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 her nothing.”
“Can I tell her you’re happy?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered roughly, turning away from me.
X
But the adventures of that Easter Monday night were not yet over. I had walked away with Bohun; he was very silent, depressed, poor boy, and shy with the reaction of his outburst.
“I made the most awful fool of myself,” he said.
“No, you didn’t,” I answered.
“The trouble of it is,” he said slowly, “that neither you nor I see the humorous side of it all strongly enough. We take it too seriously. It’s got a funny side all right.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But you must remember that the Markovitch situation isn’t exactly funny just now—and we’re both in the middle of it. Oh! if only I could find Nina back home and Semyonov away, I believe the strain would lift. But I’m frightened that something’s going to happen. I’ve grown very fond of these people, you know, Bohun—Vera and Nina and Nicholas. Isn’t it odd how one gets to love Russians—more than one’s own people? The more stupid things they do the more you love them—whereas with one’s own people it’s quite the other way. Oh, I do want Vera and Nina and Nicholas to be happy!”
“Isn’t the town queer tonight?” said Bohun, suddenly stopping. (We were just at the entrance to the Mariensky Square.)
“Yes,” I said. “I think these days between the thaw and the white nights are in some ways the strangest of all. There seems to be so much going on that one can’t quite see.”
“Yes—over there—at the other end of the Square—there’s a kind of mist—a sort of water-mist. It comes from the Canal.”
“And do you see a figure like an old bent man with a red lantern? Do you see what I mean—that red light?”
“And those shadows on the further wall like riders passing with silver-tipped spears? Isn’t it … ? There they go—ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. …”
“How still the Square is? Do you see those three windows all alight? Isn’t there a dance going on? Don’t you hear the music?”
“No, it’s the wind.”
“No, surely. … That’s a flute—and then violins. Listen! Those are fiddles for certain!”
“How still, how still it is!”
We stood and listened whilst the white mist gathered and grew over the cobbles. Certainly there was a strain of music, very faint and dim, threading through the air.
“Well, I must go on,” said Bohun. “You go up to the left, don’t you? Good night.” I watched Bohun’s figure cross the Square. The light was wonderful, like fold on fold of gauze, but opaque, so that buildings showed with sharp outline behind it. The moon was full and quite red. I turned to go home and ran straight into Lawrence.
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Are you a ghost too?”
He didn’t seem to feel any surprise at meeting me. He was plainly in a state of tremendous excitement. He spoke breathlessly.
“You’re exactly the man. You must come back with me. My diggings now are only a yard away from here.”
“It’s very late,” I began, “and—”
“Things are desperate,” he said. “I don’t know—” he broke off. “Oh! come and help me, Durward, for God’s sake!”
I went with him, and we did not exchange another word until we were in his rooms.
He began hurriedly taking off his clothes. “There! Sit on the bed. Different from Wilderling’s, isn’t it? Poor devil. … I’m going to have a bath if you don’t mind—I’ve got to clear my head.”
He dragged out a tin bath from under his bed, then a big can of water from a corner. Stripped, he looked so thick and so strong, with his short neck and his bulldog build, that I couldn’t help saying,
“You don’t look a day older than the last time you played Rugger for Cambridge.”
“I am, though.” He sluiced the cold water over his head, grunting. “Not near so fit—gettin’ fat too. … Rugger days are over. Wish all my other days were over too.”
He got out of the bath, wiped himself, put on pyjamas, brushed his teeth, then his hair, took out a pipe, and then sat beside me on the bed.
“Look here, Durward,” he said. “I’m desperate, old man.” (He said “desprite.”) “We’re all in a hell of a mess.”
“I know,” I said.
He puffed furiously at his pipe.
“You know, if I’m not careful I shall go a bit queer in the head. Get so angry, you know,” he added simply.
“Angry with whom?” I asked.
“With myself mostly for bein’ such a bloody fool. But not only myself—with Civilisation, Durward, old cock!—and also with that swine Semyonov.”
“Ah, I thought you’d come to him,” I said.
“Now the points are these,” he went on, counting on his thick stubbly fingers. “First, I love Vera—and when I say love I mean love. Never been in love before, you know—honest Injun, never. … Never had affairs with tobacconists’ daughters at Cambridge—never had an affair with a woman in my life—no, never. Used to wonder what was the matter with me, why I wasn’t like other chaps. Now I know. I was waitin’ for Vera. Quite simple. I shall never love anyone again—never. I’m not a kid, you know, like young Bohun—I love Vera once and for all, and that’s that …”
“Yes,” I said. “And the next point?”
“The next point is that Vera loves me. No need to go into that—but she does.”
“Yes, she does,” I said.
“Third point, she’s married, and although she don’t love her man she’s sorry for him. Fourth point, he loves her. Fifth point, there’s a damned swine hangin’ round called Alexei Petrovitch Semyonov. … Well, then,
