II

I remember the excitement of it all. Uncle Kostia, it appeared, had risen earlier that day on account of the revolution; and after dinner, still in his dressing-gown and slippers, he paced the floor quicker than was his custom, and, contrary to his practice, discoursed at great length. He held that history was moving at an unheard-of pace, and he complained that it was indeed difficult for him, a historian, to keep pace with it. The revolution had overtaken Uncle Kostia as he was still tackling the age of Anne.

From Zina’s house I remember walking to the Bursanovs in the Mohovaya. I passed the sombre silhouettes of the snow-covered barges frozen on the Neva. It was dark now and the crowds in the streets were more tumultuous. Soldiers and civilians alike walked aimlessly, rifle slung over the shoulder. Several wine-cellars had been broken into; there were drunkards in the streets; but anyhow, all seemed drunk with the revolution. Shots were heard every now and then, mostly fired in the air, while the law courts had gone up in flames. The revolution, it was felt, had been established.

Curiously enough I had not seen the Bursanovs on my return to Petrograd until that night. They were just the same. Kniaz sat in the corner of the little drawing-room in his usual chair, and it seemed that the revolution had impressed him. But how it had impressed him no one could have divined. Need I say that the three sisters sat in much the same positions, waiting⁠—waiting for developments? Nikolai Vasilievich was very bitter. He had regarded the war almost as a deliberate attempt of providence to complicate his already very complicated domestic situation, and considering that providence had had the satisfaction of achieving its pernicious end, it seemed he could not understand the necessity of a revolution. “Malignity! Malignity!” he muttered, lowering the blinds, as if to show that he, at any rate, would have nothing to do with it.

“Nothing noble about it at all!” he answered me.

And Fanny Ivanovna, who had been sitting silently for some time, looked as if she were entirely of his opinion on that point.

And then a horrible groan was heard from the adjoining room. I cast a swift interrogative glance at Nikolai Vasilievich. I had an idea that they had hidden some wretched half-mutilated policeman, the victim of a revolutionary mob. But Nikolai Vasilievich and Fanny Ivanovna looked awkward and ashamed. There was, I noticed, a kind of appeal for sympathy in their eyes.

“That is Fanny Ivanovna’s husband,” said Nikolai Vasilievich apologetically.

I looked incredulous, and he explained. As Fanny Ivanovna was not married to him, she was a German subject, and when war broke out she was to go back to Germany or be interned in Vologda. She refused to go to Germany till Nikolai Vasilievich had provided for her for life, but as the war had further crippled his finances he was not in a position to give her the money; so they married her to Eberheim, an elderly gentleman of German extraction but a Russian subject. As his nominal wife Fanny Ivanovna was a Russian subject and could live in Russia until such time as the improvement in the working of the goldmines made it possible for Nikolai Vasilievich to provide for her for life. Then if he could get a divorce from his wife he would marry Zina.

“Is he wounded?” I asked, scenting revolutionary blood in the air.

“No⁠—cancer,” said Nikolai Vasilievich. And contrasted with this word painted red, the revolution out of doors seemed pale and trifling.

“He is going to have an operation in a day or so.”

“Has he suffered long?” I inquired.

“Oh, we took him out of hospital,” explained Fanny Ivanovna. “You may think it odd, but he consented to the marriage on condition that we took him home and looked after him. He said that he would not live long in any case and that money was no earthly use to him in his condition: what he wanted was care and comfort. And now the doctors and operations are costing Nikolai Vasilievich a good bit of money, I can tell you. Really, we are most unfortunate people.⁠ ⁠… And Sonia, too, marrying Baron Wunderhausen, who, as I suspected, is a drag on Nikolai Vasilievich’s resources. Really, he cannot afford it, Andrei Andreiech. The mines⁠—” She waved her hand. Nikolai Vasilievich, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets, stood looking at the window, though the blinds were lowered and there was nothing he could see.

“The wedding ceremony,” she went on, “was painful. I barely stood it myself. The priest at first refused to marry us. Nikolai Vasilievich had to lead him aside and bribe him. Eberheim’s condition was so bad⁠ ⁠… critical. It was wicked.⁠ ⁠… Yet he has a way of lasting. He has lasted now for over two years. One wants to be human to him, but really, Andrei Andreiech, look at us, look at us⁠ ⁠… us.⁠ ⁠… And now the revolution. Who wants the revolution?” She put her chin on her hand and turned her face away. There was silence.

Then, suddenly, without reason or provocation, she turned on the old Kniaz, sitting neatly in his usual armchair, imperturbable like a butler:

“Kniaz! Don’t sit there like that, like.⁠ ⁠… Oh, God, you’ve been sitting like that in that chair for thirteen years.⁠ ⁠… Say something! Say something!”

“What can I say?” he smiled faintly.

“What can you say!” she echoed; and again there was silence.

“Hasn’t he got any relations?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“No money?”

“Penniless.”

“Is he⁠ ⁠… good?”

“Yes, but⁠ ⁠… exacting.”

“Oh, poor fellow, he can’t help it,” said Nikolai Vasilievich.

“Poor fellow,” said Fanny Ivanovna.

“Poor fellow,” I echoed.

For a moment we sat in silence. We waited for Eberheim to groan again; but he too was silent; and we could just hear the measured ticking of the great oak-panelled clock in the corner and the subdued tumult of the streets below.

“And where is Magda Nikolaevna?” I asked.

“She is with Cecedek.”

“One burden less, what, Nikolai Vasilievich?”

Nikolai Vasilievich sighed.

“You would hardly say so,” said Fanny Ivanovna, “for Nikolai Vasilievich still has to keep his wife.”

“But what of Cecedek?”

“I am very sorry for him,” said Fanny Ivanovna.

And I learnt that at the outbreak of hostilities the Russian authorities had found it necessary to confiscate the whole of Cecedek’s property. They were then going to intern him, but he succeeded in proving to them that he was now a Czech; and so they set him free. But the property which they had taken from him as an Austrian they did not return to him as a Czech. He had been in correspondence with the authorities on this subject ever since July, 1914, and on his ultimate success in getting some of it refunded his marriage with Magda Nikolaevna must henceforth depend. Whether the revolution would assist him in his ambitious expectations, or would delay them further, it was hard to prophesy. Nikolai Vasilievich helped him as much as he was able in his present circumstances. In the meantime Magda Nikolaevna had suspended her application for a divorce and was still on Nikolai Vasilievich’s books for payment. But Cecedek’s attitude had not changed. He now rather liked to emphasize the Slavic side to their union, had in the last three years developed a Czech intonation in his Russian speech, professed an undue regard for his “Brother-Slavs,” pronounced his own name “Chechedek,” and in signing put those funny little accents on the C’s.

I left them very early next morning; in the excitement of the day there had been much work left overnight unaccomplished. It was about six o’clock when I crossed the Field of Mars. Soldiers in odd groups strolled along in the snow, now and then firing off a rifle in the air, just for the fun of the thing; and the capital wore that appearance of a banqueting-hall in the shrewd light of the morning after a particularly heavy feast. Fretful clouds moved swiftly across the winter sky. The morning promised a fine day.