IV
Next night (it was Friday evening) Semyonov paid me a visit. I was justdropping to sleep in my chair. I had been reading that story of De laMare's _The Return_--one of the most beautiful books in our language,whether for its spirit, its prose, or its poetry--and something of themoon-lit colour of its pages had crept into my soul, so that thematerial world was spun into threads of the finest silk behind whichother worlds were more and more plainly visible. I had not drawn myblind, and a wonderful moon shone clear on to the bare boards of myroom, bringing with its rays the mother-of-pearl reflections of thelimitless ice, and these floated on my wall in trembling waves of opaquelight. In the middle of this splendour I dropped slowly into slumber,the book falling from my hands, and I, on my part, seeming to floatlazily backwards and forwards, as though, truly, one were at the bottomof some crystal sea, idly and happily drowned.
From all of this I was roused by a sharp knock on my door, and I startedup, still bewildered and bemused, but saying to myself aloud, "There'ssome one there! there's some one there!..." I stood for quite a while,listening, on the middle of my shining floor, then the knock was almostfiercely repeated. I opened the door and, to my surprise, found Semyonovstanding there. He came in, smiling, very polite of course.
"You'll forgive me, Ivan Andreievitch," he said. "This is terriblyunceremonious. But I had an urgent desire to see you, and you wouldn'twish me, in the circumstances, to have waited."
"Please," I said. I went to the window and drew the blinds. I lit thelamp. He took off his Shuba and we sat down. The room was very dim now,and I could only see his mouth and square beard behind the lamp.
"I've no Samovar, I'm afraid," I said. "If I'd known you were coming I'dhave told her to have it ready. But it's too late now. She's gone tobed."
"Nonsense," he said brusquely. "You know that I don't care about that.Now we'll waste no time. Let us come straight to the point at once. I'vecome to give you some advice, Ivan Andreievitch--very simple advice. Gohome to England." Before he had finished the sentence I had felt thehostility in his voice; I knew that it was to be a fight between us, andstrangely, at once the self-distrust and cowardice from which I had beensuffering all those weeks left me. I felt warm and happy. I felt thatwith Semyonov I knew how to deal. I was afraid of Vera and Nina,perhaps, because I loved them, but of Semyonov, thank God, I was notafraid.
"Well, now, that's very kind of you," I said, "to take so much interestin my movements. I didn't know that it mattered to you so much where Iwas. Why must I go?"
"Because you are doing no good here. You are interfering in things ofwhich you have no knowledge. When we met before you interfered, and youmust honestly admit that you did not improve things. Now it is even moreserious. I must ask you to leave my family alone, Ivan Andreievitch."
"Your family!" I retorted, laughing. "Upon my word, you do them greathonour. I wonder whether they'd be very proud and pleased if they knewof your adoption of them. I haven't noticed on their side any very greatsigns of devotion."
He laughed. "No, you haven't noticed, Ivan Andreievitch. But there, youdon't really notice very much. You think you see the devil of a lot andare a mighty clever fellow; but we're Russians, you know, and it takesmore than sentimental mysticism to understand us. But even if you didunderstand us--which you don't--the real point is that we don't wantyou, any of you, patronising, patting us on the shoulder, explaining usto ourselves, talking about our souls, our unpunctuality, and ourcapacity for drink. However, that's merely in a general way. In apersonal, direct, and individual way, I beg you not to visit my familyagain. Stick to your own countrymen."
Although he spoke obstinately, and with a show of assurance, I realised,behind his words, his own uncertainty.
"See here, Semyonov," I said. "It's just my own Englishmen that I amgoing to stick to. What about Lawrence? And what about Bohun? Will youprevent me from continuing my friendship with them?"
"Lawrence... Lawrence," he said slowly, in a voice quite other than hisearlier one, and as though he were talking aloud to himself. "Now,that's strange... there's a funny thing. A heavy, dull, silentEnglishman, as ugly as only an Englishman can be, and the two of themare mad about him--nothing in him--nothing--and yet there it is. It'sthe fidelity in the man, that's what it is, Durward...." He suddenlycalled out the word aloud, as though he'd made a discovery. "Fidelity...fidelity... that's what we Russians admire, and there's a man withnot enough imagination to make him unfaithful. Fidelity!--lack ofimagination, lack of freedom--that's all fidelity is.... But I'mfaithful.... God knows I'm faithful--always! always!"
He stared past me. I swear that he did not see me, that I had vanishedutterly from his vision. I waited. He was leaning forward, pressing bothhis thick white hands on the table. His gaze must have pierced the icebeyond the walls, and the worlds beyond the ice.
Then quite suddenly he came back to me and said very quietly,
"Well, there it is, Ivan Andreievitch.... You must leave Vera and Ninaalone. It isn't your affair."
We continued the discussion then in a strange and friendly way. "Ibelieve it to be my affair," I answered quietly, "simply because theycare for me and have asked me to help them if they were in trouble. Istill deny that Vera cares for Lawrence.... Nina has had some girl'sromantic idea perhaps... but that is the extent of the trouble. You aretrying to make things worse, Alexei Petrovitch, for your ownpurposes--and God only knows what they are."
He now spoke so quietly that I could scarcely hear his words. He wasleaning forward on the table, resting his head on his hands and lookinggravely at me.
"What I can't understand, Ivan Andreievitch," he said, "is why you'realways getting in my way. You did so in Galicia, and now here you areagain. It is not as though you were strong or wise--no, it is becauseyou are persistent. I admire you in a way, you know, but now, this time,I assure you that you are making a great mistake in remaining. You willbe able to influence neither Vera Michailovna nor your bullock of anEnglishman when the moment comes. At the crisis they will never think ofyou at all, and the end of it simply will be that all parties concernedwill hate you. I don't wish you any harm, and I assure you that you willsuffer terribly if you stay.... By the way, Ivan Andreievitch," hisvoice suddenly dropped, "you haven't ever had--by chance--just bychance--any photograph of Marie Ivanovna with you, have you? Just bychance, you know...."
"No," I said shortly, "I never had one."
"No--of course--not. I only thought.... But of course youwouldn't--no--no.... Well, as I was saying, you'd better leave us all toour fate. You can't prevent things--you can't indeed." I looked at himwithout speaking. He returned my gaze.
"Tell me one thing," I said, "before I answer you. What are you doing toMarkovitch, Alexei Petrovitch?"
"Markovitch!" He repeated the name with an air of surprise as though hehad never heard it before. "What do you mean?"
"You have some plan with regard to him," I said. "What is it?"
He laughed then. "I a plan! My dear Durward, how romantic you alwaysinsist on being! I a plan! Your plunges into Russian psychology are asnaive as the girl who pays her ten kopecks to see the Fat Woman at theFair! Markovitch and I understand one another. We trust one another. Heis a simple fellow, but I trust him."
"Do you remember," I said, "that the other day at the Jews' Market youtold me the story of the man who tortured his friend, until the man shothim--simply because he was tired of life and too proud to commitsuicide. Why did you tell me that story?"
"Did I tell it you?" he asked indifferently. "I had forgotten. But it isof no importance. You know, Ivan Andreievitch, that what I told youbefore is true.... We don't want you here any more. I tell you in aperfectly friendly way. I bear you no malice. But we're tired of yoursentimentality. I'm not speaking only for myself--I'm not indeed. Wefeel that you avoid life to a ridiculous extent, and that you have noright to talk to us Russians on such a subject. What, for instance, doyou know about women? For years I slept with a different woman everynight of the week--old
and young, beautiful and ugly, some women likemen, some like God, some like the gutter. That teaches you somethingabout women--but only something. Afterwards I found that there was onlyone woman--I left all the others like dirty washing--I was supremelyfaithful... so I learnt the rest. Now you have never been faithful norunfaithful--I'm sure that you have not. Then about God? When have youever thought about Him? Why, you are ashamed to mention His name. If anEnglishman speaks of God when other men are present every onelaughs--and yet why? It is a very serious and interesting question. Godexists undoubtedly, and so we must make up our minds about Him. We mustestablish some relationship--what it is does not matter--that is ourindividual 'case'--but only the English establish no relationship andthen call it a religion.... And so in this affair of my family. Whatdoes it matter what they do? That is the only thing of which you think,that they should die or disgrace their name or be unhappy or quarrel....Pooh! What are all those things compared with the idea behind them? Ifthey wish to sacrifice happiness for an idea, that is their good luck,and no Russian would think of preventing them. But you come in with yourEnglish morality and sentiment, and scream and cry.... No, IvanAndreievitch, go home! go home!"
I waited to be quite sure that he had finished, and then I said,
"That's all as it may be, Alexei Petrovitch. It may be as you say. Thepoint is, that I remain here."
He got up from his chair. "You are determined on that?"
"I am determined," I answered.
"Nothing will change you?"
"Nothing."
"Then it is a battle between us?"
"If you like."
"So be it."
I helped him on with his Shuba. He said, in an ordinary conversationaltone,
"There may be trouble to-morrow. There's been shooting by the NicholasStation this afternoon, I hear. I should avoid the Nevski to-morrow."
I laughed. "I'm not afraid of that kind of death, Alexei Petrovitch," Isaid.
"No," he said, looking at me. "I will do you justice. You are not."
He pulled his Shuba close about him.
"Good-night, Ivan Andreievitch," he said. "It's been a very pleasanttalk."
"Very," I answered. "Good-night,"
After he had gone I drew back the blinds and let the moonlight flood theroom.