In the flat I found only Uncle Ivan sitting very happily by himself at the table playing patience. He was dressed very smartly in his English black suit and a black bow tie. He behaved with his usual elaborate courtesy to me but, to my relief, on this occasion, he spoke Russian.
It appeared that the Revolution had not upset him in the least. He took, he assured me, no interest whatever in politics. The great thing was “to live inside oneself,” and by living inside oneself he meant, I gathered, that one should be entirely selfish. Clothes were important, and food and courteous manners, but he must say that he could not see that one would be very much worse off even though one were ruled by the Germans—one might, indeed, be a great deal more comfortable. And as to this Revolution he couldn’t really understand why people made such a fuss. One class or another class what did it matter? (As to this he was, I fear, to be sadly undeceived. He little knew that, before the year was out, he would be shovelling snow in the Morskaia for a rouble an hour.) So centred was he upon himself that he did not notice that I looked ill. He offered me a chair, indeed, but that was simply his courteous manners. Very ridiculous, he thought, the fuss that Nicholas made about the Revolution—very ridiculous the fuss that he made about everything. …
Alexei had been showing Nicholas how ridiculous he was.
“Oh, has he?” said I. “How’s he been doing that?”
Laughing at him, apparently. They all laughed at him. It was his own fault.
“Alexei’s living with us now, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, “what’s he doing that for?”
“He wanted to,” said Uncle Ivan simply. “He’s always done what he’s wanted to, all his life.”
“It makes it a great many of you in one small flat.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Uncle Ivan amiably. “Very pleasant—although, Ivan Andreievitch, I will admit to you quite frankly that I’ve always been frightened of Alexei. He has such a very sharp tongue. He discovers one’s weak spots in a marvellous manner. … We all have weak spots you know,” he added apologetically.
“Yes, we have,” I said.
Then, to my relief, Vera came in. She was very sweet to me, expressing much concern about my illness, asking me to stay and have my meal with them. … She suddenly broke off. There was a letter lying on the table addressed to her. I saw at once that it was in Nina’s handwriting.
“Nina! Writing to me!” She picked it up, stood back looking at the envelope before she opened it. She read it, then turned on me with a cry.
“Nina! … She’s gone!”
“Gone!” I repeated, starting at once.
“Yes. … Read!” She thrust it into my hand.
In Nina’s sprawling schoolgirl hand I read:
Dear Vera—I’ve left you and Nicholas forever. … I have been thinking of this for a long time, and now Uncle Alexei has shown me how foolish I’ve been, wanting something I can’t have. But I’m not a child any longer. I must lead my own life. … I’m going to live with Boris who will take care of me. It’s no use you or anyone trying to prevent me. I will not come back. I must lead my own life now.
Vera was beside herself.
“Quick! Quick! Someone must go after her. She must be brought back at once. Quick! Scora! Scora! … I must go. No, she is angry with me. She won’t listen to me. Ivan Andreievitch, you must go. At once! You must bring her back with you. Darling, darling Nina! … Oh, my God, what shall I do if anything happens to her!”
She clutched my arm. Even as she spoke, she had got my hat and stick.
“This is Alexei Petrovitch,” I said.
“Never mind who it is,” she answered. “She must be brought back at once. She is so young. She doesn’t know. … Boris—Oh! it’s impossible. Don’t leave without bringing her back with you.”
Even old Uncle Ivan seemed distressed.
“Dear, dear …” he kept repeating, “dear, dear. … Poor little Nina. Poor little Nina—”
“Where does Grogoff live?” I asked.
“16 Gagarinskaya. … Flat 3. Quick. You must bring her back with you. Promise me.”
“I will do my best,” I said.
I found by a miracle of good fortune an isvostchick in the street outside. We plunged along through the pools of water in the direction of the Gagarinskaya. That was a horrible drive. In the Sadovaya we met the slow, winding funeral procession.
On they went, arm in arm, the same little wailing tune, monotonously repeating, but sounding like nothing human, rather exuding from the very cobbles of the road and the waters of the stagnant canals.
The march of the peasants upon Petrograd! I could see them from all the quarters of the town, converging upon the Marsovoie Pole, stubborn, silent, wraiths of earlier civilisation, omens of later dominations. I thought of Boris Grogoff. What did he, with all his vehemence and conceit, intend to do with these? First he would flatter them—I saw that clearly enough. But then when his flatteries failed, what then? Could he control them? Would they obey him? Would they obey anybody until education had shown them the necessities for coordination and self-discipline? The river at last was overflowing its banks—would not the savage force of its power be greater than anyone could calculate? The stream flowed on. … My isvostchick took his cab down a side street, and then again met the strange sorrowful company. From this point I could see several further bridges and streets, and over them all I saw the same stream flowing, the same banners blowing—and all so still, so dumb, so patient.
The delay was maddening. My thoughts were all now on Nina. I saw her always before me as I had beheld her yesterday, walking slowly along, her eyes fixed on space, the tears trickling down her face. “Life,” Nikitin once said to me, “I sometimes think is like
