She said his name with the funniest little accent.
“Nina, dear,” I said, “will you take a little piece of advice from me?”
“What is it?” she asked doubtfully.
“Well, this. … Don’t you make any move yourself. Just wait and you’ll see he’ll like you. You’ll make him shy if you—”
But she interrupted me furiously in one of her famous tempers.
“Oh, you Englishmen with your shyness and your waiting and your coldness! I hate you all, and I wish we were fighting with the Germans against you. Yes, I do—and I hope the Germans win. You never have any blood. You’re all cold as ice. … And what do you mean spying on me? Yes, you were—sitting behind and spying! You’re always finding out what we’re doing, and putting it all down in a book. I hate you, and I won’t ever ask your advice again.”
She rushed off, and I was following her when the bell rang for the beginning of the second part. We all went in, Nina chattering and laughing with Bohun just as though she had never been in a temper in her life.
Then a dreadful thing happened. We arrived at the box, and Vera, Bohun, and Nina sat in the seats they had occupied before. I waited for Lawrence to sit down, but he turned round to me.
“I say, Durward—you sit next to Nina Michailovna this time. She’ll be bored having me all the while.”
“No, no!” I began to protest, but Nina, her voice shaking, cried:
“Yes, Durdles, you sit down next to me—please.”
I don’t think that Lawrence perceived anything. He said very cheerfully, “That’s right—and I’ll sit behind and see that you all behave.”
I sat down and the second part began. The second part was wrestling. The bell rang, the curtains parted, and instead of the splendid horses and dogs there appeared a procession of some of the most obese and monstrous types of humanity. Almost naked, they wandered round the arena, mountains of flesh glistening in the electric light. A little man, all puffed up like a poulter pigeon, then advanced into the middle of the arena, and was greeted with wild applause from the gallery. To this he bowed and then announced in a terrific voice, “Gentlemen, you are about to see some of the most magnificent wrestling in the world. Allow me to introduce to you the combatants.” He then shouted out the names: “Ivan Strogoff of Kiev—Paul Rosing of Odessa—Jacob Smyerioff of Petrograd—John Meriss from Africa (this the most hideous of negroes)—Karl Tubiloff of Helsingfors. …” and so on. The gentlemen named smirked and bowed. They all marched off, and then, in a moment, one couple returned, shook hands, and, under the breathless attention of the whole house, began to wrestle.
They did not, however, command my attention. I could think of nothing but the little crushed figure next to me. I stole a look at her and saw that a large tear was hanging on one eyelash ready to fall. I looked hurriedly away. Poor child! And her birthday! I cursed Lawrence for his clumsiness. What did it matter if she had put her hand on his knee? He ought to have taken it and patted it. But it was more than likely, as I knew very well, that he had never even noticed her action. He was marvellously unaware of all kinds of things, and it was only too possible that Nina scarcely existed for him. I longed to comfort her, and I did then a foolish thing. I put out my hand and let it rest for a moment on her dress.
Instantly she moved away with a sharp little gesture.
Five minutes later I heard a little whisper: “Durdles, it’s so hot here—and I hate these naked men. Shall we go? Ask Vera—”
The first bout had just come to an end. The little man with the swelling chest was alone, strutting up and down, and answering questions hurled at him from the gallery.
“Uncle Vanya, where’s Michael of Odessa?”
“Ah, he’s a soldier in the army now.”
“Uncle Vanya … Uncle Vanya … Uncle Vanya …”
“Well, well, what is it?”
“Why isn’t Chornaya Maska wrestling tonight?”
“Ah, he’s busy.”
“What’s he busy with?”
“Never mind, he’s busy.”
“What’s he busy with? … Uncle Vanya … Uncle Vanya …”
“Shto?”
“Isn’t it true that Michael’s dead now?”
“So they say.”
“Is it true?”
“Uncle Vanya … Uncle Vanya. …”
The message had passed along that Nina was tired and wanted to go. We all moved out through the passage and into the cold fresh air.
“It was quite time,” said Vera. “I was going to suggest it myself.”
“I hope you liked it,” said Lawrence politely to Nina.
“No, I hated it,” she answered furiously, and turned her back on him.
It could not be said that the birthday party was promising very well.
XXII
And yet for the first half-hour it really seemed that it would “go” very well indeed. It had been agreed that it was to be absolutely a “family” party, and Uncle Ivan, Semyonov, and Boris Grogoff were the only additions to our number. Markovitch was there of course, and I saw at once that he was eager to be agreeable and to be the best possible host. As I had often noticed before, there was something pathetic about Markovitch when he wished to be agreeable. He had neither the figure nor the presence with which to be fascinating, and he did not know in the least how to bring out his best points.
Especially when he tried, as he was sometimes ill-advised enough to do, to flirt with young girls, he was a dismal failure. He was intended, by nature, to be mysterious and malevolent, and had he only had a malevolent spirit there would have been no tragedy—but in the confused welter that he called his soul, malevolence was the least of the elements, and other things—love, sympathy, twisted self-pity, ambition, courage, and cowardice—drowned it. He was on his best behaviour tonight,
