the idea of revolutionary action for those you think well of as if it were something—how shall I say it—not quite decent.'
I bowed my head.
'You are quite right,' I said. 'I think very highly of you'
'Don't suppose I do not know it,' she began hurriedly. 'Your friendship has been very valuable.'
'I have done little else but look on.'
She was a little flushed under the eyes.
'There is a way of looking on which is valuable I have felt less lonely because of it. It's difficult to explain.'
'Really? Well, I too have felt less lonely. That's easy to explain, though. But it won't go on much longer. The last thing I want to tell you is this: in a real revolution—not a simple dynastic change or a mere reform of institutions—in a real revolution the best characters do not come to the front. A violent revolution falls into the hands of narrow-minded fanatics and of tyrannical hypocrites at first. Afterwards comes the turn of all the pretentious intellectual failures of the time. Such are the chiefs and the leaders. You will notice that I have left out the mere rogues. The scrupulous and the just, the noble, humane, and devoted natures; the unselfish and the intelligent may begin a movement—but it passes away from them. They are not the leaders of a revolution. They are its victims: the victims of disgust, of disenchantment—often of remorse. Hopes grotesquely betrayed, ideals caricatured—that is the definition of revolutionary success. There have been in every revolution hearts broken by such successes. But enough of that. My meaning is that I don't want you to be a victim.'
'If I could believe all you have said I still wouldn't think of myself,' protested Miss Haldin. 'I would take liberty from any hand as a hungry man would snatch at a piece of bread. The true progress must begin after. And for that the right men shall be found. They are already amongst us. One comes upon them in their obscurity, unknown, preparing themselves....'
She spread out the letter she had kept in her hand all the time, and looking down at it—
'Yes! One comes upon such men!' she repeated, and then read out the words, 'Unstained, lofty, and solitary existences.'
Folding up the letter, while I looked at her interrogatively, she explained—
'These are the words which my brother applies to a young man he came to know in St. Petersburg. An intimate friend, I suppose. It must be. His is the only name my brother mentions in all his correspondence with me. Absolutely the only one, and—would you believe it?—the man is here. He arrived recently in Geneva.'
'Have you seen him?' I inquired. 'But, of course; you must have seen him.'
'No! No! I haven't! I didn't know he was here. It's Peter Ivanovitch himself who told me. You have heard him yourself mentioning a new arrival from Petersburg.... Well, that is the man of 'unstained, lofty, and solitary existence.' My brother's friend!'
'Compromised politically, I suppose,' I remarked.
'I don't know. Yes. It must be so. Who knows! Perhaps it was this very friendship with my brother which.... But no! It is scarcely possible. Really, I know nothing except what Peter Ivanovitch told me of him. He has brought a letter of introduction from Father Zosim—you know, the priest-democrat; you have heard of Father Zosim?'
'Oh yes. The famous Father Zosim was staying here in Geneva for some two months about a year ago,' I said. 'When he left here he seems to have disappeared from the world.'
'It appears that he is at work in Russia again. Somewhere in the centre,' Miss Haldin said, with animation. 'But please don't mention that to any one—don't let it slip from you, because if it got into the papers it would be dangerous for him.'
'You are anxious, of course, to meet that friend of your brother?' I asked.
Miss Haldin put the letter into her pocket. Her eyes looked beyond my shoulder at the door of her mother's room.
'Not here,' she murmured. 'Not for the first time, at least.'
After a moment of silence I said good-bye, but Miss Haldin followed me into the ante-room, closing the door behind us carefully.
'I suppose you guess where I mean to go tomorrow?'
'You have made up your mind to call on Madame de S—.'
'Yes. I am going to the Chateau Borel. I must.'
'What do you expect to hear there?' I asked, in a low voice.
I wondered if she were not deluding herself with some impossible hope. It was not that, however.
'Only think—such a friend. The only man mentioned in his letters. He would have something to give me, if nothing more than a few poor words. It may be something said and thought in those last days. Would you want me to turn my back on what is left of my poor brother—a friend?'
'Certainly not,' I said. 'I quite understand your pious curiosity.'
'—Unstained, lofty, and solitary existences,' she murmured to herself. 'There are! There are! Well, let me question one of them about the loved dead.'
'How do you know, though, that you will meet him there? Is he staying in the Chateau as a guest—do you suppose?'
'I can't really tell,' she confessed. 'He brought a written introduction from Father Zosim—who, it seems, is a friend of Madame de S— too. She can't be such a worthless woman after all.'
'There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Father Zosim himself,' I observed.
