The Children

THE NEW ATLANTIC SERIAL

BY NINA FEDOROVA

AUTHOR OF THE $10,000 PRIZE NOVEL, THE FAMILY

CHAPTERS XIII-XIX

THE

Children

BY NINA FEDOROVA

THE AUTHOR: Nina Fedorova, the Atlantic novelist, was born in South Russia. Her parents were of the intelligentsia, and after the Revolution she and her family became part of the exile movement which flowed across Siberia into Manchuria and thence to China. In 1938 she aNd her husband and her two sons crossed the Pacific to make a fresh start as American citizens in the university town of Eugene, Oregon. There she wrote her first novel, The Family, which in 1940 was awarded the Atlantic Prize of $10,000.

THE NOVEL: This is the story of Russian exiles in China in the year 1938 — of parents and young people living on the ragged edge of poverty with only the strands of family affection to hold them together. As the book opens, Lida, a young girl with a lovely voice, is making ready for her first concert in Tientsin. Her voice has been trained (without fee) by Madame Manuilova, a faded but once famous opera singer; if the girl does well in this amateur performance, her teacher has promised to take her on to Harbin for professional engagements.

Lida and her mother share an attic together. Mother supports them on her slender earnings as a nurse, but her duties at the hospital prevent her attending Lida’s debut. The girl is taken to the concert by their landlord, Count Diaz. At the hall they are joined by Leon, the Count’s son, and he, with the rest of the audience, is swept off his feet by the fresh and appealing beauty of Lida’s singing. The girl is walking on air, but she is brought down to earth when, to her embarrassment, Leon proposes to her. Caught up as she is by the ecstasy of her music and the remembrance of her American lover, Jimmy, the girl turns him down in innocent cruelty.

The trip to Harbin is now assured. Lida and her teacher make the three-day journey in the company of the kindly American, Mr. Rind. In Harbin, Lida finds a home with the large and affectionate Platov family.

Mr. Rind goes first to apply for his Russian visa, and the Consul at once offers to send him a translator who can help him read the local newspapers; so there comes to him the young girl Dasha — eager, intelligent, and devoted to the communist cause. Between these two lonely people so oddly contrasted, there grows an exquisite friendship.

THE CHILDREN

BY NINA FEDOROVA

XIII

MR. RIND,’ Lida said, ‘could you ever guess whom I met today?’

Lida saw Mr. Rind almost daily when she went to the hotel to call on Mme. Manuilova. And now they were all sitting in the lounge.

‘How can I guess?’ he answered. ‘There are many people whom you could meet, and then only very few whom we both know.’

‘I met that poor Armenian woman we saw on the train.’

‘Well . . . what is she doing now?’ ‘She does not know what to do with her three boys. She has never been trained to do anything except keep house, and the boys can’t earn their living . .

‘Why can’t they?’

‘Oh, Mr. Rind,’ a reproach was in Lida’s voice, ‘ they’re too young — twelve, ten, and four.’

‘Well, what is she planning to do?’ Lida looked around suspiciously, then bent to Mr. Rind’s ear and whispered: — ‘ She plans to give the two oldest to the communists.’

‘What?’

‘To let them be communists . . . Then they will go to Soviet Russia for their schooling.’

‘But there must be some principles . . .’ Mr. Rind said.

“‘Principles are for richer people,”’ Lida cried. ‘ “ First you eat, then you remember you have principles.” That is just what the Armenian said. Oh, Mr. Rind, let us go and see her! She invited us to celebrate their Christmas with them.’

‘When is it?’

‘The woman does not know exactly. But they have a ritual. The priest must come and announce that Christ was born, otherwise He could not be . . .’

‘But the woman? How is she?’

‘She is waiting for the birth of Christ, and she is fasting . . . Oh, she is so thin, so weak, so exhausted . . .’ Lida’s eyes were sparkling with tears. ‘She can die before He would be born.’

‘Couldn’t she start eating?’

‘To break the fast? Never! Never! Other people can do that, she — never. She would rather die, she said . . . and, Mr. Rind, she asked me to come and celebrate with her ... let us go! Mr. Rind, let us go! You know, then she can eat everything and we could, perhaps, bring her something nice for supper.’

Mr. Rind meekly said: —

‘When shall we go?’

‘In the evening, around ten o’clock.’

‘Why so late?’

‘Her Christmas begins at night.’

There was nothing to say to that, and the visit was agreed upon.

At ten o’clock of the same evening Mr. Rind and Lida went to see the poor Armenian woman, whose name was Haikanush. She had a small room, full of things of dubious age and value. She wore a black dress and a black shawl that hid the upper as well as the lower part of her face; only the eyes and nose were exposed to the observer. But those eyes were a picture in themselves, testimony of an uneven struggle against misfortunes; of tears — shed in loneliness; of hopes deceived, of dreams broken, of expectance betrayed; and finally, of a peculiar strength which comes out of desolation and despair only, and is often stronger than any other strength.

Her three boys were sitting motionlessly and mournfully in the three corners. A table covered with a snowwhite napkin stood in the middle of the room.

As soon as the guests came and were seated, the woman extinguished all the lights.

‘This is their custom,’ Lida whispered. ‘They lived for ages under the Turks and had to celebrate their holidays in the greatest secrecy or else they would be simply killed on the spot.’

For a while they sat in silence and darkness. A strange feeling entered Mr. Rind’s soul, too. It seemed that while they were sitting thus, in darkness, something was being prepared for them

— something of the greatest joy, felicity, and blessedness.

It was so easy to believe, there in that darkness, that mysteries did exist and miracles did go their rounds.

Suddenly a cautious knock was heard at the door. A movement, hasty cautious steps — and the woman opened the door. Several dark and silent figures slid into the room, and noiselessly the door was shut. Nobody said a word. A match was struck and Mr. Rind saw a tall man

— extraordinarily tall and handsome — with dark eyes burning in a thin face with a silvery beard. Everybody had a wax candle. They lit the candles and stood in a close circle, shading the flames with their folded palms, to hide lights. Then the priest said something.

He said it simply and briefly, but it made them all start and shiver — Mr. Rind too, for he knew what the priest said. Child Christ was born, just then, just there, that very moment, among those dark figures. He was born, in spite of all, the faith lost, the sins in full tide; in spite of the boys ready for communism; in spite of Mr. Rind and Lida’s different creed. He was born for all of them.

Then they all sang a carol. The candles were extinguished, and the visitors left to perform the same miracle at other houses.

The lights in the room were lit. Now this was another room, another woman, another mood. This was joy, the real joy, which is not immediately connected with temporal things, but comes as a reflection of things above.

Now Haikanush had another face, sparkling with happy tears, as if she wore diamonds of many carats and purest water.

She laid the table, and Lida helped with things she had brought.

This was a supper to remember always: the woman eating at last, with a grateful and pious expression on her face, the boys less mournful but not less silent, Lida happy to tears, and Mr. Rind — a spectator to all this.

Before they left, the woman told Lida to thank Mr. Rind and to tell him she wished him and his country happiness. Mr. Rind was curious to know how she reconciled all this — her flaming faith with the giving of her sons to a different life.

‘Master,’ she said and Lida translated, ‘my heart is broken ... I am a lone, poor, illiterate widow left with orphans . . . Children need a strong ruling hand . . . “Mother is love, father is a rod” . . . My love is not enough. I am giving my children to those who are willing to take them, to give them bread and shelter — and the rest is left to God!’

XIV

The nineteenth of January (the sixth in the old Russian calendar) is a great holiday, that of Christ’s baptism in the river Jordan. This day concludes the Christmas celebration and marks the climax of festivities. On the eve, according to an ancient custom, youth is busy with fortune-telling. That is the only day through the year when this occult occupation is not frowned on by the clergy, who yield, for the sake of youth’s amusement, to that old preChristian custom which has persisted through thousands of years.

The Platov children kept the tradition, and all except Galina had questions to be asked from Fate. Glafira and Lida tried the oldest and the easiest rite. In twilight they left the house and went in different directions. When Lida saw a lonely passer-by she approached and asked timidly: —

' Would you kindly tell me the name of my bridegroom?’

‘Why? Iakov, of course,’ the man said laughing.

And, all shaken, Lida realized that Iakov in English meant exactly Jimmy. Her anxiety — she still had no letters was alleviated by this single word, and she ran home all radiant from happiness.

Glafira returned in a rather vague mood. Her passer-by had just laughed at her request and said: —

‘You little fox, you know very well what your bridegroom’s name will be.’

Meanwhile Mme. Platova prepared a salted fritter, and all the children ate, except Galina again. This meant that, being thirsty, they would see in dreams the answer to their hearts’ desires. Lida and Glafira put their combs under their pillows, to make the future bridegrooms appear and help with hair-dressing. This provoked laughter, for nowadays girls’ bobbed hair does not need as much help as those knee-long blonde tresses of their grandmothers.

That night was rich in dreams, in sighs, in sounds, in whispers. Only Galina slept quietly.

Lida dreamed of Jimmy, of course, but he loomed far away. He brandished something in his hand, but it was not her comb. Then she saw Mr. Rind, who was standing on a sea rock; pointing down to the waves, he told Lida she had to jump down and drink. But she could not, for the water was hot and salted.

She woke up to see Glafira sitting on her bed. In deep whispers the latter confessed to Lida her love. In plain words it sounded no richer than Lida’s. It ran thus: Mr. Wren had come from Australia two months ago. He was of Russian origin, but with his parents’ naturalization he was now a British subject, which sounded like being a prince to the girls of nations trodden upon in Asia. Mr. Wren was almost rich. People said he had come to marry a Russian girl. All the eligible Russian marriageable girls of Harbin were after him.

Glafira’s love story was the poem of a tragic one-sided love. They met. She fell in love. He did not. He never said anything special and was often seen as an escort of the Belle of the Town. That was all.

Glafira opened her secret only to Vladimir, her brother in Shanghai — first, because they were the closest pals in the family; second, because it was not such a heavy shame to confess one’s failure at a distance. Lida was the second person to share the burden.

‘Believe me,’ Glafira whispered, ‘it is not only because he is a British subject — no! — I would love him under any conditions, for he is so ... so lovable ... I am stupid, or something, but I cannot fall in love with the boys around here, whom I have known so long. Love must come from the unknown . . . I love Mr. Wren because he is so gay, strong, powerful . . .’ And she began to cry.

‘But what am I to him? Lida, to whom do those young, strong, happy boys belong? Whom do they marry? What must a girl have to attract their love?’

Lida did not know, either, and they both shed many tears, happily abandoning themselves to their sorrow. Only young girls can cry like that, only young girls in love, for there is such force in youth that even tears and sorrow taste sweet and balmy.

In the morning — whatever the dreams — all the family went to church.

After a long Mass, the religious procession with crosses, icons, and banners came out of every church building and joined in one procession to the river. The Sungari River was called the Jordan for that single day. A place for the ceremony had been duly prepared. An icehole had been cut to serve as a font. A splendid cross, fifteen feet high, had been hewn out of ice and perched erect on the eastern side of the font. Sculptured by an artist, the cross bore beautiful ornamental reliefs cut in ice. It sparkled splendidly. Sometimes, under direct sun rays, it threw high a pillar of dazzling light.

The air was filled with the triumphant sounds of church bells. They were heard farther on days like that, cold, still, and clear.

The joined choruses of the churches sang prayers along the way. Church banners — in silver, gold, and the bright colors of the ancient icon paintings — hovered over the crowd. The Bishop led the procession.

The Bishop of Harbin was an old, smallish man with the wistful face of an innocent child. That round face expressed all the stability of a non-questioning faith, which could look at the hell of life and believe in God, see a corpse and believe in its resurrection, see a crime and pity the murderer. His was that beautiful, blithe acceptance of life known only among Christians. He was one of those who knew that the explanation of life cannot be found in the transitory, woeful changes of material existence, but in the wisdom which comes after one has experienced and accepted them.

Tens of thousands of people followed the Bishop, for practically none, except those too old or too small, would remain at home on such a day.

That day seemed to be always the coldest throughout the year; still, men walked bareheaded, their beards covered with hoar frost, even their eyebrows, their eyelashes. The clergy, about forty in number, stood around the Bishop while he performed the rite of plunging the cross thrice into the font, which was to make that water pure and holy for that single day.

Then people approached the font one by one and took away water in bottles. This water had to be preserved throughout the year, until another Epiphany, and it was made to serve different purposes. It was sprinkled over a sick child, or in a new house, or in a garden.

The last item of the ritual was the bathing of the volunteers. Bathing in that cold was a rather venturous deed. Usually the bathers wore bathing suits and fur coats (one’s own or one lent for the occasion). They would take off the coats, remain for a moment in the open, to accustom themselves to the change of temperature, and then, making the sign of the cross, plunge into the font of Jordan. The first touch of water would be felt as hot, even burning; then a terrible shock would bring the realization of cold. One would hurry out of the water. The coat would be thrown on and the bather driven home.

When the Bishop bent and plunged the golden cross into the waters, all the crowd sang. Following the old custom, people opened the cages with birds, especially brought for the occasion. The birds usually were tame doves. They would soar high in the air, over the cross, in slow circular movements. All that, singing, the sounds of bells, all that sparkling of light, the brightness of the banners, all that excitement fascinated Lida. She had never seen a Jordan on the ice. It appealed not only to her religious feelings but to her artistic emotions too.

In the afternoon she decided to go and see the Jordan once more, now in the sunset light.

The bank of the river was high. The horizon lay open, before Lida’s eyes, and the surface of the river seemed flooded with the purple brightness of the sunset. Here and there people were walking in small groups — holiday strollers, or lovers. The air was fresh and cold and a light wind rose and fell, coming from the open space of the river.

Suddenly she felt somebody touch her arm. With a start Lida came to herself and looked around. Dasha stood beside her.

‘Worshiping the ice today?’ Dasha asked.

‘No, the cross,’ Lida answered.

‘That cross?’ Dasha said in an intentionally mocking tone and pointed her finger down at the cross, lit with lights of sunset. ‘Praying to that ice?’

‘The cross . . .’ Lida repeated.

But its substance is ice. People were actually worshipping a block of ice today.’

‘Dasha,’ Lida said gently, ‘do you want to say those people were not believers ? ‘

‘Believers in what?’

‘In whom ... In Christ.’

‘Hm,’ said Dasha and laughed. ‘I don ’t think anybody now believes in Him honestly. Some still cling to churches, for churches are such a cosy shelter for the weak.’

‘Dasha,’ Lida said again, gently. The first question is about oneself . . . Why start by doubting others?’

You are ridiculous. Of course I do not believe. More, I hate. Christianity kept progress back. It was given too long a trial as a system — imagine two thousand years utterly useless, completely wasted.’

Oh!’ Lida said and tried to move away.

‘Stop!’ Dasha caught her hand. ‘Let me hear your argument. How could you believe in one who had all the power and for centuries could withstand the tears and prayers of those who clung to him . . . could see sufferings and never interfere . . .’

‘I do not know,’ Lida answered. ‘I do not even feel a need to know. I have no urge whatever to question God. I just believe . . .’

‘Sounds rather misty,’ Dasha said in a scoffing tone.

‘Listen,’ Lida said. ‘In my family we almost never speak of religion. I am not an ardent churchgoer. Even in church, I am attracted mostly by the mystical beauty of the rites. I even cannot say that I pray often. But with all my being I know — and will never doubt — the existence of God. I live happily because of it. Dasha,’ she said and her voice trembled, ‘we both are fatherless . . . but I never feel lonely, or lost, or left alone . . .’

‘Ha!’ Dasha smiled. ‘This is a poor way to talk about religion. What do you think about Christ? Would you die for Him?’

‘I?’ Lida was as if at a loss for a moment. ‘For Him? You mean to be forced to renounce Him and commit a blasphemy? Oh! In that case I would rather die!’

She breathed quickly. Dasha was looking at her with severe, mournful eyes.

‘Are you lying?’

‘No, I am not.’

They both stood for a while in silence. Suddenly, without any provocation, Dasha raised both her arms and with her palms uplifted upward, ready to receive, she cried impudently: —

‘Hello! God! If Thou art there, strike me now that I may believe in Thee too!’

And she laughed loudly.

Lida — petrified — looked at her. Horror at this intentional blasphemy shook her. She covered her face with her hands and ran blindly away from Dasha.

XV

‘Mr. Rind,’ Dasha said, ‘will you go with me to a meeting today?’

‘ Why should I go? I should not, understand much of it.’

‘But this is a special meeting. There will be a delegate from Moscow. He will speak.’

‘About what?’

‘ He will give us an outline of the world situation — suggest the lines of our behavior and activities.’

‘Is he someone whom you know personally?’

Dasha was silent for a moment.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I know him. We were in the same youth group for a while.’

‘Well, when will it take place?’

‘Tonight, late. It is a secret meeting. Do not say a word to anybody. We shall have to go to the outskirts of the town to one of the schools there . . .’

This Mr. Rind did not like. But Dasha said the police usually knew about secret meetings, and only pretended to know nothing. According to Dasha, Comrade Bugrov was an outstanding orator, a leader, and his speech would be of great interest. She promised to translate so that. Mr. Rind would understand everything.

Dasha came for him at ten o’clock that night. They went on foot. The distant sky sparkled with stars. The daytime bustle and noise was gradually sinking into quietness. A kind of exhilarating freshness filled the air. Dasha seemed excited. She could hardly keep from running to that meeting.

They left the more populated streets and went into the quiet, almost unlit quarters, and the beauty of the night became more visible. Its charm grew in measure as the artificial lights and noise were left farther behind. At the corner of a garden Dasha halted for a moment. She stood with her face uplifted toward stars. Their pale light threw shadows on her childish face. Her eyes narrowed.

‘On these marvelous nights,’ Dasha said slowly, ‘I feel a longing to fly . . . like a bird ... to new places . . .’

Silent figures moved here and there. Such a number of passers-by seemed unusual for that street at that time. The Comrades were coming to their secret meeting.

Dasha halted and, pushing a board in the fence, stepped into a yard. She made a sign to Mr. Rind to follow, and when he was in she put the board back into the fence.

They were in a garden. Through the branches of the trees, now leafless, a big house was seen, high, dark, and quiet.

To that house Dasha led him. They entered it through a small side door, went down several steps, along a series of corridors, then upstairs. The house was almost unlighted; only here and there a shaded lamp gave light enough to distinguish steps or doors. In spite of darkness, the house seemed strangely alive. A whisper came from above, someone moved ahead, someone breathed behind; beyond the walls, in other rooms, everywhere, cautious voices and muffled sounds were moving in one direction.

They entered a room. It was an auditorium. The big, half-lit room was packed with people. The windows were darkened with shutters and curtains.

Mr. Rind looked round and a sudden excitement took possession of him. After the lonely walk these hundreds of people seemed a bracing change. He felt positively young, boyish. Here were risks and dangers. An adventure. It challenged a daring mood in him.

Dasha held his hand tightly and piloted him to a place where they could sit.

Mr. Rind looked at the people round him. Youth predominated. Boys under twenty with clear eyes, full of eager life. The girls were mostly variations of Dasha’s type — simple, even crude in appearance, all poorly clad, with bobbed hair and not the slightest signs of fashion or coquetry. The women had pale and tired faces and often a kind of masculine clumsiness of manners. There were also elderly men. These did not form a type but were personalities. Mr. Rind was a bit startled at their looks. One was a big and quiet man, who seemed to be a combination of powers — physical, nervous, mental. Another was pale and underweight, with the pathetic eyes of a sick child. The third had flaming eyes of hatred, and the fourth was an incarnation of dull obstinacy and cruelty.

A few spoke in whispers. The majority were quietly sitting and waiting.

The big forceful man and the two others went to the platform. It was not high, only two steps led to it. They sat there at each side of the table. The central place was empty. Behind that central chair there was a door, closed.

The big man had a short conference with his comrades at the table, then stood up and said something. Dasha whispered to Mr. Rind that the committee felt uneasy, Comrade Bugrov still had not come; they wondered if something could have happened to him.

At this very moment the door behind the chair opened and a young man stepped in. A wave of joy — in whispers — rose in the room.

The quick movement that Dasha made — the electric jerk of her head, her sigh, her smile — suddenly opened to Mr. Rind what was in her heart: love was there. She looked at Comrade Bugrov and her eyes shone and her hands trembled.

Bugrov was a young man. He could not be even thirty. He was of medium height, thin and slender. He smiled and his narrowing eyes made him look boyishly aggressive, adventurous, brave . . . Mr. Rind felt that he liked him as he liked Dasha, as if that type of youth had a claim on his affection.

Comrade Bugrov began to speak. His words sounded ponderous in the solemn silence. Dasha, dissolved in her attention, forgot her promise, and Mr. Rind had no translation. But without understanding his words Mr. Rind knew that Comrade Bugrov could only speak the truth. If his truth was not the universal truth, still it was a sacred truth to Comrade Bugrov himself. The instinctive desire to contradict another’s truth awoke instantly, and Mr. Rind tried to break the spell. At the same time a small voice of envy rose in him too: how much easier it was to believe, as the audience did; to put the burden of responsibility on somebody else’s shoulders and leave to oneself only a feeling of devotion. How it could simplify life.

But Mr. Rind knew it was not his nature to believe like this. He moved his shoulder, to throw away the spell. He felt he was an alien soul, a mind of a different cast. He was only an observer in this audience with its dead silence.

Then it happened. In the complete silence, in a pause between two of the orator’s words, there came a thin metallic squeak. And Dasha, alone among hundreds — suddenly, with the lightning intuition of a loving heart, Dasha alone caught its meaning. With a brief cry she rushed forward, jumped onto the platform, and stood before Comrade Bugrov sheltering him with her body. Mr. Rind had not yet caught his breath, as one after the other came the sounds of three shots. Dasha swayed, but still she stood screening Bugrov, pushing toward the door at the back of the platform.

Bugrov disappeared through that door. The door banged. The auditorium broke into a tumult.

People ran toward all the exits. Mr. Rind saw and heard nothing. He had reached the platform. With one arm supporting Dasha, he tried to open the door through which Bugrov had fled. But the door was now barred on the other side. Dasha slumped against the table, and the weight of her body moved the table and Dasha moved with it,

In all the chaos of cries and movements, Mr. Rind heard only that rasping sound of the table and saw only that sinking movement of Dasha’s body. It seemed a strangely slow movement. He had time enough to understand that she was falling. He caught her in his arms. He held her, and carefully tried to find a better position for her. She grew all the time heavier. He saw her eyes open wide, and heard her voice. She said something. He did not know what. She spoke in Russian. She repeated the words several times, whispering now.

It was as if they were all alone in that room, in the world. He looked at her in heartbreaking despair, and she asked for something, and he could not give it to her. There was nobody and nothing to help.

Suddenly Mr. Rind felt something hot and moist down his front — and with awakening terror he understood that it was blood, that Dasha was wounded and dying.

His will came back to him. They had to get out of there. He had to get her out, to find an ambulance, a doctor, a hospital — help.

Where to go? How to get out? Holding her closer, he felt more and more of her blood moistening his body. Dasha was dying. She was now limp in his arms and her eyes began to cloud. Her lips did not move any more.

Mr. Rind looked around. ‘The biggest door must be the shortest way out,’ he thought. ‘On the street . . . the police must be near somewhere ... or a car ... to the hospital . . .’

He carried her to the big door at the back of the auditorium, stepping over the overturned chairs and benches . . . There was no one in the room now. He walked alone with Dasha in his arms.

He found himself in a corridor and then, at last, in the chill winter air.

But he was in a yard, not a street — a yard filled with lumber, with chunks, shavings, and boards.

He stopped for a moment and then clearly heard Dasha say something. Bringing his face very close to hers he whispered: —

‘Dear child . . . what is it? Say it in English.’

Then he saw her eyes and understood that she would never speak any more, any language . . . She was dead.

Gently he lowered her body onto some fresh boards.

Mr. Rind stood erect. It was real. He saw her body, himself, and the fragrant new boards . . . stains of blood . . . the white snow ... all visible in the gray light. All real. . . . All true.

Then he became aware of two men running across the yard. One cried, ‘Do not leave the witness behind,’ and disappeared around the corner. Mr. Rind did not understand those words. The other man slowly (or so it seemed to Mr. Rind) approached Mr. Rind and looked at him with the calculating eyes of a boxer. But Mr. Rind made not a move. Then the man quickly lifted his hand and struck him a terrible blow on the side of the head. Mr. Rind fell down beside Dasha’s body.

Mr. Rind came to, but he did not open his eyes. He tried to crawl back into the darkest corner of his consciousness and remain there a little longer.

But there were people — outside — who disturbed him. They touched him. They spoke to him. No, he would not open his eyes.

Then a soft hand touched his brow and a soft voice said: —

‘Mr. Rind, do you hear me?’

Mr. Rind fought the voice. He had successfully crawled back into that cloud which was inside him and was anchored there.

‘Mr. Rind,’ the voice said again.

No, he would not return. No, he would not. He clutched the cloud, he clung to the screen . . . He liked that space within himself, empty, and dark, and quiet. Mr. Rind wanted to be one with it. Still they tried to tear him away.

‘I am sure,’ the voice said, ‘he is Mr. Rind. Telephone the American Consul.’

Mr. Rind returned to his darkness.

Swiftly he enveloped himself in it, and lay quiet.

Later, suddenly he opened his eyes. They met chaos. All was in a quick, disorderly movement. He closed them, then opened again. Things were now moving in circles. There was a window, and an open door with darkness behind, faces, parts of other things. Their movement made thin luminous lines. Then things began to move more slowly. They moved toward two centres —one was the window with light in it, the other was Mr. Rind himself. His body established the balance and movement stopped. Things were fixed now.

It was a room. He was lying in a bed. Daylight was behind the window. Several persons were standing at his bedside.

‘You are all right,’ a man said. He was clad in white. ‘ You are quite all right. Your skull is not broken. You may leave the hospital before long. Your Consul will be here soon and he will arrange everything . . .’

Mr. Rind made a movement and said: —

‘What happened?’

The man put his hand on Mr. Rind’s shoulder and said: —

‘Be quiet. The Consul will tell you all.’

‘But why am I here?’

‘The police brought you here. This happened to be the nearest hospital.’

Then Mr. Rind remembered.

‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘that child!’ and a fit of shaking swept him.

The day was hazy. People coming in, — friends, police, the Consul, — all looking at Mr. Rind, all talking, asking questions, nodding heads and sympathetically smiling. The vision of them was mixed with the pain in his head and the clouds in his thoughts. All visitors stepped heavily, especially the police, and breathed noisily, especially the Consul. The doctors all the time touched either him or the icebag on Mr. Rind’s head. There was no peace, no quiet.

In the middle of the day when Mr. Rind was, at last, left alone with a nurse, the door was suddenly flung open and Comrade Bugrov quickly stepped in. The nurse barred his way, but he pushed her aside with a quick gesture and approached Mr. Rind’s bed. He bent low over the bed, looked at Mr. Rind with eyes which seemed sunken deeply and reflected no light, and Mr. Rind thought with astonishment that Comrade Bugrov was almost old. The visitor took Mr. Rind’s hand, squeezed it with force and said something, then abruptly turned away and left the room.

XVI

Lida’s last days at Harbin were filled to overflowing. Even the fact that there were still no letters from Jimmy was withstood much easier by now. Perhaps there were letters laid neatly in her box at home, waiting. Why not? On this earth where everything, everything, might happen, is it such a miracle to find letters waiting for one?

Her last concert was a brilliant success. She found herself the object of wonder and envy of so many other Russian girls — she seemed to be the happy one, the lucky one. Having such a voice and talent, such a teacher—all free, and also a bridegroom in America, where every girl — every one! — has a permanent, and lacquers her nails, and eats chocolate and just gorges with orange juice — all that was to be Lida’s . . .

She stood in the hall of the club after her last concert, surrounded by friends and admirers who wished to say goodbye. Flowers, which are so expensive for the poor people in the winter, wore given to Lida. The Belle of the Town, with Mr. Capella and the florist as escorts, approached Lida and smiled at her. And Miss Clark, an American girl who was visiting Harbin, cried out in loud approval of Lida, her looks, her dress, her voice, and her general ‘cuteness.’

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ she exclaimed, as if Lida were an inanimate thing. Then, suddenly seeing Lida’s brooch, — it was the only one Lida had, — she cried again in rapture: —

‘Isn’t her brooch cute? Isn’t it just divine?’

With an almost unconscious gesture, a hereditary movement coming to Lida from generations of her ancestors who were rich, and to whom giving things away was a natural action, Lida unpinned her brooch and offered it to Miss Clark: —

‘ Will you kindly take it as a souvenir from me?’

And Miss Clark, with the no less natural gesture of one who was accustomed to take things for herself, took the brooch crying: —

‘Oh, I must not! I simply must not.’ But she clutched at it, for she liked pretty jewels.

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning her back on Lida. ‘Good-bye,’ and she walked away. But somewhere in her memory she carried away that gentle vision of Lida, with her clear eyes and her lovely smile, and her hand outstretched with her single jewel, gallantly offered to the one who was all covered with jewelry.

The next morning Lida and Mme. Manuilova left for Tientsin. The Platov family was laughing and crying at the railway station. Lida held a box of chocolate sent by Mr. Rind, who was not yet fully recovered and planned to recuperate for a little longer in Harbin. The train moved out of the station and cut off a whole period of Lida’s life.

Those weeks of life at Harbin, their speed, novelty, excitement, turmoil, the sudden passage from one emotion to another, had engulfed the real Lida, leaving no time for things to be well laughed at, wept over, and then forgotten.

Now she was going home, to Mother, to that room in the attic, which was the true centre of her universe and life. She was looking forward to resting her brain and her emotions. She needed Mother. She would bring her all that she had seen and felt. But out of all that tumult rose a gigantic doubt: had life any logic, any justice, any explanatory truth?

‘What is my place in all that?’ she thought as the train moved steadily toward Tientsin. ‘I want to marry Jimmy. I would be satisfied with only that. But is that sufficient for life? There must be a spiritual base to it. What is my religion? My political credo? My social duty? Or am I an egoist, limited and narrow, who can live without all that so long as there is a Jimmy. Even loving music so much, what am I doing about my artistic career? Some people say I should go to Russia and have a real schooling in Moscow. Can I go? Do I want to go? If I love art so much, shouldn’t I think long before choosing Jimmy and love, instead of Moscow and the school?’

So her thoughts gently slid into their habitual channel, and again she was thinking not of her future, but of her love.

Mme. Manuilova sat opposite, her face sallow from fatigue, her eyes half shut. She resembled a mask of stone over which Life had patiently worked years and years, in order to bring it to that degree of expressiveness.

Suddenly Lida shivered all over: —

‘What a face she has! Why have I never thought of her like that, so terribly, terribly tired and sad.’

And a feeling of shame filled her: —

‘How little we people care for each other! How little I have been interested in her! I was eager about my music, my singing, but was I ever interested in her, attentive, tender?’

She was smitten with the poignant realization of that.

‘Why has she such a face? Why is she so sad?’

Lightly, cautiously she moved her hand and tenderly touched Mme. Manuilova’s fingers. The latter opened her eyes. They were distant, void of any relation to reality.

‘Evening . . .’ Lida said slowly, ‘the evening.’ And she moved her head toward the window.

‘Oh . . .’ Mme. Manuilova said low, and looked toward the window. Then she moved her head away, as if the sight of the evening was painful to her.

‘I must not,’Lida thought, ‘I must not disturb her.’

Some things have a peculiar power of bringing pain. Hidden at daylight, they fearlessly creep forth in darkness. For Lida those steel clicks of the wheels of the railway car became unbearable. She put her face close to the windowpane and seeing above a small single star, in the whole of the sky, she thought: —

‘I must fight my sorrow. I will look at that star and think of my love.’

They came to Tientsin in the evening.

The town seemed smaller, the lights fewer. Only the cinemas flared forth with their flippant neon show, inviting all to have a look at life as it was for another people in another country. Homeless dogs, attracted by the smell of food coming from the houses of human beings, stood wearily where the scents seemed sharper, musing, if they could muse, about the injustice of distribution of food in no proportion to hunger. But hunger is duller toward evening, as pain is duller before death. Let those sleep who have not eaten.

Everything made for sadness. But her house almost stepped forth from the row to meet Lida, and the cook flung the door open. The Countess with her quiet smile, Leon with his polite bow, Dog with his carefully restrained greetings, and Mother . . . Mother running downstairs to kiss Lida. And the room in the attic, so much shrunken as if with age . . .

No, there were no letters . . .

Mother, quick with a remedy, said: —

‘Now you sit down, and I’ll bring in the tea. We’ll have a nice evening together.’

‘No, mother, I will bring the tea. The staircase is too tiring for you . . .’

In the kitchen, which looked uninviting because it was too clean and empty, Cook was sitting at the table, reading. A book lay before him, a Chinese book in a paper cover, with pages thin and light, transparent almost. Cook made no movements, he never turned pages. He sat motionlessly, his old eyes looking intensively at the same lines.

‘What an odd manner of reading,’ Lida thought. She felt reluctant to interrupt; still her sorrow weighed heavy: she longed for a human word, whatever it might be, just not to be alone in the world, while boiling tea.

‘Cook, what are you reading?’

‘This.’ He showed the book with a slight movement of his head.

‘What is it about?’

‘This: the five Heavenly Virtues are Justice, Magnanimity, Politeness, Understanding, Faithful Execution of Duty.’

He quoted the celestial virtues in their Chinese names. Lida did not understand and felt no interest.

‘Cook,’ she said, and her voice broke.

He turned his head at that sound and gave her a strangely lucid glance.

’Cook . . . when your heart . . . aches, what do you usually do?’

‘I tell nobody.'

It was easier in the attic room. Mother poured tea, and Lida opened a ‘confidential’ letter from Dima. The first sentence of the letter made her laugh: —

‘Dear Lida, how is Dog?’

Something clicked in the mechanism of life, and Lida was switched in, where she belonged — into the room in the attic, at the same place, to the same hopes and anxiety, as if there had been no change.

Her spirit of vagrancy rose and fell. She looked at Dog, a demure symbol of tamed wilderness. She looked around the room and sighed: a Penelope, ready to undo her tapestry.

XVII

Life became for Lida what it had been before: a hope.

She had received no letters.

Letters. The birds of love. In the morning they leave their nest, a hot, a throbbing heart, and fly forth, into the unknown. Days and nights they soar all over the world in search of the heart for which they are intended. Some reach the goal, but many are shot in flight while they still soar, or die in the cold winds, or rain, or snow. These fall down, small stones, to be trodden upon and forgotten.

She was reluctant to make anxiety her only occupation and tried to find some sort of job. Of course, it was hopeless. She talked to Mme. Manuilova, who promised to ask Mrs. Brown.

Mrs. Brown was not a person whom one could see when one liked. One can see the face of the sun whenever one wishes, but not that of Mrs. Brown. It meant more waiting, anxiety and hope again.

Meanwhile Lida started crying. She established her own ritual for it. She liked to be alone, at twilight, undisturbed. After a good fit of tears, she felt mentally dull, physically exhausted, yet somehow relieved.

Once, upon his return home late in the evening, Leon heard strange sounds. It sounded like a child quietly moaning somewhere. He listened for a while. The sounds came from behind the door leading to the attic stairs. He stood listening for a while longer and then cautiously opened the door. On the steps of a dark and narrow passage Lida was sleeping, exhausted with tears. Her tender face was resting on her bent arm. He saw it in profile. Under the uncertain light from the hall, Lida reclining on the dusty steps was a pathetic sight. The muscles of her face moved at intervals and she gave out convulsive sighs, which bore witness to how much, and how long, she had sobbed.,

For a while he stood in silence. Then he knelt before Lida, on the dusty steps, and touched her shoulder.

‘Lida,’ he said low.

She was up, suddenly, in a nervous jerk.

‘What? What is it?’

She saw Leon. She stretched both her arms to him and, embracing him in search of help and consolation, she put her head on his shoulder and began to sob.

He smoothed her blonde hair with a slow movement of his hand and said low:

‘Tell me, what is it about?’

He knew. But he was loath to pronounce the words he learned to hate: ’letters’ and ‘Jimmy.’

She said them.

‘Leon,’ she said, ‘I cannot bear it any longer. Believe me, something happened to Jimmy. I must know ... The mail from the states still comes in regularly. If he has not written, something is wrong with him.’

Again she clung to him, as a child would to its mother, and wept.

‘Lida,’ Leon said, ‘I can help you. I think I can find out what happened . . .’

‘But how ? Oh, Leon, how will you do that ? ‘

‘There arc ways. If I had known you felt so badly, I would have done it earlier . . . Tell me his address. There must be a Spanish Consul somewhere there. I will send a cablegram and ask him to find that out for me.’

‘He would?’

‘He will. And he will send us a cablegram.’

‘Oh, Leon!’ Lida gave a deep sigh, and suddenly, exhausted of emotion, she sat in a lump, tired and lifeless. Then, again, a fit of energy lifted her: —

‘But do that! Go! Now! Go, there . . . Send the cablegram.’

‘I will,’ Leon said shortly. He rose, helped her to her feet, kissed her hand, and went out. He went straight to the telegraph office.

News came sooner than they expected.

As was her custom during those days, Lida had been standing at the window waiting for the messenger. She stood there now every single moment when she was free, on the watch for her fate.

The cablegram was businesslike. Jimmy had been badly hurt in an accident. He was in the hospital. There was hope for his complete recovery. But the situation was grave. More details were promised in a letter to follow.

Lida read it. She began to read fast, with her heart high in her throat and eyes dilated; then she read slower and slower . . . No . . . she began from the beginning, then again from the beginning — and slowly, in a wrapping movement, the realization of what it meant formed in her mind. The world began to topple down silently, to fall into dust, crumbling without a single sound. All, all that was life turned into ashes, and then into nothingness. She was alone, as if hanging in an utter void, in a quietly darkening vacuum, deserted even by the darkening light, in the emptiness of an eternity. When she understood every last word there was no light any more. Lida saw nothing.

That was the beginning of three weeks of nervous illness. Hours of quietness, near to lethargy, would be interrupted by fits of activity. She would cry, explain that she must go to Berkeley, implore everyone to help her, to buy her a ticket, to get her visas; she would write letters, telegrams all concluded with a fit of sobbing and the state near to a coma again.

She grew very pale and thin. She had constant dizziness and unusual difficulties in her sight when all seemed blurred, colorless, without depth. She needed constant care and attention.

While Mother tried to give her till the help and comfort at home, Leon proved to be most efficient in trying to get news from Berkeley.

‘Leave all that to me,’ he would say.

‘Believe me, Lida, I shall do everything by myself, in order to get the most detailed and quickest news.’

The question of going to Jimmy was pushed away — although gently — as childish. To go where? To whom? How? To get visas would take months, to say nothing about money for tickets, waiting for a free place on the liner, for many foreigners were leaving China and cabins were taken for months ahead.

The letter, finally received, was from Jimmy’s mother. It was short and definite: the boy was not to be disturbed with anything. His state required the utmost care. When he was well enough to read letters, his mail would be given to him. Meanwhile Lida had to wait.

Leon spent hours in the room, writing what Lida asked him to write, answering the same questions about Jimmy, or just sitting quietly when Lida had one of her spells of lifelessness.

One thing more aggravated the situation. Knowing when the accident, happened made it clear that Jimmy had not written a single line a month before it had taken place. ’This period of silence, previous to the accident, seemed inexplicable.

Mother and the Countess decided to let Lida alone for a while, not to press any advice upon her.

Visitors came, of course, to make the burden easier or heavier. Mine. Manuilova was severe:

‘Get up and start to work. Do not squander youth and energy in deploring things which did not happen. The really great things are but few: art, religion, science. Take up one. Believe me, there is no better happiness than an attachment to higher ideals . . .’

Lida listened with a wanderinglook . . .

Mme. Manuilova grew almost angry: —

‘Do not look for that commonest fate of a girl: to find one’s happiness only in men’s arms. You, who can sing and, perhaps, write music . . . Remember my words: when your life will be spent, you will, perhaps, regret many things — that you loved, that you married, that you did or did not have a child; but you will never regret that you sang well . .

Lida tried to look politely attentive, but said nothing in answer.

Mine. Klimova came. Of course, she offered her sympathy, but still she just had to tell Lida what she really thought.

She confessed she had been shocked by the extent, of Lida’s grief. She found it unbecoming for a girl of a good family, indecent, even a thing to be speculatively wondered at. What was Jimmy to Lida, after all? A husband? No. A lover? No. A bridegroom? Not exactly. Jimmy’s parents had never made any move to meet Lida’s family and her friends. Then why this shocking despair? She had never seen such exhibitions of despair over a broken engagement from welleducated girls with self-esteem. Love? No, in good society love is not allowed girls; they leave it to lower classes. ‘Be reasonable,’ she went on, ‘leave love alone. “ Great lovers ” look only ridiculous in this era of refrigerators and cold storage. Listen to me: get up . . . look round. You have, perhaps, still a chance to be a countess. A countess!’ she said once more, and even clasped her hands. ‘And you, crazy with that “epistolary” love of yours. It smells eighteenth century, a “love in letters.” In your case, even the letters did not come, were not at all written. And having no pride you go on loving. Forget that childishness. Do not keep the Pacific Ocean busy with your letters.’

XVIII

Lida’s convalescence dated from the visit of the Mother Abbess.

After having called on all the Russian convents, Mother Abbess was proceeding to Shanghai ‘to die in peace,’ as she put it.

Painfully she climbed the stairs and all out of breath took a chair at Lida’s bedside.

‘Poor little bird,’ she said and shook her head in her high black hood. ‘Love! What woman would not understand your heart, my dear child. Fifty years ago, I was only eighteen then, I dreamed of love too ... I remember it even now . . . And in a convent one does not hear much about love. One sees no men. But I dreamed . . . if only a young man should happen near me, be he ugly, or foolish, or lame or a hunchback ... if he only came along and said he loved me, I would break my religious vows and run after him. But great was the mercy of Our Lady . . . She protected me . . . Nobody came along . . .’ she heavily sighed and made a sign of the cross over herself, ‘thank Our Lady!’

This confession was so unexpected, so utterly unbecoming and out of place, that her companion, Mother Tais — petrified — could not make a single movement to interfere and to interrupt. She only flushed darkly and apoplectically. When she recovered herself, ‘Mother Abbess!’ she groaned, ‘you told us a nice joke!’

‘A joke!’ Mother Abbess cried with indignation. ‘Listen to her! We are speaking about love, the greatest power of nature, and she calls it a joke! It might have been a “joke” to some people, then, but not to a young nun shut in a monastery and tied with vows. One must be a quite insane youth to think about love jokingly.’

And after a dead silence in the room she added again: ‘A nun must tell the truth, you know.’

Then, returning to Lida and her sorrow, Mother Abbess patted the girl tenderly on the shoulder and said; —

‘You sing well, dear child. Go on singing. Come to the church and sing. Our Lady likes good singing, she will listen to you.’

The Countess invited them all down to tea, but Mother Abbess said she would come later. It was evident she wanted to be alone with Lida.

‘Do not listen to foolish people,’ she whispered to the girl. ‘Go on your way.

I know a secret, and I will tell it to you. It is a very old truth, nevertheless it always works.’

And bending closer she asked: —

‘Have you faith in your heart? Faith in happiness?’

‘Oh,’ Lida said slowly, ‘when now I look into my heart ... I refuse to believe till is over . . . No. I feel Jimmy cannot be taken from me ... or forget me.’

‘Then everything will be all right. You will have a happy life with him.’

‘How do you know, Mother Abbess?’

‘Here is the secret. If, in all simplicity of heart, with a pure childish faith, one wants something and keeps wanting it and asking for it, and goes on believing in spite of whatever happens, never admitting any doubts — one always gets one’s heart’s desire.’

‘Always?’

‘Always, without a single exception! That is how miracles come into being.’

‘But, Mother Abbess, why then do people get only a few miracles of happiness?’

‘They want too many things at once.’

Lida pushed her feet into slippers.

‘Well,’ Mother Abbess said suddenly in a changed voice, quite matter-of-fact now, ‘ is this your room ? ‘

‘N-no.’

‘Whose is it then?’

‘Leon’s.’

‘Well, and where does he live?’

‘I ... I do not know.’

‘Hm . . . And how long have you been here?’

‘Two . . . no, three weeks . . .’

‘Hm . . . about time to say thank you for it.’

‘Mother Abbess,’ Lida cried, ‘I am so much better ... I can go to the attic and . . .’

‘Of course. And do not forget to tell them “Excuse me for the trouble” — ah?’

‘Oh, Mother Abbess . . . I . . .’

‘You are not ill after all . . . Let other people have their rooms then . . .’

‘I will go now.’

‘About time, my dear.’

When they appeared in the Diaz living room, people were bewildered. It was Lida’s first appearance.

‘Now give us tea, please,’ Mother Abbess asked (he Countess.

Later Lida quietly discussed with Mother the line of her future behavior toward ,Timmy. It was agreed that she would send a letter twice a month, not oftener. The rest was left to fate and Jimmy’s own initiative. Once more Lida’s life became a hope.

XIX

It was a morning in early May.

The sky was clear, the air was pure. A slight breeze came from the sea, whispering something and hurrying away toward the hills with the same news.

That was the day of Leon’s departure to Spain. He was leaving alone, ahead of his family, who were to follow later.

His last day was dedicated to Lida, and a series of pleasures had to take place: a long morning drive in a taxi, dinner in the restaurant, a show at the cinema.

One cannot have a very long drive in Tientsin. The complicated laws of concessions, the military zones in the town, the Japanese arsenals, the povertystricken Chinese areas, and especially the absence of good roads of considerable length made any drive a movement in time rather than in space.

Leon and Lida just sat in a taxi moving at leisure in the directions of least resistance and fewest sentinels.

From time to time the taxi would be stopped and the chauffeur would enter a long discussion with the sentinels as to the real motives of the passengers’ drive and the possible harm they could bring upon the existent order. If the intercourse threatened to be very long, Lida and Leon left the chauffeur to carry the burden of diplomacy alone — he was paid by the hour, anyway. They would walk a little, or Leon would buy a souvenir for Lida in memory of that particular place.

Still there were many things worth seeing.

It was a great holiday in the Japanese concession, for instance. It was the birthday of all boys.

At every one of the Japanese houses high poles had been erected and images of fish displayed on banners. The banners were made of cotton and gayly painted. They fluttered in the air, swollen with the moving breeze. The fish seemed alive, with their protruding eyes and finely painted scales.

The number of banners of fish corresponded to the quantity of sons in the family, and their size was kept in proportion to the age of the boys. The biggest fish had to be fastened highest, the rest of them also placed in the accepted hierarchy of human relations. The image of the fish always represented a carp. It had been chosen centuries ago as a symbol of indomitable courage.

The Japanese are mostly fishermen. They know fish well. In their conception, a carp is the bravest and noblest of all fish. Cut up alive, on a kitchen table, it would lie fearlessly and motionlessly under the knife opening its bowels, looking straight into the cook’s eyes.

In all the kingdom of animals, in the Japanese conception, the carp shows best how one has to meet death. A samurai of a fish. Our men of science seem to know nothing of that. In a dictionary, opposite the word ‘ carp ‘ is written ‘ a cyprinoid physostomous fish.’ Who would guess what a superfish is hidden behind that dry definition?

Japan needs her boys brave, healthy, indomitable, to be soldiers, to know how to fight and how to die, emulating the carp — looking straight into the eyes of that cook who cuts human lives off.

But life in the Chinese part of the town was mostly funeral processions. Those two widely different worlds were separated by a white line painted across the pavement. That thin layer of white symbolized the impregnable will of millions of people to die rather than surrender.

The same lines of white divided the other places of the town too: the French concession from the British, the British from the German. It remained a line if those two were, or made believe they were, friendly. It rose as a wall of barbed wire and sandbags if the pretension had been cast off.

One had to encircle perhaps half the globe to find so many omens about t he future of humanity. But Leon and Lida were heedless of omens.

Lida felt, if not happy, then excited. Leon was taking with him a letter for Jimmy. He promised to send it by airmail from the most convenient point, with instructions that an answer could be sent the same way. With luck, one could exchange letters with the United States in two or three weeks. Suppose Jimmy should write!

They had a good dinner in a restaurant. They talked about love — not theirs, but in general, Lida tried not to notice the profundity of drama that kept crawling into the conversation:

‘The world is full of women,’ she tried to console Leon.

‘Not many of them are very lovable,’ he answered.

‘What is your objection? Looks?’

‘No. But I could never love a girl if she were vulgar, greedy, flippant. I could not love a girl without a feeling for music . . .’

‘Dear, dear!’ Lida laughed. ‘I hope you will still find somebody answering the description.’

The picture at the cinema was not impressive at all. Even the actors and actresses were not good-looking, which was rather a grave fault. The cinema, being a conventional representation of life, would be more enjoyable if it kept on giving illusions rather than life in flat.

And then they had to say good-bye.

For a moment Lida fell a poignant feeling of guilt.

‘Leon,’ she said, ‘I have behaved so abominably toward you that I hope you do not love me any more.’

‘ But I do.’

‘How do you know?’

‘ I look at you and light seems brighter. You smile—and there is no sorrow in the world. I touch your hand —and there is no sadness, only joy. You talk tome—and . .

‘Oh,’ Lida interrupted, ‘I see. But I hope you will soon marry and have a family and be happy.”

He was silent.

‘Will you?’

‘I think I shall, in time. I shall marry, I shall have a family, I shall be happy. Only my love will be different from this one. A first love is like youth, unforgettable. One continues to live after it is gone. One can be contented and happy. Si ill il would never be the same as youth. One would feel always sorry and never forget it completely. And how do you feel about your life?’

‘I?’ Lida said. ‘I belong to my fate. You know, sometimes one feels wronged in sharing. Sometimes il seems others’ lots are so much richer. But then, if Fate should ask one, “Would you like to be the Queen of France?” one is at first dazzled, eager to jump into it. Then one wonders, and finally one finds one’s own life so full of gentleness, of meaning, that one refuses to change it for something else. My fate and myself are one. We cannot be torn and each part fitted into another setting. I shall bring myself into

any setting, and think the same, and wish the same, and dream the same, and my setting, accordingly, will turn the same again.’

At the moment of parting Lida said gently:

‘Leon, forgive me, if I have made you unhappy.’

He gallantly kissed her hand.

‘You only make me happy, whatever you do to me. Love, whatever its course, is a happy experience. I am thankful to you for that. Even when you refused me, you made me happy. If you would marry me after I regained my fortune I would be happy with you, still the idea that you have chosen me when rich would put you in a less brilliant light. Now I have lost you, but I shall keep my belief in women and their pride and their devotion. Seeing you so loyal to a man who does not repay you with the same attention . . .’

‘Do not speak so about Jimmy, or we shall quarrel.’

They laughed and with smiles said their good-byes.

The next week Lida was packing too. In accordance with Mme. Manuilova’s program, she was going to Shanghai to sing there. She packed her three dresses, the same three she had worn at Harbin, and made a list of the persons she had to see in Shanghai. Her list was short: Mother Abbess, Mme. Militza the fortune-teller, and Vladimir Platov. She wrote down the addresses: the convent., the fortune-teller’s office, and the Black Glove cabaret, where Vladimir played (he violin at nights.

To be concluded)

With each twelve months of the Atlantic

THREE GREAT BOOKS OF THE YEAR