He pictured his father lying in a coffin, and thought: You're helpless at last. Now you can't make housemaids cry, or footmen tremble, or children run and hide. You're powerless to arrange marriages, evict tenants to defeat Parliamentary bills. You'll send no more thieves to jail, transport no more agitators to Australia. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
In later years he revised his opinion of his father. Now, in 1914, at the age of fifty, Walden could admit to himself that he had inherited some of his father's values: love of knowledge, a belief in rationalism, a commitment to good work as the justification of a man's existence. But back in 1895 there had been only bitterness.
Pritchard brought a bottle of whiskey on a tray and said: "This is a sad day, my lord."
That my lord startled Stephen. He and his brother had courtesy titles--Stephen's was Lord Highcombe--but they were always called "sir" by the servants, and "my lord" was reserved for their father. Now, of course, Stephen was the Earl of Walden. Along with the title, he now possessed several thousands of acres in the south of England, a big chunk of Scotland, six racehorses, Walden Hall, a villa in Monte Carlo, a shooting box in Scotland and a seat in the House of Lords.
He would have to live at Walden Hall. It was the family seat, and the Earl always lived there. He would put in electric light, he decided. He would sell some of the farms and invest in London property and North American railroads. He would make his maiden speech in the House of Lords--what would he speak on? Foreign policy, probably. There were tenants to be looked after, several households to be managed. He would have to appear in court in the season, and give shooting parties and hunt balls--
He needed a wife.
The role of Earl of Walden could not be played by a bachelor. Someone must be hostess at all those parties, someone must reply to invitations, discuss menus with cooks, allocate bedrooms to guests and sit at the foot of the long table in the dining room of Walden Hall. There must be a Countess of Walden.
There must be an heir.
"I need a wife, Pritchard."
"Yes, my lord. Our bachelor days are over."
The next day Walden saw Lydia's father and formally asked permission to call on her.
Almost twenty years later he found it difficult to imagine how he could have been so wickedly irresponsible, even in his youth. He had never asked himself whether she was the right wife for him, only whether she was good countess material. He had never wondered whether he could make her happy. He had assumed that the hidden passion released when she played the piano would be released for him, and he had been wrong.
He called on her every day for two weeks--there was no possibility of getting home in time for his father's funeral--and then he proposed, not to her but to her father. Her father saw the match in the same practical terms as Walden. Walden explained that he wanted to marry immediately, although he was in mourning, because he had to get home and manage the estate. Lydia's father understood perfectly. They were married six weeks later.
What an arrogant young fool I was, he thought. I imagined that England would always rule the world and I would always rule my own heart.
The moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the bedroom. He looked down at Lydia's sleeping face. I didn't foresee this, he thought; I didn't know that I would fall helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. I asked only that we should like each other, and in the end that was enough for you but not for me. I never thought that I would need your smile, yearn for your kisses, long for you to come to my room at night; I never thought that I would be frightened, terrified of losing you.
She murmured in her sleep and turned over. He pulled his arm from under her neck, then sat up on the edge of the bed. If he stayed any longer he would nod off, and it would not do to have Lydia's maid catch them in bed together when she came in with the morning cup of tea. He put on his dressing gown and his carpet slippers and walked softly out of the room, through the twin dressing rooms and into his own bedroom. I'm such a lucky man, he thought as he lay down to sleep.
Walden surveyed the breakfast table. There were pots of coffee, China tea and Indian tea; jugs of cream, milk and cordial; a big bowl of hot porridge; plates of scones and toast; and little pots of marmalade, honey and jam. On the sideboard was a row of silver dishes, each warmed by its own spirit lamp, containing scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, kidneys and haddock. On the cold table were pressed beef, ham and tongue. The fruit bowl, on a table of its own, was piled with nectarines, oranges, melons and strawberries.
This ought to put Aleks in a good mood, he thought.
He helped himself to eggs and kidneys and sat down. The Russians would have their price, he thought; they would want something in return for their promise of military help. He was worried about what the price might be. If they were to ask for something England could not possibly grant, the whole deal would collapse immediately, and then . . .
It was his job to make sure it did not collapse.
He would have to manipulate Aleks. The thought made him uncomfortable. Having known the boy for so long should have been a help, but in fact it might have been easier to negotiate in a tough way with someone about whom one did not care personally.
I must put my feelings aside, he thought; we must have Russia.
He poured coffee and took some scones and honey. A minute later Aleks came in, looking bright-eyed and well-scrubbed. "Sleep well?" Walden asked him.
"Wonderfully well." Aleks took a nectarine and began to eat it with a knife and fork.
"Is that all you're having?" Walden said. "You used to love English breakfast--I remember you eating porridge, cream, eggs, beef and strawberries and then asking cook for more toast."
"I'm not a growing boy anymore, Uncle Stephen."
I might do well to remember that, Walden thought.
After breakfast they went into the morning room. "Our new five-year plan for the army and navy is about to be announced," Aleks said.
That's what he does, Walden thought; he tells you something before he asks you for something. He remembered Aleks saying: I'm planning to read Clausewitz this summer, Uncle. By the way, may I bring a guest to Scotland for the shooting?
"The budget for the next five years is seven and a half billion rubles," Aleks went on.
At ten rubles to the pound sterling, Walden calculated, that made PS750 million. "It's a massive program," he said, "but I wish you had begun it five years ago."
"So do I," said Aleks.
"The chances are that the program will hardly have started before we're at war."
Aleks shrugged.
Walden thought: He won't commit himself to a forecast of how soon Russia might be at war, of course. "The first thing you should do is increase the size of the guns on your dreadnoughts."
Aleks shook his head. "Our third dreadnought is about to be launched. The fourth is being built now. Both will have twelve-inch guns."
"It's not enough, Aleks. Churchill has gone over to fifteen-inch guns for ours."
"And he's right. Our commanders know that, but our politicians don't. You know Russia, Uncle: new ideas are viewed with the utmost distrust. Innovation takes forever."
We're fencing, Walden thought. "What is your priority?"
"A hundred million rubles will be spent immediately on the Black Sea fleet."
"I should have thought the North Sea was more important." For England, anyway.
"We have a more Asian viewpoint than you--our bullying neighbor is Turkey, not Germany."
"They might be allies."
"They might indeed." Aleks hesitated. "The great weakness of the Russian Navy," he went on, "is that we have no warm-water port."
It sounded like the beginning of a prepared speech. This is it, Walden thought; we're getting to the heart of the matter now. But he continued to fence. "What about Odessa?"
"On the Black Sea coast. While the Turks hold Constantinople and Gallipoli, they control the passage between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean; so for strategic purp
oses the Black Sea might as well be an inland lake."
"Which is why the Russian Empire has been trying to push southward for hundreds of years."
"Why not? We're Slavs, and many of the Balkan peoples are Slavs. If they want national freedom, of course we sympathize."
"Indeed. Still, if they get it, they will probably let your navy pass freely into the Mediterranean."
"Slav control of the Balkans would help us. Russian control would help even more."
"No doubt--although it's not in the cards, as far as I can see."
"Would you like to give the matter some thought?"
Walden opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. This is it, he thought; this is what they want; this is the price. We can't give Russia the Balkans, for God's sake! If the deal depends on that, there will be no deal . . .
Aleks was saying: "If we are to fight alongside you, we must be strong. The area we are talking about is the area in which we need strengthening, so naturally we look to you for help there."
That was putting it as plainly as could be: Give us the Balkans and we'll fight with you.
Pulling himself together, Walden frowned as if puzzled and said: "If Britain had control of the Balkans, we could--at least in theory--give the area to you. But we can't give you what we haven't got, so I'm not sure how we can strengthen you--as you put it--in that area."
Aleks's reply was so quick that it must have been rehearsed. "But you might acknowledge the Balkans as a Russian sphere of influence."
Aah, that's not so bad, Walden thought. That we might be able to manage.
He was enormously relieved. He decided to test Aleks's determination before winding up the discussion. He said: "We could certainly agree to favor you over Austria or Turkey in that part of the world."
Aleks shook his head. "We want more than that," he said firmly.
It had been worth a try. Aleks was young and shy, but he could not be pushed around. Worse luck.
Walden needed time to reflect now. For Britain to do as Russia wanted would mean a significant shift in international alignments, and such shifts, like movements of the earth's crust, caused earthquakes in unexpected places.
"You may like to talk with Churchill before we go any farther," Aleks said with a little smile.
You know damn well I will, Walden thought. He realized suddenly how well Aleks had handled the whole thing. First he had scared Walden with a completely outrageous demand; then, when he put forward his real demand, Walden had been so relieved that he welcomed it.
I thought I was going to manipulate Aleks, but in the event he manipulated me.
Walden smiled. "I'm proud of you, my boy," he said.
That morning Feliks figured out when, where and how he was going to kill Prince Orlov.
The plan began to take shape in his mind while he read The Times in the library of the Jubilee Street club. His imagination was sparked by a paragraph in the Court Circular column:
Prince Aleksey Andreyevich Orlov arrived from St. Petersburg yesterday. He is to be the guest of the Earl and Countess of Walden for the London Season. Prince Orlov will be presented to their Majesties the King and Queen at the Court on Thursday, June 4th.
Now he knew for certain that Orlov would be at a certain place, on a certain date, at a certain time. Information of this kind was essential to a carefully planned assassination. Feliks had anticipated that he would get the information either by speaking to one of Walden's servants or by observing Orlov and identifying some habitual rendezvous. Now he had no need to take the risks involved in interviewing servants or trailing people. He wondered whether Orlov knew that his movements were being advertised by the newspapers, as if for the benefit of assassins. It was typically English, he thought.
The next problem was how to get sufficiently close to Orlov to kill him. Even Feliks would have difficulty getting into a royal palace. But this question also was answered by The Times. On the same page as the Court Circular, sandwiched between a report of a dance given by Lady Bailey and the details of the latest wills, he read:
THE KING'S COURT
ARRANGEMENTS FOR CARRIAGES
In order to facilitate the arrangements for calling the carriages of the company at their Majesties' Courts at Buckingham Palace, we are requested to state that in the case of the company having the privilege of the entree at the Pimlico entrance the coachman of each carriage returning to take up is required to leave with the constable stationed on the left of the gateway a card distinctly written with the name of the lady or gentleman to whom the carriage belongs, and in the case of the carriages of the general company returning to take up at the grand entrance a similar card should be handed to the constable stationed on the left of the archway leading to the Quadrangle of the Palace.
To enable the company to receive the advantage of the above arrangements, it is necessary that a footman should accompany each carriage, as no provision can be made for calling the carriages beyond giving the names to the footmen waiting at the door, with whom it rests to bring the carriage. The doors will be open for the reception of the company at 8:30 o'clock.
Feliks read it several times: there was something about the prose style of The Times that made it extremely difficult to comprehend. It seemed at least to mean that as people left the palace their footmen were sent running to fetch their carriages, which would be parked somewhere else.
There must be a way, he thought, that I can contrive to be in or on the Walden carriage when it returns to the palace to pick them up.
One major difficulty remained. He had no gun.
He could have got one easily enough in Geneva, but then to have carried it across international frontiers would have been risky: he might have been refused entry into England if his baggage had been searched.
It was surely just as easy to get a gun in London, but he did not know how, and he was most reluctant to make open inquiries. He had observed gun shops in the West End of London and noted that all the customers who went in and out looked thoroughly upper-class: Feliks would not get served in there even if he had the money to buy their beautifully made precision firearms. He had spent time in low-class pubs, where guns were surely bought and sold among criminals, but he had not seen it happen, which was hardly surprising. His only hope was the anarchists. He had got into conversation with those of them whom he thought "serious," but they never talked of weapons, doubtless because of Feliks's presence. The trouble was that he had not been around long enough to be trusted. There were always police spies in anarchist groups, and while this did not prevent the anarchists from welcoming newcomers, it made them wary.
Now the time for surreptitious investigation had run out. He would have to ask directly how guns were to be obtained. It would require careful handling. And immediately afterward he would have to sever his ties with Jubilee Street and move to another part of London, to avoid the risk of being traced.
He considered the young Jewish tearaways of Jubilee Street. They were angry and violent boys. Unlike their parents, they refused to work like slaves in the sweatshops of the East End, sewing the suits that the aristocracy ordered from Savile Row tailors. Unlike their parents, they paid no attention to the conservative sermonizing of the rabbis. But as yet they had not decided whether the solutions to their problems lay in politics or in crime.
His best prospect, he decided, was Nathan Sabelinsky. A man of about twenty, he had rather Slavic good looks, and wore very high stiff collars and a yellow waistcoat. Feliks had seen him around the spielers off the Commercial Road: he must have had money to spend on gambling as well as on clothes.
He looked around the library. The other occupants were an old man asleep, a woman in a heavy coat reading Das Kapital in German and making notes, and a Lithuanian Jew bent over a Russian newspaper, reading with the aid of a magnifying glass. Feliks left the room and went downstairs. There was no sign of Nathan or any of his friends. It was a little early for him: if he worked at all, Feliks thought, he worked at night.
Feliks went back to Dunstan Houses. He packed his razor, his clean underwear and his spare shirt in his cardboard suitcase. He told Milly, Rudolf Rocker's wife: "I've found a room. I'll come back this evening to say thank you to Rudolf." He strapped the suitcase to the backseat of the bicycle and rode west to central London, then north to Camden Town. Here he found a street of high, once-grand houses which had been built for pretentious middle-class families who had now moved to the suburbs at the ends of the new railway lines. In one of them Feliks rented a dingy room from an Irishwoman called Bridget. He paid her ten shillings in advance of two weeks' rent.
By midday he was back in Stepney, outside Nathan's home in Sidney Street. It was a small row house of the two-rooms-up-and-two-down type. The front door was wide open. Feliks walked in.
The noise and the smell hit him like a blow. There, in a room about twelve feet square, some fifteen or twenty people were working at tailoring. Men were using machines, women were sewing by hand and children were pressing finished garments. Steam rose from the ironing boards to mingle with the smell of sweat. The machines clattered, the irons hissed and the workers jabbered incessantly in Yiddish. Pieces of cloth cut already for stitching were piled on every available patch of floor space. Nobody looked up at Feliks: they were all working furiously fast.
He spoke to the nearest person, a girl with a baby at her breast. She was hand-sewing buttons onto the sleeve of a jacket. "Is Nathan here?" he said.
"Upstairs," she said without pausing at her work.
Feliks went out of the room and up the narrow staircase. Each of the two small bedrooms had four beds. Most of them were occupied, presumably by people who worked at night. He found Nathan in the back room, sitting on the edge of a bed, buttoning his shirt.
Nathan saw him and said: "Feliks, wie gehts?"
"I need to talk to you," Feliks said in Yiddish.
"So talk."
"Come outside."
Nathan put on his coat and they went out into Sidney Street. They stood in the sunshine, close to the open window of the sweatshop, their conversation masked by the noise from inside.