 Part 3 Chapter 15 of the Secret City. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rita Butros. The Secret City by Hugh Wellpole. Part 3 Chapter 15. This is obviously the place for the story, based of course on the very modest and slender account given me by the hero of it, of young Bohin's nightly adventure. In its inception, the whole affair is still mysterious to me. Looking back from this distance of time, I see that he was engaged on one nightly adventure after another. First Vera, then Markovitch, lastly Nina. The first I caught at the very beginning, the second I may be said to have inspired, but to the third I was completely blind. I was blind, I suppose, because in the first place Nina had from the beginning laughed at Bohin, and in the second she had been entirely occupied with Lawrence. Bohin's night errantry came upon her with, I am sure, as great a shock of surprise as it did upon me. And yet, when you come to think of it, it was the most natural thing. They were the only two of our party who had any claim to real youth, and they were still so young that they could believe in one ideal after another, as quick as you can catch goldfish in a bowl of water. Bohin would, of course, have indignantly denied that he was out to help anybody, but that, nevertheless, was the direction in which his character led him. And once Russia had stripped from him that thin coat of self-satisfaction, he had nothing to do but mount his white charger and enter the tournament. I have no idea when he first thought of Nina. He did not, of course, like her at the beginning, and I doubt whether she caused him any real concern, too, until her flight to Grogov. That shocked him terribly. He confessed as much to me. She had always been so happy and easy about life. Nothing was serious to her. I remember once telling her she ought to take the war more deeply. I was a bit of a prick about it, I suppose. At any rate, she thought me one. And then, to go off to a fellow like Grogov, he thought of it the more seriously when he saw the agony Vera was in. She did not ask him to help her, and so he did nothing. But he watched her efforts, the letters that she wrote, the eagerness with which she ravished the post, her fruitless visits to Grogov's flat, her dejected misery over her failure. He began himself to form plans. Not, I am convinced, for many a special affection for Nina, but simply because he had the soul of a knight. Although, thank God, he didn't know it. I expect, too, that he was pretty dissatisfied with his knight-errantries. His impassioned devotion to Vera had led to nothing at all. His enthusiasm for Russia had led to a most unsatisfactory revolution, and his fatherly protection of Markovitch had inspired, apparently, nothing more fruitful than distrust. I would like to emphasize that it was in no way from any desire to interfere in other people's affairs that young Bohin undertook these quests. He had none of my own meddlesome quality. He had, I think, very little curiosity and no psychological self-satisfaction. But he had a kind heart, an adventurous spirit, and a hatred for the wrong and injustice which seemed just now to be creeping about the world. But all this, again, thank God, was entirely subconscious. He knew nothing whatever about himself. The thought of Nina worried him more and more. After he went to bed at night, he would hear her laugh and see her mocking smile and listen to her shrill imitations of his own absurdities. She had been the one happy person amongst them all, and now, well, he had seen enough of Boris Grogov to know what sort of fellow he was. He came at last to the conclusion that, after a week or two, she would be sick to death of it and longing to get away. But then, her pride would keep her at it. She'd got a devil of a lot of pride. He waited then for a while and hoped, I suppose, that some of Vera's appeals would succeed. They did not. And then it struck him that Vera was the very last person to whom Nina would yield, just because she wanted to yield to her most, which was pretty subtle of him and very near the truth. No one else seemed to be making any very active efforts, and at last he decided that he must do something himself. He discovered Grogov's address, went to the Gagarin Skye, and looked up at the flat, hung about a bit in the hope of seeing Nina. Then he did see her at Rosenhoff's party, and this, although he said nothing to me about it at the time, had a tremendous effect on him. He thought she looked awful. All the joy had gone from her. She was years older, miserable and defiant. She didn't speak to her, but from that night he made up his mind. Rosenhoff's party may be said to have been really the turning point of his life. It was the night that he came out of his shell, grew up, faced the world, and it was the night that he discovered that he cared about Nina. The vision of her poor little tired face, her rather dirty white dress, her grown-up hair, her timidity and her loneliness never left him for a moment. All the time that I thought he was occupied only with the problem of Markovitch and Semyonov, he was much more deeply occupied with Nina. So unnaturally secretive can young men be. At last he decided on a plan. He chose the Monday, the day of the Bors meeting, because he fancied that Grogov would be present at that, and he might therefore catch Nina alone. And because he and his fellow propagandists would be expected also at the meeting, and he would therefore be free of his office earlier on that afternoon. He had no idea at all how he would get into the flat, but he thought that Fortune would be certain to favour him. He always thought that. Well, Fortune did. He left the office and arrived at the Gagarin Skye about half past five in the evening. He walked about a little, and then saw a bearded tall fellow drive up in Anisvostik. He recognised this man as Lenin, the soul of the anti-government party, and a man who was afterwards to figure very prominently in Russia's politics. This fellow argued very hotly with the Anisvostik about his fare, then vanished through the double doors. Bohen followed him. Outside Grogov's flat, Lenin waited and rang the bell. Bohen waited on the floor below. Then, when he heard the door open, he noiselessly slipped up the stairs, and, as Lenin entered, followed behind him whilst the old servant's back was turned, helping Lenin with his coat. He found, as he had hoped, a crowd of cloaks and a shuba hanging beside the door in the dark corner of the wall. He crept behind these. He heard Lenin say to the servant that, after all, he would not take off his coat, as he was leaving again immediately. Then, directly afterwards, Grogov came into the hall. That was the moment of crisis. Did Grogov go to the rack for his coat? And all was over. A very unpleasant scene must follow, a ludicrous expulsion, a fling or two at the amiable habits of thieving and deceit on the part of the British nation, and any hope of seeing Nina ruined, perhaps, forever. Worst of all, the ignominy of it. No young man likes to be discovered hidden behind a coat rack, however honest his original intentions. His heart beat to suffocation as he peeped between the coats. Grogov was already wearing his own overcoat. It was, thank God, too warm an evening for a shuba. The men shook hands, and Grogov sang something rather deferentially about the meeting. Lenin, in short brusque tones, put him immediately in his place. Then they went out together, the door closed behind them, and the flat was as silent as an aquarium. He waited for a while, and then, hearing nothing, crept into the hall. Perhaps Nina was out. If the old servant saw him, she would think him a burglar, and would certainly scream. He pushed back the door in front of him, stepped forward, and almost stepped upon Nina. She gave a little cry, not seeing whom it was. She was looking very untidy, her hair loose down her back, and a rough apron over her dress. She looked ill, and there were heavy black lines under her eyes, as though she had not slept for weeks. Then she saw who it was, and in spite of herself, smiled. Genre, she exclaimed. Yes, he said in a whisper, closing the door very softly behind him. Look here, don't scream or do anything foolish. I don't want that old woman to catch me. He has no very clear memory of the conversation that followed. She stood with her back to the wall, staring at him, and every now and again taking up a corner of her pinafore and biting it. He remembered that action of hers especially, as being absurdly childish. But the overwhelming impression that he had of her was of her terror. Terror of everything, and of everybody. Of everybody, apparently, except himself. She told him afterwards that he was the only person in the world who could have rescued her just then, because she simply couldn't be frightened of someone at whom she'd laughed so often. She was terrified, of course, of Grogov. She couldn't mention his name without trembling. But she was terrified also of the old servant, of the flat, of the room, of the clock, of every sound or hint of a sound that there was in the world. She, to be so frightened, she of whom he would have said that she was equal to anyone or anything. What she must have been through during those weeks to have brought her to this. But she told him very little. He urged her at once that she must come away with him there and then, just as she was. She simply shook her head at that. No, no, no, she kept repeating. You don't understand. I do understand, he answered, always whispering. And with one ear on the door, lest the old woman should hear and come in. We've got very little time, he said. Grogov will never let you go if he's here. I know why you don't come back. You think we're all looking down on you for having gone, but that's nonsense. We are all simply miserable without you. But she simply continued to repeat, no, no. Then, as he urged her, still further, she begged him to go away. She said that he simply didn't know what Grogov would do if he returned and found him. And although he'd gone to a meeting, he might return at any moment. Then, as though to urge upon him, Grogov's ferocity, in little horse whispers, she let him see some of the things that during these weeks she'd endured. He'd beaten her, thrown things at her, kept her awake hour after hour at night, making her sing to him. And of course, worse things. Things far, far worse that she would never tell to anybody, not even to Vera. Poor Nina. She had indeed been punished for her innocent impetuosities. She was broken in body and soul. She had faced reality at last and been beaten by it. She suddenly turned away from him, buried her head in her arm, as a tiny child does, and cried. It was then that he discovered he loved her. He went to her, put his arm round her, kissed her, stroked her hair, whispering little consoling things to her. She suddenly collapsed, burying her head in his breast, and watering his waistcoat with her tears. After that he seemed to be able to do anything with her that he pleased. He whispered to her to go and get her hat, then her coat, then to hurry up and come along. As he gave these last commands, he heard the door open, turned and saw Masha, Grogov's old witch of a servant, facing him. The scene that followed must have had its ludicrous side. The old woman didn't scream or make any kind of noise. She simply asked him what he was doing there. He answered that he was going out for a walk with the mistress of the house. She said that he should do nothing of the kind. He told her to stand away from the door. She refused to move. He then rushed at her, caught her round the waist, and a most impossible struggle ensued up and down the middle of the room. He called to Nina to run, and had the satisfaction of seeing her dart through the door like a frightened hare. The old woman bit and scratched and kicked, making sounds all the time like a kettle just on the boil. Suddenly, when he thought that Nina had had time to get well away, he gave the old woman a very unceremonious push, which sent her back against Grogov's chief cabinet. And he had the comfort to hear the whole of this crash to the ground as he closed the door behind him. Out in the street he found Nina, and soon afterwards Anis Voschik. She crouched up close against him, staring in front of her, saying nothing, shivering and shivering. As he felt her hot hand shake inside his, he vowed that he would never leave her again. I don't believe that he ever will. So he took her home, and his night errantry was justified at last. End of Part 3 Chapter 15 Part 3 Chapter 16 of The Secret City This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rita Butros The Secret City by Hugh Walpole Part 3 Chapter 16 These events had, for a moment, distracted my mind, but as soon as I was alone I felt the ever-increasing burden of my duty towards Markovitch. The sensation was absolutely dreamlike in its insistence on the one hand that I should take some kind of action, and it's preventing me on the other from taking any action at all. I felt the strange inertia of the spectator in the nightmare who sees the house tumbling about his head and cannot move. Besides, what action could I take? I couldn't stand over Markovitch, forbid him to stir from the flat or imprison Semyonov in his room or warn the police. Besides, there were now no police. Moreover, Vera and Bohan and the others were surely capable of watching Markovitch. Nevertheless, something in my heart insisted that it was I who was to figure in this. Through the dusk of the streets, in the pale ghostly shadows that prelude the coming of the White Knights, I seemed to see three pursuing figures, Semyonov, Markovitch, and myself. I was pursuing and yet held. I went back to my flat, but all that night I could not sleep. Already the first music of the May Day processions could be heard, distant trumpets and drums before I sank into uneasy bewildered slumber. I dreamt then, dreams so fantastic and irresolute, that I cannot now disentangle them. I remember that I was standing beside the banks of the Neva. The river was rising, flinging on its course in the great tempestuous way that it always has during the first days of its release from the ice. The sky grew darker, the water rose. I saw refuge in the top gallery of a church with light green domes, and from here I watched the flood. First, as it covered the keys, tumbled in cascades of glittering water over the high parapet, trickling in little lines and pools, then rising into sheeted levels, then billowing in waves against the walls of the house, flooding the doors and the windows, until so far as the eye could reach there were only high towers remaining above its grasp. I do not know what happened to my security, and saw at length the waters stretch from sky to sky, one dark tossing ocean. The sun rose, a dead yellow. Slowly the waters sank again. Islands appeared, stretches of mud and waste. Heaving their huge bodies out of the ocean, vast monsters crawled through the mud, scaled and horned, lying like logs beneath the dead sun. The waters sank, forests rose. The sun sank, and there was black night, then a faint dawn, and in the early light of a lovely morning, a man appeared standing on the beach, shading his eyes, gazing out to sea. I fancied that in that strong bearded figure I recognized my peasant, who had seemed to haunt my steps so often. Gravely he looked round him, then turned back into the forest. Was my dream thus? Frankly I do not know. Two need an allegory to be true perhaps, and yet there was something of this in it. I know that I saw Boris, and the Rat, and Vera, and Semyonov, and Markovitch, appearing, vanishing, reappearing, and that I was strongly conscious that the submerged and ruined world did not touch them, and was only a background to their own individual activities. I know that Markovitch seemed to come to me again and cry, be patient, be patient, have faith, be faithful. I know that I woke struggling to keep him with me, crying out that he was not to leave me, that that way was danger. I woke to find my room flooded with sunshine, and my old woman looking at me with disapproval. Wake up, Baron, she was saying, it's three o'clock. Three o'clock, I muttered, trying to pull myself together. Three in the afternoon, I have some tea for you. When I realized the time, I had the sensation of the wildest panic. I jumped from my bed, pushing the old woman out of the room. I had betrayed my trust, I had betrayed my trust. I felt assured that some awful catastrophe had occurred, something that I might have prevented. When I was dressed, disregarding my housekeeper's cries, I rushed out into the street. At my end of the Ekaterinskovsky Canal, I was stopped by great throngs of men and women, returning homewards from the procession. There were marching, most of them in ordered lines across the street, arm in arm, singing the Marseillais. Very different from the procession a few weeks before, that had been dumb, cowed, bewildered. This was the movement of a people conscious of their freedom, sure of themselves, disdaining the world. Everywhere bands were playing, banners were glittering, and from the very heart of the soil, as it seemed, the Marseillais was rising. Although the sun only shone at brief intervals, there was a sense of spring warmth in the air. For some time I could not cross the street. Then I broke through and almost ran down the deserted stretch of the canal. I arrived almost breathless at the door in the English prospect. There I found Sasha watching the people and listening to the distant bands. Sasha, I cried, is Alexei Petrovich at home? No, Barin, she answered, looking at me in some surprise. He went out about a quarter of an hour ago. And Nicholas Markovich? He went out just now? Did he tell you where he was going? No, Barin, but I heard Alexei Petrovich tell him an hour back that he was going to Katerinov. I did not listen to more. I turned and went. Katerinov was a park ten minutes distant from my island. It was so-called because there was there the wooden palace of Catherine the Great. She had once made it her place of summer residence, but it was now given over to the people and was during the spring and summer used by them as a kind of fair and pleasure garden. The place had always been to me romantic and melancholy with the old faded wooden palace, the deserted ponds and the desolate trees. I had never been there in the summer. I don't know with what idea I hurried there. I can only say that I had no choice but to go and that I went as though I were still continuing my dream of the morning. Great numbers of people were hurrying there also. The road was thronged and many of them sang as they went. Looking back now, it has entirely a dream-like color. I stepped from the road under the trees and was at once in a world of incredible fantasy. So far as the eye could see there were peasants. The air was filled with an indescribable din. As I stepped deeper into the shelter of the leafless trees, the color seemed like fluttering banners to mingle and spread and sway before my eyes. Near to me were the tub-thumpers, now so common to us all in Petrograd. Men of the grog-off kind, stamping and shouting on their platforms, surrounded by open-mouthed soldiers and peasants. Here, too, were the quacks such as you might see at any fair in Europe. Quack dentists, quack medicine men, men with ointments for healing sores, men with pills and little bottles of bright liquid and tricks for ruptures and broken legs and arms. A little way beyond them were the peddlers. Here were the wildest men in the world. Tartars and letts and Indians, Asiatics with long yellow faces and strange fellows from northern Russia. They had everything to sell, bright beads and looking glasses and little lacquered trays, colored boxes, red and green and yellow, lace and silk and cloths of every color, purple and crimson and gold. From all these men there rose a deafening gavel. I pressed farther, although the crowd now around me was immense, and so I reached the heart of the fair. Here were enormous merry-go-rounds, and I had never seen such glittering things. They were from China, Japan, where you will. They were hung in shining gleaming colors, covered with tinsel and silver, and, as they went tossing round, emitting from their hearts a wild barbaric wail that may have been in some far eastern city the great song of all the lovers of the world for all I know. The colors flashed and wheeled and dazzled, and the light glittered from stem to stem of the brown silent trees. Here was the very soul of the east. Near me, a Chinaman, squatting on his haunches, was showing before a gaping crowd the exploits of his trained mice who walked up and down little crimson ladders, poked their trembling noses through holes of purple silk and shivering down precipices of golden embroidery. Near to him two Japanese were catching swords in their mouths, and beyond them again a great number of Chinese were tumbling and wrestling. And near to them again some Japanese children did little tricks catching colored balls in wooden cups and turning somersaults. Around all these a vast mass of peasants pushed and struggled. With children they watched and smiled and laughed, and always, like the flood of the dream, their numbers seemed to increase and increase. The noise was deafening, but always above the marigou rounds and the cheap jacks and the shrill screams of the Japanese and the cries of the peddlers I heard the chant of the Marseillais carried on high through the brown leafless park. I was bewildered and dazzled by the noise and the light. I turned desperately, pushing with my hands as one does in a dream. Then I saw Markovitch and Semyonov. I had no doubt at all that the moment had at last arrived. It was as though I had seen it all somewhere before. Semyonov was standing a little apart, leaning against a tree, watching with his sarcastic smile the movements of the crowd. Markovitch was a little way off. I could see his eyes fixed absolutely on Semyonov. He did not move, nor noticed the people who jostled him. Semyonov made a movement with his hand as though he had suddenly come to some decision. He walked slowly away in the direction of the palace. Markovitch, keeping a considerable distance from him, followed. For a moment I was held by the crowd around me, and when at last I got free, Semyonov had disappeared, and I could just see Markovitch turning the corner of the palace. I ran across the grass, trying to call out, but I could not hear my own voice. I turned the corner, and instantly I was in a strange place of peace. The old building, with its wooden lattices and pillars, stood melancholy guard over the dead pond, on whose surface some fragments of ice still lay. There was no sun, only a heavy oppressive air. All the noise was muffled, as though a heavy door had swung too. They were standing quite close to me. Semyonov had turned and faced us both. I saw him smile, and his lips moved. A moment later I saw Markovitch fling his hand forward, and in the air the light on the revolver twinkled. I heard no sound, but I saw Semyonov raise his arm, as though in self-defense. His face lifted strangely to the bare branches was triumphant, and I heard quite clearly the words, like a cry of joy and welcome. At last, at last, he tumbled forward on his face. I saw Markovitch turn the revolver on himself, and then heard a report, sharp and deafening, as though he had been in a small room. I saw Markovitch put his hand to his side, and his mouth, open as though in astonishment, was suddenly filled with blood. I ran to him, caught him in my arms. He turned on me a face full of puzzled wonder. I caught the word Vera, and he crumpled up against my heart. Even as I held him, I heard, coming closer and closer, the rough triumphant notes of the Marseillais.