IX

She was going along quickly, wrapped in the familiar fur; and it was snowing merrily.

“Nina!”

She turned round and stopped, smiling. And the bright white winter day seemed to be smiling with her. It was the day of the Social Revolutionary coup d’état. Early in the morning troops of revolutionary partisans had occupied the city peacefully and taken possession of the public buildings, to wild cheering from the local crowds. The Russian national flag had been hauled down and a red one hoisted in its stead. Processions had appeared with revolutionary banners, and the town was decorated in red. “Have you heard the news?” she said. “Pàvel Pàvlovich, the Baron, has fled to Japan overnight, without telling us a word.”

“Of course, he was in danger of being arrested by the Reds,” I said. “But I suppose he’ll come back some day.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“What does Sonia think?”

“She’s glad.”

“Glad?”

“Yes. She was going to leave him herself⁠ ⁠… to marry Holdcroft. But now.⁠ ⁠…”

“Now what?”

“But now he’s left her.”

“Well, all the better, then. Saves trouble.”

“It’s⁠ ⁠… humiliating.”

We went on together and, nearing home, we cut through masses of new snow. It was one o’clock. The sun shone yellow. She put her hand into my coat pocket. Tender flecks, falling from the sky, would linger on her brows and lashes. We fumbled and wrangled in the snow; and, with that birdlike look of hers, she said, “Today⁠ ⁠… I like you.”

At the American Headquarters dance last night she had been strangely, inexplicably hostile; and Fanny Ivanovna had made it worse by exhorting her to dance with me against her will. And, of course, there were Ward and White and Holdcroft. I remember sitting there that night with a sense of injury. What was the matter? Had I usurped too many of her dances? I felt as a man might feel who in a moment of particular goodwill towards mankind discovers that his watch has been pickpocketed. I said nothing, but strove to put it all into my look. She came up to me, rapturous, delicious. There was about her that night a disquieting, elusive charm. “I told you that I love you. What else do you want?” She said it with just that torturing proportion of smile and earnestness that you could not tell how it was meant: and very likely that was just how it was meant. I remember I ransacked my soul for something stinging. “You can’t love,” I said. “You’re not a woman; you’re a fish.” It is unfair to analyse love-reasoning unless in a similar emotional temperature. The dance over, our coats on, we sat and waited for the car, Nina looking rather sulky.⁠ ⁠… And today what a change the sunshine has wrought!

We reached their house. “Come in,” she said.

“No.”

She went in, took off her coat, and while I lingered, came back and stood on the steps.

“You’ll catch cold like that.”

She shook her head.

“I wish,” said I, “that women would propose to men.⁠ ⁠… I should love to say, ‘Oh, why can’t we remain just friends?’ ”

She looked at me. “You would say it to me?”

“Jokingly, of course.”

“I shan’t propose then.”

“And if I said it seriously, would you propose then?”

“Yes,” she laughed.

“Aren’t we supposed to be engaged, though?”

“Are we?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll marry but divorce at once,” she said, “and live separately, and meet only once a year.”

And then the door opened and Nikolai Vasilievich said somewhat angrily to me: “Either come inside, or go. She’ll catch cold standing here with nothing on.” And as he vanished he rather slammed the door.

“Go in, Nina, or he’ll be angry.”

“Take no notice of him. None of us take any notice of him. That’s why he is angry.”

“Then I’ll go in,” I said. And we both went in, and heard Fanny Ivanovna saying: “Believe me, Sonia, it’s all for the best. If you like, send him a postcard with ‘Good riddance’ on it. That’s all you need say.” And as I listened, it transpired further⁠—for misfortunes never come alone⁠—that Baron Wunderhausen was not a baron, and not even Wunderhausen.

Sonia was downcast. “What the devil does it matter, anyhow,” argued Nikolai Vasilievich, “above all now that he is gone, whether he is a baron or no baron, Wunderhausen or no Wunderhausen?” But Sonia would not hear of it. That he should have left without telling her a word! That he should have lied to her all these years! Also she had always scoffed at him for his title, thought it ridiculous, almost a deliberate affectation. But now that the truth had been revealed to her and she knew that he had never had a title, she felt that she had been insulted rudely, married under false pretences. Well, she would insist on a divorce; she would take good care that she was the first in the field to insist on it. Holdcroft was extraordinarily attractive. He seemed rather keen on Vera, though. But how beautifully he danced.

And just that moment the gramophone, which Vera was fiddling with, broke loose into an intoxicating one-step. Nina, standing by it, echoed at the end of each refrain⁠—“My‑y‑y cell‑ar!” as the music galloped into syncopation.

“Whose is the gramophone?”

It was Olya Olenin’s, the timid “football” little niece of Uncle Kostia.

“There they are!” cried Sonia. Three U.S. naval uniforms appeared in the window.

“If only we had more room here,” sighed Fanny Ivanovna. But how scrupulously clean she kept the little that there was of it.

“I’m forever blow‑ing bub‑bles,” hissed the gramophone.⁠ ⁠…

“Fu⁠—fu fu fu fu⁠—fu fu⁠—” whistled Nikolai Vasilievich. And, forgetful of her prodigal baronial spouse, Sonia dodged the chairs and sofa in the embrace of Holdcroft, while Kniaz sat in his corner seat, a little in the way, and read his paper and sucked sweets.

“You want to go?” Fanny Ivanovna looked at Nikolai Vasilievich with a solicitude that suggested a desire to anticipate his wishes. “All right. We’ll have our tea now. Sonia! Nina! Vera! Tea.”

“There’s no hurry,” he calmed her.

During tea he was hilarious. He had been out in the streets and mixed with the crowds. What hilarious, happy crowds! The change had come about at last. Something would happen now. He said he thought it would be a few days only till the thing was finally settled. He meant to go and see some of the new ministers. A quite decent Government, it seemed; and what good order, all things considering. The Social-Revolutionaries had a double platform; they appealed to those who had no use for international militarism on revolutionary grounds, and to those who had no use for revolution on national grounds. And Nikolai Vasilievich thought that such broad-minded, reasonable people could not fail to see his point as regards the goldmines. I sat listening to him and in my influx of sudden happiness eating more than I really wanted to; for I felt she was à moi once more.

He went out at last, and Fanny Ivanovna shut the door behind him. She looked at me, smiled, and then heaved a little sigh. “I let him do as he pleases,” she said. “Perhaps it’s better so. We’ll see.⁠ ⁠…”

As it darkened we took Olya home, and trailing our feet in the deep snow, carried the uncomfortably heavy gramophone, and marched in various formations, halted, marched again, and then, towards the climax, carried Nina in a burial procession. At the Olenins we danced again, I claiming Nina and the three American boys having to put up with what was “second best.” Madame Olenin, a suckling in a jumper at her breast, stood in the doorway and watched. A ten-years-old military cadet had followed her into the room and also stood in the doorway, in a civilian overcoat, and gaped at us. “Our Peter,” said she, “is a loyal little monarchist and refuses to take off his shoulder-straps in spite of the Red coup d’état.” The maternal hand stroked the offspring’s hair in a tender gesture. “But I made him put on this civilian overcoat on top. It isn’t safe, you know.”

I came up and cuddled little Fanny in a rather inefficient fashion and lavished unmitigated praise, as is the classic way when talking to a mother of her babe. And then little Fanny, as is the classic way with babies, for no apparent cause, began howling, howling without rhyme or reason. I was made to play the piano, and I was pleasantly aware that Nina advertised me and showed me off as though I was her own special merchandise. The snow in the yard was pink from the sun as we jumped about on the sofa. She took water in her mouth and blew it out into my face, whereon I got her into a corner and slapped her hard, while the others looked on in amusement. She was trying to bite my hands; and then as we went out she would insist on fastening my overcoat.

The others trailed behind, and we could hear their laughter growing fainter as we walked ahead. The snow creaked agreeably beneath our feet. It was five o’clock and there were the first signs of twilight. We passed the sombre silhouette of their little wooden house. Oh, how sad were these things in the winter.⁠ ⁠… Darkness was swiftly setting in. We crossed the wood. The tall pine-trees, covered with a thick coating of snow, stood mute and dreaming in the twilight; only their peaks moved ever so gently to and fro, murmuring some vague complaint.

Then, suddenly, we came out into the open and saw the sea. Clad in an armour of ice, it was as smooth as a mirror. Here and there a monstrous snow-covered lump rose from the surface. The sky was grey and fretful and darkness fell upon us with every minute. The sun, as it set, slowly cast a feeble red flame on the sea chained in ice, and the crescent moon spread a yellow light over the surface, glimmering in varied colours on the ice, the snow, the glaciers. The wind strengthened and the frost pricked at my ears.

“Say something! Say something!”

“What shall I say?”

“Why, you’re worse than Kniaz!” I exclaimed.

She smiled.

“Say that the sea is a dazzling sight, that the moon is⁠ ⁠… well, anything you like, that the sun is red copper.”

She looked as though all this was nothing, but she alone was real. “Why falsify the tone? It’s there: I can see it.”

“Is this not beautiful then? You’re an amazing creature! One doesn’t know which side to get hold of you. I talk to you about⁠ ⁠… about⁠ ⁠… this” (a florid gesture to the sea). “You tell me it is false.”

“This” (an imitative florid gesture) “is all right. But please don’t talk about it to me.”

She was silent.

“I liked you this morning,” she said then. “But now⁠—!”

“You see, the trouble is,” said I, “that you can’t talk of anything but foxtrots.”

“Last night at the American dance,” she said, “I danced with Ward.”

“I know, I saw you,” I said in a tone of condemnation.

“He’s very nice; I like him; but I can’t talk of anything to him. He asked me, ‘Do you like foxtrots?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ And when later on we danced the waltz, he said, ‘Do you like waltzes?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ And he said. ‘I like them too.’ ”

“There you are!” I cried triumphantly. “You’ve got to stick to me and sack all the rest!”

“You are nice,” she said, “and there are days when I like you⁠—though you never know when they are. But⁠ ⁠… I can’t talk to you.”

And she added, “I am going home.”

The sun contracted and grew more red and feeble as the moon shone brighter and cast an even yellow light upon the space around us. Fretful fantastic shadows flitted across the ice. Objects about us grew black. Darkness was now hard upon us.

We returned by moonlight that glimmered on the snow.