"Murdered!" I exclaimed.

"Yes--shot by his idealistic friend. I envy him that year. He must have experienced many breathless sensations. When the murderer was tried his only explanation was that he had been irritated and disappointed.

"'Disappointed of what?' asked the judge.

"'Of everything in which he believed....' said the man.

"It seemed a poor excuse for a murder; he is still, I have no doubt, in Siberia.

"But I envy my friend. That was a delightful death to die....

Good-night, Ivan Andreievitch."

He waved his hand at me and was gone. I was quite alone in the long black street, engulfed by the high, overhanging flats.

XXI

Late on the afternoon of Nina's birthday, when I was on the point of setting out for the English Prospect, the Rat appeared. I had not seen him for several weeks; but there he was, stepping suddenly out of the shadows of my room, dirty and disreputable and cheerful. He had been, I perceived, drinking furniture polish.

"Good-evening, Barin."

"Good-evening," I said sternly. "I told you not to come here when you were drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he said, offended, "only a little. It's not much that you can get these days. I want some money, Barin."

"I've none for you," I answered.

"It's only a little--G.o.d knows that I wouldn't ask you for much, but I'm going to be very busy these next days, and it's work that won't bring pay quickly. There'll be pay later, and then I will return it to you."

"There's nothing for you to-night," I said.

He laughed. "You're a fine man, Barin. A foreigner is fine--that's where the poor Russian is unhappy. I love you, Barin, and I will look after you, and if, as you say, there isn't any money here, one must pray to G.o.d and he will show one the way."

"What's this work you're going to do?" I asked him.

"There's going to be trouble the other side of the river in a day or two," he answered, "and I'm going to help."

"Help what?" I asked.

"Help the trouble," he answered, smiling.

"Behave like a blackguard, in fact."

"Ah, blackguard, Barin!" he protested, using a Russian word that is worse than blackguard. "Why these names?... I'm not a good man, G.o.d have mercy on my soul, but then I pretend nothing. I am what you see.... If there's going to be trouble in the town I may as well be there. Why not I as well as another? And it is to your advantage, Barin, that I should be."

"Why to my advantage?" I asked him.

"Because I am your friend, and we'll protect you," he answered.

"I wouldn't trust you a yard," I told him.

"Well, perhaps you're right," he said. "We are as G.o.d made us--I am no better than the rest."

"No, indeed you're not," I answered him. "Why do you think there'll be trouble?"

"I know.... Perhaps a lot of trouble, perhaps only a little. But it will be a fine time for those of us who have nothing to lose.... So you have no money for me?"

"Nothing."

"A mere rouble or so?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I must be off.... I am your friend. Don't forget," and he was gone.

It had been arranged that Nina and Vera, Lawrence and Bohun and I should meet outside the Giniselli at five minutes to eight. I left my little silver box at the flat, paid some other calls, and just as eight o'clock was striking arrived outside the Giniselli. This is Petrograd's apology for a music-hall--in other words, it is nothing but the good old-fashioned circus.

Then, again, it is not quite the circus of one's English youth, because it has a very distinct Russian atmosphere of its own. The point really is the enthusiasm of the audience, because it is an enthusiasm that in these sophisticated, twentieth-century days is simply not to be found in any other country in Europe. I am an old-fashioned man and, quite frankly, I adore a circus; and when I can find one with the right sawdust smell, the right clown, and the right enthusiasm, I am happy.

The smart night is a Sat.u.r.day, and then, if you go, you will see, in the little horse-boxes close to the arena, beautiful women in jewellery and powder, and young officers, and fat merchants in priceless Shubas. But to-night was not a Sat.u.r.day, and therefore the audience was very democratic, screaming cat-calls from the misty distances of the gallery, and showering sunflower seeds upon the heads of the bourgeoisie, who were, for the most part, of the smaller shopkeeper kind.

Nina, to-night, was looking very pretty and excited. She was wearing a white silk dress with blue bows, and all her hair was piled on the top of her head in imitation of Vera--but this only had the effect of making her seem incredibly young and nave, as though she had put her hair up just for the evening because there was to be a party. It was explained that Markovitch was working but would be present at supper. Vera was quiet, but looked happier, I thought, than I had seen her for a long time. Bohun was looking after her, and Lawrence was with Nina. I sat behind the four of them, in the back of the little box, like a presiding Benevolence.

Mostly I thought of how lovely Vera was to-night, and why it was, too, that more people did not care for her. I knew that she was not popular, that she was considered proud and reserved and cold. As she sat there now, motionless, her hands on her lap, her whole being seemed to me to radiate goodness and gentleness and a loving heart. I knew that she could be impatient with stupid people, and irritated by sentimentality, and infuriated by meanness and cruelty, but the whole size and grandeur of her n.o.bility seemed to me to shine all about her and set her apart from the rest of human beings. She was not a woman whom I ever could have loved--she had not the weaknesses and naveties and appealing helplessness that drew love from one's heart. Nor could I have ever dared to face the depth and splendour of the pa.s.sion that there was in her--I was not built on that heroic scale. G.o.d forgive me if, as I watched them, I felt a sudden glow of almost eager triumph at the thought of Lawrence as her lover! I checked it. My heart was suddenly heavy.

Such a development could only mean tragedy, and I knew it. I had even sworn to Semyonov that I would prevent it. I looked at them and felt my helpless weakness. Who was I to prevent anything? And who was there now, in the whole world, who would be guided by my opinion? They might have me as a confidant because they trusted me, but after that... no, I had no illusions. I was pushed off the edge of the world, hanging on still with one quivering hand--soon my grip would loosen--and, G.o.d help me, I did not want to go.

Nina turned back to me and, with a little excited clap of her hands, drew my attention to the gallant Madame Gineselli, who, although by no means a chicken, arrayed in silver tights and a large black picture-hat, stood on one foot on the back of her white horse and bowed to the already hysterical gallery. Mr. Gineselli cracked his whip, and the white horse ambled along and the sawdust flew up into our eyes, and Madame bent her knees first in and then out, and the bourgeoisie clapped their hands and the gallery shouted "Brava." Gineselli cracked his whip and there was the clown "Jackomeno, beloved of his Russian public," as it was put on the programme; and indeed so he seemed to be, for he was greeted with roars of applause. There was nothing very especially Russian about him, however, and when he had taken his coat off and brushed a place on which to put it and then flung it on the ground and stamped on it, I felt quite at home with him and ready for anything.

He called up one of the attendants and asked him whether he had ever played the guitar. I don't know what it was that the attendant answered, because something else suddenly transfixed my attention--the vision of Nina's little white-gloved hand resting on Lawrence's broad knee. I saw at once, as though she had told me, that she had committed herself to a most desperate venture. I could fancy the resolution that she had summoned to take the step, the way that now her heart would be furiously beating, and the excited chatter with which she would try to cover up her action. Vera and Bohun could not, from where they were sitting, see what she had done; Lawrence did not move, his back was set like a rock; he stared steadfastly at the arena. Nina never ceased talking, her ribbons fluttering and her other hand gesticulating.

I could not take my eyes from that little white hand. I should have been, I suppose, ashamed of her, indignant for her, but I could only feel that she was, poor child, in for the most desperate rebuff. I could see from where I sat her cheek, hot and crimson, and her shrill voice never stopped.

The interval arrived, to my intense relief, and we all went out into the dark pa.s.sage that smelt of sawdust and horses. Almost at once Nina detached me from the others and walked off with me towards the lighted hall.

"You saw," she said.

"Saw what?" I asked.

"Saw what I was doing."

I felt that she was quivering all over, and she looked so ridiculously young, with her trembling lip and blue hat on one side and burning cheeks, that I felt that I wanted to take her into my arms and kiss and pet her.

"I saw that you had your hand on his knee," I said. "That was silly of you, Nina."

"Why shouldn't I?" she answered furiously. "Why shouldn't I enjoy life like every one else? Why should Vera, have everything?"

"Vera!" I cried. "What has it to do with Vera?"