IX
On the afternoon of Easter Monday I was reminded by Bohun of anengagement that I had made some weeks before to go that evening to aparty at the house of a rich merchant, Rozanov by name. I have, I think,mentioned him earlier in this book. I cannot conceive why I had evermade the promise, and in the afternoon, meeting Bohun at Watkins'bookshop in the Morskaia, I told him that I couldn't go.
"Oh, come along!" he said. "It's your duty."
"Why my duty?"
"They're all talking as hard as they can about saving the world byturning the other cheek, and so on; and a few practical facts aboutGermany from you will do a world of good."
"Oh, your propaganda!" I said.
"No, it isn't my propaganda," he answered. "It's a matter of life anddeath to get these people to go on with the war, and every littlehelps."
"Well, I'll come," I said, shaking my head at the book-seller, who wasanxious that I should buy the latest works of Mrs. Elinor Glyn and MissEthel Dell. I had in fact reflected that a short excursion into otherworlds would be good for me. During these weeks I had been living in thevery heart of the Markovitches, and it would be healthy to escape for amoment.
But I was not to escape.
I met Bohun at the top of the English Prospect, and we decided to walk.Rozanov lived in the street behind the Kazan Cathedral. I did not knowvery much about him except that he was a very wealthy merchant, who hadmade his money by selling cheap sweets to the peasant. He lived, I knew,an immoral and self-indulgent life, and his hobby was the quiteindiscriminate collection of modern Russian paintings, his walls beingplastered with innumerable works by Benois, Somoff, Dobeijinsky,Yakofflyeff, and Lanceray. He had also two Serovs, a fine Vrubel, andseveral Ryepins. He had also a fine private collection of indecentdrawings.
"I really don't know what on earth we're going to this man for," I saiddiscontentedly. "I was weak this afternoon."
"No, you weren't," said Bohun. "And I'll tell you frankly that I'm jollyglad not to be having a meal at home to-night. Do you know, I don'tbelieve I can stick that flat much longer!"
"Why, are things worse?" I asked.
"It's getting so jolly creepy," Bohun said. "Everything goes on normallyenough outwardly, but I suppose there's been some tremendous row. Ofcourse I don't knew any-thing about that. After what you told me theother night though, I seem to see everything twice its natural size."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"You know when something queer's going on inside a house you seem tonotice the furniture of the rooms much more than you ordinarily do. Iremember once a fellow's piano making me quite sick whenever I looked atit. I didn't know why; I don't know why now, but the funny thing is thatanother man who knew him once said exactly the same thing to me aboutit. He felt it too. Of course we're none of us quite normal just now.The whole town seems to be turning upside down. I'm always imaginingthere are animals in the canals; and don't you notice what lots of queerfellows there are in the Nevski now, and Chinese and Japs--all sorts ofwild men. And last night I had a dream that all the lumps of ice in theNevski turned into griffins and went marching through the Red Squareeating every one up on their way...." Bohun laughed. "That's because_I'd_ eaten something of course--too much _paskha_ probably.
"But, seriously, I came in this evening at five o'clock, and the firstthing I noticed was that little red lacquer musical box of Semyonov's.You know it. The one with a sports-man in a top hat and a horse and adog on the lid. He brought it with some other little things when hemoved in. It's a jolly thing to look at, but it's got two mostirritating tunes. One's like 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' You saidyourself the other day it would drive you mad if you heard it often.Well, there it was, jangling away in its self-sufficient wheezy voice.Semyonov was sitting in the armchair reading the newspaper, Markovitchwas standing behind the chair with the strangest look on his face.Suddenly, just as I came in he bent down and I heard him say: 'Won't youstop the beastly thing?' 'Certainly,' said Semyonov, and he went acrossin his heavy plodding kind of way and stopped it. I went off to my roomand then, upon my word, five minutes after I heard it begin again, thinand reedy through the walls. But when I came back into the dining-roomthere was no one there. You can't think how that tune irritated me, andI tried to stop it. I went up to it, but I couldn't find the hinge orthe key. So on it went, over and over again. Then there's another thing.Have you ever noticed how some chairs will creak in a room, just asthough some one were sitting down or getting up? It always, in ordinarytimes, makes you jump, but when you're strung up about something--!There's a chair in the Markovitches' dining-room just like that. Itcreaks more like a human being than anything you ever heard, andto-night I could have sworn Semyonov got up out of it. It was just likehis heavy slow movement. However, there wasn't any one there. Do youthink all this silly?" he asked.
"No, indeed I don't," I answered.
"Then there's a picture. You know that awful painting of a mid-Victorianancestor of Vera's--a horrible old man with bushy eyebrows and a high,rather dirty-looking stock?"
"Yes, I know it," I said.
"It's one of those pictures with eyes that follow you all round theroom. At least it has now. I usen't to notice them. Now they stare atyou as though they'd eat you, and I know that Markovitch feels thembecause he keeps looking up at the beastly thing. Then there's--But no,I'm not going to talk any more about it. It isn't any good. One getsthinking of anything these days. One's nerves are all on edge. And thatflat's too full of people any way."
"Yes, it is," I agreed.
We arrived at Rozanov's house, and went up in a very elegantheavily-gilt lift. Once in the flat we were enveloped in a cloud of menand women, tobacco smoke, and so many pictures that it was like tumblinginto an art-dealer's. Where there weren't pictures there was gilt, andwhere there wasn't gilt there was naked statuary, and where there wasn'tnaked statuary there was Rozanov, very red and stout and smiling, gay ina tightly fitting black-tail coat, white waistcoat and black trousers.Who all the people were I haven't the least idea. There was a greatmany. A number of Jews and Jewesses, amiable, prosperous, and kindly, anartist or two, a novelist, a lady pianist, two or three actors. Inoticed these. Then there was an old maid, a Mlle. Finisterre, famous inPetrograd society for her bitterness and acrimony, and in appearance anexact copy of Balzac's Sophie Gamond.
I noticed several of those charming, quiet, wise women of whom Russia isso prodigal, a man or two whom I had met at different times, especiallyone officer, one of the finest, bravest, and truest men I have everknown; some of the inevitable giggling girls--and then suddenly,standing quite alone, Nina!
Her loneliness was the first thing that struck me. She stood backagainst the wall underneath the shining frames, looking about her with anervous, timid smile. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in theold way that she used to do when she was trying to imitate Vera, and Idon't know why but that seemed to me a good omen, as though she werealready on her way back to us. She was wearing a very simple whitefrock.
In spite of her smile she looked unhappy, and I could see that duringthis last week experience had not been kind to her, because there was anair of shyness and uncertainty which had never been there before. I wasjust going over to speak to her when two of the giggling girlssurrounded her and carried her off.
I carried the little picture of her in my mind all through the noisy,strident meal that followed. I couldn't see her from where I sat, nordid I once catch the tones of her voice, although I listened. Only amonth ago there would have been no party at which Nina was present whereher voice would not have risen above all others.
No one watching us would have believed any stories about food shortagein Petrograd. I daresay at this very moment in Berlin they are havingjust such meals. Until the last echo of the last Trump has died away inthe fastnesses of the advancing mountains the rich will be getting fromsomewhere the things that they desire! I have no memory of what we hadto eat that night, but I know that it was all very magnificent andnoisy
, kind-hearted and generous and vulgar. A great deal of wine wasdrunk, and by the end of the meal every one was talking as loudly aspossible. I had for companion the beautiful Mlle. Finisterre. She hadlived all her life in Petrograd, and she had a contempt for the citizensof that fine town worthy of Semyonov himself. Opposite us sat a stout,good-natured Jewess, who was very happily enjoying her food. She wascertainly the most harmless being in creation, and was probably guiltyof a thousand generosities and kindnesses in her private life.Nevertheless, Mlle. Finisterre had for her a dark and sinister hatred,and the remarks that she made about her, in her bitter and piercingvoice, must have reached their victim. She also abused her host veryroundly, beginning to tell me in the fullest detail the history of anespecially unpleasant scandal in which he had notoriously figured. Istopped her at last.
"It seems to me," I said, "that it would be better not to say thesethings about him while you're eating his bread and salt."
She laughed shrilly, and tapped me on the arm with a bony finger.
"Oh, you English!... always so moral and strict about the proprieties...and always so hypercritical too. Oh, you amuse me! I'm French, yousee--not Russian at all; these poor people see through nothing--but weFrench!"
After dinner there was a strange scene. We all moved into the long,over-decorated drawing-room. We sat about, admired the pictures (abeautiful one by Somoff I especially remember--an autumn scene witheighteenth-century figures and colours so soft and deep that the effectwas inexpressibly delicate and mysterious), talked and then fell intoone of those Russian silences that haunt every Russian party. I callthose silences "Russian," because I know nothing like them in any otherpart of the world. It is as though the souls of the whole companysuddenly vanished through the windows, leaving only the bodies andclothes. Every one sits, eyes half closed, mouths shut, handsmotionless, host and hostess, desperately abandoning every attempt atrescue, gaze about them in despair.
The mood may easily last well into the morning, when the guests, stillsilent, will depart, assuring everybody that they have enjoyedthemselves immensely, and really believing that they have; or it mayhappen that some remark will suddenly be made, and instantly backthrough the windows the souls will come, eagerly catching up theirbodies again, and a babel will arise, deafening, baffling, stupefying.Or it may happen that a Russian will speak with sudden authority, almostlike a prophet, and will continue for half an hour and more, pouring outhis soul, and no one will dream of thinking it an improper exhibition.
In fine, anything can happen at a Russian party. What happened on thisoccasion was this. The silence had lasted for some minutes, and I waswondering for how much longer I could endure it (I had one eye on Ninasomewhere in the background, and the other on Bohun restlessly kickinghis patent-leather shoes one against the other), when suddenly a quiet,ordinary little woman seated near me said:
"The thing for Russia to do now is to abandon all resistance and soshame the world." She was a mild, pleasant-looking woman, with the eyesof a very gentle cow, and spoke exactly as though she were stillpursuing her own private thoughts. It was enough; the windows flew open,the souls came flooding in, and such a torrent of sound poured over thecarpet that the naked statuary itself seemed to shiver at the threateneddeluge. Every one talked; every one, even, shouted. Just as, during thelast weeks, the streets had echoed to the words "Liberty," "Democracy,""Socialism," "Brotherhood," "Anti-annexation," "Peace of the world," sonow the art gallery echoed. The very pictures shook in their frames.
One old man in a white beard continued to cry, over and over again,"Firearms are not our weapons... bullets are not our weapons. It's thePeace of God, the Peace of God that we need."
One lady (a handsome Jewess) jumped up from her chair, and standingbefore us all recited a kind of chant, of which I only caught sentencesonce, and again:
"Russia must redeem the world from its sin... this slaughter must beslayed... Russia the Saviour of the world... this slaughter must beslayed."
I had for some time been watching Bohun. He had travelled a long journeysince that original departure from England in December; but I was notsure whether he had travelled far enough to forget his English terror ofmaking a fool of himself. Apparently he had.... He said, his voiceshaking a little, blushing as he spoke:
"What about Germany?"
The lady in the middle of the floor turned upon him furiously:
"Germany! Germany will learn her lesson from us. When we lay down ourarms her people, too, will lay down theirs."
"Supposing she doesn't?"
The interest of the room was now centred on him, and every one else wassilent.
"That is not our fault. We shall have made our example."
A little hum of applause followed this reply, and that irritated Bohun.He raised his voice:
"Yes, and what about your allies, England and France, are you going tobetray them?"
Several voices took him up now. A man continued:
"It is not betrayal. We are not betraying the proletariat of England andFrance. They are our friends. But the alliance with the French andEnglish Capitalistic Governments was made not by us but by our ownCapitalistic Government, which is now destroyed."
"Very well, then," said Bohun. "But when the war began did you not--allof you, not only your Government, but you people now sitting in thisroom--did you not all beg and pray England to come in? During those daysbefore England's intervention, did you not threaten to call us cowardsand traitors if we did not come in? _Pomnite_?"
There was a storm of answers to this. I could not distinguish much ofwhat it was. I was fixed by Mlle. Finisterre's eagle eye, gleaming atthe thought of the storm that was rising.
"That's not our affair.... That's not our affair," I heard voicescrying. "We did support you. For years we supported you. We lostmillions of men in your service.... Now this terrible slaughter mustcease, and Russia show the way to peace."
Bohun's moment then came upon him. He sprang to his feet, his facecrimson, his body quivering; so desperate was his voice, so urgent hisdistress that the whole room was held.
"What has happened to you all? Don't you see, don't you see what you aredoing? What has come to you, you who were the most modest people inEurope and are now suddenly the most conceited? What do you hope to doby this surrender?
"Do you know, in the first place, what you will do? You will deliver thepeoples of three-quarters of the globe into hopeless slavery; you willlose, perhaps for ever, the opportunity of democracy; you will establishthe grossest kind of militarism for all time. Why do you think Germanyis going to listen to you? What sign has she ever shown that she would?When have her people ever turned away or shown horror at any of thebeastly things her rulers have been doing in this war?... What aboutyour own Revolution? Do you believe in it? Do you treasure it? Do youwant it to last? Do you suppose for a moment that, if you bow toGermany, she won't instantly trample out your Revolution and give youhack your monarchy? How can she afford to have a revolutionary republicclose to her own gates? What is she doing at this moment? Piling uparmies with which to invade you, and conquer you, and lead you intoslavery. What have you done so far by your Revolutionary orders? Whathave you done by relaxing discipline in the army? What good have youdone to any one or anything? Is any one the happier? Isn't theredisorder everywhere--aren't all your works stopping and your industriesfailing? What about the eighty million peasants who have been liberatedin the course of a night? Who's going to lead them if you are not? Thisthing has happened by its own force, and you are sitting down under it,doing nothing. Why did it succeed? Simply because there was nothing tooppose it. Authority depended on the army, not on the Czar, and the armywas the people. So it is with the other armies of the world. Do youthink that the other armies couldn't do just as you did if they wished.They could, in half an hour. They hate the war as much as you do, butthey have also patriotism. They see that their country must be madestrong first before other countries will listen to its ideas. But whereis your patriotism? Has the w
ord Russia been mentioned once by you sincethe Revolution? Never once.... 'Democracy,' 'Brotherhood'--but how areDemocracy and Brotherhood to be secured unless other countries respectyou.... Oh, I tell you it's absurd!... It's more than absurd, it'swicked, it's rotten...."
Poor boy, he was very near tears. He sat down suddenly, staring blanklyin front of him, his hands clenched.
Rozanov answered him, Rozanov flushed, his fat body swollen with foodand drink, a little unsteady on his legs, and the light of the truemystic in his pig-like eyes. He came forward into the middle of thecircle.
"That's perhaps true what you say," he cried; "it's very English, veryhonest, and, if you will forgive me, young man, very simple. You saythat we Russians are conceited. No, we are not conceited, but we seefarther than the rest of the world. Is that our curse? Perhaps it is,but equally, perhaps, we may save the world by it. Now look at me! Am Ia fine man? No, I am not. Every one knows I am not. No man could look atmy face and say that I am a fine man. I have done disgraceful things allmy life. All present know some of the things I have done, and there aresome worse things which nobody knows save myself. Well, then.... Am Igoing to stop doing such things? Am I now, at fifty-five, about tobecome instantly a saint? Indeed not. I shall continue to do the thingsthat I have already done, and I shall drop into a beastly old age. Iknow it.
"So, young man, I am a fair witness. You may trust me to speak the truthas I see it. I believe in Christ. I believe in the Christ-life, theChrist-soul. If I could, I would stop my beastliness and becomeChristlike. I have tried on several occasions, and failed, because Ihave no character. But does that mean that I do not believe in it when Isee it? Not at all. I believe in it more than ever. And so withRussia--you don't see far enough, young man, neither you nor any of yourcountrymen. It is one of your greatest failings that you do not care forideas. How is this war going to end? By the victory of Germany?Perhaps.... Perhaps even it may be that Russia by her weakness will helpto that victory. But is that the end? No.... If Russia has an Idea andbecause of her faith in that Idea, she will sacrifice everything, willbe buffeted on both cheeks, will be led into slavery, will deliver upher land and her people, will be mocked at by all the world... perhapsthat is her destiny.... She will endure all that in order that her Ideamay persist. And her Idea will persist. Are not the Germans andAustrians human like ourselves? Slowly, perhaps very slowly, they willsay to themselves: 'There is Russia who believes in the peace of theworld, in the brotherhood of man, and she will sacrifice everything forit, she will go out, as Christ did, and be tortured and becrucified--and then on the third day she will rise again.' Is not thatthe history of every triumphant Idea?... You say that meanwhile Germanywill triumph. Perhaps for a time she may, but our Idea will not die.
"The further Germany goes, the deeper will that Idea penetrate into herheart. At the end she will die of it, and a new Germany will be borninto a new world.... I tell you I am an evil man, but I believe in Godand in the righteousness of God."
What do I remember after those words of Rozanov? It was like a voicespeaking to me across a great gulf of waters--but that voice was honest.I do not know what happened after his speech. I think there was a lot oftalk. I cannot remember.
Only just before I was going I was near Nina for a moment.
She looked up at me just as she used to do.
"Durdles--is Vera all right?"
"She's miserable, Nina, because you're not there. Come back to us."
But she shook her head.
"No, no, I can't. Give her my--" Then she stopped. "No, tell hernothing."
"Can I tell her you're happy?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm all right," she answered roughly, turning away from me.