“Scrambled eggs.”
“But we had scrambled eggs yesterday,” he expostulated.
“Let’s have them again today,” she smiled.
“All right.”
They spent the day in the same manner except that they went to the Carnavalet instead of the Louvre and the Musée Guimet instead of the Luxembourg. But when the morning after in answer to Ashenden’s enquiry Anastasia Alexandrovna again asked for scrambled eggs, his heart sank.
“But we had scrambled eggs yesterday and the day before,” he said.
“Don’t you think that’s a very good reason to have them again today?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Is it possible that your sense of humour is a little deficient this morning?” she asked. “I eat scrambled eggs every day. It’s the only way I like them.”
“Oh, very well. In that case of course we’ll have scrambled eggs.”
But the following morning he could not face them.
“Will you have scrambled eggs as usual?” he asked her.
“Of course,” she smiled affectionately, showing him two rows of large square teeth.
“All right, I’ll order them for you; I shall have mine fried.”
The smile vanished from her lips.
“Oh?” She paused a moment. “Don’t you think that’s rather inconsiderate? Do you think it’s fair to give the cook unnecessary work? You English, you’re all the same, you look upon servants as machines. Does it occur to you that they have hearts like yours, the same feelings and the same emotions? How can you be surprised that the proletariat are seething with discontent when the bourgeoisie like you are so monstrously selfish?”
“Do you really think that there’ll be a revolution in England if I have my eggs in Paris fried rather than scrambled?”
She tossed her pretty head in indignation.
“You don’t understand. It’s the principle of the thing. You think it’s a jest, of course I know you’re being funny, I can laugh at a joke as well as anyone, Chekhov was well-known in Russia as a humorist; but don’t you see what is involved? Your whole attitude is wrong. It’s a lack of feeling. You wouldn’t talk like that if you had been through the events of 1905 in Petersburg. When I think of the crowds in front of the Winter Palace kneeling in the snow while the Cossacks charged them, women and children! No, no, no.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her face was all twisted with pain. She took Ashenden’s hand.
“I know you have a good heart. It was just thoughtless on your part and we won’t say anything more about it. You have imagination. You’re very sensitive. I know. You’ll have your eggs done in the same way as mine, won’t you?”
“Of course,” said Ashenden.
He ate scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning after that. The waiter said: “Monsieur aime les oeufs breuillés.” At the end of the week they returned to London. He held Anastasia Alexandrovna in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, from Paris to Calais and again from Dover to London. He reflected that the journey from New York to San Francisco took five days. When they arrived at Victoria and stood on the platform waiting for a cab she looked at him with her round, shining and slightly protuberant eyes.
“We’ve had a wonderful time, haven’t we?” she said.
“Wonderful.”
“I’ve quite made up my mind. The experiment has justified itself. I’m willing to marry you whenever you like.”
But Ashenden saw himself eating scrambled eggs every morning for the rest of his life. When he had put her in a cab, he called another for himself, went to the Cunard office and took a berth on the first ship that was going to America. No immigrant, eager for freedom and a new life, ever looked upon the statue of Liberty with more heartfelt thankfulness than did Ashenden, when on that bright and sunny morning his ship steamed into the harbour of New York.
XVI
Mr. Harrington’s Washing
Some years had passed since then and Ashenden had not seen Anastasia Alexandrovna again. He knew that on the outbreak of the revolution in March she and Vladimir Semenovich had gone to Russia. It might be that they would be able to help him, in a way Vladimir Semenovich owed him his life, and he made up his mind to write to Anastasia Alexandrovna to ask if he might come to see her.
When Ashenden went down to lunch he felt somewhat rested. Mr. Harrington was waiting for him and they sat down. They ate what was put before them.
“Ask the waiter to bring us some bread,” said Mr. Harrington.
“Bread?” replied Ashenden. “There’s no bread.”
“I can’t eat without bread,” said Mr. Harrington.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. There’s no bread, no butter, no sugar, no eggs, no potatoes. There’s fish and meat and green vegetables, and that’s all.”
Mr. Harrington’s jaw dropped.
“But this is war,” he said.
“It looks very much like it.”
Mr. Harrington was for a moment speechless; then he said: “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to get through with my business as quick as I can and then I’m going to get out of this country. I’m sure Mrs. Harrington wouldn’t like me to go without sugar or butter. I’ve got a very delicate stomach. The firm would never have sent me here if they’d thought I wasn’t going to have the best of everything.”
In a little while Dr. Egon Orth came in and gave Ashenden an envelope. On it was written Anastasia Alexandrovna’s address. He introduced him to Mr. Harrington. It was soon clear that he was pleased with Dr. Egon Orth and so without further to-do he suggested that here was the perfect interpreter for him.
“He talks Russian like a Russian. But he’s an American citizen, so
