"Many times in those days I asked myself what was to be done. I had joined the Labor Party, thinking that through its councils something vital might come, some demand for women's enfranchisement that the politicians could not possibly ignore. Nothing came.
"All those years my daughters had been growing up. One day Christabel startled me with the remark: 'How long you women have been trying for the vote. For my part, I mean to get it.' Since that day I have had two mottoes. One has been: 'Votes for women.' The other: 'For my part, I mean to get it!' "
Someone shouted: "So do I!" and there was another outburst of cheering and clapping. Charlotte was feeling dazed. It was as if she, like Alice in the story, had walked through the looking glass and found herself in a world where nothing was what it seemed. When she had read in the newspapers about suffragettes, no mention had been made of the Poor Law, of thirteen-year-old mothers (was it possible? ) or of little girls catching bronchitis in the workhouse. Charlotte would have believed none of it had she not seen with her own eyes Annie, a decent, ordinary maid from Norfolk, sleeping on a London pavement after being "ruined" by a man. What did a few broken windows matter while this sort of thing was going on?
"It was many years before we lighted the torch of militancy. We had tried every other measure, and our years of work and suffering and sacrifice had taught us that the Government would not yield to right and justice, but it would yield to expediency. We had to make every department of English life insecure and unsafe. We had to make English law a failure and the courts theaters of farce; we had to discredit the Government in the eyes of the world; we had to spoil English sports, hurt business, destroy valuable property, demoralize the world of society, shame the churches, upset the whole orderly conduct of life! We had to do as much of this guerrilla warfare as the people of England would tolerate. When they come to the point of saying to the Government: 'Stop this, in the only way it can be stopped, by giving the women of England representation,' then we should extinguish our torch.
"The great American statesman Patrick Henry summed up the causes that led to the American revolution like this: 'We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves at the foot of the throne, and it has all been in vain. We must fight--I repeat it, sir, we must fight.' Patrick Henry was advocating killing people as the proper means of securing the political freedom of men. The suffragettes have not done that and never will. In fact, the moving spirit of militancy is a deep and abiding reverence for human life.
"It was in this spirit that our women went forth to war last year. On January thirty-first a number of putting greens were burned with acids. On February seventh and eighth telegraph and telephone wires were cut in several places and for some hours all communication between London and Glasgow was suspended. A few days later windows in various of London's smartest clubs were broken, and the orchid houses at Kew were wrecked and many valuable blooms destroyed by cold. The jewel room at the Tower of London was invaded and a showcase broken. On February eighteenth a country house that was being built on Walton-on-the-Hill for Mr. Lloyd George was partially destroyed, a bomb having been exploded in the early morning before the arrival of the workmen.
"Over one thousand women have gone to prison in the course of this agitation, have suffered their imprisonment, have come out of prison injured in health, weakened in body but not in spirit. Not one of those women would, if women were free, be lawbreakers. They are women who seriously believe that the welfare of humanity demands this sacrifice. They believe that the horrible evils which are ravaging our civilization will never be removed until women get the vote. There is only one way to put a stop to this agitation; there is only one way to break down this agitation. It is not by deporting us!"
"No!" someone shouted.
"It is not by locking us up in jail!"
The whole crowd shouted: "No!"
"It is by doing us justice!"
"Yes!"
Charlotte found herself shouting with the rest. The little woman on the platform seemed to radiate righteous indignation. Her eyes blazed, she clenched her fists, she tilted up her chin, and her voice rose and fell with emotion.
"The fire of suffering whose flame is upon our sisters in prison is burning us also. For we suffer with them, we partake of their affliction, and we shall share their victory by-and-by. This fire will breathe into the ear of many a sleeper the one word 'Awake,' and she will arise to slumber no more. It will descend with the gift of tongues upon many who have hitherto been dumb, and they will go forth to preach the news of deliverance. Its light will be seen afar off by many who suffer and are sorrowful and oppressed, and will irradiate their lives with a new hope. For the spirit which is in women today cannot be quenched; it is stronger than all tyranny, cruelty and oppression; it is stronger--even--than--death--itself!"
During the day a dreadful suspicion had dawned on Lydia.
After lunch she had gone to her room to lie down. She had been unable to think about anything but Feliks. She was still vulnerable to his magnetism: it was foolish to pretend otherwise. But she was no longer a helpless girl. She had resources of her own. And she was determined that she would not lose control, would not let Feliks wreck the placid life she had so carefully made for herself.
She thought of all the questions she had not asked him. What was he doing in London? How did he earn his living? How had he known where to find her?
He had given Pritchard a false name. Clearly he had been afraid that she would not let him in. She realized why "Konstantin Dmitrich Levin" had seemed familiar: it was the name of a character in Anna Karenina, the book she had been buying when she first met Feliks. It was an alias with a double meaning, a sly mnemonic which lit up a host of dim memories, like a taste recalled from childhood. They had argued about the novel. It was brilliantly real, Lydia had said, for she knew what it was like when passion was released in the soul of a respectable woman; Anna was Lydia. But the book was not about Anna, said Feliks; it was about Levin and his search for the answer to the question: "How should I live?" Tolstoy's answer was: "In your heart you know what is right." Feliks argued that it was this kind of empty-headed morality--deliberately ignorant of history, economics and psychology--which had led to the utter incompetence and degeneracy of the Russian ruling class. That was the night they ate pickled mushrooms and she tasted vodka for the first time. She had been wearing a turquoise dress which turned her gray eyes blue. Feliks had kissed her toes, and then--
Yes, he was sly, to remind her of all that.
Had he been in London a long time, she wondered, or had he come just to see Aleks? There was presumably a reason for approaching an admiral in London about the release of a sailor imprisoned in Russia. For the first time it occurred to Lydia that Feliks might not have told her the truth about that. After all, he was still an anarchist. In 1895 he had been determinedly nonviolent, but he might have changed.
If Stephen knew that I had told an anarchist where to find Aleks . . .
She had worried about it through tea. She had worried about it while the maid was putting up her hair, with the result that the job was not properly done and she looked a fright. She had worried about it through dinner, with the result that she had been less than vivacious with the Marchioness of Quort, Mr. Chamberlain and a young man called Freddie who kept hoping aloud that there was nothing seriously wrong with Charlotte.
She recalled Feliks's cut hand, which had caused him to give such a shout when she squeezed it. She had only glimpsed the wound but it looked as if it had been bad enough to need stitches.
Nevertheless, it was not until the end of the evening, when she sat in her bedroom at home brushing her hair, that it occurred to her to connect Feliks with the madman in the park.
The thought was so frightening that she dropped a gold-backed hairbrush onto the dressing table and broke a glass vial of perfume.
What if Feliks had come to London to kill Aleks?
Suppose it was Feliks who had a
ttacked the coach in the park, not to rob them but to get at Aleks? Had the man with the gun been Feliks's height and build? Yes, roughly. And Stephen had wounded him with his sword . . .
Then Aleks had left the house because he was frightened (or perhaps, she now realized, because he knew the "robbery" had been an assassination attempt) and Feliks had not known where to find him, so he had asked Lydia . . .
She stared at herself in the mirror. The woman she saw there had gray eyes, fair eyebrows, blond hair, a pretty face and the brain of a sparrow.
Could it be true? Could Feliks have deceived her so? Yes--because he had spent nineteen years imagining that she had betrayed him.
She picked up the pieces of broken glass from the vial and put them in a handkerchief; then she mopped up the spilled perfume. She did not know what to do now. She had to warn Stephen, but how? "By the way, an anarchist called this morning and asked me where Aleks had gone; and because he used to be my lover I told him . . ." She would have to make up a story. She thought for a while. Once upon a time she had been an expert barefaced liar, but she was out of practice. Eventually she decided she could get away with a combination of the lies Feliks had told to her and to Pritchard.
She put on a cashmere robe over the silk nightgown and went through to Stephen's bedroom.
He was sitting at the window, in pajamas and a dressing gown, with a small glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other, looking out over the moonlit park. He was surprised to see her come in, for it was always he who went to her room in the night. He stood up with a welcoming smile and embraced her. She realized that he misunderstood her visit: he thought she had come to make love.
She said: "I want to talk to you."
He released her. He looked disappointed. "At this time of night?"
"I think I may have done something awfully silly."
"You'd better tell me about it."
They sat down on opposite sides of the cold fireplace. Suddenly Lydia wished she had come to make love. She said: "A man called this morning. He said he had known me in St. Petersburg. Well, the name was familiar and I thought I vaguely recalled him . . . You know how it is, sometimes--"
"What was his name?"
"Levin."
"Go on."
"He said he wanted to see Prince Orlov."
Stephen was suddenly very attentive. "Why?"
"Something to do with a sailor who had been unjustly imprisoned. This . . . Levin . . . wanted to make a personal plea for the man's release."
"What did you say?"
"I told him the Savoy Hotel."
"Damn," Stephen cursed, then apologized: "Pardon me."
"Afterward it occurred to me that Levin might have been up to no good. He had a cut hand--and I remembered that you had cut the madman in the park . . . so, you see, it dawned on me gradually . . . I've done something dreadful, haven't I?"
"It's not your fault. In fact it's mine. I should have told you the truth about the man in the park, but I thought it better not to frighten you. I was wrong."
"Poor Aleks," Lydia said. "To think that someone would want to kill him. He's so sweet."
"What was Levin like?"
The question unsettled Lydia. For a moment she had been thinking of "Levin" as an unknown assassin; now she was forced to describe Feliks. "Oh . . . tall, thin, with dark hair, about my age, obviously Russian, a nice face, rather lined . . ." She tailed off. And I yearn for him.
Stephen stood up. "I'll go and rouse Pritchard. He can drive me to the hotel."
Lydia wanted to say: No, don't. Take me to bed instead; I need your warmth and tenderness. She said: "I'm so sorry."
"It may be for the best," Stephen said.
She looked at him in surprise. "Why?"
"Because, when he comes to the Savoy Hotel to assassinate Aleks, I shall catch him."
And then Lydia knew that before this was over one of the two men she loved would surely kill the other.
Feliks gently lifted the bottle of nitroglycerine out of the sink. He crossed the room as if he were walking on eggshells. His pillow was on the mattress. He had enlarged the rip until it was about six inches long, and now he put the bottle through the hole and into the pillow. He arranged the stuffing all around the bottle so that the bomb lay cocooned in shock-absorbing material. He picked up the pillow and, cradling it like a baby, placed it in his open suitcase. He closed the case and breathed more easily.
He put on his coat, his scarf and his respectable hat. Carefully, he turned the cardboard suitcase on to its edge, then picked it up.
He went out.
The journey into the West End was a nightmare.
Of course he could not use the bicycle, but even walking was nerve-racking. Every second he visualized that brown glass bottle in its pillow; every time his foot hit the pavement he imagined the little shock wave which must travel up his body and down his arm to the case; in his mind he saw the molecules of nitroglycerine vibrating faster and faster under his hand.
He passed a woman washing the pavement in front of her house. He went by on the road, in case he should slip on the wet flagstones, and she jeered: "A-scared of getting yer feet wet, toff?"
Outside a factory in Euston a crowd of apprentices poured through the gates chasing a football. Feliks stood stock-still as they rushed all around him, jostling and fighting for the ball. Then someone kicked it clear and they were gone as quickly as they had arrived.
Crossing the Euston Road was a dance with death. He stood at the curb for five minutes, waiting for a good-sized gap in the stream of traffic; and then he had to walk across so fast he was almost running.
In Tottenham Court Road he went into a high-class stationer's. It was calm and hushed in the shop. He set the suitcase down gently on the counter. An assistant in a morning coat said: "Can I help you, sir?"
"I need an envelope, please."
The assistant raised his eyebrows. "Just the one, sir?"
"Yes."
"Any particular kind, sir?"
"Just plain, but good quality."
"We have blue, ivory, eau-de-nil, cream, beige--"
"White."
"Very good, sir."
"And a sheet of paper."
"One sheet of paper, sir."
They charged him threepence. On principle he would have preferred to run off without paying, but he could not run with the bomb in his case.
Charing Cross Road teemed with people on their way to work in shops and offices. It was impossible to walk at all without getting buffeted. Feliks stood in a doorway for a while, wondering what to do. Finally he decided to carry the case in his arms to protect it from the scurrying hordes.
In Leicester Square he took refuge in a bank. He sat at one of the writing tables where the customers made out their checks. There was a tray of pens and an inkwell. He put the case on the floor between his feet. He relaxed for a moment. Frock-coated bank clerks padded softly by with papers in their hands. Feliks took a pen and wrote on the front of his envelope:
Prince A. A. Orlov The Savoy Hotel Strand, London W.
He folded the blank sheet of paper and slipped it inside the envelope, just for the sake of its weight: he did not want the envelope to seem empty. He licked the gummed flap and sealed it shut. Then he reluctantly picked up the suitcase and left the bank.
In Trafalgar Square he dipped his handkerchief in the fountain and cooled his face with it.
He passed Charing Cross Station and walked east along the embankment. Near Waterloo Bridge a small group of urchins lounged against the parapet, throwing stones at the seagulls on the river. Feliks spoke to the most intelligent-looking boy.
"Do you want a penny?"
"Yes, guv!"
"Are your hands clean?"
"Yes, guv!" The boy showed a pair of filthy hands.
They would have to do, Feliks thought. "Do you know where the Savoy Hotel is?"
"Too right!"
Feliks assumed this meant the same as "Yes, guv." He h
anded the boy the envelope and a penny. "Count to a hundred slowly, then take this letter to the hotel. Do you understand?"
"Yes, guv!"
Feliks mounted the steps to the bridge. It was thronged with men in bowler hats coming across the river from the Waterloo side. Feliks joined the procession.
He went into a newsagent's and bought The Times. As he was leaving a young man rushed in through the door. Feliks stuck out his arm and stopped the man, shouting: "Look where you're going!"
The man stared at him in surprise. As Feliks went out he heard the man say to the shopkeeper: "Nervous type, is he?"
"Foreigner," said the shopkeeper, and then Feliks was outside.
He turned off the Strand and went into the hotel. In the lobby he sat down and placed the suitcase on the floor between his feet. Not much farther now, he thought.
From his seat he could see both doors and the hall porter's desk. He put his hand inside his coat and consulted an imaginary fob watch, then opened his newspaper and settled down to wait, as if he were early for an appointment.
He pulled the suitcase closer to his seat and stretched out his legs on either side of it, to protect it against an accidental kick from a careless passerby. The lobby was crowded: it was just before ten o'clock. This is when the ruling class has breakfast, Feliks thought. He had not eaten: he had no appetite today.
He examined the other people in the lobby over the top of The Times. There were two men who might be detectives. Feliks wondered whether they might impede his escape. But even if they hear the explosion, he thought, how will they know which of the dozens of people walking through this lobby was responsible for it? Nobody knows what I look like. Only if I were being chased would they know. I'll have to make sure I'm not chased.
He wondered whether the urchin would come. After all, the boy had his penny already. Perhaps by now he had thrown the envelope into the river and gone off to the sweet shop. If so, Feliks would simply have to go through the whole rigmarole again until he found an honest urchin.