with no eyes at all. This stranger had usurped myclothes and he refused to move. He was tied to the wall and he would notobey me.

  Bohun looked at me. "I say, Durward, come on, it's only a step. We mustget to the Astoria."

  But the picture of the Astoria did not stir me. I should have seen Ninaand Vera waiting there, and that should have at once determined me. Soit would have been had I been myself. This other man was there.... Ninaand Vera meant nothing to him at all. But I could not explain that toBohun. "I can't go..." I saw Bohun's eyes--I was dreadfully ashamed."You go on..." I muttered. I wanted to tell him that I did not thinkthat I could endure to feel again that awful expansion of my back andthe turning my feet into toads.

  "Of course I can't leave you," he said.

  And suddenly I sprang back into my own clothes again. I flung thecharlatan out and he flumped off into air.

  "Come on," I said, and I ran. No bullets whizzed past us. I was ashamedof running, and we walked quite quietly over the rest of the open space.

  "Funny thing," I said, "I was damned frightened for a moment."

  "It's the silence and the houses," said Bohun.

  Strangely enough I remember nothing between that moment and our arrivalat the Astoria. We must have skirted the Canal, keeping in the shadow ofthe wall, then crossed the Saint Isaac's Square. The next thing I canrecall is our standing, rather breathless, in the hall of the Astoria,and the first persons I saw there were Vera and Nina, together at thebottom of the staircase, saying nothing, waiting.

  In front of them was a motley crowd of Russian officers all talking andgesticulating together. I came nearer to Vera and at once I said tomyself, "Lawrence is here somewhere." She was standing, her head up,watching the doors, her eyes glowed with anticipation, her lips were alittle parted. She never moved at all, but was so vital that the rest ofthe people seemed dolls beside her. As we came towards them Nina turnedround and spoke to some one, and I saw that it was Semyonov who stood atthe bottom of the staircase, his thick legs apart, stroking his beardwith his hand.

  We came forward and Nina began at once--

  "Durdles--tell us! What's happened?"

  "I don't know," I answered. The lights after the dark and the snowbewildered me, and the noise and excitement of the Russian officers weredeafening.

  Nina went on, her face lit. "Can't you tell us anything? We haven'theard a word. We came just in an ordinary way about four o'clock. Therewasn't a sound, and then, just as we were sitting down to tea, they allcame bursting in, saying that all the officers were being murdered, andthat Protopopoff was killed, and that--"

  "That's true anyway," said a young Russian officer, turning round to usexcitedly. "I had it from a friend of mine who was passing just as theystuck him in the stomach. He saw it all; they dragged him out of hishouse and stuck him in the stomach--"

  "They say the Czar's been shot," said another officer, a fat, red-facedman with very bright red trousers, "and that Rodziancko's formed agovernment..."

  I heard on every side such words as "People--Rodziancko--Protopopoff--Freedom," and the officer telling his tale again. "Andthey stuck him in the stomach just as he was passing his house..."

  Through all this tale Vera never moved. I saw, to my surprise, thatLawrence was there now, standing near her but never speaking. Semyonovstood on the stairs watching.

  Suddenly I saw that she wanted me.

  "Ivan Andreievitch," she said, "will you do something for me?" She spokevery low, and her eyes did not look at me, but beyond us all out to thedoor.

  "Certainly," I said.

  "Will you keep Alexei Petrovitch here? Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Bohun cansee us home. I don't want him to come with us. Will you ask him to waitand speak to you?"

  I went up to him. "Semyonov," I said, "I want a word with you, if Imay--"

  "Certainly," he said, with that irritating smile of his, as though heknew exactly of what I was thinking.

  We moved up the dark stairs. As we went I heard Vera's clear, calmvoice:

  "Will you see us home, Mr. Lawrence?... I think it's quite safe to gonow."

  We stopped on the first floor under the electric light. There were twoeasy
-chairs there, with a dusty palm behind them. We sat down.

  "You haven't really got anything to say to me," he began.

  "Oh yes, I have," I said.

  "No... You simply suggested conversation because Vera asked you to doso."

  "I suggested a conversation," I answered, "because I had something ofsome seriousness to tell you."

  "Well, she needn't have been afraid," he went on. "I wasn't going homewith them. I want to stop and watch these ridiculous people a littlelonger.... What had you got to say, my philosophical, optimisticfriend?"

  He looked quite his old self, sitting stockily in the chair, his strongthighs pressing against the cane as though they'd burst it, his thicksquare beard more wiry than ever, and his lips red and shining. Heseemed to have regained his old self-possession and confidence.

  "What I wanted to say," I began, "is that I'm going to tell you oncemore to leave Markovitch alone. I know the other day--that alone--"

  "Oh _that_!" he brushed it aside impatiently. "There are bigger thingsthan that just now, Durward. You lack, as I have always said, two veryessential things, a sense of humour and a sense of proportion. And youpretend to know Russia whilst you are without those two admirablegifts!

  "However, let us forget personalities.... There are better things here!"

  As he spoke two young Russian officers came tumbling up the stairs. Theywere talking excitedly, not listening to one another, red in the faceand tripping over their swords. They went up to the next floor, theirvoices very shrill.

  "So much for your sentimental Russia," said Semyonov. He spoke veryquietly. "How I shall love to see these fools all toppled over, and thenthe fools who toppled them toppled in their turn.

  "Durward, you're a fool too, but you're English, and at least you've gota conscience. I tell you, you'll see in these next months suchcowardice, such selfishness, such meanness, such ignorance as the worldhas never known--and all in the name of Freedom! Why, they're chatteringabout freedom already downstairs as hard as they can go!"

  "As usual, Semyonov," I answered hotly, "you believe in the good of noone. If there's really a Revolution coming, which I still doubt, it maylead to the noblest liberation."

  "Oh, you're an ass!" he interrupted quietly. "Nobility and the humanrace! I tell you, Ivan Andreievitch of the noble character, that thehuman race is rotten; that it is composed of selfishness, vice, andmeanness; that it is hypocritical beyond the bounds of hypocrisy, andthat of all mean cowardly nations on this earth the Russian nation isthe meanest and most cowardly!... That fine talk of ours that youEnglish slobber over!--a mere excuse for idleness, and you'll know itbefore another year is through. I despise mankind with a contempt thatevery day's fresh experience only the more justifies. Only once have Ifound some one who had a great soul, and she, too, if I had securedher, might have disappointed me.... No, my time is coming. I shall seeat last my fellowmen in their true colours, and I shall even perhapshelp them to display them. My worthy Markovitch, for example--"

  "What about Markovitch?" I asked sharply.

  He got up, smiling. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  "He shall be driven by ghosts," he answered, and turned off to thestairs.

  He looked back for a moment. "The funny thing is, I like you, Durward,"he said.