XV
Suddenly I was better. I quite recovered from my fever and only laystill on my bed, weak, and very hungry. I was happy, happy as I had notbeen since I came to Petrograd. I felt all the luxury of convalescencecreeping into my bones. All that I need do was to lie there and letpeople feed me and read a little if it did not make my head ache. I hada water-colour painted by Alexander Benois on the wall opposite me, anight in the Caucasus, with a heavy sweep of black hill, a deep bluesteady sky, and a thin grey road running into endless distance. Apleasing picture, with no finality in its appeal--intimate too, so thatit was one's own road and one's own hill. I had bought it extravagantly,at last year's "_Mir Eskoustva_," and now I was pleased at myextravagance.
Marfa was very good to me, feeding me, and being cross with me to makeme take an interest in things, and acting with wonderful judgement aboutmy visitors. Numbers of people, English and Russian, came to see me--Ihad not known that I had so many friends. I felt amiable to all theworld, and hopeful about it, too. I looked back on the period before myillness as a bad dream.
People told me I was foolish to live out in this wretched place of mine,where it was cold and wild and lonely. And then when they came againthey were not so sure, and they looked out on the ice that shone inwaves and shadows of light under the sun, and thought that perhaps theytoo would try. But of course, I knew well that they would not....
As I grew stronger I felt an intense and burning interest in the historythat had been developing when I fell ill. I heard that Vera Michailovnaand Nina had called many times. Markovitch had been, and Henry Bohunand Lawrence.
Then, one sunny afternoon, Henry Bohun came in and I was surprised at mypleasure at the sight of him. He was shocked at the change in me, andwas too young to conceal it.
"Oh, you do look bad!" were his first words as he sat down by my bed. "Isay, are you comfortable here? Wouldn't you rather be somewhere withconveniences--telephone and lifts and things?"
"Not at all!" I answered. "I've got a telephone. I'm very happy where Iam."
"It is a queer place," he said. "Isn't it awfully unhealthy?"
"Quite the reverse--with the sea in front of it! About the healthiestspot in Petrograd!"
"But I should get the blues here. So lonely and quiet. Petrograd is astrange town! Most people don't dream there's a queer place like this."
"That's why I like it," I said. "I expect there are lots of queerplaces in Petrograd if you only knew."
He wandered about the room, looking at my few pictures and my books andmy writing-table. At last he sat down again by my bed.
"Now tell me all the news," I said.
"News?" he asked. He looked uncomfortable, and I saw at once that he hadcome to confide something in me. "What sort of news? Political?"
"Anything."
"Well, politics are about the same. They say there's going to be anawful row in February when the Duma meets--but then other people saythere won't be a row at all until the war is over."
"What else do they say?"
"They say Protopopoff is up to all sorts of tricks. That he says prayerswith the Empress and they summon Rasputin's ghost.... That's all rot ofcourse. But he does just what the Empress tells him, and they're goingto enslave the whole country and hand it over to Germany."
"What will they do that for?" I asked.
"Why, then, the Czarevitch will have it--under Germany. They say thatnone of the munitions are going to the Front, and Protopopoff's keepingthem all to blow up the people here with."
"What else?" I asked sarcastically.
"No, but really, there's something in it, I expect." Henry lookedserious and important. "Then on the other hand, Clutton-Davies says theCzar's absolutely all right, dead keen on the war and hates Germany..._I_ don't know--but Clutton-Davies sees him nearly every day."
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Oh, food's worse than ever! Going up every day, and the bread queuesare longer and longer. The Germans have spies in the queues, women whogo up and down telling people it's all England's fault."
"And people are just the same?"
"Just the same; Donons' and the Bear are crowded every day. You can'tget a table. So are the cinematographs and the theatres. I went to theBallet last night."
"What was it?"
"'La fille mal gardee'--Karsavina dancing divinely. Every one wasthere."
This closed the strain of public information. I led him further.
"Well, Bohun, what about our friends the Markovitches?" I asked. "Howare you getting on there?"
He blushed and looked at his boots.
"All right," he said. "They're very decent."
Then he burst out with: "I say, Durward, what do you think of this unclethat's turned up, the doctor chap?"
"Nothing particular. Why?"
"You were with him at the Front, weren't you?"
"I was."
"Was he a good doctor?"
"Excellent."
"He had a love affair at the Front, hadn't he?"
"Yes."
"And she was killed?"
"Yes."
"Poor devil...." Then he added: "Did he mind very much?"
"Very much."
"Funny thing, you wouldn't think he would."
"Why not," I asked.
"Oh, he looks a hard sort of fellow--as though he'd stand anything. Iwouldn't like to have a row with him."
"Has he been to the Markovitches much lately?"
"Yes--almost every evening."
"What does he do there?"
"Oh, just sits and talks. Markovitch can't bear him. You can see thateasily enough. He teases him."
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"Oh, he laughs at him all the time, at his inventions and that kind ofthing. Markovitch gets awfully wild. He is bit of an ass, isn't he?"
"Do you like Semyonov?" I asked.
"I do rather," said Henry. "He's very decent to me. I had a walk withhim one afternoon. He said you were awfully brave at the Front."
"Thank him for nothing," I said.
"And he said you didn't like him--don't you?"
"Ah, that's too old a story," I answered. "We know what we feel aboutone another."
"Well, Lawrence simply hates him," continued Bohun. "He says he's themost thundering cad, and as bad as you make them. I don't see how he cantell."
This interested me extremely. "When did he tell you this?" I asked.
"Yesterday. I asked him what he had to judge by and he said instinct. Isaid he'd no right to go only by that."
"Has Lawrence been much to the Markovitches?"
"Yes--once or twice. He just sits there and never opens his mouth."
"Very wise of him if he hasn't got anything to say."
"No, but really--do you think so? It doesn't make him popular."
"Why, who doesn't like him?"
"Nobody," answered Henry ungrammatically. "None of the English anyway.They can't stand him at the Embassy or the Mission. They say he'sfearfully stuck-up and thinks about nothing but himself.... I don'tagree, of course--all the same, he might make himself more agreeable topeople."
"What nonsense!" I answered hotly. "Lawrence is one of the best fellowsthat ever breathed. The Markovitches don't dislike him, do they?"
"No, he's quite different with them. Vera Michailovna likes him I know."
It was the first time that he had mentioned her name to me. He turnedtowards me now, his face crimson. "I say--that's really what I came totalk about, Durward. I care for her madly!... I'd die for her. I wouldreally. I love her, Durward. I see now I've never loved anybody before."
"Well, what will you do about it?"
"Do about it?... Why nothing, of course. It's all perfectly hopeless.In the first place, there's Markovitch."
"Yes. There's Markovitch," I agreed.
"She doesn't care for him--does she? You know that--" He waited, eagerlystaring into my face.
I had a temptation to laugh. He was so very young, so very he
lpless, andyet--that sense of his youth had pathos in it too, and I suddenly likedyoung Bohun--for the first time.
"Look here, Bohun," I said, trying to speak with a proper solemnity."Don't be a young ass. You know that it's hopeless, any feeling of thatkind. She _does_ care for her husband. She could never care for you inthat way, and you'd only make trouble for them all if you went on withit.... On the other hand, she needs a friend badly. You can do that forher. Be her pal. See that things are all right in the house. Make afriend of Markovitch himself. Look after _him!_"
"Look after Markovitch!" Bohun exclaimed.
"Yes... I don't want to be melodramatic, but there's trouble comingthere; and if you're the friend of them all, you can help--more than youknow. Only none of the other business--"
Bohun flushed. "She doesn't know--she never will. I only want to be afriend of hers, as you put it. Anything else is hopeless, of course.I'm not the kind of fellow she'd ever look at, even if Markovitch wasn'tthere. But if I can do anything... I'd be awfully glad. What kind oftrouble do you mean?" he asked.
"Probably nothing," I said; "only she wants a friend. And Markovitchwants one too."
There was a pause--then Bohun said, "I say, Durward--what an awful ass Iwas."
"What about?" I asked.
"About my poetry--and all that. Thinking it so important."
"Yes," I said, "you were."
"I've written some poetry to her and I tore it up," he ended.
"That's a good thing," said I.
"I'm glad I told you," he said. He got up to go. "I say, Durward--"
"Well," I asked.
"You're an awfully funny chap. Not a bit what you look--"
"That's all right," I said; "I know what you mean."
"Well, good-night," he said, and went.