It’s just that spectacle of some poor innocent being suddenly caught into some affair, against his will, without his knowledge, but to the most serious alteration of his character and fortunes, that one watches with a delight almost malicious—whether it be The Woman in White, The Wings of the Dove, or The Roads that offer it us. Well, I had now to face the fact that something of this kind had happened to myself.
I was drawn in—and I was glad. I luxuriated in my gladness, lying there in my room under the wavering, uncertain light of two candles, hearing the church bells clanging and echoing mysteriously beyond the wall. I lay there with a consciousness of being on the very verge of some adventure, with the assurance, too, that I was to be of use once more, to play my part, to fling aside, thank God, that old cloak of apathetic disappointment, of selfish betrayal, of cynical disbelief. Semyonov had brought the old life back to me and I had shrunk from the impact of it; but he had brought back to me, too, the presences of my absent friends who, during these weary months, had been lost to me. It seemed to me that, in the flickering twilight, John and Marie were bringing forward to me Vera and Nina and Jerry and asking me to look after them. … I would do my best.
And while I was thinking of these things Vera Michailovna came in. She was suddenly in the room, standing there, her furs up to her throat, her body in shadow, but her large, grave eyes shining through the candlelight, her mouth smiling.
“Is it all right?” she said, coming forward. “I’m not in the way? You’re not sleeping?”
I told her that I was delighted to see her.
“I’ve been almost every day, but Marfa told me you were not well enough. She does guard you—like a dragon. But tonight Nina and I are going to Rozanov’s, to a party, and she said she’d meet me here. … Shan’t I worry you?”
“Worry me! You’re the most restful friend I have—” I felt so glad to see her that I was surprised at my own happiness. She sat down near to me, very quietly, moving, as she always did, softly and surely.
I could see that she was distressed because I looked ill, but she asked me no tiresome questions, said nothing about my madness in living as I did (always so irritating, as though I were a stupid child), praised the room, admired the Benois picture, and then talked in her soft, kindly voice.
“We’ve missed you so much, Nina and I,” she said. “I told Nina that if she came tonight she wasn’t to make a noise and disturb you.”
“She can make as much noise as she likes,” I said. “I like the right kind of noise.”
We talked a little about politics and England and anything that came into our minds. We both felt, I know, a delightful, easy intimacy and friendliness and trust. I had never with any other woman felt such a sense of friendship, something almost masculine in its comradeship and honesty. And tonight this bond between us strengthened wonderfully. I blessed my luck. I saw that there were dark lines under her eyes and that she was pale.
“You’re tired,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” she acknowledged. “And I don’t know why. At least, I do know. I’m going to use you selfishly, Durdles. I’m going to tell you all my troubles and ask your help in every possible way. I’m going to let you off nothing.”
I took her hand.
“I’m proud,” I said, “now and always.”
“Do you know that I’ve never asked anyone’s help before? I was rather conceited that I could get on always without it. When I was very small I wouldn’t take a word of advice from anyone, and mother and father, when I was tiny, used to consult me about everything. Then they were killed and I had to go on alone. … And after that, when I married Nicholas, it was I again who decided everything. And my mistakes taught me nothing. I didn’t want them to teach me.”
She spoke that last word fiercely, and through the note that came into her voice I saw suddenly the potentialities that were in her, the other creature that she might be if she were ever awakened.
She talked then for a long time. She didn’t move at all; her head rested on her hand and her eyes watched me. As I listened I thought of my other friend Marie, who now was dead, and how restless she was when she spoke, moving about the room, stopping to demand my approval, protesting against my criticism, laughing, crying out. … Vera was so still, so wise, too, in comparison with Marie, braver too—and yet the same heart, the same charity, the same nobility.
But she was my friend, and Marie I had loved. … The difference in that! And how much easier now to help than it had been then, simply because one’s own soul was one’s own and one stood by oneself!
How happy a thing freedom is—and how lonely!
She told me many things that I need not repeat here, but, as she talked, I saw how, far more deeply than I had imagined, Nina had been the heart of the whole of her life. She had watched over her, protected her, advised her, warned her, and loved her, passionately, jealously, almost madly all the time.
“When I married Nicholas,” she said, “I thought of Nina more than anyone else. That was wrong. … I ought to have thought most of Nicholas; but I knew that I could give her
