REVOLUTIONS

A novel by Stefan Molyneux, Host of Freedomain.

NFT Collector's Edition

Written in 1989. NFT Collectible released in March 2021.

Thank you for your support of philosophy!

www.freedomain.com

PART ONE: RUSSIA

CHAPTER ONE: The Tiger Arrives

The garden was Natalie Herzen’s life, that summer and for some time afterward. It was a sprawling realm, overgrown and rambling; when her father first saw it he had merely grunted and gone inside, but she had stood on the back porch and gazed at it for a long time, making plans – plans for the garden, plans for herself, plans to escape the terrible length and heat of the Russian summer. Working day and night, she scoured the greenery clean of weeds, planted, pruned, arranged and rearranged. Slowly the garden submitted to her will, like a leafy behemoth prodded to show its trimmed underbelly. Natalie spent a few more hours each day typing her father’s memoirs and arranging his chapters, but as soon as she could she escaped into the garden to lose herself in the undergrowth once more.

Within a month her pet was neat, almost fastidiously controlled, and suddenly the future seemed to yawn before her, inviting and catastrophic. What of it? she cried silently, and began tearing up the flowerbeds and hacking the trembling bushes into new caricatures.

It was never supposed to last forever – that wasn’t the point, for like many women her age, Natalie was a lady-in-waiting. She had grown deep in the bosom of sunny and confident elders; her father was a revolutionary, but had turned from orator to writer two years before, his life settling from a harrowing series of narrow escapes to the dull routine of peripheral abstraction.

Retired to the country, he had vanished from the sight of the authorities his words railed against, but not to others, not to the new generation of revolutionaries. These intense youths had grown fat on the feast of his words, and fed his greedy metaphors with all the blood they demanded.

Alexander Herzen could not fail to notice these developments, and often read the newspaper with a heavy heart, feeling the ink on his hands like the slippery handshake of a surgeon. Any seed can find fertile soil in a whirlwind, he thought, and often shuddered at the thought of one of his distant protégés turning up on his doorstep, pounding at the door in the darkness while the police crept closer in the bushes.

Natalie was squatting in a forest of roses the day the revolution came to call. She had worked herself into dizziness; the garden felt as if it were slowly rolling under her feet, tilting to join the grim clouds on the horizon. The first fat raindrop struck the back of her neck and her hand closed tightly across the twitching stem of a rose, making her wince. Suddenly she realized she was not alone, and turned around to see a man standing behind her.

He wasn’t tall, but stood wide and perplexed, as if he’d just fallen off a horse. He had a long pale face, dark eyes and a jaw twisted slightly to one side. His mouth was thin and pursed, and he wore a battered cap pulled low over his forehead. He stood with one foot on the neat lawn and the other sunk in the soft earth of her flowerbed, watching her with no sign of how the conversation was to begin – or if it was to begin at all.

She stood awkwardly, her legs shooting with pain, wanting to suck her pricked thumb. The man had obviously been traveling for a long time.

“Going to get rough, don’t you think?” smiled the young man eventually, glancing up at the approaching clouds.

“It already has. Oops!” cried Natalie as her hat suddenly flew off her head. She expected him to catch it, but he stood watching it soar into the sky, not moving a muscle.

“Can I help you?” she snapped, holding her hair.

“I am Nachaev. Sergei Nachaev,” he said, looking her over. “You don’t read the papers?” He held out his hand.

Natalie shook her head, displaying the blood on her own, shivering under a sudden gust. “Look – if it’s bread you want, you’ll have to talk to the maid. I’m not permitted…”

“I’m looking for your father,” he said. “Assuming you are Natalie Herzen. Or is it Natasha?”

“Natasha is not here.” She frowned. “Are you a revolutionary then?”

“Is your father at home?”

“Yes, but he’s working just now.”

“On his memoirs – yes. Good,” said Nachaev, still smiling.

“Do not stand in my earth please,” said Natalie.

“Excuse me.”

“What are you smiling at?”

He took off his cap, and Natalie was surprised at his hair – it was jet-black, quite long and without a trace of dirt.

“How it looks – the daughter of Alexander Herzen, planting roses,” he murmured. “Such neatness.”

“My father has retired,” she said. “If you have come for money, you shall be disappointed.”

“Money?” he said, stepping back. “But it is Alexander who owes me a great debt. Yes – if I were to spend my money on clothing I would never run out. But he owes me far more than money.”

“Such as?”

“Ah,” he smiled, “the truth. Action. Respect. Honour. Agreement. All the little things.”

“Agreement? With what?”

“With nothing. With the possibility of achieving nothing. The certainty.”

She frowned. “A nihilist.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Nachaev, “but then I’ve never understood such terms. Now if I may impose on your kindness for just one moment, I wish to be taken to your father.”

“Please – you will watch the flowers,” frowned Natalie. She turned and led the young man toward the house, shivering as the drops of rain struck her neck.

Her father’s living room glowed with the light of many candles. It was almost completely brown – it was like looking at a woodcut of a living room. Over the fireplace hung a framed portrait of the great Alexander Herzen in his young revolutionary days, allowed in the room only because the fire flickering beneath it lent it an air of violent nostalgia. The many couches and armchairs were arranged in a haphazard manner, as if a group of restless people had left after a lengthy gathering. The shutters were closed, and the lamps lit up the forest of furniture with an oily shine. Buried in the farthest chair was Natalie’s father, Alexander Herzen.

Alexander Herzen was a man in his early sixties – one could not say “old” because his limbs and posture were quite young. His face was an odd anachronism; its bones had refused to part with their youthful structure despite the intense weathering of the skin, making his face look like a papier-mâché model of a young man’s bust. His white hair was long and yellowing at the tips; his voice was deep and gravely, for he suffered from the darkest curse of the house-bound writer: the need to summon his muse with tobacco. It was his pipe that betrayed his location when Natalie opened the door for Nachaev. Smoke hung thickly over his chair, making him look like a figure entombed in a weathered glass ball.

“Father!” called Natalie. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor,” muttered Herzen, licking his pencil and staring at his page.

“Yes – someone is here to see you. Would you like some tea?”

“Who has come?” he asked, looking up reluctantly. “No tea, unless our guest… Who is it?”

The young man edged through the first copse of couches.

“Yes – well – good afternoon. My name is Sergei Nachaev, and I…”

“Nachaev!” cried the old man. Natalie paused at the door and turned in surprise. Her father was struggling out of his chair, rolling like an old sled stuck in snow. Nachaev made it to a carpeted clearing, crossed it rapidly and helped him up. Herzen turned to look at him.

“Oh, my boy – how good of you!” he cried. “Lead me out of this awful smoke and let me look at you. Natalie – Natalie!”

“Still here, father.”

“Break out the – God we must have something decent left. Whatever it is, break it out and let’s celebrate! Sit here, my boy,” he exhaled. “Make yourself at home!”

Natalie sat slowly, deciding against the drink because it was bad for her father and he would probably forget about it anyway. She watched Nachaev. Her father had a standing policy to allow any revolutionary into his house without question. Most of the young men who turned up were dirty, unshaven; they ate like squirrels, argued her father into apoplexy and departed leaving him feeling irritable and old. Natalie did not like revolutionaries.

“Now tell me, young man,” said Herzen, “How are things in St. Petersburg?”

“Hot – very hot, but we’re making great strides,” smiled Nachaev. “The police are laughable – we have half of them on the run. The Tsar sent more men from Moscow to deal with us, but they don’t even know how to fight!”

“And what – in your opinion – how long? The…”

The young man shrugged. “Six months – five if winter comes early. There’s only so much coal in the city, and when people freeze, their hearts heat quickly!”

Herzen exhaled a deep breath and slapped his belly. “Ah – this flesh of mine… But at such a time – to pay a social call?”

“The papers trail the events, I imagine, if you do not know why I am here,” said Nachaev.

“Be clear.”

“I was discovered, in the time-honoured tradition of Judas. My enemies were informed of my movements by an intimate.”

“Strange that such a sudden net should be so easily escaped,” said Herzen.

Nachaev smiled. “Even stranger was the character of such lackeys. Having bombed, humiliated and shot them, I expected no mercy. But they also have families… During my carriage ride, I convinced them to let me escape. Quite reasonable animals actually. Had I not read your writings, especially ‘The Soul of the Brute’, I would be easy prey for hesitation and misplaced compassion.”

Natalie coughed, and Herzen waved a smoky hand. “Remarkable,” he said. “Yet I assume they did not go so far to drop you at my door.”

Nachaev laughed. “No, but realizing there was a traitor in my organization, I decided it was best to leave St. Petersburg for a while. I assume that, finding him useless, they will take care of him in their own way. Instructive to others, at the cost of only a month or so. And so I thought: why not combine flight with a sort of personal pilgrimage, and visit the shrine of my initial awakening?”

“These are not religious times; the metaphor is quite misplaced,” replied Herzen. “You are sure you were not followed?”

“Certain.”

“And this is merely a social visit?” asked the old man slowly – but not without a gleam of hope, Natalie noticed.

“Oh, I am not the man for such pleasantries – and this is not the time. I have also come to ask a favour,” said the young man.

“What is that?”

Nachaev stood, and it seemed to Natalie that he had left his pleasant demeanour sitting.

“This is not my usual approach, this brusqueness, but we are both men of business, open to a fair exchange of values. It has come to my attention,” said Nachaev, standing beside the fire and regarding Herzen intently, “that the urgency of our methods has obscured the ideological foundation that first inspired us – the ideological foundation you laid out. The world is beginning to see us as little more than rabid animals, because we do not shrink from the natural result of such premises.” He smiled. “I am the result of your thoughts – if I may put it in such a manner – and I have come to ask you to write a proper defense of our revolution. To remind the world of our idealism. And to remind us as well, to remind those tempted by gold and the joy of violence. Those who are losing their way in the madness.”

Herzen blinked, then cleared his throat. “But – what you ask – I have done. Many times.”

“You have advocated revolution in theory,” said Nachaev evenly. “You gave us the first step, but things have progressed beyond anything you could imagine! We are so close – you could not guess – but there are many among us who do not understand the need for discipline. They read your work and say look here, Alexander Herzen writes that this is the age of sacrificing human life on the altar of ideals, but that ideals are never worth killing for. You must tell them they are wrong, Alexander! You must tell them that of all the reasons to kill, ideals are the best! What could be better? They listen to me and say that’s just youth talking, but you – yours is a voice universally respected! Tell them of the necessities and give us a chance! Tell them!”

Natalie sat on the edge of her cushion, studying Nachaev. She watched his eyes, watched him blink, saw his throat contract when he swallowed. His marvelous hair, center-parted, kept falling into his face, and she watched him brush it back repeatedly. It’s his eyes, she thought suddenly – I have never seen such veiled eyes before. Through veils one can often see even a dim shape, but his drape only fog – or more veils… Natalie’s father was gesturing, puffing, his mind more vital than she had seen in months, but his eyes never hung on Nachaev’s for more than an instant. Natalie felt as she had at the beginning of the summer, when she first gazed at the untamed jungle beyond the house, but now the undergrowth was within her walls.

“You do not strike me as a man who lives for theories,” said her father, then shook his head. “You are not telling me the whole truth. If we are this close – as close as you say – then a word from me will not tip the balance either way.”

“This is not the case,” said Nachaev. “Theory has its place, but one need not memorize the recipe to enjoy the feast. Your work was principles; mine is dedication. But dedication buys no weapons – they come from expatriates and grand old men who enjoy the spectacle. They are losing their taste for the show, Alexander. Our resources are drying up. I ask for only a short essay – the ‘Times’ will publish you, and I will arrange for distribution in St. Petersburg. Remind these men that this is not an entertainment they can applaud at will.”

“You think I can have this kind of effect?” asked Herzen, leaning forward.

“You have no idea of your effect on us, Alexander,” said the young man, looking away. “I have taught grown men to read with nothing but your pamphlets. I grant no other writer such license.”

“What is it I mean to you?” asked the old man.

“You cloak us with grandeur – you make it all so intoxicating!” smiled Nachaev. “But what use do you have for flattery?”

“What use do we have for fine clothing?” sighed Herzen, leaning back. “But ahhh – how we love it!”

“I have no wish to impose, but there is a rumour in St. Petersburg that all who ask for shelter shall be received by Alexander Herzen,” said Nachaev. “That we are all his prodigal sons.”

Herzen frowned. “Are you fawning?”

Nachaev shrugged. “And if I am? You are dear to us.”

“It’s true, my doors are open, but lately… We have an upstart officer here, out to make the world a better place for his kind. He has paid several visits.” The old man pursed his lips. “It would be dangerous.”

“It would only be for a short time. I promise.”

Herzen shook his head. “This is not a decision I can make now – you are also intoxicating. You shall stay the night, and receive your answer in the morning. Now off to bed – Sasha will take you to your room.”

Nachaev touched his lips. “Then I hope for an answer in the morning. Thank you, Alexander,” he said, bowing his head.

When the young man had gone upstairs, Natalie’s father turned to her.

“Well, my girl, I’m afraid it didn’t work,” he chided.

“What?”

“I still want my drink.”

She sighed. “Father – you shouldn’t…”

“But I will, young lady. I have many things to celebrate. I have wanted to meet him for a long time, and I believe I handled myself very well in his presence. Mind over muscle. Make it a double.”

Natalie got up and went over to the liquor cabinet.

“You were very quiet,” he said, “but you watched him like a hawk. Why?”

She carefully measured out an ounce. “I think he’s very dangerous.”

“Naturally, but how?”

“I don’t know. He is so young – I find it hard to believe he has achieved all he claims.” She handed him his drink.

He frowned. “Is this a double?”

“Double what I was going to give you.”

“Well.” He took a sip, little finger extended – a habit he deplored, but could not shake. “That is the beauty of his generation. Far more practical than mine. But we gave them the framework; we told them what to do, how to do it – and they just follow through, bless their savage little hearts!”

Natalie stood behind his chair and touched his white hair. “I just don’t want to see you disappointed, father.”

He returned her caress. “I won’t be. I want to trust him – let the cards fall where they may.”

She closed her eyes, and listened to the storm rising outside, the wind barely muffled by the thin shutters. She thought of her roses and went to the window. Opening a shutter, she looked out into the darkness, but saw nothing but the rain running down her faint reflection. The window rattled in a sudden gust, and she shivered, feeling the cold in her bones.

Her father walked over and kissed her hair.

“Worried?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good. Going to bed?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t worry, Natalie,” he said. “I’m an old man, full of wisdom.”

“I know, father. Good night.”

“Good night, my angel.”

He kissed her, and went upstairs.

Later, in bed, she lay awake, certain that Nachaev did not sleep, but stood in the center of his room and gazed through the shaking walls at her. She shivered and turned, but could find no warmth in any of her covers.

CHAPTER TWO: The Undergrowth Presents a Problem

The morning sun lit Natalie’s garden like the light of a jeweler searching a diamond for flaws. Flowers lay in petals over the splinter-ridden earth, over uprooted bushes and the broken fingers of branches whose scant leaves still hung like the bodies of civilians who lacked the sense to run.

Natalie opened her eyes from a restless sleep surprisingly refreshed. Her huge bed filled her room like a tongue between teeth. It was an immense four-poster, given her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. The other articles in her room – her white tables and petite chairs – were reduced to doll-like size by its size. The four supports in each corner always reminded her of sign-posts – certainly the size of the mattress almost required them – and she had spent many staring nights before learning how to sleep on its vast expanse. The heavy red velvet hanging from the posts made her feel like she slept in someone’s mouth.

Natalie rose and flung open the curtains, relishing the early light that staggered her eyes – and saw the ruin of her precious garden lying below. Her hands gripped the windowsill and her heart began thudding in her chest. Beauty, violence – what is the point of working with such unequal forces? she cried inwardly. The infinite labour to raise such delicate flowers to the sky, a sky that had torn them from the earth and flung them against the wind to spite a house it could not hurt… Natalie scowled, and had Mother Nature tapped her on the shoulder just then, the venerable goddess would have found herself rapidly pinned to the ground and beset with rapid and finger-jabbing questions.

Natalie threw a light gown over her nightdress and dashed downstairs. Throwing open the servant’s door, she ran straight into the large pool of rainwater that always formed under the broken drainpipe and gasped in shock, shivering at the touch of the night-cooled water.

A man stood a few yards ahead, his wide back to her. Approaching, Natalie saw Grigorin, her chief (and only) gardener. She was surprised to see him, considering the hour. He had been employed for the past two months, she had spent most of that time in a Herculean struggle to convince him that “daybreak” did not just mean the time he happened to awake. “God wakes me,” he had repeated again and again, and it was hard to argue with him for fear of offending his religious sensibilities.

Grigorin was in his middle peasant years, which to Natalie meant anything from twenty to about forty. He had been a great help over the summer; if he had trouble knowing when work began, he also had trouble knowing when it ended, and Natalie had more than once had to go into the garden in the middle of the night and tell him it was all right, he could go home now.

Alexander Herzen held the peasant in the highest regard, assuring his surprised daughter that “sometimes silence is the greatest speech”. He would occasionally have lunch with Grigorin and read him excerpts from his memoirs; the peasant would nod and eat, smacking his lips and occasionally crying “Good!” in such a manner that the old man was at a loss to know if he meant the writing or the food. Herzen often told Natalie that his greatest pride as a writer was his ability to hold the attention of peasants like Grigorin – “Let’s see if Tolstoy is read in the fields after the revolution!” he said – but she noticed he never attempted his readings without a heaping plateful of the maid’s exotic goodies within reach of Grigorin’s blunt fingers.

That morning after the storm, Grigorin stood there in the garden in that uniquely peasantish manner that suggested he had been planted there by Adam. Natalie, dripping from the knees down, walked up behind him.

“Oh Grigorin,” she said. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

He turned to regard her, and she almost took a step back. Occasionally he frightened her, though she never knew why.

“What can we do?” she said. “It’s destroyed!”

He stood silently, regarding the wreckage of the garden.

“Why have you come so early?” she asked, hoping to warm him up somehow.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

It was like hearing the ground was leaving. She stood for a moment, blinking. “You’re – what?”

“I’ve come for my tools. I left them here.”

“But – why are you leaving?”

Grigorin shrugged.

“What’s the matter? Have I been a bad mistress?”

He shook his head and walked over to a broken hammer lying on the ground, dragging his little bag of tools behind him. He bent down and picked up the handle of his hammer. He stood and looked at it without moving. Natalie was certain he was going to cry, but he just stared at it for a while, then bent over and picked up the hammer’s head. He tried to fit them together for a moment, then threw them both in his bag, standing with his back to her.

“Can I have my… pay?” he asked.

“What about your hammer?”

He did not answer. She walked up behind him.

“Grigorin? Grigorin – can you tell me why you’re leaving?”

There was a pause. He put down his bag. Nodding at the garden, he said: “It’s broken.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, then felt a wave of remorse as she realized who had done the most work that summer.

Grigorin pushed his hat back over his head and frowned. “We worked hard to fix it and now it’s broken,” he said.

“But we can repair it can’t we? Together? Grigorin?”

He looked through her. “It’s broken,” he repeated, as if to a child, then picked up his bag again.

“But – you can’t just leave it like this!” cried Natalie. “What will I do?”

“Can I have my pay?”

“What? Oh – of course. How much do I owe you?” She searched his face. “Five rubles?”

“Yes.”

Natalie knew she could have said none or a thousand and met with the same response. “Let me pay you for your hammer,” she offered.

Grigorin prodded his ear and looked her over. “You want my hammer?” he asked finally.

“No, no – to replace your hammer. I’ll give you fifteen.”

“Five,” he repeated.

“No, I’ll give you fifteen – five for you, ten for your hammer. All right?”

He stood stolidly. Natalie stood, wanting to help, but afraid of making him angry. She decided to fold a ten-ruble note inside a fiver and hope he wouldn’t come looking for her.

“Wait here,” she said needlessly.

Natalie ran upstairs to her room. When she opened the door, she saw that the maid had already tidied the room, but once again, Sasha had left the bed unmade. Natalie and Sasha had had odd fights about the bed – the maid point-blank refused to make it, which had surprised and angered Natalie; it seemed simple – making the bed was housekeeping, and Sasha was a housekeeper. Going to her father had been useless – he had told them to work it out between themselves, but had mentioned that he didn’t think it such a terrible chore. Perhaps, thought Natalie for the thousandth time, because Sasha always made his bed perfectly and without complaint.

She threw the covers across the bed in a vain attempt to make it look presentable, but it was like trying to toss sails, and they buckled in on themselves before hitting the expanse of the mattress. Natalie crawled on the sheets (they’ll dry, she thought) and was trying to spread them across the bed when the voice startled her.

“I’ve come to say good morning.”

Natalie froze.

“And apologize for my rudeness last night,” continued Nachaev. Natalie whirled, drawing the sheets up around her neck. The young man stood leaning against the doorway, one of her father’s old dressing gowns tied around his slender frame. She could see the fine hair on his ankles.

“What an enormous bed,” he smiled.

“I’m not up. I’ve been up,” she stammered.

“Do you accept my apology?”

“Yes, but…”

“I’d like to tell you why,” he said, walking into the room.

“I don’t think…”

He sat at the foot of her bed. She shifted her feet surreptitiously.

“I was tired,” he said, “I had been traveling for a long time. I was nervous – your father is very imposing – and I was surprised, because I imagined the daughter of such a man to be a thin-lipped creature with messy hair and neat opinions.”

“You’re – thinking of my sister,” stammered Natalie, laughing. “But this – can it wait until breakfast, Mr. Nachaev?”

His fingers reached down and touched her sheets. “Nice,” he murmured, then looked up. “Is there anything I can do while I’m here? I want to be useful.”

“No no – I’ll make it.”

“Good luck – you’ll need an army,” he laughed. “But I’ll leave you to change now. Is that sweat? Never mind. Where can I sit so as not to disturb anyone?”

“The dining-room – is fine.”

The young man stood and turned to go, then looked over his shoulder.

“Should I wake your father?” he asked.

“No!” she cried, then took a breath. “Sasha will – when breakfast is ready. He likes to eat when he wakes.”

“When he wakes – there is no dressing for breakfast? No? Then I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said, and blew through his lips strangely. For an awful moment she thought he was going to wink at her, but he just smiled and whispered, “Change now,” before closing the door gently.

Natalie listened to his footsteps going downstairs and shoved the sheets violently from her, her hands shaking. Her nightdress clung to her. Locking her door securely, she yanked it off and quickly pulled on her corset, relishing the tightness of breath as she laced herself in. When she had finished dressing, Natalie stood trying to remember what on earth had brought her upstairs. Frowning, she walked over the window.

Grigorin stood in the garden below, picking at his teeth and whistling, his bag of tools at his feet. Natalie smacked her head, opened the money drawer, folded the larger bill inside the smaller, and ran downstairs.

“I’m sorry, Grigorin,” she panted, running up to him. “Here’s your money.”

His hand folded over the notes and transferred them to his pocket without thought. He’ll spend it till it’s gone, she thought, then forget he ever had it. He nodded at the garden and turned to go.

“Grigorin!” she cried. He stopped. “Goodbye,” she said finally.

He turned and looked at her. “I’m the leaving one, miss,” he said, then nodded, turned again and trudged off toward the woods. Natalie watched him go, suddenly wondering where he was going and who – if anyone – waited there, if he had any friends, how he would spend his days without her garden, and whether he had a blanket.

She shook her head and sighed, pushing at a broken branch with her bare foot, then took a sharp step back as a red spider stilted over her toes. She turned around, looking up at the house. A waving figure from an upstairs window caught her eye.

“Food!” cried her father. “Then we plan! Breakfast in ten minutes!”

Natalie went into the kitchen, deep in thought. Sasha was vigorously greasing a big frypan.

Sasha occupied a strange position in the household. She had begun her career as one of Herzen’s ‘projects’, but had quickly outstripped all his plans for elevation by revealing a ruthlessly practical nature and a contempt for all things philanthropic. She had been a cook for the revolutionaries; not out of any sympathy for their cause, but rather because they were so helpless about the basics of living. One of them had brought her to Herzen; they were both starving. The revolutionary has disappeared, but Sasha stayed on and, like many whose natural fortitude flowers in the face of grim absolutes, her brush with death had given her a stout-jawed determination to accept no charity and grant no favours. She was in her late twenties, and possessed a constitution strong enough to have discarded her bony suit of starvation without regret – indeed, she had swollen considerably with the effects of good food, shedding her skin and bones like the childhood uniform of a graduate from an exceptionally harsh school. Only occasionally did Natalie come across Sasha when she stood pale and tense in the grip of memory, but she always shook off any attempts at consolation with the impatience of someone who knows how empty such embraces can be – especially from mistresses. Pain she might have; self-pity she knew nothing of.

“You’re up early this morning, miss,” said Sasha, putting the pan on the stove and lighting the gas with a bang. Natalie jumped. “Didn’t sleep well?” smiled the housekeeper.

“Not very.”

“Oh dear. Bad dreams?”

“No – I was thinking of our visitor.”

Sasha picked up an enormous knife. “He’s a bad lot,” she snapped.

Natalie waited for an elaboration, but Sasha started cutting at a ridiculously fatty lump of bacon.

“You’re not serving that for breakfast!” said Natalie, shocked.

“Mr. Herzen wants his eggs and bacon, miss.”

“Mr. Herzen will get toast and weak coffee,” corrected Natalie.

“There it is,” said Sasha, pointing the knife at her. “Who am I to obey? You’re my mistress, but he pays the bills.”

“If you want them to keep being paid, you’d better not put him in an early grave.”

“A man his size can’t stay alive on bird food,” said Sasha firmly.

“If he’d tried to when he was younger he might have never reached this size,” retorted Natalie.

“My father used to say that he ate well in his youth so he could enjoy eating badly in his old age,” said Sasha, slicing deeply into the meat. “But then, look how long he lasted.” Sasha, unlike Grigorin, left very little in the dark about her opinions.

“Our gardener has left,” said Natalie suddenly.

“I’m not surprised,” said the maid, throwing the meat onto the heated pan. An unholy hissing blew smoke into the air.

“Why not?”

“His type always takes things too personally. He’d never think it was an accident. It’s always the way with them that can’t read.”

“Hm,” said Natalie, pushing a piece of fat over the cutting-board. “You’d better make it a double for our guest. Father will survive one day.”

“He doesn’t eat breakfast,” said Sasha shortly, shoveling the bacon around. Fat flew through the gas flame, making it flicker violently.

“Who? Nachaev?” Natalie blinked. “How do you know?”

“I’ve known him.”

Natalie stared, then frowned, wanting to know more about Nachaev without having to know more about Sasha.

“How?”

“Never you mind!” snarled Sasha, stirring the hissing meat. “Just you give him what he wants and get him out of your house! Now go and tell your father breakfast is almost ready.”

Opening the door to the dining room, Natalie felt a subtle shift of deference at her entrance. Both men’s chairs creaked.

“Are we to eat with our fingers, Natalie?” demanded her father, packing his first pipe of the morning. Never a punctual comber, his white hair stood on his head like a restless ghost looking for something to strike at. Nachaev had changed into one of her father’s few suits; his hair was oiled back; she could see the broad expanse of his forehead, and thought what a thin web of skin and bone separated her from his thoughts…

“Would you like some help setting the table, Natalie?” asked Nachaev, looking up. He used my name for the first time, she thought.

“Come now – guests don’t do that,” chided Herzen, taking his first puff.

“You don’t normally smoke at breakfast, father,” said Natalie, pulling open the cutlery drawer. “It ruins everyone’s appetite.”

“As I am no doubt to be starved on toast and coffee, I shall be allowed one vice,” replied her father. Looking at the young man, he smiled. “Quite a tumult last night, eh? Did you survive?”

“Oh yes, of course. Better than – who cares for the garden anyway?”

“Oh,” said the old man, waving his hand, “Natalie, of course. Her occupation. How is the old plot?”

“An absolute disaster,” said Natalie, laying the knives and forks. “And Grigorin has left us.”

Her father scowled. “What do you mean – left us? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“Well try to think a little more often. He was the only reliable man around – better than those other vagabonds in town. Why on earth didn’t you wake me?”

“I tried everything, father. He just wouldn’t stay,” said Natalie.

“You can’t have tried hard enough. There’s always a way.”

“How?”

“Well I, for one, would have reasoned with him.”

“Of course, I’m only a woman – how could I have reasoned?”

“Natalie!” laughed Herzen. He turned and whispered to Nachaev: “Do they come like that where you’re from?”

“Actually,” said Nachaev, rising and taking the plates from Natalie’s white hands, “I find peasants almost impossible to reason with. Fixed faith, no questions – it’s one of our greatest problems. Let me help – I don’t mind.”

“Oh, sit down and let her do it!” scowled Herzen.

“She’s upset about her garden, Alexander,” said Nachaev, putting down the plates. “What if your memoirs had been blown away?”

“As if that…” he muttered, then shrugged. “No, no – that’s very understanding. Excuse me. Natalie – come give me your hand.” He took it and stroked it. “I’m sorry. I slept badly too.”

“That’s all right.”

“No – I mean it.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry.”

“Good.” He dropped her hand and picked up his pipe. “Now please run into the kitchen and tell our worthless maid that if my food isn’t on the table in one minute I’ll have her for breakfast!”

The door swung open and Sasha entered with a laden tray.

“I heard that, Mr. Herzen,” she said, “and you’d be wise to stop making comments of that kind!”

Herzen rolled his eyes at Nachaev. “Take my advice, Sergei – never spend your old age in the company of unmarried women; they have nothing better to do than baby you. Oh!” he cried as Sasha banged his plate down. “What eggs and bacon? Am I dead? Or merely in the terminal stages of hospitality?”

“If it’s for me, then thank you,” said Nachaev. He picked up his fork, then paused and glanced around. “I assume there’s no grace in this house to stop me,” he said.

“Sasha usually says it while we eat,” said Natalie softly.

“That’s right!” laughed Nachaev, glancing at the maid. “Go ahead!”

“No,” said Sasha. “I will not speak it for you,” she said, then turned and left the room.

Herzen grunted, looking at Nachaev, then shrugged again.

“Moon madness,” he said, and began carving his eggs.

Nachaev shot a look at Natalie.

“I…” he started.

Herzen looked up. “Yes?”

Nachaev shook his head. “Not at breakfast.”

“In my house we talk of what is important. Speak your mind.”

“The strongest person I know is a woman,” said Nachaev. “She has sacrificed herself to the cause as no man can dream of. She presented herself to me with energy and dedication – if I had looked at her and simply said ‘biology’, I would be in a much weaker position.”

Herzen laughed. “I’m sure. But if she had manifested the worst qualities of her sex, I’m sure you would have dismissed her with similar scorn.”

“Not true. I have seen as many pathetic men as I have women.”

“That’s right – remember Gregory, father,” said Natalie.

“He’s not a man!” cried Herzen. “He’s – well I don’t know what he is. And if you think,” he said, waving his fork at Nachaev, “that you’ve seen as many of both, then I can only assume you’ve had little experience with the fairer sex.”

“Enough to know that men are usually the unfairer sex,” replied Nachaev.

“That’s trite,” snorted the old man. “And you obviously had no father. Or a bad one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Men are unfair – that’s anger at some man, diffused to men in general out of cowardice.”

“Ahah,” said Nachaev, leaning back. “Beware: thinker at large.”

“What – you don’t think so?”

“That all hatred arises from the past? No – morality should never be confused with sympathy.”

“Did I suggest that?” asked Herzen.

“You say: ah, Mr. Nachaev, I understand your past, so I understand your hatreds – therefore I sympathize, for we are all human, and there is a little pettiness in the best of us.”

“And you disagree with that?”

“Of course: the best among us are all bad,” smiled Nachaev.

“But it’s this trite mysticism,” continued Herzen. “Grace! Muttering empty words over a full plate. I have little patience with the peasant’s addiction to mysticism. With their belief that thanks go to God for food, not to the farmer.”

“No – the money goes to the farmer,” said Natalie softly.

“What?”

“I read somewhere,” said Nachaev, “that mysticism is the desire to control the uncontrollable.”

“Or keep it uncontrollable,” added Herzen.

“The point is: can we ask the addict to give up his love if there’s nothing better waiting in the wings?” demanded Nachaev.

“Their selves are waiting in the wings, Sergei – unless you believe that you can destroy the Tsar with a few anemic students.”

Nachaev put down his fork. “Do you mind if I don’t finish? I’m not used to so much food. We do not see the value of the masses as you do,” said the young man, wiping his mouth. “The mechanics of power are far more simple. What keeps people good? Not the direct threat of force, for if everyone were a criminal the police would be prey. It is more subtle – a combination of generalized fear, the fear of acting alone, and a mystical belief in the sanctity of the law. The Tsar calls himself the Father of Russia – he ties into the myth of family. The police wear uniforms and rely on obedience to minimize their violence – why? Because people would rather obey the Law than a gun. Both the police and the Tsar portray themselves as representatives of a higher power – God if you like. Destroy the Tsar and his family, the image is empty – and to avoid a confrontation with the reality of naked force, people will be desperate to follow anyone who claims to represent something higher. Some say God, some say the social good – I say the revolution.”

“You say the police – what about the army?” demanded Herzen.

“Same thing,” replied Nachaev. “Both are occupying forces, since both are foreigners to justice. They are patriotic to power alone – if they see me as its manifestation, they will follow me like the well-trained dogs they are.”

“Dogs trained to attack!” snorted the old man. “What do you do about that, eh?”

“Simple. I allow them to vent themselves on the enemies of the revolution,” smiled Nachaev.

Herzen’s brow darkened. “Then you become another Tsar!”

“And why not?” said Nachaev. “Power is only the means – the Tsar uses it to benefit the rich – I will use it to benefit the poor.”

“How?”

“Come on – what do the poor lack? Land, food, liberty. The only power that bars them from justice is the armed might of the Tsar, who steals their wealth to reward those who give him the power to steal it! There are only two groups in the world, Alexander – parasites and workers. Now the state serves the parasites – we shall make it serve the workers. But first we must make sure it serves us.”

“By serving the workers, you shall make them parasites,” growled Herzen. “You merely expand your list of beneficiaries.”

“I have not your cynical view of human nature, Alexander,” said Nachaev. “True believers need no handouts.”

Herzen scowled. “Your generation always makes the same error: you mistake experience for cynicism. In 1825, was it cynical to march against the Tsar? Was it cynical to believe that revolt would breed revolution? Was it cynical to see my friends flayed and hung alive? If we are wary of glib schemes, it is only because we have seen that always and forever, human nature does not change.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Then what makes human nature?”

Herzen blinked. “What? Nothing makes it – it just is!”

“Then why is it that in America and England there are no Tsars?” demanded Nachaev. “Why is it that around the world, men – and women – have killed and died to fight tyranny? May I smoke, Natalie? Thank you. Look – if Russian politics is human nature then there’s no point fighting at all – there’s no point even raising a fist. Which, I suppose, explains why you live as you do!”

Herzen dropped his fork with a clatter and threw down his napkin. Natalie paled.

“You impudent bastard!” he snarled, jutting his chin out. “You dare to come here and criticize me? What do you know of my work? What do you know of the principles of a just civilization? Are you stupid enough to believe that grabbing their guns will make the world more peaceful? Don’t you know that that’s the first temptation of revolution? If you succumb to it, you are nothing more than a fool – and a thug! And you display nothing but an utter lack of education. Tell me – what do you know of philosophy, Sergei Nachaev? Who can you quote?” He thumped the table, glaring. “Well? Who?”

“It is the right of masters to create values.”

“Pah! Schizophrenic German!”

Nachaev suddenly sent his chair scraping back from the table. “If you wish to censor my opinions, Alexander Herzen, then I see you are not fit to organize your own house, let alone Russia itself. Thank you for your hospitality – there is nothing more to say,” he said, rising and turning to go.

“There damn well is more to say, Sergei Nachaev – don’t you run off like a spoilt brat! I have no wish to censor your opinions – however senseless they may seem – but in my house everyone is free to speak their minds – myself first and foremost. If you have a problem with that, you can go and hide somewhere else!”

“You want me to sit and talk,” said Nachaev, turning around. “And perhaps fossilize as you have, I don’t know. But I do know that words have been spoken since the beginning of time, and they have not changed one single thing.”

“You value America, yes? Did the Founding Fathers just grab the guns and start shooting? Or did they – perhaps – have a plan?”

“No – they planned and then they shot. They didn’t pull this Thoreau business – yes, I have read a little – and sit in the country making paper guns out of their literary masterpieces!”

“I value your commitment to action, Nachaev,” said Herzen, his cheeks flushed. “God knows it’s about time! But if you do not value my knowledge, then what are you doing here? You want to fight, go ahead – fight! But for God’s sake pick your fights intelligently!”

The young man wiped his forehead slowly. “What worries me, Alexander,” he said, “is that I shall spend my life choosing my fights, identifying the enemy and understanding his motives, and in the end achieve nothing more than a pile of neat little treatises that can never be published.”

“Perhaps we need this kick in the rear,” said Herzen. “Perhaps your generation can offer us that. But these are matters which intelligent men must discuss calmly.”

“I am not happy to just discuss, Alexander.”

“No-one is suggesting that.”

Nachaev paused. “Then if we can have some coffee, I will sit down.”

Herzen laughed suddenly. “You see how even the proud are bowed, Natalie? Deprive them of coffee for a few weeks and they are yours! Go tell Sasha to bring some in. Apologize to her if she’s still upset – tell her she will be avenged in heaven!”

When Natalie returned with the coffee, the argument was again rapidly getting out of control.

“Those little bastards will be taught some respect,” said Nachaev, pacing rapidly.

“Oh, they’re ‘little bastards’ now, are they?”

“Oh come on! Hello Natalie. You’ve seen them, Alexander – swarming over the trolleys like little vermin. They’re disgusting!”

“And your solution is to beat them?”

“I never said beat them. Don’t misquote me, Alexander. There are just too many of them who consider themselves intellectuals.”

“Twelve year old intellectuals?”

“What – you think it happens overnight?”

“What does? Be clear!”

“This transformation – this loss of innocence. Some poor ten year old gets ahold of Fathers and Sons and all of a sudden he’s thrown into confusion. You know what would be perfect? A world where everything you knew at birth was enough to get you through your whole life. Why should children suddenly realize they’re living in a nightmare?”

“Once more you veer from creative solutions to bombast, Sergei. Why is everything so formless with you?” demanded Herzen.

Nachaev nodded at Natalie. “No cream. No sugar.” He sat opposite Herzen. “I know what I hate,” he said slowly. “I don’t care what I want.”

“Don’t you know how unhealthy you sound?”

“You want to give me solutions, don’t you?”

“You need help.”

“You want to help?” asked Nachaev. “Then never, ever offer me solutions.”

Herzen scowled again. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, Sergei, because of your reputation. But I am also losing patience rapidly.”

“It’s a different world now. We don’t work creatively any more. Your lot was good at planning destruction, but you never brought it about. The need for destruction is so great that if you want the rubble to fall into neat piles, you’ll never have the nerve to go through with it. To destroy, you must love nothing else!”

Herzen paused for a moment, looking at the tense figure before him. “I’ll tell you something, Nachaev. No – two things. The first is that you frighten me. The second is that I have never graced another human being with such a confession.”

Nachaev sat and stared at his coffee. Natalie followed his gaze and saw the curved windowpane reflected a thousand times in its oily surface.

“I won’t lie, Alexander,” said Nachaev, looking up. “I am a criminal by any real standard. If I lived in America I would kill myself; I am not fit for decent society.” He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “But I do not live in America. I live in Russia – which is not fit to live. I am nothing but destruction and, like any leech, am useful only as long as the disease exists. When we win, my first duty as ruler will be to hang myself, because for Russia to be free it must first be free of me.” He suddenly reached across the table and gripped Herzen’s hand tightly. “Alexander – you are a philosopher. We are going to win. I shall rule for a brief, brief moment, and I shall have two orders. My own death – and, just before that, the naming of my successor. Alexander – I want that man to be you. I want you to make Plato’s dream real. I want you to raise Russia from the muck of the Middle Ages – by the throat if need be! But to trust you I need two things. I need your support now; and I need to know that you will do more than talk when the time comes to act!”

Herzen stared at him, and Natalie saw a tear creep from the corner of his eye and hang like a prisoner over his cheek.

“Tell me something, Nachaev,” he said quietly. “That boy – that man you talked about last night – is he dead?”

“Why would you ask when I have told you the story?” asked Nachaev.

“Because you are still a child, and children lie.”

“You call me a liar?”

“I am concerned about your health.”

“You are willing to trust the Tsar over me?”

“I am not prone to trust in any form.”

“Is it wise to mistrust your allies?”

“When they talk of murder as a means, yes. There is no such thing as abstract destruction.”

“First I must know if the offer interests you.”

“It is my dream,” replied Herzen. “Although I suspect more dream than truth.”

“There is one artery to Russia, Herzen,” said Nachaev, “and I am poised to cut it. Help me save the body.”

The old man paused, his cheeks flushed. “I need time to think. I do not doubt your power. We read the newspapers, even here.”

Nachaev’s lips twisted, and he threw down Herzen’s hand. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said, rising to his feet. “Thought.”

“I understand your concern,” said Herzen, rubbing his palm.

“There are others. But you were my first choice.”

“You will not wait for an answer?” asked Herzen slowly.

“I have business. Even here. I shall return in a day,” said the young man. “Can you spare a horse?”

“I have only one.”

Nachaev laughed. “Two days then. Think carefully, Alexander – or never write honestly again. Goodbye,” he said, turning and walking from the room.

Herzen and Natalie both drew deep breaths. The dining room slowly shifted colour as a cloud drew over the house.

“We shan’t see him again,” said Herzen.

“You don’t think so?” asked Natalie.

“He wanted my horse to show us how his statue would look after the revolution. But it won’t work. I can only be fooled twenty times in one lifetime.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Herzen stood up slowly, then walked over to the window and looked out. “Storm’s coming back,” he murmured. “Must’ve left something behind. Hup! There he goes!”

“Where?” Natalie leapt up and ran to the window. She saw Nachaev running toward the woods, leaping nimbly over the refuse of the garden, the rippled glass giving him the appearance of a jellyfish swimming against a current. As they watched, he was sent flying by a hidden root. Scrambling to his feet, he turned, waved at them, then darted off again, to be quickly swallowed by the trees.

“See him there, waving at me!” laughed Herzen. “Our last glimpse of him.” Natalie felt in her heart – and kept it there – that he was not waving at her father at all, and that thought gave her a sudden stab.

Perhaps her father thought it too, for he turned and leaned against the window frame, taking her face in his hands.

“Natalie, Natalie,” he murmured. “Where will we find a man for you?”

She laughed uneasily and turned away. “Not in Russia, that’s certain.”

“You want to go abroad?”

“No.”

“You’re not jealous of Natasha? She’s having a wonderful time at school, by all reports.”

“Natasha is made for university.”

“And you?”

Natalie sighed. “I am made for disaster. Look at my garden.”

“You are twenty-two, Natalie,” he said softly. “Whither are you bound?”

“Wherefore am I bound?” she murmured. “Who knows? I like it here with you.”

“And I with you. But time marches on, and I must join the parade sometime. Who will you walk with then?”

“Oh, don’t talk that way, father. When I see what I want to do, I’ll do it, and no-one will stop me.”

“And I suspect no-one had better try!” laughed Herzen. “Now I must get to work. How will you occupy your day?”

“I’ll find something. You need anything typed?”

Herzen shook his head. He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Writing will be hard today,” he murmured. “I am sick at heart.”

“He’s better gone,” said Natalie.

“I know. But still – it hurts.”

Natalie walked over to her father and touched his cheeks.

“Father?”

“Mmm?”

“Father – no more revolutionaries.”

There was a pause. Somewhere in the house a little clock struck twelve.

“Yes,” said Herzen. “No more revolutionaries.”

He went out.

CHAPTER THREE: A Glimpse of the Old World

Alexander Herzen’s generation was one of those stable enough to retain childhood friends their whole lives long, and every Sunday his old friend Ivan Ilyavich would come to dinner and they would talk and smoke with the ease of years between them. Ivan Ilyavich was a landowner, a materialist, and that rarest of breeds, a genuine Russian entrepreneur. He had aroused the enmity of both ends of the social spectrum by fording the broad rivers of convention as if they were so many puddles at his feet. This was not unforgivable, of course – except that he forgave himself immediately for all his transgressions. He accepted his wealth without desiring acceptance by the wealthy, and so was generations ahead of even the nouveau riche of the West. Russia’s envy of Europe admitted only for imitation, not improvement, so Ilyavich remained outside the comprehension of all but the most worldly. He met ridicule with incomprehension, scorn with shrugs, and condemnation with the rich indifference of a man who is his own blueprint. His only fault in Herzen’s eyes was his utter lack of ambition to change the world – despite his startling ability to improve his own fortunes within it. Ilyavich had no place in his consciousness for those less able than himself (which was the secret of his guiltless success), whereas Herzen knew his own capacities far exceeded the masses he intended to improve, and so allowed his self-esteem to be burdened by the bulk of humanity to whom such issues as freedom and legality are about as relevant as the debates of ancient priests. The universality of these matters established the framework of their friendship in a mutually satisfying fashion; Ilyavich took the role a bemused man of the world who did not much understand Herzen’s philosophy, but who took great pleasure in opposing him from a common-sense point of view. Their shared distaste for the younger generation kept them from regretting their differences, and their time together was as satisfying as any who spend their twilight years contentedly toasting the cups they drained in their youth.

That Sunday the supper was almost over by the time the subject of Nachaev’s sudden visit arose. Sasha cleared the dessert plates and smiled at Ilyavich, who always finished his. Natalie brought out a port of rare vintage reserved for Ilyavich’s Sunday visits, and her father leaned back in his chair after telling the story, his brow creasing.

“There is something unreal about these young men, Ilyavich,” he murmured. “Something almost supernatural about them. They frighten me.”

“Because they’re young,” said Ilyavich, spinning his glass under his nose. “We felt the same about our grandfathers when we were so high.”

Herzen frowned. “It’s not the same.”

“Now we are old,” said Ilyavich.

“Some port, Natalie? No – it’s not that I’m older. Tell me, Ilyavich – did you like your grandparents?”

“Yes and no. They died when I was about ten.”

“Did you respect them?”

“I was a little afraid of them, I suppose.” Ilyavich laughed. “They only had one wooden soldier to share among the children when we came. My brother and I didn’t like sharing much – sometimes we’d sit under the table and grimly pull at our own ends, until the soldier finally broke in pieces. We hid it – no-one ever found out because shortly after my grandfather died.”

Herzen tipped his pipe. “You see? You stayed silent. You listened.”

“We stayed silent, it’s true – but did we listen?”

“I did.”

“You?” Ilyavich snorted and leaned over to Natalie. “This one crawled out of his window at night and stayed up with the servants till dawn. This he did not learn from listening.”

Alexander shook his head. “When I was young, perhaps I broke the rules – but at least I recognized them.”

“When I was young,” said Ilyavich, “my father told me everything would be clear when I got older. It was a lie. When you get old, all you understand is age. Not youth. Don’t try to understand it, Alexander. It will kill you.”

Herzen laid his pipe down and gazed out the window into the darkness lit by the reflected candlelight. “You know, I have spent my life fighting for youth, for the future,” he murmured. “And now, at the end of it, I feel I have done nothing.”

Ilyavich snorted with the healthy man’s suspicion of hypochondria. “What nothing? What is this ‘nothing’?”

“I have spent my life teaching them that all Russia is theirs, and now I know that they don’t want Russia at all.”

“What is it they want then?”

“Power, Ilyavich. Just – power.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” asked Ilyavich. “This is what I hear: some young thug comes into your house and huffs and puffs and all your ideals fall like a house of cards. You are a ridiculous old man. Have another drink and stop talking like one.”

“If they value nothing, I have no reason for my past,” said Herzen.

“Then it is not so, for you are here.” Ilyavich leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on – look up. Natalie, have you been feeding him properly? Alexander? Have you been eating your veggies? Have you?”

“I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t act like one. And sit up straight.”

Alexander smiled and waved him away. “Ilyavich, why do you insult me? We will have to duel now.”

“No, no,” laughed Ilyavich. “No duels. That habit I don’t miss.”

“That time in Prague, remember? You always used to duel with doctors.”

“And why not? What if I were hit and there was no doctor around? Even the doctors did it.”

“Except that one…” said Herzen.

“What happened?” asked Natalie.

Herzen sighed. “Ah God, duels, duels – once a month, twice a month. If you wanted your honour, it never ended. Not that Ilyavich or I were the keenest fighters; every month we would stake out the safest opponents – for me it was academics, but Ilyavich preferred doctors.”

“Since doctors, at the crucial moment, remembered their Hippocrates and hesitated. Then one could miss them and call it a day,” said Ilyavich.

“So one time – in June…”

“June? It was September.”

“We weren’t in Prague in September.”

“Of course we were – you were studying with that German fellow and I was off doing something enjoyable.”

“That’s not even the same year! Who can trust you with a month?” bristled Herzen.

“Does it matter?” demanded Natalie.

Herzen glared, then shrugged. “Let’s just say we were in Prague at some point in the thirties, and Ilyavich had found his doctor at a university party. Insults followed, beards were tugged, and in a flash they were outside powdering up their guns. This doctor was a real firebrand, stomping and shouting threats, but when the moment of truth came he got his pistol caught in his trousers and it went off accidentally.”

“Ouch,” winced Natalie.

“Indeed,” said Ilyavich. “And, as it turned out, he was a doctor of philosophy – and so you can see why, in Russia at least, philosophers have always been seen as rather useless fellows.”

“You left out the most important part,” said Herzen.

“Oh yes. Your father’s studies were regrettably cut short by the accident.”

“Why?” asked Natalie.

Herzen smiled. “Because this doctor of philosophy was actually my thesis advisor – and a far from useless fellow.”

“And so,” said Ilyavich, “having rescued your father from academic oblivion, I took him on a tour of Europe that pointedly ignored every single museum and library on the way. And the times we had shall not soon be seen again!”

“This,” said Natalie, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table, “is an aspect of my father’s history I have long been curious about.”

“Parental respect forbids the recounting of our wilder times, Ilyavich,” warned Herzen.

“Were they really that wild?” persisted Natalie.

Ilyavich laughed. “That, my dear, all depends on your perception of the word. To us they were, but your generation has tamed our wildness into conservatism. Still, truth be told, we had some adventures that I think even now would hold some candles to your most extravagant youths.”

“Such as?”

“Is there really a need for this?” asked Herzen. “It sets a bad precedent.”

“Oh, father! Do you think I am going to fight duels? I am a homebody – that much is abundantly clear. Tell me, Ilyavich.”

Ilyavich laughed again, and told the story of how Herzen crashed the barge, how they climbed the outside of the Tower of Pisa, their bad vodka in Vienna, the laming of the German racehorse, the smuggling of banned novels into France, their narrow escape from boredom at the hands of an English priest, and a hundred other stirring tales.

And all the while in the safe warmth of Alexander Herzen’s house, the three of them, privileged in their happiness, toasted and laughed without a single thought to those who wandered cold in the darkness, who raised cups only to dash them on empty hearths, and to whom a warm acre of sunshine is nothing more than a hateful curse on the darkness they prefer.

CHAPTER FOUR: A Maid Before Dragons

Irena Ugladovich still lied to herself; it was perhaps her only trace of humanity. She sat in the dark and dismal hut in the woods, staring at Nachaev’s sleeping form, and silently told herself that she preferred him in this light, that he was indeed a hero, that he truly lived his life for the poor, the meek, the humble, that forever and tomorrow he would become compassionate and loving and his violence would be justified.

She was not to be blamed, save that she betrayed her promise. She believed no more than the thousand lies that the average person uses to woo sleep with. Her lies had consumed her being, which is no great loss to those for whom the truth is something to be feared, but Irena Ugladovich was no such person; she was not one of those rare jewels who are granted the status of angel or devil in their pursuit if truth. Her search for truth had drawn her to Nachaev when he was a mere skulking presence on the far side of the university fence. In her naiveté, she had believed that all passion was the passion for truth, and had fallen under his spell forthwith.

The sacrifices she had made were prodigious – and dangerous. She had abandoned her soul as a fiction, her education as propaganda, her family as chattel, her friends as distractions; in short, she had remade herself completely in the image of Nachaev. She was dangerous, Nachaev knew, because all sacrifices in turn demand more – and usually from the instigator, rather than the enactor. In order to carve someone hollow for an ideal, he knew, that ideal must fill their emptiness, not in the future but now, else the statue will slowly come to horrible, virulent life, pick up a chisel, and come in search of its sculptor. Irena was approaching the stage where her old values encircled her, glaring and demanding just cause for their eviction. As a jealous friend counsels another out of a lover, Irena’s old loves constantly compared Nachaev to his words, his situation, his actions and future – and more and more found him wanting in most respects. In Irena was building the awful energy of someone who fears they have made a terrible mistake. Teetering on the edge of violent desertion, she was the first sign that the revolution was coming to its first maturity – the brewing of another rebellion within it.

Irena came from an astoundingly wealthy family; she was the youngest of four sisters, and like many youngest siblings she had grown up with a violent desire to make decisions for herself – a desire that was matched only by her seeming inability to do so. Most extremes are metaphors within families – Irena was the sign of things outgrown, the yardstick of relative maturity, and her sisters (and parents) had resisted her development in order to ensure their own sense of distance. The only fight she had won was to go to university – her sisters, happily married to unhappy men, allowed her to go in the hopes of scorning her learning with experience.

Irena’s father had barely noticed her absence. He was a towering far-off figure who cast shadows enlarged by distance. A St. Petersburg official of the second rank; he was a man who made it clear that his family was more a concession to social norms than a source of any personal pleasure. He was absent for most of Irena’s childhood, appearing at odd intervals only to correct the habits of devotion and entomb the dinner table in silence. Her mother had been plucked from the lower ranks to prove his egalitarianism and bolster his sense of correctness by her inevitable mistakes in protocol; she gratefully repaid his altruism with ineptness and wore a giddy smile that often threatened to swallow her head whole. The entire house had the feel of a military academy, a school for warriors who were neither allowed to touch the weapons nor know the face of the enemy.

Irena had fled to university only to find herself adrift in the absence of displeasure. Her natural anger was cloaked in a dark cape of personal distaste, a dissatisfaction with self and others and a blind desire to strike out at authority. She had met Nachaev in a bookstore; he was arguing strenuously with the owner, demanding to view the hidden books. She had tried to pay; he had turned and heaped scorn on her choice of books. Strangely excited, she had followed him to a coffee shop and introduced herself. He had been surprised at first, almost hostile, but warmed slightly on hearing her story and had launched into a long and passionate speech on the evils of paternalism, feminine envy and the family structure in general. She had felt her chest growing tight at his words, tried her first cigarette, and by the end of the afternoon was a committed revolutionary.

Such reversals should not be viewed with surprise – they abound among those lashed to the helm of imagery. Blown by the conflicting torrents of nature and expectation, Irena willingly threw herself into the tornado of anger that emanated from Nachaev, perhaps hoping that through opposing motion she could eventually find rest. The demands of Nachaev – that all in his inner circle must abandon all contact with the past – fitted her desires like an iron glove.

She had finally agreed to come on Nachaev’s “Herzen expedition” because her wrenching break with her past – so scornfully received by her family – had left her with a mounting sense of isolation that could only be surmounted through action. As a young girl, her first rebellion had been to devour every word produced by Alexander Herzen, blindly responding to the grand compassion of his generation. On one of her early walks with Nachaev (before she had realized that every subject with him must be begged before being broached), she had spoken rapturously of her love for the old writer. Believing that Nachaev understood, she had waxed euphoric, and he had shot her little glances designed to place her in cynical view of herself. Unsuccessful, he had resorted to oblique attacks, asking her about her youthful crushes, and what had happened to them when she actually got to know the boys. Irena was one of the infinite herd of adolescent poets, but retained enough appreciation to know she was only an acolyte of the deepest muse; Nachaev quoted one of her earlier poems and asked her if she still thought it wonderful. Crushed by his flat delivery, she admitted she did not think much of it any more. Nachaev then asked her if her love for Herzen was not just a child’s appreciation of immaturity. She had fallen silent, as sensitive as all youths to the charge of naiveté.

One of Nachaev’s special talents was to make old people feel prejudiced and young people immature. There was a timeless quality to his belligerence, no doubt gleaned from the universal pathology of Nietzsche (a special favourite of his). The driving certainty of his soul made all who were attracted to him feel that any disagreement with him was like questioning the reality of gravity. To meet faltering questions with blank scorn is one of the surest ways to hamstring the first gropings of an active intelligence. When Irena was young, her father had taken her to an opera where one of Russia’s most famous basses was singing. She had been profoundly moved, and had run around at intermission crying, “He’s so wonderful” – and was met by blank stares that read as clear as day the redundancy of her observation. Her joy of discovery was stung into submission by its perceived banality.

Recently, with Nachaev, her remaining joys were slowly being strangled out of her soul; her discoveries were all termed reactions and her wonder dismissed as signs of a life unlived. Such oppression, of course, is never the mark of a teacher, but of an indoctrinator who wishes nothing but that his students question nothing he wishes. How long was Irena to remain blind to this? Nachaev himself had no idea, for to ask that would be to allow himself questions, and it had long been his fundamental belief that questions were merely irritating frictions to the forward plummeting of his life. Thus Nachaev asked himself no questions and Irena told herself nothing but lies. The one preceded the other, and in their race to escape the future it is Nachaev who had to whip his frenzied horses all the faster, for fear of discovering he rides nothing but empty air, and like a man windmilling off a cliff, the only thing he found more terrifying than blindness was sight.

Irena stood at the doorway of the hovel as night fell, holding some wet logs against her weary belly. Nachaev was sprawled on the floor, but he turned and looked at her when she entered.

“Let me help,” he said, rising to meet her.

“It’s all right,” said Irena, but her arms gave way from exhaustion and the logs tumbled to the floor with a dull clatter.

“You’re tired,” said Nachaev. “Sit down – let me make you something to eat.”

“I can do it,” she said.

“Come on – sit down. I’ve been lazing around at Herzen’s all day. Let me light the fire.”

“How did it go?”

“Easy – you’re too tired to listen. Are you wet?”

“A little.”

“Let me take these things off.”

“I can manage.”

“Come on – let me.”

“Nachaev – it’s all right!” snapped Irena and began pulling off her soaking coat.

Nachaev began piling logs in the fireplace.

“You’re going to have to wait for these to dry,” he said. “You realize that, don’t you? You’re not going to have heat right away.”

It was another of his habits, she thought, that he always referred to other people’s needs – never his own. That characteristic, endearing in times of plenty, becomes irritating when supplies run low, much as someone offering a biscuit is pleasant when there are many, but becomes disconcerting when there is only one. Irena fought her distaste with her usual reproach for her lack of discipline. People out to change the world shouldn’t be irritating when they’re starting a fire.

“How did you fare at Herzen’s?” she asked finally.

“Well. Full details when you’re rested.”

She was about to ask, but he beat her to it.

“No – there’s no food,” he said. “I didn’t want to steal from his table.”

“Nothing at all?” she said, unable to hide her disappointment.

Nachaev shook his head. “I’m sorry. If you want me to I’ll go and steal some, although that will endanger us with Herzen. But if you’re that hungry I’ll do it. Do you want me to?”

For an instant she was tempted to say yes, if only to see his reaction, but she was too hungry to enjoy even that.

“No,” she sighed.

“Good,” he said, rising. “Now try to sleep. I was told once that if you dream of food you wake up full. Best advice I ever got.”

“Where are you going?”

He shrugged. “Out. Find some peasants. Test the waters. Never know – if I ever find one who’s even heard of the revolution, I’ll die a happy man.”

Nachaev smiled at her for perhaps the third time in their relationship, and she responded against her will. He strode out into the rain, leaving the door open.

Irena rose and pushed the door shut, shivering. Then she went back to her chair and stared at the dark walls, pulling her wet coat around her.

CHAPTER FIVE: A Favour Soon to be Returned

The following morning, Natalie rose with the sun and gazed over her ruined garden, looking at the scarred earth, the fallen trees and the shattered frame of the greenhouse. A quiet resolution gathered itself in her heart. Nature can grow, Nature can break, but only Man can make, she thought. She felt the stiff will of the entrepreneur, the inventor, the scientist, and felt an odd affinity with that tiny speck of humanity who look over the ruined earth and swear with their whole souls that they can make it better. My garden is gone, she reminded herself, but I am not; I made it, I can remake it. Natalie drummed her fingertips on the white windowsill and savoured the generous sunshine; her skin warmed and her nightdress stirred in the light breeze. Humming, she turned and dressed in her best town clothes.

Walking to town, her step was brisk, and she hummed as she walked, enjoying the heat reflected from her dress. In the distance, she saw a cart off by the side of the road, a pile of dirty clothes propping up a wheel. She glanced around with the concern of a solitary woman confronted with an oddity. Walking closer, she saw the gouged tracks that led off the rutted road and a lone horse cropping grass in the distance. She gasped when she saw a pair of old boots jutting out from the pile of clothes. Suddenly running heedlessly, she realized that the pile of clothes was actually a man’s body, trapped under the cart. Crying out, she was answered by a rasping sigh. Two hands emerged from the darkness and gripped the spokes of the shattered wheel. Reaching the cart, she held onto the frame and peered underneath. A bloody face she recognized swung into view.

“Grigorin!” she cried.

“Miss,” replied her ex-gardener stiffly.

“God! What happened?” Natalie saw the impulse of a shrug from the peasant’s shoulders manifest itself in a creaking of the awful weight above him. “What can I do?” she cried.

There was a sickening pause. “Lift…” whispered Grigorin.

“I can’t lift that!”

Another pause. “Try…”

“Where?”

The hand groped, pointing. Natalie knelt and saw the axle broken underneath the cart. “Your side,” he gasped.

“Will it hurt?” she asked senselessly. She stood and looked around frantically. “Let me get some help!”

“No… Lift now…”

“I can’t.”

“Lift.”

“I can’t!” Kneeling again, Natalie saw, as if in slow motion, a trickle of blood run slowly down the peasant’s cheek.

“All right,” she said. “Hold still.”

Tearing off her cloak, she knelt down, gripped the axle and heaved violently. Her thin arms trembled; the wood bit into her white hands, her shoulderblades cramped together with the strain. The cart groaned. Grigorin’s breath hissed out in an agonized gasp. Terrified, Natalie leapt clear.

“Are you all right?” she asked

“No,” said the peasant. “Get under… neath.”

“What?”

“In… here.”

“What? How will that help?”

“Put your shoulders… under the axle… try to stand…”

Without a thought to her clothes, Natalie crawled underneath the cart and pushed her shoulder under the axle. Wedging her legs beneath her, she convulsed upwards, gasping at the splinters tore into her arms. For a moment it felt as if the cart would yield, but the earth resisted too strongly. Crying tears of frustration, Natalie was about to give up when suddenly, miraculously, her load seemed to lessen. Through her streaming eyes she saw an arm reach under the cart and drag Grigorin to safety.

“Come out!” cried a man’s straining voice. “I can’t hold it forever!” Natalie sprang out as the earth reclaimed its prize and the cart collapsed into its embrace.

She blinked the dust from her eyes and saw a man’s back leaning over the prostrate peasant.

“Are you all right? Where does it hurt?” asked the man. “Here? Is that all?”

“Yes,” grunted Grigorin.

“That’s nothing. Come on – stop grimacing. It was just pressure. Nothing’s broken.”

Natalie knelt beside the man and turned to see the pale face obscured by swinging doors of black hair.

“Nachaev!” she exclaimed.

The young revolutionary nodded, pressing down on the peasant’s chest. “Come on – breathe properly. Don’t cough! Give me your cape.”

Natalie blinked, then grabbed her cape and handed it to him. Nachaev tore a strip off the bottom with his teeth. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “Take this end. Lift up his head. Now put it under his back. Good. Give me that end.” He wound the cloth over Grigorin’s heaving chest, and pulled it tight, tying it tightly over the front

“We can’t relax the pressure all at once or something will go,” he muttered. “Can you sit up? Give him a hand, Natalie.”

She took Grigorin’s arm and helped him sit up, feeling a shock that Nachaev had used her name.

“How does it feel?” he asked Grigorin. The latter pointed a grimy finger at the cart.

“Drink…” he gasped.

“Hold him – I’ll get it,” laughed Nachaev. He groped around in the cart and returned with a bottle of vodka. Grigorin grabbed it and took a deep swig. The clear liquid ran over his beard, dripping watery blood into his coat.

“I’ll take this in payment,” said Nachaev, taking the bottle and taking a healthy swig. He sat down against the broken wheel and lifted his face to the sun, a smile on his face. “Ahh. Nothing like a good deed to start the day! Like some?” he asked, holding the bottle out to Natalie.

“Perhaps a little – for my shock.” She sat beside him and took a sip.

“A bit early for the aristocrats to be out and about, isn’t it?”

“And I thought revolutionaries slept in.”

He laughed. “Only when mischief keeps us up late.”

She turned to him. His eyes were closed, the sun on his features. His not ungainly features…

“So you are going to town?” she asked finally.

“I have something to do there, yes.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

He shrugged. “With some peasants.”

“Good company?”

“Like everything else. Temporary. You’re going in too?”

“Yes – I have to find some willing bodies to repair my garden.”

“Well,” smiled Nachaev, “having performed my good deed, my day is now my own.”

Natalie smiled, looking down, then glanced over at Grigorin, who was sitting up and feeling his chest.

“What about him?”

Nachaev got up and walked over to the peasant. “He’ll be fine,” he said, bending over and hauling Grigorin to his feet. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”

“Drink…”

“You see?” laughed Nachaev, grabbing the peasant’s wrist and waving the hand at Natalie. “You see? Right as rain.”

They walked in silence for a time before Natalie spoke.

“That… what you did – was very noble.”

Nachaev shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I hesitated. I was afraid.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, “you were braver for trying where you knew you would fail.”

“But for you – it was so instinctive.”

“What can you do? No-one who was human can see suffering and stand idle. In whatever form.”

“Is this going to be a lecture?” she asked. “Please don’t make it a lecture.”

They walked on in silence. She could see he was hurt, and was reminded again how young he was.

“And so you are motivated by – altruism?” she asked.

“What are you motivated by, Natalie?”

She laughed. “At the moment, a desire to repair my garden.”

Nachaev nodded. “As am I.”

“But my garden is more – realistic.”

“For what expenditure of energy? One morning’s walk? A fistful of rubles? I have a lifetime of energy.”

“But my garden is my own,” she said. “I have other things to achieve.”

He stopped and looked at her. “Such as?”

Here she fell silent, confounded by the simple question that the directionless face at every turn. People too large for their circumstances are always paralyzed by their potential until they learn to take their lives one step at a time. Natalie had not understood walking before she feared falling – this was the effect of her Russian soul. Movement exposed the vacuum made bearable only by stillness.

“I did not – and do not – want to be a revolutionary,” said Nachaev quietly. “I wanted to be an engineer. I am the only one in my family who can read. I learned my letters by reading blueprints – not tracts on bloodletting and mindless destruction.”

“But – there is so much talk!”

“Not from me.”

“Oh, all of you.”

“Well, there is not much I can say then, is there? If you think words are useless, then words are not about to convince you otherwise.”

“No, that’s for the best,” said Natalie shortly.

They walked on. Natalie wanted to apologize several times, but there were events churning in her breast that required breath and nothing else. The Russian summer swallowed them whole. It felt as if they had been walking forever, that all that was left was the heat and the endless road and the birds that hung above them like dust over a fishbowl. As a child, Natalie would try and feel what others were thinking, a magical practice she was sure she had lost at puberty. She tried her luck again on Nachaev, but to her credit nothing but blessed silence greeted her imagination. The wintry truths that hammer at the door of innocence are sometimes best left out in the cold. She glanced at him, measured his paces, but could divine none of his thoughts. For that she should have been grateful, for they were probably of a breed that bewilder children and make their parents hide them in cellars until the devils have passed.

CHAPTER SIX: A Day of Many Conversions

A Russian village in the late nineteenth century could have, but for dress, resembled any pre-industrial village in Europe. The same homespun lives wandered through their days like slowly-turning sundials winding their way toward their longest shadows. The same eyes viewed the world with the same exhaustion, the same feet shuffled, the same arms heaved and swung and fought as in the days of the Pharaohs. If an alien being were to see a procession of naked arms performing the actions of the poor, it would be an endless chorus line of blind repetition; it would take an omniscience to tell the ages – let alone the individuals – apart. The village of Krak stood (or rather sagged) about eight miles from Alexander Herzen’s house, and Nachaev and Natalie arrived there quite pleased with their endurance. The spring in their steps would have betrayed their station if the colour of their skin had not. The peasants barely glanced at the pair’s fresh bodies, accepting the weariness in their own bones without even the knowledge of resignation. If it pleases God to reward labour with aches, and play with fitness, so be it; there would be no questions at the pearly gates from those poor souls. And if, upon entrance to heaven, they were given ten thousand acres to thresh and a hundred forests to hew, they would still give tearful thanks to God. The only reason that humanitarians had failed to convince them they were not already in heaven was that they knew there were no priests there and here they were beaten for missing church if they were too tired to rise on Sundays. In short, they worked without hatred for the gravity that destroyed them, and loved their God in the same fashion.

Nachaev stood next to Natalie, sweating through his dark shirt and trousers. She noticed he was feeling his arm.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Is it your arm?”

He grimaced. “I must have pulled something.”

“Let me see.”

He almost shrank from her hand. “No.”

“Why not? You might be bruised.”

“And if I were, what would you do?”

“I would look at it… and see.”

Nachaev smiled. “See what? Some atoms arranged in a messy fashion, and a body ashamed of its own benevolence? Leave it be.”

“But you should put something cold on it.”

“If my arm chooses to be bruised, let it. I have no patience for it. An altogether unsightly contrivance.”

“Your arm?”

“The whole of it. I can’t stand exposed skin. Light does bad things to beauty, let alone ugliness.”

Natalie reacted as any shy person would when greeted with an enigma: she became hungry. “You’re being silly,” she said. “Lift your sleeve now.”

He smiled. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I shall lift it for you.”

“That would be very forward.”

“I don’t care. Hold out your arm.”

Ever obedient, Nachaev did as he was told. Natalie, feeling a little short of breath, carefully pushed his black sleeve over his wrist and raised it slowly up his forearm. His arm was slender, curved slightly, like a gentle scythe. The hair was fine and soft. Traveling up the length of his skin, Natalie’s eyes were arrested by a small scar just above the elbow, a bent knot like a tiny hook.

“Is that it?” she asked, knowing it wasn’t.

“No. Higher.”

She pushed the cloth further up his arm. He stood still, watching her do it.

“What’s this scar?” she asked.

“Which one?”

She pointed, her fingertip brushing against his skin. “This one.”

“That was from my father.”

“What happened?”

Nachaev shrugged. “He was a Russian.”

“And this one?”

“A childhood fall.”

“And this one?”

“A schoolyard fight.”

“Then – where is the bruise?” she asked, glancing at him.

He smiled. “It’s my shoulder that hurts.”

She took a step backwards, shaking her head. “I’m not about to take your shirt off!”

Nachaev lowered his arm. “Good.”

She looked around dizzily. “I’d – like to sit down.”

“That would be a good idea. Where?”

“There’s an inn near here.”

“You’re pale,” he said. “Shall I give you my arm?”

“No, no.” Natalie passed a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry – it was a long walk.” A sick pit had opened in her stomach. She felt unclean, a furtive animal in a forest of Greek statues. She glanced at Nachaev rolling down his sleeve and the thought of touching him suddenly made her nauseous. God help me, she thought dismally – I have to get married someday. The thought of a man’s hands taking her over, invading her privacy like a pair of hungry spiders… Natalie shuddered. When we most want to disrobe, sometimes we ascribe it to the sun.

“It’s too hot,” complained Natalie.

So into the inn they went.

Like the village itself, the “Painted Boar” must not be considered a rare breed, but rather a bland reproduction of the million watering-holes the world over. When God first planned society, in His wisdom He realized that while free choice was a very good thing, it would not always lead his wayward charges to the vocations of priest, doctor or lawyer. Many (and sometimes, it seemed, most) chose to pursue sloth with near-Herculean effort, and this particular group’s place of labour was the “Painted Boar”. Here they came and, instead of slaving over machines, became machines themselves, levers of brutal rural alcohol, compressors of stomach muscles, refugees of hammered heads, inventors of another way to keep their bleary eyes open, navigators of the shifting distance between the table and the bucket out back, engineers of tall stories, salesmen of their (still good, isn’t it?) credit and, last but not least, past masters of realistic fiction when cross-examined by their wives. In short, they were the chosen few whom society should label legally blind for their inability to see that their efforts to avoid labour would be decreased immeasurably by simply embracing it wholeheartedly. They could not rouse themselves to productive laziness, and so remained ignorant of the horrors of the deathbed reserved for those who cannot sort their years apart when it comes time to bid them farewell. A final irony is that even Almighty God would be hard-pressed to explain why the question that has haunted Man ever since he brushed off the primordial soup – that of “why are we here?” – is almost always asked by those whose lives already provide a decent answer, and never by those who waste their own.

The inhabitants of the “Painted Boar” fell into the latter category that hot afternoon when Natalie and Nachaev walked in. The argument they were compelled (by its volume) to listen to was only two years old. Such fresh vintage was trotted out like fine silverware whenever special occasions presented themselves. The burning question was whether, during a town fair two years prior, one of the village elders had in fact been bribed to miscall a tug-of-war that had resulted in a rival faction taking home the prize hog. The dissection and classification of others was a cornerstone of the discussions at the “Painted Boar”, and the soft alcoholic glow rendered the illusion that the judgments pronounced there were essential to the world outside its doors. In the same manner that a play is enhanced by the size of its audience, these lost souls believed that their observations of daily life made the village of Krak a more exciting place to live. And it must be granted that the ebb and flow of observation in the town watering-hole, while derided by those outside its clutches, had a great impact on the direction of the lives within its influence. Just as young women were seduced by the matriarchal offerings of the older wives, young men often made overtures to the dissolute tribe of the “Painted Boar”, but it wasn’t long before they realized that no part-timers were allowed to join (or spoken well of), and so either decided to retreat and live well though despised, or succumbed and swelled the ranks those marching the short path to a nameless grave. (Close town observers had noted that, of late, entry to the club had been relaxed somewhat due to the toll that liver disease had taken among the older generation; the huddling of those desiring disaster was becoming almost palpable, and as the elders died off, the middle-agers – i.e. those in their mid-twenties – preferred to widen their circle rather than face the possibility of drinking to death alone.)

As soon as it became obvious that there was a stranger in their midst, the heated argument died down. The regulars looked at Nachaev suspiciously, recognizing with the perception of those who devote their lives to manipulation that he was a dangerously unknown force. A few of them glanced at Natalie without dislike. Alexander Herzen was no threat to them, they knew; they even approved of him because he was living proof that one could become as addicted to words as to alcohol, and be rendered just as ineffective thereby.

“Some vodka for the lady,” called Nachaev. They sat in the best booth, which was always reserved for amateurs.

One of the men, a swarthy middle-ager with a seedy squint, leaned over the bar and tipped an imaginary hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Herzen,” he said.

“Hello, Medvedev,” said Natalie.

“How is your father? Is he planning on expanding his library very soon then?” he asked with a wink. Medvedev’s only identifiable job was carting the odd box of books to Herzen’s house – as such, he was regarded as the Painted Boar’s man of letters. He slid off his stool and strolled over to Natalie’s table, toasting his companions as he did so. There was a short pause, and one of the liver club muttered, “Mud up to their eyeballs and still they won!” which sparked the onslaught of indignation once more. Two groups vied for supremacy – the cynical who believed in conspiracies and the even more cynical who preferred incompetence.

“How is your dear father, then?” asked Medvedev, sinking into a chair and rubbing his face, as if hoping to clean his hands.

“Still drinking too much… but well overall,” replied Natalie.

Medvedev, whose mind admitted nothing but words, smiled stupidly. “And yourself? You’re an odd sight here. First time since your father stopped coming, isn’t it?”

“I’ve come to offer some work,” said Natalie.

At the mention of the word, the walls seemed to tremor slightly, and the conversation died again. These sudden silences were a rare art – they were reserved for any change in routine. Given the village’s location, strangers were rare enough, and given the Painted Boar’s inhabitants, the mention of the word “work” was even rarer. Eyes widened as if a five-headed man had walked through the door backwards.

Medvedev swallowed. “And – who’s your friend?” he asked slowly.

“Medvedev Sulypin,” said Natalie, “meet Sergei Nachaev.”

“My condolences,” said Medvedev.

“What?” asked Nachaev.

“On your tragedy. The death. It’s a shame.”

“Are you making sense?”

Long before adding machines, there were men like Medvedev. He blinked. “What?”

“What death?” demanded Nachaev.

“Someone close – they have died?”

Nachaev stared. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re dressed in black. In summer.”

“That’s because I am in mourning,” said Nachaev.

Medvedev’s eyes narrowed, as if less sight meant more thought. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Then…”

“For Russia.”

The ball was dropping, but from a great height. It found an odd ledge, and Medvedev’s face grew pale. “Hush up!” he cried unnecessarily, since the bar was intent on the conversation. “Don’t tell me – the Tsar is dead!” he whispered.

“No such luck,” smiled Nachaev.

There was a shocked silence, followed by a muted, angry murmur. Nachaev’s careless phrase struck a deep void of fear and resentment in the souls of the bar’s inhabitants. Heads lowered as if sniffing for ground to paw. Like most with little personal pride, the wheezy group of layabouts possessed a deep and savage allegiance to collective grandeur.

Nachaev leaned forward and said to Medvedev: “The Tsar is not dead, my man: you are.”

Medvedev drew back. “You just watch yourself,” he hissed.

“Sergei…” said Natalie, putting her hand on his arm.

Ignoring her, he propped his chin on his hands. “Tell me,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” growled Medvedev.

“Tell me: where is London?”

“What?”

“Where is London?”

“I don’t know,” said Medvedev.

“Where is Moscow?”

He shrugged. “North.”

“East. Do fishes breathe?”

“What? Who the hell cares?”

“You see?” said Nachaev, turning to Natalie. “Russia. The casket of intelligence. Here it’s been a funeral two thousand years long.”

Medvedev glared at him. “You’d better be drunk.”

“I want you to tell me something else,” said Nachaev, turning to him.

“Why? You don’t seem to like any of my answers.”

“What answers?”

Before Medvedev could answer, the barman appeared and set two glasses of vodka down on the scarred table.

“It’s my best – a little more, but safer,” he grunted, then left.

“Here – you don’t want to talk,” said Nachaev, “but humour me. One answer, and you can have my vodka.”

Medvedev pursed his lips, desire vying with offense. But he knew his profession. “All right,” he said with a tight smile.

“What if the Tsar had been dead?” asked Nachaev.

Medvedev reached forward. “If the Tsar was dead, we’d have grieved for a year.”

Nachaev put his hand over the glass. “Why?”

“What why?” asked Medvedev.

“Why do you love the Tsar?”

“Because he protects us.”

“From what?”

“Our enemies. Long live the Tsar!” A cheer sounded from the tense room; the elders were rabidly storing every word for future dissection.

“Who are your enemies?” asked Nachaev.

“Those the Tsar protects us from,” said Medvedev with a grin, turning to receive the appreciative laughter.

“Bailiffs?”

“Of course. Damn them all!” Cheers again.

“Landlords? Merchants?”

“The whole lot! Are you stupid?”

“Who is their master?” persisted Nachaev. “Or aren’t they Russians?”

“Look,” grinned Medvedev. “We’re at the bottom of the pile, aren’t we boys? Them lot, they already have power. They know what’s what. But we only have the Tsar. I know a man whose horse was stolen by his landlord, and he went to the Tsar and got another one. That’s what he does for us. He protects us.”

“He protects drunkards? That’s his job?”

Medvedev frowned. “He protects those at the bottom of the pile.”

“How? By taxing vodka?”

“But it’s always here, isn’t it? The Tsar, he knows what’s what. If he ever stopped giving us vodka, there’d be a revolution!” cried Medvedev, eliciting another cheer.

“So he keeps you drunk so you never ask for change?”

“If we’re drunk, who needs change?” asked Medvedev, almost bringing the house down. “He’s our father. It’s like owning sheep – sometimes they wander, but it’s not the shepherd’s fault.”

“And if they were allowed to wander? What would happen then?”

“Then we’d get no meat.”

“Then they wouldn’t be slaughtered?”

“Now there’s a city boy!” cried Medvedev, turning to his cronies. “How can you slaughter sheep if they’re all over the map?”

“So what you’re saying,” said Nachaev slowly, “is that the Tsar must keep his sheep from wandering so they can get slaughtered.”

Something was wrong with that. Medvedev blinked. “You said that. Not me. What I said was…”

“You said that the Tsar owns sheep, which he must stop from wandering so he can slaughter them.”

“What use are they otherwise?”

“But you’re the sheep!” cried Nachaev. “You’re the ones being slaughtered!”

“Only by vodka – and our wives!” grinned Medvedev, then suddenly grew serious. “But if we must get slaughtered, so be it. We are loyal men.”

“Who decides that?”

“The Tsar, of course.”

“So you love this man who can slaughter you whenever he feels like it?”

“He’s not a man – he’s the Tsar!”

“And what if he wasn’t?”

Medvedev frowned. “What?”

“What if he were just some stranger who knocked on your door and said I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to kill you and your family?”

“I’d kill him first – if I let him live!” Medvedev looked for laughter, and it was loyally supplied.

“So how is the Tsar different?”

“Because he is given to us by God.”

“And if there is no God?” asked Nachaev slowly.

That was a poser; although a place of worship, the Painted Boar wasn’t exactly a church. Men scowled and scratched their heads. The Tsar was a convenient salve, being a distant figure who spouted no demands but loyalty. God, of course, asked for things that drunkards had little love of, and so held little weight in the bar. Medvedev’s fingers jerked, as if feeling the touch of glass gloves. He inhaled deeply, the air hissing through his one working nostril, a faint flush creeping along his cheeks. His mental exertion had left him with the look of an old athlete who stares from a hospital bed after attempting the gymnastics of his youth.

“If there is no God,” he said, “then I need a drink!” He grabbed Nachaev’s glass and drained it in a gulp as the bar roared. “Now, Natalie – tell me – how is your pretty garden?”

Natalie smiled in relief. “Oh, Medvedev – it’s an absolute disaster! Everything has come tumbling down. Is there any chance that you and some of your companions could come out and give me a hand putting things back together? I can pay – on a reasonable scale.”

“Well, you know what they say. It’s hot weather for bending and lifting,” sighed Medvedev.

“But what about God – is there one or not?” demanded Nachaev.

The other two looked at him, and Nachaev felt a sudden twinge of the young philosopher’s fear that he is somehow superfluous to the gritty business of living.

“Excuse me, but you are interrupting,” said Medvedev.

Nachaev’s lips tightened. “But I was just interrupted!”

“No,” replied Medvedev slowly, “You were ignored.”

Nachaev blinked. “What?”

Medvedev smiled. Nachaev, he saw, was obviously a man who had spent a great deal of time reading. “It’s much quieter in here, isn’t it?” he said lazily. “That’s because we’re all looking at Miss Herzen – no offense. We’re all a swarthy bunch of layabouts, we’ve got our values all wrong, we know that, but one thing we know for certain is that it’s more pleasant to chat with a lovely lady than argue with a swarthy layabout.”

“I… what..?” stammered Nachaev. There was a moment when Natalie was afraid to giggle, then the young revolutionary suddenly threw back his head and guffawed loudly. “A swarthy layabout!” he cried. “How wonderful!” He clapped Medvedev hard on the back and pushed Natalie’s glass of vodka toward him. “Take it, take it. Now talk, and I won’t interrupt any more. Please,” he added to Natalie, who was looking at him with her heart dribbling all over her eyes. Something in the way Nachaev took the deliberate insult in the spirit it was intended broke down a wall in her heart – or rather, she used his behaviour to mount the wall that her common sense had been erecting on her behalf. Now, looking at his face, a thousand retroactive excuses for him sprang to mind, none of which could stand a moment’s scrutiny, but which together created a fog hazy enough to allow her lonely heart to succumb to that fatal disease that always seems to strike solitary women when strangers come to call. From the moment that Nachaev laughed, Natalie was caught. It was with a visible wrench that she tore her gaze from his lean face when Medvedev spoke.

“What were you thinking of paying, Miss?” he asked.

“How much do you think you’re worth?” she asked in turn, focusing on the matter at hand. She had bargained with the crew of the Painted Boar before and knew that, being idlers, they were by far the most economical in assessing their own value.

Medvedev frowned, beset by the difficult problem of trying to decide his value while having no clear idea of his expenses. Like most of the men present, Medvedev had wandered far and wide from the green pastures of prompt debt-settling, and he was at present so far from solvency that it no longer compelled him at all; it was more like a painting seen from a middle distance – the general shape was pleasant, but too indistinct to be truly coveted. However, the primal instinct required by those who exist on credit had recently informed him that there was just the slightest pause on his requests for an extension, and as a result Medvedev realized that as he squinted at the distant painting it also squinted at him, and that his economic presence was becoming a little too ghostly to command attention. To fully manifest himself once more, he knew that a few coins would have to be sacrificed to the dark devils of obligation and thrift. This he was prepared to do, if not honestly, at least well.

“About how many days’ work is there?” he asked.

Natalie recognized the danger in the first word of his question. The notion of “days” was only two steps closer to the painting for Medvedev; in the shadowy half-world where sleeping at night is as accidental as rising at dawn, the slices of time bracketed by sun and moon have little meaning.

“It would be in a lump sum,” she said carefully.

“Ah.” He scratched his eyebrows. “What would that be then?”

“I want to be fair,” said Natalie. “Why don’t you come out and take a look at the garden? Bring anyone who wants to work. You can name your price for the whole day, and if it’s reasonable, you can start immediately.”

“Ahhh,” sighed Medvedev. His right eyelid twitched. The idea of deciding for himself how long a given piece of work might take was not even near the gallery where the distant painting hung. This Natalie well knew. She also knew, which Medvedev did not, that if a group of these men were to congregate in her garden and guess how long it would take them to finish the job, their displaced manhood and unemployed bravado would lead them to guess in the minutes, not days. That was the reason that Natalie always recruited her labour from the Painted Boar. They were a valuable resource but, like the creative muse, could not be demanded of too often, for fear that they would become wiser to the ways of finance through repetition if not intelligence.

“How does that sound?” Natalie continued. “You could come toward the end of the week – say Saturday or Sunday.” (With Medvedev, two things were important for ensuring an appointment; that it be in the distant – but not forgettable – future, and that it be on a weekend to bolster his sense of industry. Armed with the knowledge of a Sunday engagement, his sense of wasting the week was always greatly diminished.)

All these considerations weighed deeply in Medvedev’s mind, and he sat with the perplexed serenity of one who waits for the promptings of obscure inner urgings.

“All right, miss,” he said finally.

Natalie smiled, leaning forward. “Bring five or six others, if they have a mind. It’s important that you be in charge of the job – is that all right?”

The scrounger’s lust for power made his head bob madly. “In charge? Yes, miss – yes indeed! Thank you, miss. I’ll be there bright and early – won’t catch me sleeping in, miss. I’ll round ‘em up and haul ‘em over at dawn – you won’t be sorry. Thank you!” Medvedev stood up, hands fluttering.

“No, Medvedev.” Natalie beamed. “Thank you.”

He grinned awkwardly, nodded once more and made his way back to the bar, eager to put his new solidity to the test.

Natalie watched him go, an odd glow in her heart. Something caught her eye, and she turned to see Nachaev watching her silently.

“Quite a display,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?” asked Natalie, not without a twinge of conscience. Her manipulations of the peasantry had more than once made her feel a wee bit sordid, but she had constructed an elaborate web of ‘for-their-own-good’ that kept her uneasiness more or less enclosed. However, sensing an ally outside the gates, it now began rattling its chains.

“I think you outwitted him very well,” said Nachaev. “I almost signed up myself.”

Natalie took a deep breath. “Now – just don’t be sarcastic.”

“Who’s being sarcastic? You should do more than repair gardens. With your skills of persuasion, you could go much further; you could be mayor, governor, councilor, priest, bishop and Tsar all rolled into one! You could slither through Eden like the Pope. Or God – now that would be something! And you told me you had no ambition? You’re almost the local Goddess! But don’t let anyone tell you you should be judged by atheists, because it’s just not so!”

“Stop it – you’re making me feel bad.”

“Oh? Should I be making you feel good?”

Natalie turned away, on the verge of tears. “If I’ve done something you disapprove of, you can tell me, but you have to do it nicely.”

“You want me to be pleasant?” asked Nachaev, looking at her with icy eyes. Suddenly she felt frightened, and all thoughts of love died, caught between two walls.

“I come from their side,” he murmured. “I’m more with them than you. You’re proud because you can made a drunkard dance for his drink – because that gives you power.”

“I don’t think that. I don’t.”

“You lie,” said Nachaev evenly. “I saw your face while you were talking to that man. You were smiling because you have the power to make the poor eat off the back of your hand. It’s not so hard. You have food. But how hard did you have to work to get it? Isn’t it your father’s food? And the money to pay Medvedev? Will your father be happy that you’re using his resources to exploit the very people he’s trying to set free?”

“He – doesn’t mind,” stammered Natalie.

“Does he agree?”

“He never said it was wrong!”

“Can’t you make that decision for yourself?”

Natalie looked up, her cheeks white. “Oh, everyone in Russia can bargain for labour except me, is that it? Well I have news for you, Sergei Nachaev – I don’t force these men in here. They’re free to leave at any time. You want to save the world? Why don’t you go up that barman and berate him for exploiting the poor? Why not? I’ll tell you: because he’s a big brave man and if you raised your voice at him he’d throw you out on your face! But you’ll do it to me, won’t you? Aren’t you ashamed for being such a bully?”

“Why? Because you’re a woman?”

“No, because it’s terribly easy to make me feel bad. Why don’t you try convincing the barman he’s evil?”

Nachaev shrugged and squinted at the bar. Medvedev raised a glass to them, winking. “He’d never listen to me,” shrugged the young revolutionary.

“But he’s more evil than me, isn’t he?” demanded Natalie.

“For supplying these louts with liquor – yes.”

“So you’re picking on the lesser of two evils – which is me – because it’s easier.”

Nachaev scowled. “Look – if you want me to go pick a fight with the bartender, I will. But I’ll tell you right now what will happen. He’ll get belligerent, I’ll stay firm; he’ll push me, I’ll push back and next thing you know one of us is on the floor. If it’s him, I’ve lost the trust of everyone I need to talk to; if it’s me, then I lose valuable time healing or being dead. Both results are utterly pointless. I believe I have to appeal to the mind first, which is why I’m picking on you.” He smiled. “Still, if you want me to go pick a fight with the bartender, I will.”

This is not a test, Natalie told herself emphatically. “Go up there then,” she said anyway.

Nachaev’s eyes widened slightly. “And why not to the men at the bar?”

“Because he’s the one supplying them with liquor.”

“And if no-one spent money here, he’d close down, yes?”

“Of course…”

“Then I go to the greater of two evils and I say: hello, Natalie.”

“What?”

“A sad paradox, isn’t it? Pay them in food and they won’t come; pay them in coin and they keep this place afloat, since the barman really works for you.”

Natalie glanced up at Nachaev, her eyes stinging. “You make me feel so trapped,” she said.

Nachaev leaned forward. “No – I show you how trapped you really are,” he said softly, putting his hand on the back of her neck. She stiffened, her chest heaving.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Can you stand?” She nodded, and Nachaev helped her up. Leaning on his arm, they walked outside. The sun blazed vengefully, carving the town into savage sculptures of dark and light. He squinted painfully.

“Shall we go back now?” he asked.

Natalie nodded. She pressed against him very, very slightly. He felt the small weight of her body, like a tender pillar.

He scowled. “It’s too bright to walk. Shall we take a carriage back?”

Natalie laughed. “There are no carriages here. We’ll have to borrow horses.”

“Ah,” said Nachaev, taking a step back.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Is there something else we could take?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“What is it? Don’t you like horses?”

“Horses are fine. I like them a lot. It’s just not – mutual.”

Natalie smiled at him. “Don’t be silly. Come on – we’ll go to Yamovich’s and borrow two.”

“I’m not getting on a horse,” said Nachaev.

“How do you get from place to place then?” asked Natalie.

“I walk. I take carriages. I can ride if someone’s up there with me.”

“Really?”

“I never rode a horse until I was thirteen. It fell on me. My mother was always afraid of horses.”

“This fear is rooted in your soul then? It’s – beyond your control?” smiled Natalie.

“No, I wouldn’t say that!” said Nachaev.

“You want to walk to my father’s house?”

“Oh – is that where I’m going?”

“Unless you have other plans. I’m sure he’d be happy to have you. If you remember you’re also afraid of horses.”

Nachaev smiled at her suddenly. “Come on – let’s walk. All right. I will mount my horse if you will mount yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t trust horses. You don’t trust me.”

Nachaev watched her, but Natalie walked on, looking at her feet.

“What I want to know,” he said, “is whether you don’t trust me, or just men in general.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to – extrapolate like that,” said Natalie softly.

“Because of your father?”

“I trust him – he’s a man.”

“Yes, but from what I’ve seen – and please don’t take this personally – your father seems to ignore you just the tiniest bit.”

“You’ve come at a bad time. He’s very busy.”

“And your sister – Natasha? Where is she?”

“Studying. At university. In Moscow.”

“Why aren’t you studying?”

“Oh, she’s cleverer at it than I am.”

Nachaev stopped walking and Natalie reluctantly slowed. “Does your father like that – that she’s cleverer?” he asked.

She turned and looked at him; a wheelwright’s sign hung behind his head, the painted spokes radiating like a spreading spider.

“How can I answer that?” she faltered. “It’s not a real question.”

“Why not?”

A delicate blush clouded her features. “I don’t spend every summer making my garden pretty and reading the paper. I’m usually more active.”

“Doing what?”

“What?” she laughed quickly. “Do you want me to inventory my life now?”

“No – just answer.”

“And what if I don’t?”

Nachaev shrugged. “Then don’t.”

An awkward silence descended. Natalie glanced at the sky, then the surrounding buildings – more to divert Nachaev’s steady gaze than for any external interest.

“Get on a horse,” she said finally. “Then we’ll talk.”

Nachaev’s eyes remained fixed on her; Natalie summoned her courage and looked back without flinching. The sun shone hotter still, pleased at the diversion from the dusty village roofs.

It was a high horse, suitably black, and Nachaev approached it tentatively, avoiding its dark eyes. Natalie had chosen hers, a lightly dappled Palomino, and sat astride it enjoyable confidently. The horse trader, an old man by the name of Yamovich, was enjoying Nachaev’s obvious nervousness.

“This ‘un’s alls I have left,” he wheezed. “Does she suit you, Mr. Nachaev?”

“Oh yes,” muttered Nachaev. “Of course.”

“No need to circle her like that,” said Yamovich. “She’s as gentle as a lark.”

“And the size of an elephant,” scowled Nachaev. “How does one get up?”

“Ha ha,” laughed the horse trader. “It’s a rare man whose never been on a horse, but you couldn’t find a more agreeable mare to start with. Don’t stand behind her like that, Mr. Nachaev – it’d make me nervous!”

“Just put a foot in the stirrup, Sergei” laughed Natalie, bringing her horse around.

“I’m getting there,” growled Nachaev, sidling up to the horse’s flank. “What’s the beast’s name?”

“Black Thunder,” replied the old man with a grin.

Nachaev paused. “Black Thunder? Why Black Thunder?”

“She’s dark and big, and unused to being ridden. Y’see, most of the young lads like something with more fire.” Yamovich stood behind Nachaev and guided his foot into the stirrup. “Whoa girl – easy!”

“Yes – easy,” muttered Nachaev. “It’s too high up – I can’t reach.”

“Here!” cried Yamovich, giving a surprisingly strong hoist to Nachaev’s rear. The young revolutionary gave a gasp, and before he knew what was happening he sat astride the rolling plain of the horse’s back.

“Easy then – easy!” he whispered, patting its neck rapidly.

“Now these are the reins,” said Yamovich, pulling them round and placing them in Nachaev’s trembling hands.

“Left for left and right for right, right?” asked the revolutionary.

“And both for stop. Easy as a whore – ‘scuse me, miss.”

“And to make it go?”

“Just tap her with your heels. Gently though. Give it a try.”

“Now?” Nachaev’s feet wobbled in the stirrups. The horse’s tail swished.

“A little harder,” laughed Natalie. “That’s what they do when they think a fly is bothering them!”

Nachaev’s feet steadied. His hands were white on the reins. He closed his eyes and jerked his feet into Black Thunder’s flanks. The horse started, and Nachaev pulled hard on both reins.

“No, no – never do that!” cried Yamovich. “They get confused. Just the feet.”

Nachaev tried again, and steadied himself frantically as the horse began walking forward.

“Relax your hands,” called Natalie, spurring her Palomino forward.

“Don’t grip with your legs!” cried Yamovich.

“And for heaven’s sake – open your eyes!”

“Here,” said Natalie gently, riding up and touching his arm.

“Is that you?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

Nachaev slowly opened his eyes, straightened his back and let out a long shuddering breath.

“You’re beginning to look quite dashing,” said Natalie. “She suits you. Now – gently – turn her around.”

Nachaev eased back on one rein, and the horse ambled slowly around. Natalie followed, and they both sat facing the open road.

“Race you!” said Natalie with a sudden grin.

“No, no!” snarled Nachaev. “Slowly!”

“What if your ambition was to ride horses instead of change the world?” she asked.

“Not now!” he said, his eyes narrowed.

She shrugged. “Just a perspective you might find useful someday. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Natalie turned in her saddle. “Thank you, Yamovich! We’ll have them back tomorrow!”

The old man waved as they started forward. Nachaev risked turning around to see the old man turn back to his stables, dusting off his trousers.

“Look ahead!” called Natalie, spurring her horse into a canter, then a gallop. “It’s a beautiful day!”

Nachaev tensed, hoping his horse wouldn’t get any ideas. Natalie raced ahead, her dress flying. She turned her head, her eyes burning. “Come on!” she shouted. “It’s as easy as a revolution!”

Stung beyond words, Nachaev stared at her racing form, then gripped his reins and plunged his feet into Black Thunder’s side.

It was some time before he surprised himself by riding – rather than just hanging onto – his horse. His attention slowly rose to meet the horizon. Around them, endless fields of wheat plumped themselves for harvest. Nachaev gazed over them, then caught sight of a most extraordinary figure walking through a field a hundred or so yards from the road. His first sight of her was an impression of her bearing. She strode through the field with a step so smooth she seemed to be floating over a hazy horizon of wheat. Behind her scurried a scowling, roughly-dressed man, following in her wake like a disappointed shark trailing a ship with a healthy crew and no prisoners.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Natalie glanced over, and from the way she stiffened in her saddle it was evident that the woman in question was of no small attraction.

“Just – a neighbour,” she said.

“And the man?”

“Her bailiff. Your nemesis, actually,” she added quickly.

“How so?”

“A typical Russian master. Overlooks everything he’s paid to oversee, steals everything else. She only keeps him as an outlet for her temper, which is legendary.”

“A feminine temper – how interesting.” Tearing his eyes from the woman, he turned and smiled. “What makes you angry, Natalie?”

“Insults masking as personal questions,” she snapped.

“What?”

She gathered her reins tightly. “I’m provincial, and female, so my temper must either be suppressed or petty. Or both. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“I just asked…”

“You’re not the only revolutionary, Mr. Nachaev. But some of us look not just at society, but at humanity – and work to improve that. Starting with ourselves!”

Her sudden anger silenced him. Natalie glanced over, saw this and instantly pursued to scatter the retreating forces.

“You could put the Bailiff in his place, take away all his power, but you could never make him a better human being. And that’s where all your violence fails.”

Nachaev’s lips tightened, but he did not reply.

“That – woman you were staring at,” continued Natalie, “has taken a lover from the woods, a common thief. By every moral standard I have ever known she is damned here and in the hereafter – if there is one. Yet she persists in the face of social disgrace and moral condemnation. Can you end that by killing the Tsar? Out here the Tsar is God – allegiance is matched only by transgression. She rejects every moral standard for the sake of her lusts – there’s no nicer word. She will reject your revolution for the same reason – because you think it is good. And she’s not the only one.”

Nachaev opened his mouth.

“And if you reply with a lecture I will push you right off your horse!” cried Natalie.

He closed his mouth. They rode on in silence.

“It’s a difficult problem – you’re right about that,” said Nachaev finally. “But you’re in no mood to hear my solution, so we’ll wait for a better time, hm?”

Natalie’s cheeks whitened. “Don’t tell me what is a right time,” she snapped. “If you have a solution – say it!”

“Why? You won’t listen.”

Natalie glared at him, then shrugged tightly. “All right – I won’t listen,” she said. “And so we ride in silence.”

Nachaev leaned back in his saddle and glanced at her surreptitiously. Her set mouth and cold eyes triggered something deep within him, and he threw his reins down violently.

“Come on then – get down,” he snapped.

“What?” blinked Natalie.

“Get down,” said Nachaev, sprawling over his horse and levering himself down to the ground. He strode over to Natalie’s horse and grabbed its bridle roughly.

“What are you doing?”

“Get down or I pull you down,” growled Nachaev, his face twisted in a dark scowl.

“You’ll – what?”

“Don’t try me.”

“I will not be bullied. Leave me alone!”

Nachaev jerked her horse’s head savagely; the poor beast snorted in shock. “Get down!” he shouted.

“All right – all right!” Natalie stepped gingerly down from her stirrup, her heart pounding in her throat. She turned around, and gasped as Nachaev’s dark face invaded her view. Suddenly she found herself shoved against her horse’s pale heaving flank.

“Nnnnuh!” she cried. Nachaev’s face darted forward and suddenly his lips pressed against hers. Every contour – his bones, his sheathed teeth and faint stubble, were impressed on her soft flesh. The heat of the horse was strong against the back of her head; the smell of sweat was overpowering. An indescribable sorrow welled up in Natalie that he would choose to be so brutal, and that her first kiss – as indeed it was – should be forced from her on a garishly lit road, and not under moonlight in an evening garden, that what she wanted was not given to her how she wanted it, and that he should be so blind and careless and stupid…

Suddenly he released her, panting. Seeing her white face pressed against the Palomino’s flank, her jaw slack with pain, he started. An obviously-thought-out line fell from his lips with all the falseness of an amateur actor’s first reading.

“I didn’t want to be treated as a lover – prior to being one,” he said.

I mustn’t weep – I mustn’t weep, she said to herself over and over, and if there is a surer method of summoning tears, it has yet to be discovered by mankind. She choked as the tears coursed from her.

“Natalie – I’m sorry…” stammered Nachaev. “I thought it was right…”

How right it could have been they were never to know, for the deed was done and the words said. Whatever would follow, whether love, enmity or friendship, would be distorted by its inception, and whether love would be distorted into enmity, enmity into love, or friendship to neither were questions it seemed the sun could not bear the suspense of waiting to be answered, for it drew itself behind a convenient bank of clouds, and the summer light faded from them like the echo of a soft song in a deep canyon.

CHAPTER SEVEN: A Manifesto for the Young

Alexander Herzen sat in his study, his writing forgotten in front of him, his chin resting on his hands, a leaden sense of foreboding in his stomach. His usual pleasures – port, pipe and pen – held not just blandness, but an active discomfort for him.

Herzen’s generation was the last group of patient revolutionaries. As a young man, he had learned bitter patience that cold November afternoon when the Tsar’s hirelings had fired into the crowd gathering in St. Peter’s square. Herzen had escaped, but many of his friends were hung or exiled in the aftermath. Watching the still-twitching legs of his oldest friend, he had realized then and there that there were to be no fast solutions in his country, and had devoted his remaining years to the spreading of revolutionary thought through his writing. The sudden appearance of Sergei Nachaev, so many years later, had reinforced two beliefs fundamental to his being: his desire for patience, and his fear that patience was not a value to the new revolutionaries. As a writer who had profoundly influenced the shape of revolutionary thought, he had no choice but to face the rising hordes of dangerous men as beasts partly of his own creation. As crucial as patience was to his own revolutionary agenda, he could look back on his writing and see that he had at times compromised it in his desire to be read. Angry young men, he rationalized, were bound to throw a book aside in disgust if they thought it counseled detached wisdom over action. Action was what they craved, and the knitting of thought and action – hard enough in sober young men – was an alchemy beyond the reach of extreme youths like Nachaev, who were valiant and energetic enough to demand that their lives be more than a gangplank to a distant utopia.

And, as is often the pattern, thinking of the deficiencies in his vocation led him to thinking of the deficiencies in his soul. Was it not true that he had counseled patience to Natalie and, he asked himself, was it possible that his counsel had arrested her capacity for action? An active man throughout his life, he was profoundly uncomfortable when he thought of his daughter. When he did think of her, it was usually in terms of a still-life painting he could not finish; a picture wilting under his corrective strokes as a father. Herzen knew that his eldest daughter had overshadowed Natalie throughout their childhood. Being four years older, Natasha had been at that awkward age that caused her to be neither a companion nor a model to her sister. Natasha had always been four paces ahead of Natalie, and so the younger child had neither a clear view of the world ahead nor a companion to observe it with. If Natasha had been, say, ten years older, she would have been content with the role of teacher, but since all that Natalie wanted to learn had been but newly absorbed by her sister, Natasha had shown little patience in explanation. The thousand little gestures and exchanges between the sisters had lately fallen into place in Herzen’s mind as a pattern that had stifled Natalie – all the more so because he had taken so much delight in Natasha. Natasha, who argued so well, Natasha, who was short and plump and energetic, Natasha, who climbed trees in skirts – Natasha, a figure so large that her sister had sadly expired in her shadow. It was a family joke that Natalie had always been the “other one”, and it was only now that Herzen realized what a cruel joke that had been. And, with an inner ruthlessness characteristic of him, he realized that he had been proud to send Natasha out into the world as a reflection of himself, but had kept Natalie at home for pettier, darker reasons – shame, perhaps, mingled with fear, and a desire to protect the fragility he had in part created.

As it is with life, so it is with parenting. One goes through the motions of living on the inertia of experience, placing one’s conscious mind on the abstractions of tomorrow, of marriage, of life and death and taxes, and then when one sits down for a moment to rest, the messages that one has been trying to escape in all the confusion come to roost with prickly claws in one’s conscience, and one is compelled to start up again. For some it is a crisis of competence – for Alexander Herzen it was the joy of action, and tears suddenly welled in his eyes at the thought of tenderly drawing his daughter out of her shell. He didn’t realize that first solutions are almost always the worst, for they emerge from the same inertia that produced past mistakes, but there was no challenging Herzen’s excitement as he drew a fresh sheet of paper from his writing pad and began composing a letter – a letter he fantasized showing to Natalie when she was a new woman as the central turning point of her life.

It was characteristic of Herzen – as it is of most energetic men – that his solution was not an idea, but an event. The solution that had struck him was drawn from his youth, when the event he most looked forward to was a “coming-out party”, when a girl who was considered to be on the threshold of womanhood was presented to the world in all her feminine glory. Alexander Herzen leaned back in his chair, remembering. How he had enjoyed the lights, the music, the dancing! Rows of gleaming young men standing overseeing in their cheery way the entry of another possibility to the continuance of the human race. Herzen had enjoyed the event as a young man; now he would appreciate it all the more as a father, the giver of the gift. A small part of him nagged that for a girl like Natalie a party might not be the most fitting solution, but he dismissed it with the contempt of a man who knew what he was about. She’s lolling in the harbour, he thought; a party is the perfect foiling wind for her descending ship…

If any of this plotting seems callous, it will only be so to those yet to be presented with the profound mystery of a person close to them who has simply ceased to move. It is a problem much overlooked in the modern world because we have the endless distractions of active leisure to impart a kind of motion to stagnation. Who has not known someone with endless hobbies but no ambitions, who dreams of ends but never means, who shrinks from the possible in the face of what is known? An active man like Herzen could only think of such people as motors that are working but not in gear and, as a man will thump a mechanism rather than look inside, so Herzen planned to dislodge his daughter without thinking that the world’s beauty includes still life, that perhaps some people are destined to act as sets on the stage of life, displaying the motion of those around them by their very stillness. And who knows which is right? There is no person who has never been active; those who have ground to a halt may indeed be repressed, but they may equally have made the choice to prefer the tranquillity of immobility to the confusion of endless motion. In her childhood, Natalie had been a creator of songs and stories – and been counted a fairly good sketcher – but her father had never understood why she had not pursued her talents to their logical conclusion, just as he had never understood those who learned another language but never spoke it, often commenting that the time spent learning a skill was utterly wasted if one couldn’t make one’s life work out of it. There was, of course, a good possibility that Herzen was secretly afraid that his shift from active rebel to passive theorist was exactly the kind of retreat he derided in others, and that by being unwilling to acknowledge this, he had retreated from the possibility of ever truly understanding his daughter.

But despite all these secret agendas, as a man of action he knew exactly where to turn when planning a party – his old friend Ilyavich, who had all the contacts he lacked. After many attempts, he produced a letter that he hoped would win Ilyavich to the role of co-conspirator. Late in years as he was, Herzen could not repress a painful pang in his heart that he, a once-violent revolutionary, was now reduced to plotting the overthrow of his daughter’s shyness. In his youth, he had pictured himself as a lion roaring at the cowering Russian state; as the years passed, he believed that the pain he felt at his new role was the agony of having his teeth extracted by circumstances – while in his old age he realized that the pain he felt was in fact the extraction of his teeth not from his mouth, but from his imagination, which was the only place where they can ever be said to have truly existed. It is easy to fight when one believes that the stakes are high and one’s opponent noble, but after a brief period of imprisonment (from which escape had been pitifully easy), Herzen’s fire had dimmed in the tiny reflection of his enemy. Read with a ruthless eye, much of his writing could be seen as a call to arms not just of rebellious men, but also to the men who ruled. The policies of the secret police – the secret executions, the shadowy men who stole children and set fires at night, the hysterical violence of the local bullies, the petty infighting of the torturers, the small insults that fed insane retributions, all these ‘methods’ created a dull apathy toward authority even in Herzen’s generation. Because government was so localized, the banality of evil was manifest on a daily level, and beneath the terror and anger of the locals lay a heavy contempt for both victim and oppressor, and most revolutionaries who tried to awaken the anger fell prey to the apathy of that contempt. The ordinary peasants found it difficult to reconcile their Satanic images of evil with the petty bureaucrats who preyed on their sweat like fat uniformed leeches. The brutality of the ruling class created the apathy that fed the brutality of the peasants, which in turn allowed the rulers to become more brutal to “restore order”. What was needed – and even Herzen sensed this – was a sacrificial iron lamb, a revolutionary so terrible that he would force the Russian state to become terrible in turn, and so feed popular resentment to the point where…

Herzen wandered paths he had carved deep in the quiet treks of thought with the untiring interest in known scenery that characterizes the mildly obsessive personality, but such journeys revealed more of his past than his present purpose. Putting down his pen, Herzen took up his pipe and let his thoughts scurry back to Sergei Nachaev.

There are two kinds of people horrified at the thought of murder (he thought), the very old and the very young, because neither of them can believe that anything is important enough to kill for. Many people in between have a motive to kill and a rationale to survive it, and it is for these people that the Law exists; by poking at the conscience it reinforces humanity by elevating barbarism to guilt, and thus society lurches along, its boots only slightly bespattered. However, there are aliens placed among us (for some obscure Darwinian reason, perhaps) that never consider murder at all – and these are the most dangerous of all. A whole section of their brain seems to have been misplaced in the making, and they find themselves among mankind as atheists among priests, never to be fully among us, but rather between, or through, or beyond…

It was with these thoughts that Herzen approached Nachaev. He rummaged in his desk and pulled out a badly-printed pamphlet, mailed to him by his daughter Natasha a year or so before. It was Nachaev’s ‘Catechism of the Revolution’. This manifesto was, to Herzen, utterly alien in its inorganic objectivity, and he skimmed through it again with the distaste of a grown man dealing with a pimple. His eyes fell on a phrase under the slanting title “The Ideal Revolutionary!”, which read: “The Ideal Revolutionary is a man free from all restraints, to whom friends, family, lovers and children are nothing but means to an end.” And Nachaev’s end, Herzen guessed, was neither change nor peace nor democracy but destruction, destruction pure and simple. His practiced eye scanned the young man’s apocalyptic writing for anything beyond the bloodlust of the present, but found nothing but an immediate and hysterical scream for action.

This cry always rankled Herzen’s conscience. He had long demanded an end to endless talking in the hopes of averting the lexical paralysis so common to intellectuals, but his effect had been both more and less than what he intended. He had indeed helped silence his more verbose contemporaries, but in the resulting hush the darker side of change – the desire for change from instead of to – began propelling itself up from the queasy depths of human nature. Reason was replaced by metaphor, blood began beating faster, and the urge to shout quickly displaced the need to talk. Herzen felt a deep pit of anger open inside him, at himself and others, when he recalled the hours and hours spent in debating whether the Tsar’s life should be spared, or whether to liberate this or that territory, or how much to tax after the revolution. He and his friends would sit smoking and jabbing their fingers in each other’s faces, laughing at a well-timed joke and begging for a little more credit. As if any of it mattered! Children! thought Herzen suddenly – and then Nachaev’s face loomed in his mind’s eye, and he remembered that children can sometimes be the cruelest of all.

But what is one to do when one sees disaster descending upon a crowd that laughs and makes love, caged in every pleasure but survival? What is one to do with parents that boil their children’s milk to keep them safe, but never dream of raising them free? The more one screams, the more one’s voice is drowned under horns and party favours, and the less one can resist the urge to grab the crowd – by the eyesockets if need be, and turn their heads and shout: “There! That! That will destroy us all!” And those who still refuse to see must be left drunk by the road on the grand collective march to the light over the farthest hill – and if only a few survive the journey, what of it? The ideal is not life, but the achievement of the highest ideals…

Herzen found himself growing nervous, pulling at his pipe and staring out the window, wrestling with the ghosts of his protégés.

CHAPTER EIGHT: Illness Takes a Stand

Our lives are often the whims of others… This is a thought that Sasha did not so much reflect on as felt in her every weary step up the steep hill to Ilyavich’s house. Some hills are made ugly by walking, others by their destination; Ilyavich’s hill was a very beautiful monument to a very ugly house. The hill rose gently, serenely, with a lovely smattering of trees and shrubs to soften the view as one walked. The path was well-cleared, stony, wide enough for a carriage, and the trees bathed it in dappled light. To Sasha, however, struggling up it that hot afternoon, it seemed a siren of weight, its beauty matched only by its length and arduousness. Her pauses became more frequent, her glances at the crest more irritable, and her testiness at the serenity of the incline more pronounced.

Her weariness, however extreme while walking, became almost fatal when she rounded the final bend and caught a glimpse of Ilyavich’s house through the trees. There it sat, sulking like an anemic child in summer. There are houses in the world that appear extrusions of the rocks they rise on, houses that seem to draw the earth up with them like the dress of a rising woman. Ilyavich’s house was not one of them. Looking at it, one could scarcely imagine how rock, no matter how hard, could support such a lethargic weight. If Newton had lacked an orchard, gazing at Ilyavich’s house would have given him the impression of gravity as surely. The roof had that delicate sag available only to materials hung far beyond their normal date of expiration; the shutters leaned against each other like dawn drunkards, the porch hung like a stringless bow – even the doors seemed to droop in their frames. The house seemed like a sublime fortress, as if attackers, exhausted from their climb, would finally gaze upon their object, and the house’s heavy lines would fell them at one stroke into helpless sleepy piles.

Behind Ilyavich’s house, of course, was a droop of weeping willows, nature’s version of the house they shaded. An oily rivulet flowed slowly through the foot of the garden, crossed by a small footbridge seemingly created more out of a distaste for the water than any fear of getting wet. On the far side of the footbridge was a small sunny area where the grass had been allowed to grow and the pollen hung heavy in the air. A picnic table had been set up there, and Ilyavich’s son Gregory was sitting there with his father, sipping hot water. It was a quietly pastoral scene, and Ilyavich was on the verge of nodding off, his hands clasped over his belly, half-listening to the drowsy bees meandering through the bluebells and the dry sigh of the willows bending in the breeze. Ilyavich was a picture of contentment – some would say bourgeois contentment, but that would scarcely make him bat an eye.

His son, however, was in a decidedly discontented mood. He knew his father was aware of this, and he felt irritated that he chose to sleep rather than talk him out of it. (Ilyavich, on the other hand, knew that this was a near-impossible task). Gregory watched his father for some time through narrowed eyes.

“No, father. It’s simply not fair. I won’t accept it.”

Ilyavich snorted and turned his head, hoping it was a single salvo.

“And don’t try pretending that you’re sleeping either,” continued his son, “because I know you’re not. I refuse to believe you could sleep after telling me something like that!”

“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed,” murmured Ilyavich, regretfully summoning his defenses.

“No you’re not!” cried Gregory with the speed of someone determined not to listen. “If you were really sorry you’d never break your vow like that!”

“It was never a vow – it was just an idea…”

“Yes – an idea you’ve conveniently managed to forget. But not something I’ve been able to forget, stuck like a mushroom in this ghastly house!”

“This house is – relaxing.”

“To rest in, yes! So for you it is fine – but I am twenty four! What do I have to rest from?”

“You are ill,” reminded Ilyavich as gently as he could manage.

“Ill? Ill? Is that the only word people have for me? That’s not all I am!” Gregory drummed the arm of his chair irritably. A bee crawled from under it, and he knocked it away with a gasp.

“I had to retire sometime,” said Ilyavich. “We can go into town every week if you like.”

“I don’t want to go into town – I want to live there.”

“But why? You’re…”

“Oh, I know I can’t dance, or ride – or walk very far. But I just feel like Adam here, wasting away in a garden with no tree of knowledge.”

His father frowned. “What is it you want to know?”

That question, easy enough to ask from the waning vantage of life, proved unanswerable to the young man, who leaned back in his chair with a scowl. The sun, unable to reach the darkness under his furrowed brow, contented itself by lighting the upper part twice.

A step on the footbridge brought both men’s eyes up. Dunyasha, the maid, curtsied quickly.

“Sirs,” she said, “Sasha is here with a message from Alexander Herzen.”

“Sasha, you, sister, Alexander, Natalie, Natasha,” muttered Gregory. “Always the same. Always the same.”

“Send her through,” said Ilyavich, relieved. “Ask her if she wants something to drink.”

Dunyasha left; Ilyavich and Gregory looked at each other pointedly for a time.

“What would you have done with endless leisure as a child, father?” asked Gregory.

“Put it to good use,” replied his father.

“Endlessly?” pursued Gregory. “I just want to be more than illness dictates!”

“Then you must rest and get well,” said Ilyavich.

“It is resting that has made me ill,” replied his son, but just then the matter was dropped by the arrival of Sasha with Herzen’s letter.

CHAPTER NINE: Love Among Barbed Wire

Herzen was reading Ilyavich’s reply to his proposal when Natalie returned. He glanced up in secret glee when she came into his study, then frowned when he saw her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, rising.

“Father, I have to talk,” she said, sinking into his armchair.

“What is it?”

Her face worked; he could see tears behind her eyes. “Actually, you know, I am not perfectly happy,” she said.

“Oh, Natalie,” he said. “Why?”

“Well, it’s my life. Or lack of it.”

Unsure of how to proceed (and a little guilty about his day’s planning), Herzen sat next to her and rubbed his hands for a time.

“You don’t have much to live for here, do you, Natalie?” he asked finally.

She shook her head. “I love helping you, but…”

“I’ve thought about you all day,” said Herzen, “and I’ve come to some conclusions.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t come to hear conclusions.”

“But conclusions are exactly what you need, Natalie,” he asserted. “You don’t want to go to school, all right. But I don’t know what else to do with you.”

Natalie shrugged. “Who does?”

“Did you get some men to help you in the garden today?”

“Yes, yes – I suppose so. They’ll be here in the morning.”

“Well, that’s something,” offered Herzen.

“No. It’s nothing,” said Natalie. “A waste of everyone’s time.”

“You need more than gardening to occupy your time.”

“But that’s just the problem,” said Natalie, sitting up. “Everything I can think of is just to – occupy my time.”

“You need a household to manage. Not just a garden.”

“Don’t speak of marriage!” she cried, twisting in her chair. “God! That’s the last thing I want!”

Herzen blinked. “But why? Is it such a terrible thing?”

“It wouldn’t be if men weren’t involved.”

“But, given the state of things, what other choice is there?”

Natalie glared at him. “You never used to say ‘given the state of things’. You used to be a revolutionary.”

“Is that what you want to be?” asked her father. “It’s ugly work.”

“I’m not satisfied with the state of things.”

A terrible thought suddenly struck Herzen, making him flinch. He paused, thinking of how to phrase it. “Does this – have anything to do with our guest?” he asked finally.

Natalie looked away. “What? No. It has nothing to do with Mr. Nachaev. He’s typical.”

“Of what?”

“Of what I would have to marry.”

“That’s not true.”

On Herzen’s wall hung a portrait of his late wife. Natalie stood up and walked over to it. She touched the painted lips and gazed up at the serene eyes.

“How did she manage?” asked Natalie, gazing at the portrait.

“She loved her life,” said Herzen.

“But what did she do with it?”

“She helped me in St. Petersburg, editing and – typing. She ran meetings, organized groups, recruited from the bourgeois. She had a purpose – despite being married,” added Herzen with a smile.

“And I took that from her,” said Natalie distantly. “It doesn’t seem fair, that I should have replaced her.”

“Natalie,” said her father, rising and standing behind her. “I felt as you do when she died, that there was no more purpose for me. She loved the revolution. I loved her. When she died, I had to carry on.”

“Endurance. That’s the point, isn’t it?” murmured Natalie.

“Sometimes.”

“If I married a revolutionary, I would have a purpose.”

A great fear shook Herzen to the core. “Natalie, he won’t be back. And if even if he will, he’s not the man for you,” he said.

“Tell me,” said Natalie, turning to face him. “Did you frighten mother when you first met her?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Did she know what you were?”

“All Russia knew. But she didn’t take it seriously. Until I was arrested.”

“Then she was frightened.”

“Yes – then she was frightened.”

“Then she married you.”

“Yes – but not out of fear.”

Natalie was silent then, gazing out of the window. Night was falling.

“Is there no man whom you like?” asked Herzen.

“Who is there to like?”

“What about Ilyavich’s boy? You used to like him.”

“He’s become an old woman.”

“He’s ill – he’ll get better.”

“No he won’t. He says so constantly.”

“That’s the way of his illness.”

Natalie turned to face him so swiftly that he almost started. “Father!” she said lowly, passionately. “Don’t let me out of your sight any more!”

“What? Why on earth not?”

“Because… What is to become of me?”

He tried taking her in his arms, but she was cold, unresponsive.

“What happened to you today, Natalie?”

She twisted out of his arms and went over to her mother’s portrait. “I just… had a scare.”

“Of what?”

“Of the future,” she said quietly. “None of this can last.”

“None of what?”

But that she wouldn’t answer, and sat staring out through the window, into the darkness.

CHAPTER TEN: A Disarming Contract

The first morning after a bad experience one always wakes up believing one will never wake up the same again. Natalie had too little experience with bad experiences to imagine starting up with anything other than a sickness in the pit of her stomach when Sasha knocked on her door just before dawn the following morning. During the night, her fragile and over-active mind felt airless, unable to sink into sleep, and she had lain awake with a succession of old fears pounding through her head.

“Miss Natalie,” said Sasha from beyond the locked door, “Some men are here for you.”

“What – what time is it?” stammered Natalie.

“I don’t know, Miss.” There was a short pause. “Miss?” said Sasha. “Miss?”

“Yes?”

“He’s back, Miss. He’s waiting downstairs for you.”

“Who?” There was no reply. Both knew.

“Don’t wake father. I’ll be right down!” said Natalie, sitting up and tearing the covers from her.

The men had gathered shadowy in the dawn light; Nachaev stood at their head.

“Good morning,” he called as Natalie stepped off the back porch. “I hope you won’t object to a little help.”

The peasants stood staring at her; there was nothing to do but shake her head. Wealth is, after all, theatre.

“I met these men on the road, and I’ve already organized them into work groups,” he continued, smiling. “You see, I didn’t sleep either.”

Natalie shrugged and looked away, frustrated in her desire to lie by his certainty of the truth.

“Medvedev here will lead the tree-chopping expedition,” continued Nachaev, clapping the peasant on the back, “Which will take all of us the balance of the morning. Then we’ll divide into two groups – half of us will clear the dead wood and plants while Medvedev and his group will begin turning the ground under the fallen trees. After lunch, which I see about one-ish, we’ll use the horses to haul the wood away – I offered them the wood as part of their payment, I hope you don’t mind – then we’ll start repairing the fences and the gazebo. This will last until about suppertime. That’s as far as I planned. We can improvise the rest,” finished Nachaev. “Oh, but first – these gentlemen here are concerned about their pay. Yesterday you said they could negotiate it when they arrived. I’ve given them some ideas.”

Natalie stared at him for a long time; he stood there jauntily, his cap pushed back on his head, his hand on his hip. His gaze was a mirror.

“Yes. That will be fine,” she said finally. “Medvedev?”

The young man stepped forward, his cap in hand.

“Yes, miss. Whatever – whatever you think is fair we will accept,” he said with a servile grin. His companions muttered and grumbled, and one of them kicked him sharply in the calf.

“Normally we would, that is,” he continued, his head bobbing and wagging. “But Mr. Nachaev has put a few thoughts in our poor heads that I can’t see the sense of, but the fellows here quite like, so what am I to do?”

“What are they?” asked Natalie evenly.

“Well, miss, I’ve often done work for you and your father, and I’ve been used to thinking in terms of moved this or lifted that, but it seems as there’s more to it than I thought of.”

“Like what? Don’t be afraid.”

A few sullen echoes of “Yes, don’t be afraid” could be heard from the other men.

“See, we got up real early this morning, miss – some of us didn’t even get to bed – and we walked for a good long time. If we hadn’t, you see, who’d be here to work?”

“Go on,” said Natalie.

“So’s I was thinking maybe we should remember that when we figures for the wage. If it was a closer place I’d never dream of it, but it was such a good long walk and all…”

“Get to the point, Medvedev. How much do you want?”

“Well, it’s – er – a little more than that, miss, all respect to you.”

“What else then?”

“Well, normally I brings me own lunch – and supper too if it’s needed – but that all gets heavy, hanging from your belt, and Mr. Nachaev here says in most parts of the world employers see fit to provide lunch, and supper too, for a long day’s labour when workers have to struggle from so far and at such a time in the morning.”

“I see. How many of you are there?”

“Eleven, miss.”

Natalie turned to Nachaev. “And you? Would you like a bite as well?”

“Oh no,” he laughed. “Just food for thought.”

“Eleven then,” scowled Natalie. “Lunch and dinner. But you’ll have to tell Sasha.”

Medvedev grinned broadly and received a few digs in the ribs.

“It’d be his pleasure, miss,” said one of the men with considerable humour.

“Good,” said Natalie. “So what is your price? Or is there more?”

“Just one thing – barely worth mentioning,” said Medvedev, trying to make his hat disappear in his hands.

“What?”

“After the day’s done – and we don’t know when that’ll be – we’ll have to walk all the way home, and tired too…”

“What’s your point?”

“It’s just that… we can’t none of us afford horses…”

“I’m not lending you any horses!” cried Natalie.

Medvedev paled, but glanced at Nachaev, who nodded.

“But – miss,” stammered the peasant. “Mr. Nachaev there says you have some horses fit to go back to town; we can use ‘em to haul the firewood back.”

“Medvedev,” said Natalie. “Those horses are my responsibility. I can’t just hand them over to you – and it was very irresponsible of Mr. Nachaev to mention them!”

“Oh. We sort of had our hearts set on them, Miss Herzen.”

“No. Now how much do you want, horses aside?”

“Without horses?” Medvedev shook his head, turning to his companions. “How much was it without horses? Did we figure that?”

A few muttered figures rose in the air, obviously the result of speculation rather than memory.

“Can we take a few minutes, miss?” asked Medvedev.

“Be my guest.” Natalie expected Nachaev to go with them, but he walked up to the porch and stood beside her, watching the men debate.

“They still have all the right instincts,” he said softly. “Two thousand years of subjugation washed away by a few words of good advice. That’s why I love Russia. Don’t you?” he asked, turning to her.

“You promised to leave,” she said.

He shrugged. “I have my work.”

“I had your word,” she said. He said nothing, and she turned away. The workmen bickered off in the distance, and the sun seemed to refuse to do more than peek over the horizon, as if waiting for an all-clear.

“Perhaps I am not well,” said Nachaev quietly, “but what happened yesterday has no more meaning to me than an obituary in the paper.” He sighed, then smiled and turned to her. “It would seem silly if you remained offended about something that upsets me not at all, Natalie.”

Don’t use my name, she wanted to say, furious at herself for feeling so angry.

“Come on!” Nachaev called suddenly, startling her. “Don’t be old women about it!”

The men’s voices rose for a moment, then ebbed, trying to find solid ground.

“Is that what your revolution has come to?” asked Natalie. “Wage negotiations for peasants?”

Nachaev shrugged. “Capitalism has its uses. They question you – perhaps they’ll question more.”

“I won’t let father keep you here.”

“Who says I want to stay here?”

“Or have anything to do with you.”

“That’s as he sees fit,” he smiled. “Isn’t it?”

“What do you want from us?”

“From you – nothing. From Alexander – what I deserve.”

“You deserve nothing!” she cried.

“You’re wrong there. I’m tired of playing games.”

“Then leave!”

“No.”

“He’ll give you nothing.”

“Wrong again.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Nachaev turned to her. “Why are you so upset, Miss Natalie? Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”

Her cheeks whitened. “Why don’t you just leave?”

He smiled. “Because you’ll never tell him what happened.”

“Are you very sure of that, Mr. Nachaev?”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I? There’s no old revolutionary ordering me to leave. If you didn’t tell him last night, you’ll never tell him. Your bond is broken.”

“Nothing is broken! How little you understand!”

“How little you know – of anything!” he snarled, turning away. “Ah! My protégés return from the field!”

Medvedev walked toward them, companions in tow.

“I think we’ve come to an understanding – of a sort,” he said.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“Six – six rubles for each man.”

Nachaev watched her and, although Natalie didn’t know it, her audience had shifted.

“Six is ridiculous!” she said. “I hired you three months ago for two!”

“That was before we understood our worth,” replied Medvedev.

“There are many more where you come from!”

Medvedev looked at her for a moment. “We would be upset if we came all the way here for nothing, miss. We all like our sleep.”

“I cannot hire you for six.”

“Yesterday you said we could name our own price. Miss.”

“Yesterday you were reasonable. Today you are demanding.”

“We will take five if we can use the horses.”

“You cannot. I will make it three, and if you don’t like that you can walk all the way home again!”

“We came here because you said we could name our own price,” said Medvedev, his brow darkening. “We have named our price, and you want to send us home again. What are we to do?”

“Choose,” said Natalie flatly.

“We choose six.”

“That’s not your choice.”

“But that’s what we want.”

“You are getting two meals, the use of horses, more pay and firewood from my garden! What more do you want?”

“If we have to go back to town, we will tell no-one else to ever work for you,” said Medvedev, feeling the weight of his companions at his back.

“Other men with mouths to feed and debts to pay will work for me no matter what you say,” said Natalie, her voice rising. “Other men do think of their debts, you know.”

Before Medvedev could reply, the porch door banged open and Herzen came out in his dressing gown.

“Who is arguing under the window of an old man sorely in need of sleep?” he demanded.

“Father!” cried Natalie in relief.

“What’s the matter here?” he asked.

“These men won’t work for less than six rubles – each!”

“That seems rather steep. Medvedev? Is that you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s this all about? Are you upsetting my daughter?”

“Mr. Nachaev here has been telling us that in Europe men are paid what they’re worth, not what they’re used to. You used to talk of Europe, how civilized it was.”

“Sergei?” inquired Herzen.

“Good morning, Alexander,” said the young man.

“Are you starting a revolution in my garden?”

“What better place?”

“Hm – a rather costly one.”

“Do you begrudge the expense?”

Herzen laughed. “I couldn’t very well, could I?”

“Father – we can’t afford it!” cried Natalie.

“Tell you what,” said her father. “We’ll take the difference out of my port allowance. Then we all win. Mr. Medvedev!”

“Right here.”

“Six rubles it is – on one condition.”

“Yes sir?”

“This garden had better be spotless by the time you leave.”

“Of course.”

“And you had better break your backs, and listen to my daughter, and not shirk – and most importantly, you’d better work quietly for a few more hours so I can get some sleep.”

“Yes sir,” said Medvedev. “Oh! Mr. Herzen? Sir?”

“What is it?”

“Well, sir, we were just discussing with your lovely daughter the – possibility of returning the horses she borrowed from Yamovich when we go home tonight.”

“That seems very generous of you.”

“But father,” said Natalie, “Those horses are our responsibility.”

“We can’t trust Medvedev? He’s never stolen our mail. Have you, Medvedev?”

“No, sir.”

“Then by all means – take the horses back.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get to work.”

Medvedev turned and held a fist up to his brethren. “Did you hear that? Six rubles! We’ll be swimming!”

Herzen turned to Nachaev. “Very interesting work, Sergei. By the way, what are you doing on my porch?”

“I met Natalie in town and – changed my plans.”

“And you commandeered this bunch of layabouts?”

“Yes.”

Herzen laughed. “Well I’m not sure if that was a stroke of genius or complete idiocy, but we’ll talk about it later. Come to breakfast at ten.”

“Thank you, but I promised to help here.”

“Oh? Are we paying him too?” Herzen asked Natalie.

“No,” said Nachaev.

“Well – that makes it complete idiocy then,” declared Herzen. He turned to the garden. “Now off to work! And keep it quiet!” he cried, then kissed Natalie and strolled back inside.

Nachaev started down the porch steps, then turned to look at Natalie, who stood staring at the garden, her hands white on the railing.

“You see?” he said softly. “Quite broken.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Discipline of Renewal

The energy expended seemed immense. The peasants swarmed over the garden like manic ants, shifting, turning and hauling. Nachaev’s voice rang out in the clear air; he worked harder than any of them, and over the course of the morning a grudging respect for him surfaced in them; they were not yet so dissolute that they resented leadership in any form. Natalie sat on the porch and watched him, her heart going through rigorous gymnastics in an attempt to resolve its warring layers of regard and contempt.

She was, of course, one of those people most vulnerable to Nachaev: those whose contradictory souls overflowed with both justice and sympathy. Such combinations are so rarely seen that one could imagine that they are endemic to moral persons of all breeds. In Russia, as in most cultures, the trend was to be either savagely stern or weepily sympathetic – two traits as distinct in moral society as the urine trails of warring dogs, each trail marking the ground of a whole divided. Natalie hung between two age-old camps – the righteous and egalitarian, confusing herself with the demands of each.

She was able to imagine forgiving Nachaev simply because he worked so hard. He seemed to be everywhere, lifting this or directing that, and Natalie felt her anger begin to alternate with admiration. She tried to control the work at first, but Nachaev seemed so endlessly efficient that she soon became content to sit on the porch and sip her tea. Herzen came out and watched for a while, commenting that Nachaev seemed a youthful renewal of his own old energies, then declared a revival of purpose and went back inside to write.

Nachaev’s parting comment about trust still burned in Natalie’s mind, but she found relief in the appearance of proximity, believing that the pleasant comments she and her father made on the progress of the work were but minor deviations from their usual intimacy.

Watching the work, Natalie began to understand the possibilities of revolution for the first time. The ease with which the peasants cleared the savage destruction of the storm made it a picture of utopian efficiency – everyone had a purpose, everyone had a place, all decisions were effortless and all differences forgotten. Such is the eternal joy of men labouring under a forceful leader, thought Natalie suddenly, surprising herself. Who can blame those who, having gazed on such picturesque scenes, imagine them expanding to envelope the entire lives of their subjects? Why is it that such direction can never survive the final whistle that daily hustles home purposeful men to lives bereft of meaning? Why cannot actors, so happy to be intensely directed onstage, be content with the same energy of purpose when they step off the wings? The possibility that there can be happiness in being told what to do came as a strange shock to Natalie’s indecisive soul, and the idea found fertile ground as it wormed its way between the possibilities that always seemed to paralyze her.

Such questions were probably not flitting through Nachaev’s mind that sweaty morning. He felt an unusually elemental pleasure in performing his work so openly, but to question the source of his pleasure was alien to his nature. His heart had closed its doors to questions as surely as a sympathetic heart closes its doors to answers. To Nachaev, questions were merely an orchestra to be out-sung; when a man is in love with his own voice, all harmony becomes discordance, and Nachaev had little patience with compromises of that sort. Life was a problem to be solved, and for him the vast majority of people were part of the problem, and gaining power over them was the only way of solving it.

By mid-afternoon, the pace of work had begun to flag a little, as if the incentive of good pay lessened the closer it was to being attained. Medvedev, in particular, became more and more irritable as the day wore on; quasi-aristocrat that he was, the arduousness of the labour rankled him. Not only did he think himself above such work, but his plentiful sweat also reminded him of the efforts his class was born into and, for a man who could actually write his own name, it was an unpleasant reminder of the world beyond the walls of the pub. Perhaps this idea was also on the mind of the other men, for they began pausing, wiping the sweat from their brows dramatically and complaining of their growing thirst.

Finally Medvedev trotted over to Nachaev, who was intent on uprooting a stubborn fence-post.

“Mr. Nachaev,” panted the peasant, “We need to rest. Lunch was hours ago. It’s too hot.”

“Sun’s past its prime,” muttered Nachaev, straightening and rubbing his back. “And who is this ‘we’? You are the only one not working right now.”

“I’m tired.”

“We’re all tired,” snapped the young man. “Stop complaining and go help someone.”

A rebellious scowl crossed Medvedev’s face as he regarded Nachaev’s stained clothes.

“Say what you like,” he said. “I’m off to the porch.”

Nachaev watched him walk away. Medvedev was lucky to have his back turned, otherwise the expression that crossed the revolutionary’s face would have forced him to start running. Nachaev leant over, tore up the fence-post effortlessly and walked slowly after Medvedev.

“Break-time, lads,” called the peasant, bounding up the stairs. As one, the men dropped their work and headed for the porch. Flasks appeared from clothes that had no identifiable pockets.

Nachaev stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the porch.

“I gave no permission for a break,” he said, staring up at Medvedev.

The peasant grinned. “Oh dear!” he cried. “We have no permission from the boss-man, lads! What do you say to that?”

The men stopped in their tracks. On the one hand, a familiar figure was telling them to take it easy. On the other, the man who had got them good wages stood there with a rather large stick in his hand.

“Get back to work!” shouted Nachaev, turning to them. “We rest when the job is done!”

“We’re all tired,” said Medvedev, leaning against a pillar and picking his teeth. “Let’s take it easy and come back tomorrow, lads!”

“I got you your wages for one day’s work,” said Nachaev, “and one day’s work is what you’ll do.”

“Six rubles a day,” cried Medvedev, “times two days. A pretty sum if you think about it.”

“Six rubles for clearing the garden,” replied Nachaev. “Two days, three rubles each.”

“You mean to tell me,” said Medvedev slowly, leaning forward on the railing, “that you can get us double our normal wages, but you can’t wrangle an extra day out of old Herzen? I am very, very disappointed.”

Nachaev’s hands shifted on his stick. “You made a bargain,” he said slowly. “One day, six rubles apiece. That is what you’re worth. If you break your word, you are worth nothing – and I will see to it that that is what you’re paid!”

“Oh – so now you’re talking of making us work for free, eh? What do you think of that, lads?”

An angry murmur meandered across the garden behind Nachaev.

Nachaev walked up the stairs and planted himself in front of Medvedev. “If you break your word now,” he said, “I will never help you again.”

“Oh dear oh dear,” sneered Medvedev. “I’ll tell you something, sonny-boy: none of us needed more than one drinking lesson – and the same goes for wages. We’ll get what we deserve from now on,” he said smugly, pulling out a small bottle of vodka.

“No drinking until the job is finished, Medvedev,” said Nachaev softly, his hand tightening on the stick. “I’m warning you.”

“Who the hell are you to give us orders? You’ve done your bit – now shut up!” said Medvedev, taking a deep swig.

A spiral of vodka suddenly flew from his lips as Nachaev tore the bottle from his hand and upended it over the porch. Medvedev spluttered, grabbing for it.

“You son of a bitch!” he cried. “That was my day’s pay!”

Nachaev threw the half-empty bottle over his shoulder, causing quite a commotion behind him. “No drinking,” he said evenly. “Get back to work.”

Medvedev flexed his hands, his jaw jutting forward. “Or what?”

The men, sensing a fight, came scurrying toward the porch.

“Get to work,” repeated Nachaev quietly, taking a step back.

“One of you, twelve of us,” sneered Medvedev. “What do you have? No Tsar, no whip, no police. What do you have to order us around with?”

“I have myself,” replied Nachaev, “and if you don’t get off this porch and back to work now, I will break your arm.”

Medvedev cowered against the wall, laughing. “Ooh – will you help me with him, lads?” he said, holding up his arms. “I don’t know if I can hold my own against one skinny little – thinker!” he spat.

Nachaev swallowed, lifted the post he was carrying, and moved the splintered end towards Medvedev’s neck.

“I understand – you think you have seen my type before,” he murmured, “coming from universities and rich families. You think me an idealist, full of hopes and desperate to be liked. But you are quite mistaken. I am not an idealist.”

Medvedev glared up the length of the post, and made his choice. He spat full in Nachaev’s face.

Suddenly all his vision seemed peripheral – he sensed a blurring movement and threw up an arm to defend himself. There was a dull crunch as the post broke in two, and Medvedev almost laughed before he felt his arm flop oddly, and heard the dull crack of a breaking bone. He let out a long agonized cry and leant forward, clutching his forearm to his chest.

“This is not a brawl!” shouted Nachaev, turning suddenly to the dumbfounded men at the foot of the stairs. “This is not one of your drunken brawls! If you behave like animals, you will be treated like animals! You made a pledge to Alexander Herzen this morning. You agreed to repair his garden for six rubles apiece – in one day. You were free to make that pledge, but you are not free to break it. If you keep your pledge, you are men; if you break it, you are animals, fit only to be beaten. That is your choice – the only one I will allow. What is it to be? Men – or animals?”

The average peasant does not understand philosophy; he does not understand monarchy, authority or bureaucracy. What he does understand is a length of wood that has broken a man’s arm. The men slowly turned away, shaking their heads, and returned to the garden.

Medvedev sat alone, crouched against the wall, whimpering.

“Why are you sitting down, Medvedev?” asked Nachaev, taking a step towards him.

The peasant flinched. “My arm – it’s broken!” he cried.

“Only one of them,” said Nachaev. “If you want to work, I will bind it. If you want to rest, I will break the other one.”

Medvedev looked up, terror in his eyes.

“Good,” smiled Nachaev, leaning down. “Now you understand.”

CHAPTER TWELVE: The Party is Plotted

Ilyavich was meditating on injustice as he sat waiting for his daughter to come home. He sat in the living room, which true to the general feel of his house, managed to display its function in name only. The couches sagged, the wallpaper was faded, and the paintings looked as if they had been painted in lubricant crude. Ilyavich had let his country house decline in his absence until he was old enough to appreciate its somewhat narcoleptic comforts, but now he sat and sighed in the living room, mourning the loss of his secret love.

Although an industrious man, although a hardworking, applied and conscientious man, Ilyavich had kept a passion hidden his whole life long. Through all the heartbreak and petty trials of a bachelor’s life he had remained as true to his love as a mournful knight. Ilyavich had lived a double life; practical businessman by day, Dionysian acolyte by night, stealing to galleries and art shops as if to a painted whore he was guilty of desiring. He had met with shadowy, spattered men and bought things of them. He had built up a little hoard of paints, kept a canvas concealed in the attic, hoarded soft pencils and untouched brushes that he would stand like soldiers against the canvas when the house was silent and everyone away.

Ilyavich, like many people, was convinced he was in possession of a Hidden Talent. All his life he had shielded his latency from the crassness of action, waiting for the magical state of retirement to awaken its dormant majesty. That very morning he had dusted off his canvas, kneaded his paint-tubes and fluffed his brushes. He had selected his landscape (the sunny spot beyond the footbridge), and now that Gregory was taking his afternoon nap everything was in perfect readiness.

These were his plans for the afternoon. What was it, then, that kept him cooped indoors, musing and sighing in his tired old living room? Simply the sad fact that what interrupts us in work rarely ceases to interrupt us in leisure. Herzen’s plaintive note had brought a pang to Ilyavich’s breast – and brought him many more as he reviewed his uneasy conscience. He was Natalie’s godfather, and (he now realized) had utterly neglected the question of her well-being on the evasive assumption there were many roads to happiness that were unfamiliar to him. Ilyavich’s subjectivity was not confined only to his Hidden Talent. He had strict rules for his own life, but did not believe them universal, so his sense of responsibility was confined to himself alone. Also, his wife had left him for a truly contemptible man shortly after Gregory was born, and Ilyavich, soaring on the wings of his first business coups, had decided to write women off as incomprehensible and resume his bachelor existence without further thought. Thus shielded from the hopes and desires of half the world, he had troubled little about Natalie.

Ilyavich, on rereading Herzen’s letter, had come to the conclusion that the only solution for Natalie’s unhappiness was for his own daughter to expand her circle of admirers to include Natalie. Helena was older than Natalie, but was one of those rare women who attracted younger men the older she got. She was now twenty-five, which meant seven children short of the mark in Ilyavich’s mind. He had often pushed her to marry (knowing for a fact what devils bachelors could be), but she had shown a greater desire to outstrip her father than heed his advice. Currently she was rumoured to be pursuing an affair with a (brigand, thought Ilyavich, let’s be honest) man of questionable reputation who lived in the woods outside town. This was one attachment that Ilyavich had been too terrified of confirming to ask about – the transience of his bachelor life having distanced him from the pain he’d caused others, he inaccurately compared Helena’s supposedly self-destructive behaviour with his own healthy exploits, unable to admit their similarity. Still, at least Ilyavich had swum with the current, which is no doubt why he appeared to have enjoyed the exercise so much, and why his daughter so palpably did not.

Ilyavich heard Helena enter the house with a bang, calling for a coffee, and winced slightly at her tone. He readied himself for an interview.

Helena entered, dressed in a light floral dress. She was a determined woman, and that determination had not been denied construction in her face. Her jaw was a trifle too heavy to be called delicate, and her dark hair was usually lashed behind her head in a manner that would cause wide-eyed headaches in a lesser woman. Her eyes were narrow, gray, and possessed a defiant gleam that tended to excite the type of men who were not excited by marriage. Helena had just returned from a morning party, an exercise she periodically underwent to remind herself why she avoided genteel society.

“What vermin this country breeds!” she said, sitting down. “You should have retired to America.”

“Good afternoon, Helena,” he said.

“Mmm.” She had, in that unerring family knack of getting under each other’s skin, a habit of gazing out of the window when Ilyavich tried to talk to her.

“Helena,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Will it take long? I want to go for a ride to clear my head,” she said.

“Not if you’re co-operative.”

“Only if I smoke.”

“It’s about Natalie Herzen,” he said uncomfortably.

“What’s the matter? Has she been shocked by the coming of summer or something?” she asked, taking out a cigarette. There it is, thought Ilyavich. Tap, tap.

“You shouldn’t tap it!” he scowled.

She looked up. “But the tobacco falls out otherwise.”

“Still…” Ilyavich sighed. “I just received a note from Alexander Herzen. He’s very worried.”

“Of course, but about what?”

“About Natalie. He says she has ceased to do much of anything.”

“Lodged in these backwaters, who hasn’t?”

“These are not backwaters – nine tenths of Russia lives like this!” said Ilyavich.

“And they never do make it into the history books, do they? I mean we, of course,” replied Helena.

“That’s ridiculous! One of the reasons I bought this house was the richness of the people around it,” said Ilyavich.

“Richness! Like who?” asked Helena.

“Well, there’s Herzen himself, and the revolutionaries he attracts…”

“Like a corpse does flies,” she said, managing to interrupt a heated speech with a comment, which is no easy task.

Ilyavich sometimes felt sort of matronly when talking to his daughter. He uncrossed his legs. “Apparently she’s very unhappy,” he persisted.

Helena shrugged. “Why doesn’t Herzen send her to school then?”

“That was tried, if you remember.”

“Her sister seems to be doing all right.”

“Natalie is apparently different,” sighed Ilyavich.

“Not when she was younger. She was great fun then.”

Seeing his chance, Ilyavich lunged. “Alexander thinks you can help.”

Helena laughed. “What, as a role model?”

“That’s… not what he has in mind.”

“Well, what can I do?”

Ilyavich paused. “You’re the only person we know who knows young men.”

“Ah,” said Helena ominously, widening her arms then clapping them together, her fingers crooked in claws. “The Venus flytrap devours another innocent victim! Though I suppose she won’t object to that role these days.”

“He wants to throw her a… gathering,” said Ilyavich.

“Mmm,” said his daughter, shaking her head. “Not good.”

“Why not?”

“She won’t like it.”

“It doesn’t really matter if she likes it or not,” said Ilyavich, “The question is – will she go through with it?”

“You mean, will she go through the motions? Of course – we all do.”

“You don’t,” said Ilyavich.

“That’s only because I refuse to go through the motions of being motionless,” replied Helena.

He blinked. “The important thing is – if this party is to occur, will you help? I’ve never asked you for much.”

She shrugged. “That’s your favour, not mine. No-one I know is suitable for Natalie.”

“That’s for her to decide. I don’t really care whether she gets married or not, but it’s my duty to do my best. If this party will help – or even if it won’t – it’s my duty to at least try.”

Helena pursed her lips. “I could ask around.”

“That will do.”

“I can invite anyone I see fit?”

Dangerous ground, Ilyavich knew, but he didn’t want to lose the only concession he had. “Of course,” he said.

“Then I can promise an interesting gathering, at least,” smiled Helena.

Coffee was brought, and Helena lit another cigarette, sitting in the shadows of a latticed window as if bound in dark squares. The afternoon settled. Ilyavich rose.

“I think I’ll take a turn in the garden,” he said.

“Where’s Gregory?” asked Helena.

“Taking a nap.”

“Now there’s someone you should throw a party for,” said Helena. “You really have to make a decision about him. He’s getting on my nerves.”

“He’s ill,” murmured Ilyavich.

“He’s not ill. He’s malingering. Why don’t you set him up in town? That’s all he wants.”

“Because it won’t do any good.”

Helena looked at him pointedly. “And this party for Natalie will?”

Ilyavich found himself unable to answer, so he sat down again. He sighed. “You know, this retirement business isn’t very pleasant.”

“You worked to avoid us – did you think that you could return fully forgiven?” asked Helena.

Ilyavich looked up quickly. “What? I never worked to avoid you.”

“Gregory thinks so.”

“Then he’s an idiot. Why would I want to avoid my own children?” Helena’s stare unsettled him. “Do you think so?” he asked.

“Of course. The difference is, I don’t blame you. I’d have done the same thing.”

“And is that what you’re doing now?”

“No, now I’m sitting talking with you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then your meaning escapes me.”

“I mean this – thug you’ve been seen with,” said Ilyavich.

“Well, I think I’ve had just about enough coffee,” said Helena abruptly, rising.

“Who is this man?” asked Ilyavich.

“A Viking.”

“Then it’s true.”

“Of course it’s true. People never lie.”

“Is he a brigand?”

“Was Robin Hood?”

“Who?”

Helena turned away. “I’m going for my ride.”

“And where are you riding to?”

“Wherever I choose.”

“To the woods?”

She didn’t reply. Ilyavich looked down at his feet. “Helena – please. Just allow me a little peace.”

She remained with her back to him. “Then don’t worry about me,” she said, then picked up her dress and left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Seed Sown in a Minefield

The allure of violence is that is can accomplish in one day what compromise could take weeks to complete. Natalie’s garden, ravaged by the violence of nature, had been restored by the violence of one man. The torn trees had been cleared, the broken fences uprooted, the ground leveled and the shattered branches hauled away. All that was left was a small pile of posts leaning against the porch that Nachaev had forbidden to be cleared. The young man now stood with Herzen on the back porch, his dark hair thick with sweat, drinking a tall glass of cold water.

“Well, Sergei!” said Herzen. “I can’t help but be impressed. You work well with these people.”

“Thank you,” said Nachaev. He leaned back against a pillar. “I am also impressed – with the revolution.”

“How so?”

“All this work was accomplished – with inferior materials – by willpower alone.”

“Yours?”

“Mine.” Nachaev swung round the post to face Herzen. “You see, this was merely a demonstration.”

“For me?”

Nachaev smiled. “For both of us. Working with peasants has been tried before, but never with such success. Garden or Russia, the principles will remain the same.”

Herzen grunted. “What principles?”

“That if people do not know what is good for them, they must be forced to understand.”

“That’s scarcely revolutionary. It has been tried before. Witness the present regime.”

“The present regime is not interested in the welfare of others,” replied Nachaev. “They apply violence for their own ends. Violence for the ends of others is allowable – in fact a moral necessity.”

“But the eternal question is – can such violence be controlled?”

“I have managed to restore this garden – a pathetic feat if viewed singly, but important in context – by applying violence.”

Herzen snorted. “What violence? Raising your voice?”

Nachaev’s smile faded. “Alexander – I had to break a man’s arm today. And splint it.”

“You – what?”

“And the result is what you see.”

“You broke a man’s arm?”

Nachaev smiled. “Medvedev’s. A clean break, luckily. It will mend.”

Herzen looked away, brows knitted.

“Two questions,” said Nachaev. “One: does the end justify the means? Two: can one fight disorder with order?”

“You were supposed to repair a garden! It was a handyman’s assignment!”

“No,” said Nachaev evenly. “It was a test of principles.”

“To break a man’s arm is not a test of principles!”

“Forcing the peasants to respect their vows is! How often is that achieved?”

“Force is achieved in Russia every day!” cried Herzen.

“But to what end? To make them servile.”

“But you want them to be servile to you!”

“No: I want them to be servile to universal principles, which means: servile to themselves, which in turn means not servile at all.”

“You believe that?”

“Of course!” said the young man. “You think I enjoy violence? But have you ever spent time reasoning with these people?”

“A lot more than I’ve spent breaking their arms!”

“But look at what happened,” said Nachaev, gesturing out over the leveled earth. “They promised – of their own free will – to repair this garden. They were being paid a lot of money to do so. That is freedom. But what is freedom without responsibility? Halfway through the job they wanted to run off and drink. I told them they couldn’t, that their word must mean something, but they refused to listen. Would I have been doing them a favour to let them get away with it? Would that have been moral? To say: all right, run off, the purpose of the revolution is to get you good wages for no work. Alexander – they’re not going to respect reason, not yet. A man steals, you punish him. A man rapes, you punish him. A man breaks his word, and you punish him. If there existed one honest court in all Russia, no matter how distant, I would have marched them off there and left them. But the only honest court is where I am.”

Herzen sat heavily on a chair. “That’s far too glib to be healthy.”

“The garden is restored! What else matters?”

“But it’s not a garden yet, is it? It’s just – ground.”

Nachaev shrugged. “Reconstruction is not my job. I have never lied to you, Alexander. When I first met you I said I was a criminal, and I meant it. This afternoon I assaulted a man and broke his arm. In Europe I would be thrown in jail. But this is not Europe. Here to act is to be condemned – I accept that. But I will not accept that I am evil, because everything I see is evil. If everything is evil, there is no morality except what works – and what I do works! What’s the point of talking about it?” he asked, his voice rising. “You can’t judge me morally – all you need concern yourself with is that the job was done and a man’s arm was broken in the process. If you believe that the broken arm is the only consideration, then what I do becomes impossible. Completing the job is what the revolution means to me – morality is for what follows.”

“And – what will follow, based on such assumptions?” asked Herzen.

“I have no room for that,” replied Nachaev.

“Doesn’t that make you afraid?”

Nachaev shook his head. “I have no room for that either.”

Herzen paused, pursing his lips. “You said that this demonstration was for me as well,” he said. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want your support.”

“You must understand – for you these choices are clear; you are an individual. In my youth I would have joined forces with you without hesitation. But now I have two daughters that would have to grow up in your world. They are my conscience.”

“You have read my manifesto?” asked Nachaev. Herzen nodded. “Now you know why I forbid family contact. It breeds hesitation. Human nature is not natural – in the jungle, the leader of a troop of monkeys is obeyed without hesitation, because if a leopard attacks they don’t have time to consult. It has to be the same here. Russia is a jungle; the leopards are everywhere. I cannot allow for consultation. It would be suicide.”

“But I must consult my conscience.”

“Which is why I could never accept you as a core revolutionary, Alexander. I ask only for endorsement, not action.”

“But to endorse you is to further your cause, and your cause goes against my conscience.”

“Then look at the garden I have saved!” cried Nachaev. “All we disagree on is whether that kind of restoration is more important than a single broken arm.”

Herzen sighed and waved his hand. “I had this argument with Bakunin twenty years ago, and we parted on our disagreements.”

“What were your disagreements?”

“In your terms: after the garden is cleared – then what?”

“You have written constitutions, Alexander – the less resolute side of myself recognizes that what you propose is just. I am not asking you to abandon that. All I am asking you to do is condone the only methods that can bring it about!”

“But I am not sure they can bring it about.”

“Then what can?” demanded Nachaev.

Herzen stared in fascinated at the leveled earth.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A Sordid Tale of Lust

Utopian souls are random mutations in the social body, as prone to self-destruction as change, the first hope and last curse of mankind. Russia in the 1880’s was a petri dish of mutating hatred, each organism striving to impose its vision on the others. Nachaev, frustrated in his desires, sought to destroy the dish. Herzen watched the struggles of the resolute young virus and was faced with the awful choice of whether to use germ warfare to achieve his ends. All this was made possible (and perhaps necessary) by the rulers, who watched with amusement the infighting of their starving usurpers. When the terminal virus struck in 1917, they drowned in blood, but their predatory ethic remained intact. Brutal organisms can only be killed by even more brutal viruses, but viruses such as Nachaev never sought to be more than a cancer within a cancer, and such an illness is rarely stopped by achieving its goal – after destroying the illness it continues attacking without respite, forever and evermore…

Where, in all brutal progression, can the sensitive find a place? Are they fated to die slowly, full of mute horror and blind repudiation of what they can neither accept nor act on, like timid actors delegated smaller and smaller roles, until forced from the stage completely? And what is left then? A handful of brutal directors and a vast congregation of defenseless actors, a tragedy beyond even the apocalyptic talents of Shakespeare – a tragedy that, like the vast majority of human history, can only end by beginning again.

Herzen sat on the porch long after Nachaev had returned to the woods. All these issues (and more) ran through his mind. If Nachaev had been more like himself, Herzen would have been content to sit him on his knee, instruct him, and cast off his mantle with the contentment of a man passing on the family business to a loyal son. But Nachaev was not like him, and Herzen feared his life’s work would be faced with an unmarked grave if he did not join forces. And the decision would have been easier, but…

The opposing argument eventually brought him tea and offered a few words of concern.

“You’ll get ill again if you sit outside after the sun goes down,” commented Natalie, sitting down beside him.

Herzen took the drink with a sigh. “Ah, life,” he murmured.

“He’s left?” asked Natalie. Herzen nodded.

“He said to say goodbye, and expressed the hope that you would enjoy your garden.”

“It’s worlds apart from what it was,” agreed Natalie.

“Do you like it?” asked her father, turning to her.

Natalie scrutinized the empty earth. “Needs work.”

“But – is it better than it was before?”

“It had better be – we paid an arm and a leg for it. Why?”

“It has possibilities now, doesn’t it? Are you looking forward to working on it?”

“I’ve been doing some thinking this afternoon,” said Natalie. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been acting a little hysterically for the last week or so.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do – but thank you for saying so.”

“Hysterically how?”

“Oh, taking things out of context, blowing them out of proportion. I think I’m jealous of Natasha.”

“Because she’s at school?”

“Because she’s enjoying what I failed at. She’s always managed the trick of making the best of things, whereas I’ve always been defeated by them.”

“Natasha’s a different girl. Always was. You have your own value.”

“I know,” she said with a sad smile. “Some people are made to go out and conquer the world, and others are meant to stay home and take care of their gardens.”

Herzen laughed. “I doubt it’s quite that simple.”

“In some ways yes, in some ways no. To be eternally dissatisfied is not the answer. I have to stop complaining about everything.”

“You’re right to complain – sometimes.”

“And sometimes not. So what if I can’t be a student? There are other things in life.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I know I’m never going to get anywhere by being discontented.”

“Don’t swing too far the other way. There’s something in the middle.”

Natalie nodded. “Yes – acceptance of where you are. I’m here for the summer; to help you and finally fix up this garden properly is the full scope of what I’m able to do. And I’d better learn to accept that for now.”

Herzen sipped his tea and grimaced. It was cold. “If you had a wish to do anything in the autumn, anything at all – what would it be?” he asked, setting his cup down.

“What – are the stars out yet?” Natalie craned her head. “No? Then I’m forced to answer you. What would I wish for?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“Can it be esoteric?”

“Of course.”

“Well then – peace of mind.” She shrugged. “Bland but true.”

“But how to go about getting it? That’s the question.”

Natalie shook her head with a smile. “You asked for a wish, not a manifesto.”

“I asked for a wish first, now I want to know how I can help you.”

“Ah.”

“You know, you are exactly what Ilyavich calls a test of fatherhood. Every man wants to see his children happy and successful – I am no exception. Natasha is no test – a little money, a few books, and she’s off. But you – you are more – delicately built.”

“I need to be nurtured,” said Natalie.

Herzen smiled. “I never had much of a green thumb. Not that I’m not willing to try. The question is: how?”

“What a taxing evening! From wishes to goals!” She sighed. “You’re not going to let me off, are you?”

“No.”

“Then I’d better think quickly. But I’d better warn you – nothing I will come up with will have anything to do with children and a happy home.” Natalie frowned. “Ah,” she said, “I see by your face that I have hit a nerve. You always surprise me, father. For a revolutionary you sometimes have the most banal solutions.”

“Admittedly the quality of men in this area is not sterling. But what if a man came along who knocked you off your feet?” asked Herzen.

Natalie shrugged. “It could happen. But then I won’t any prompting from you.”

“I’m just afraid that you’re so against the idea that you won’t recognize it when it happens.”

“I can’t know if I will recognize something I’ve never seen.”

“Then don’t say you won’t marry just because men are involved. Apart from the insult to me, it doesn’t make any sense. Just say that you don’t like the idea of marrying any man you’ve met so far.”

“All right – I don’t like the idea of marriage with any man I’ve met so far.”

“Thank you.”

“But it’s still no solution.”

“No, but it’s a start. What if you’d met a man like me?”

“I don’t know how you were when you were younger. You might have been very violent.”

“What I mean is: could you imagine growing older with a man like me?”

Natalie frowned for a moment, thinking. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d be content, but I could imagine it.”

“I was quite wild when I was younger,” warned Herzen.

“I don’t know that – you keep interrupting Uncle Ilyavich when he tries to talk about it.”

Herzen stole a glance at the garden. “Well, to break precedence just this once, I was indeed the terror of St. Petersburg,” he said with a smile.

“Were women afraid of you?”

“Deadly afraid.”

“Oh? Were you involved in scandals?”

“Ilyavich suggested replacing my picture in the dictionary for the definition of the word.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh dear,” said Herzen. “The shoe is now truly on the other foot, isn’t it?”

“You put it there.”

Herzen laughed. “All right. I’m not even sure how much to edit.”

“Nothing. That’s easy enough.”

Alexander Herzen leaned back against a post, his silver hair shining sleekly under the rising moon. Natalie waited patiently. A cricket began warbling, off in the darkness.

“Well,” he said finally, “I remember one time I was staying in a rooming-house with your uncle. This was in Moscow.” Herzen chuckled. “In those days Ilyavich had this God-given talent for deceiving women (which is no doubt why he married so badly), and one time he convinced this pair of ladies that he was a tenor with the Moscow Opera who had been fired for failing to hit a high-C. Why? they asked of course. Well, he said, a certain woman had brought him to that note for the first time in the throes of – sexual fulfillment I’m afraid to say. Since they had parted (he said), he had been unable to reach such ecstasy – or his high-C, and so his career was ruined. He was very good – even I thought he was on the verge of tears, and in short the ladies took pity on him.”

“That’s his scandal, though – not yours.”

“Well, no. You see, I was supposed to be the artistic director of the Opera, who had to witness the event.”

“I see.”

“…in order to verify that he could sing again. So to make it a square, we paired up.”

“And what was this other – lady’s – incentive?”

“Oh, quite simple. She was a singer, you see…”

“…who only wanted the chance to audition,” finished Natalie.

Herzen nodded.

“A sordid adventure so far, but scarcely a scandal,” she commented.

“The scandal was provided by Ilyavich. The landlady whose rooms we rented would never let us bring ladies to our apartment, so Ilyavich suggested that he attempt hitting his note directly onstage at the Moscow Opera house.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so,” sighed Herzen. “Such are the eternal dangers of deception.”

“So what happened?”

“We got inside – by less than honourable means – and proceeded apace. Just at the moment when Ilyavich let out the most awful screech the house lights came on and there we were face to face with some director and his cast who had come in for a late rehearsal. The only saving grace was that the lady I was with immediately launched into the most wonderful aria I have ever heard; one that I can scarcely claim credit for, since we had barely begun getting acquainted.” Alexander laughed. “To make a long story short, she is now one of the most famous sopranos in Russia.” He turned to her with a grin. “Is that scandalous enough for you?”

“A pleasant story, but scarcely relevant,” said Natalie. “There are no opera houses here. And no young hooligans daring enough to attempt seduction therein.”

“But if there were daring young revolutionaries?” Herzen asked quickly.

Natalie looked at him; her smile froze. “Please tell me you are not referring to Sergei Nachaev.”

He looked away. “No – but what if I were?”

“I think he’s vile, and utterly unlike you.”

Herzen shrugged. “Now, yes. Then, I’m not so sure.”

“Father! Come on – he’s a thug!”

“I, too, had my thuggish side.”

“If you did, I don’t want to hear any stories about it. Scandals are more pleasant. Anyway, come inside. It’s getting chilly,” said Natalie, standing suddenly, her face averted.

“Natalie!” said her father, “Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s not my type,” she said simply and went inside, leaving Herzen with the dangerous question of who exactly was her type, and how he could go about finding him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Having Lived by the Sword, Nachaev Takes a Stroll in the Woods

The trees between Herzen’s house and Nachaev’s shack were almost claustrophobic in their intimacy; they clung together like guilty ex-lovers, twining their branches in obsessive embraces. The sun rarely viewed the underbelly of the forest, save when it called on the wind to punish its secrecy. Even the thick bushes below the trees continued the tradition; there was scarcely any level, from root to treetop, where an unobstructed view was granted for more than a few feet. The forest’s introspection gave it a neurotic air; its oppressive darkness echoed the soul of a schizophrenic. It was no place for animals, except of the sneaking and parasitic variety. Butterflies avoided it, insects burrowed rather than walk, even bright birds packed up their pipes and moved to sunnier climes. All that remained were remnants of humanity, outcast men and childless women, eking out a meager pittance from under the heavy carpet of leaves.

A few remaining paths shifted apologetically through the great knotty torsos; their travelers were too few to maintain the hopeless battle against the encroaching foliage. The path to Nachaev’s hut was an almost-forgotten casualty (its original owners, a lonely wife and child, had succumbed to the forest years before) and it took a keen eye to follow. The animals had long forgotten it, but as evening fell three pairs of eyes watched it intently. The undergrowth provided excellent cover, and these three pairs of eyes peered from deep within the bushy knots, waiting with the patience of predators assured of their prey.

Night was fast falling when they heard the footsteps. There was a hushed, hurried consultation, and two of the pairs of eyes retreated into the bushes while the third resumed its vigilance, its lids narrowing in savage pleasure.

The traveler soon came into view, strolling between the blurred leaves of his watcher’s vision. He was grinning, and carried a thin branch that he swished in front of him. There was a spring in his step, and a song in his heart. He even hummed, albeit not very musically.

His humming ceased when he sensed something unfamiliar in the gathering gloom. He stopped on a heartbeat, listening.

“Hello?” said Nachaev. There was no reply. Usually he was a man who trusted his instincts implicitly, but the idea of any of his enemies finding him out here was laughable. Cautious he was; paranoid he refused to become. The forest soothed him with shelter.

He took two steps, then whirled suddenly, sure he had heard a step behind him, but there was nothing. All he could see was the deep blue sky threading the trees. Suddenly several threads were cut, obscured, then a terrific blow struck his bare forehead. His neck snapped backwards painfully, an acrid taste filling his mouth. He struggled to stand, his hands groping blindly for his assailant, then another blow struck him, and his body fell out from under him. His consciousness seemed to him to remain standing for a moment, then it dropped sickeningly down through his body, into the blind earth…

Nachaev recovered almost immediately, far quicker than was healthy, fueled by a savage anger that his whole life’s work should be ended by a few common thieves.

“Don’t be stupid. I – have – I have no money…” he croaked, clinging to his spinning vision.

“We know,” said a familiar voice sarcastically from somewhere above him. “You work for free.”

“What..?” Nachaev struggled to recall the events of the day through his thickening memory. “Who..?”

“Let’s break them!” said another voice, less familiar.

“No,” said the first voice. “Give me some joy first. Then we break them.”

That last comment triggered something – Nachaev was struggling to remember it when the first boot landed in his ribs, jolting the day’s events into garish relief. Suddenly he understood.

“Medvedev!” he gasped.

“How about that, Mr. Revolutionary – my legs still work!” growled Medvedev in satisfaction, landing another kick in Nachaev’s ribs.

“No – stop! – stop! – stop!” gagged Nachaev, each word forced from him by another blow.

“Come on – it’s getting dark!” said one of the unknown men.

One more kick, then Nachaev felt a wave of nausea as Medvedev leaned over him. “Don’t you worry, sonny-boy; it’s all for your own good,” he spat, then stood up and turned away. “All right – break them,” he ordered.

Terror and rage coursed through Nachaev, but they were tourists on a sinking ship. Someone squatted down beside him. He felt one of his arms raised and pressed against a knee.

“Elbow down,” corrected Medvedev. Nachaev felt his arm turned roughly.

“Go ahead,” said Medvedev.

Nachaev’s final spasm of anger twitched and departed, leaving him absolutely hollow. Here go my arms, he thought, closing his eyes.

There was a crunching sound, and his arm was released. A dead weight fell on his back, and his ribs bowed horribly. A cry rang out, then sledgelike sound, closer, which dissolved into the crashing madness of footsteps sprinting recklessly into the bushes.

The crashing faded into silence, broken only by the hoarse panting of someone standing nearby. Nachaev opened his eyes, agony blurring his vision. The pressure on his back seemed unendurable. The woods were still. Footsteps approached.

The weight was rolled off him and, turning with it, he found himself facing the sky, unable to breathe. His ribs, shoulders and head throbbed terribly, but his neck was the worst; it hung in an awful numb manner. Almost afraid to try, he twitched a finger. His forearm flared in pain.

A man leaned over him in the darkness. He had a different smell. “You hurt?” he asked, peering down.

“Mmmrrgh,” gurgled Nachaev.

“Bad?” asked the man. Nachaev tried to nod his head, but couldn’t.

“Come on – stand,” muttered the man, still breathing hard. “I’ll help.” He reached down. Nachaev found his body responded tolerably well, but his neck countered any efforts to raise his head. Eventually he stood with his head hung like a guilty schoolboy. He rubbed the back of his neck, but the pain was too deep to reach.

The man placed his fingers under Nachaev’s chin and lifted it. Nachaev cried out.

“What?” asked the man.

“My neck!” he gasped, dropping his head heavily. Then the significance of what he’d seen struck him.

In a brief instant, Nachaev had seen a face he recognized and two bodies lying prostate on the ground. It was Natalie’s gardener, Grigorin, and the bodies were lying in positions that it didn’t look possible to rise from

“Come,” grunted Grigorin. “I take you to rest.”

Unable to resist, Nachaev took his offer as soon as he was lifted; aware of the pain of transit, his body decided to flee, and this time he fled with it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: The Maiden Questions Her Sacrifice

A knock at the servant’s door stirred Sasha, but it had ceased by the time she fully awoke. She lay in the darkness, unsure of what had woken her, and was about to fall asleep again when the knocking restarted, so tentatively it was almost a scratching. She groaned, groped for her nightdress and put it on. Lighting an oil lamp, she left her room and walked through the kitchen to the back door.

“Who is it?” asked Sasha. The reply was muffled. She repeated her question.

“A friend of Nachaev’s,” a timid female voice replied.

Oh God, thought Sasha, opening the door. The yellow light of her lamp showed a slight figure with dark hair and pale, narrow features, dressed in a thin gray coat, the forest a black backdrop behind her. The girl’s eyes seemed unable to defy gravity.

Sasha sighed. “Come in,” she said, standing aside. The girl entered and stood hesitantly by the kitchen table.

“I know it’s rude,” she said suddenly, almost on the verge of tears, “and please forgive me, but might I have a little food?”

“Sit here,” said Sasha, helping her into a chair. “When was the last time you ate?”

The girl ducked her head. “A day or so ago,” she said. “I’ve been eating berries…”

“I can only give you a little bread then. At first.”

The stranger smiled. “Thank you.”

Sasha took a small loaf out of the breadbin, and got a glass of water. “Here – eat this first. Drink at the same time.”

The girl took a huge bite out of the loaf, her eyes widening as if that would help her take in more. She chewed frantically.

“Slowly – slowly,” chided Sasha. The girl looked up, a large tear rolling down her cheek. “What’s the matter?” asked Sasha.

“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes bunching up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t cry – it closes the throat. Just eat.” Sasha sat and watched the girl devour the bread. When she had finished, her thin body gave way to racking, silent sobs. Sasha reached out and patted her arm, letting her cry.

“What’s your name?” she asked eventually.

The girl dried her eyes and smiled. “My name’s Irena Ugladovich.” she said. “Please forgive me. I’m – not used to this. I’ve never had to ask for food before. My father is very rich.”

“Where did you come from?” asked Sasha, knowing there were no houses for miles around.

“The woods.”

“What were you doing in the woods?”

“Waiting for Sergei,” said the girl. “But he didn’t come back tonight.”

“Pff,” snorted Sasha, thinking: same old story.

“When did he leave here?” asked the girl.

“Just before sundown.”

“He said he would be back by sundown. I waited and waited. I have to speak with Alexander Herzen!” said Irena suddenly. “Now!”

“I can’t wake him now – he’s an old man,” said Sasha, shaking her head. “It will have to wait until morning.”

“I can’t wait until morning – I have to get back!”

“Back where?”

Irena simply shook her head. “I have to speak to him.”

There was a short silence. Sasha yawned. “Well I can’t wake him now,” she said finally. “Why don’t you get some rest? You can sleep with me. Don’t worry – Alexander gets up before noon.”

Irena stood, but her legs were trembling so much she was forced to sit again. “I can’t rest – I have to find him.”

“But where is he?”

“I don’t know…”

“Then you’re not about to find him off in the dark, are you? Come on – get some rest,” said Sasha, rising and heading to her room.

“I can’t – I think he may be dead,” whispered Irena.

Sasha stopped short. “Dead?”

“I waited, but he didn’t come. I was so hungry. I finally went looking for him – it was stupid, I know, but I didn’t know what else to do. I fought my way through a path, calling for him, and then I tripped over something. My shoe was caught – in a dead man,” said the girl, her eyes wide.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know! There was another man lying next to him. They’d been hit with something… their eyes were open.” Irena lifted her hands into the yellow light, and wet blood showed brown on her fingertips. She gazed at them, fascinated.

“You must wash them,” commanded Sasha. “There are diseases.” She strode over, helped Irena up and pulled her to the water-barrel. She washed the girl’s hands, ignoring the dread in both their hearts. “Wherever he is, we’re not going to find him at night, not if he’s not answering. We’ll have to wait until morning.”

“I want to find him,” said Irena. “But I don’t want any part of it any more. No part any more.”

“I know,” said Sash, scrubbing vigorously. “I know.”

“Do you think he killed them?”

“Sergei? Could be. If he did, he won’t be able to stay here any more.”

“Then it’s back to St. Petersburg!” cried Irena. “What am I going to do? My father won’t let me in the house!”

“Easy now. We don’t know anything.” Sasha led the girl back to the table. “Tell me now: are you pregnant?”

Irena’s eyes widened. “What? How could I be?”

Oh dear, thought Sasha. “Did you – sleep with him?”

“We slept in the shack, but that can’t make you pregnant – can it?”

“Not if you didn’t touch each other.”

“We never did. He said I was not…” Irena shrugged.

“Revolutionary material?” asked Sasha.

“That’s right,” said Irena in surprise.

“Then you’re not pregnant. So. How did you end up running away with our little boy?”

“I wanted to help,” said Irena.

“Where did you meet him?”

“At the university. Well, near it.”

“Ah,” said Sasha, “of course.”

“When I’d known him for a few weeks, I went home for a holiday, and when I got back he was at the train station. I saw him, and I just started to cry. He asked me why, and I said I had watched my father beat a peasant to death the day before,” said Irena. “I said that I was afraid. He asked me what I was afraid of. I said that I was afraid that I would have to go to sleep with a murderer, like my mother. He laughed, and said I might as well wish myself a foreigner. I didn’t understand, but he went to great lengths to – help me understand. And I thought I did. I said I would help his revolution. He said I was not strong enough, that if I cried over a peasant I was too weak. So I promised him I wouldn’t cry any more. And I didn’t. No matter how hard he tried to make me, I didn’t. Once he took me to a park and pointed out all the men he would make me sleep with. But I didn’t cry. After a while he said I was strong enough. But now I know I’m not.”

Sasha gazed at her. “You call being treated like a whore strength?”

“That’s what he told me I was.”

“His whore?”

“No – the revolution’s whore. Whores sell themselves for money, he said, but my job was to sell myself for souls.” She smiled, her eyes lowered. “I used to be religious, you see.”

“Did you – sleep with any of these men?”

“He said I wasn’t to be trusted. He said my family had too much control over me – which was true I think. I had to break with my family before I could help him. That’s when he told me I could help with his Herzen project. But I never did,” said the girl, her voice catching. “I just sat in the woods.”

“All alone?”

She nodded.

“The bastard!” said Sasha tightly.

Irena shrunk a little in her chair. “No – he’s not. He might not be. You see – I have to talk to Herzen. I always loved his writing – always. If he says I’m doing the right thing, I’ll believe him.” Irena looked up, tears in her eyes. “I’m just not sure he’s – right any more. I’m not sure that Nachaev is a good man.”

“Irena,” said Sasha, sitting down beside her. “You have to listen to me. You were very brave for coming here. I know how hard it is to disobey him. But you have to be strong. Talk to Herzen. That’s good. But never, on pain of losing your soul forever, never ever speak with Nachaev again!”

“But – what if Herzen tells me I must?”

“Don’t worry about that. Promise me.”

Irena bit her lip. “All right,” she said softly. “If Herzen says I mustn’t, I’ll never speak to him again.”

Sasha nodded and squeezed the girl’s hand. “Good girl.”

“But I must speak to Herzen now, this minute,” said Irena, removing her hand. “I’m supposed to be waiting in the woods. If I don’t have a reason to be gone, he’ll be very angry.”

“Let him be!”

“I can’t!” said the girl. “I promised to help him. I promised!”

Sasha looked at her hard for a moment, then made up her mind. “Wait here,” she said.

She lit another lamp and went up the stairs to Herzen’s room. She knocked, but got no response. She opened the door. The old man’s bed was empty, untouched.

Frowning, Sasha checked in the study. There, slumped over his writing desk, was Alexander Herzen. A candle, barely a lump of wax, guttered and flickered out as she watched. She went to him.

“Sir,” Sasha said softly, shaking his rounded shoulder. “Sir! Get up.”

He groaned and stirred.

“Sir, there’s someone you have to speak to! Get up!”

He moaned, rolling his head. His face looked very pale in the lamplight.

“Wake up!” hissed Sasha.

Herzen raised his head slowly from his desk. A piece of paper stuck to his face like a leech. Sasha reached down and peeled it off. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she was unable to read its contents.

“What is it?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You have to come downstairs,” said Sasha. “Someone has come to see you. From Nachaev.”

Herzen straightened his back, his eyes bleary. He took the piece of paper from Sasha’s hand and lay it on his desk, devoutly smoothing the creases left by his face.

“Who is it?” he asked finally.

“A girl. A friend of Nachaev’s.”

He frowned. “Who is this girl?”

“Just come downstairs!” said Sasha, tugging at him, afraid that Irena might relapse and flee.

“All right, all right,” grumbled Herzen, staggering to his feet. “Take me to her.”

Irena was still waiting, staring out into the night by the open door. Hearing Sasha and Herzen enter, she turned and caught her breath. Absurdly, she curtsied, and Sasha saw with a pang what kind of life the girl had left behind.

“Her name is Irena,” said Sasha. “She’s having doubts about Nachaev, and she wants you to tell her the truth.”

“The truth! In the middle of the night?” chuckled Herzen. “This may end the quest of a lifetime. Now, my girl, what is the truth you want?”

“It’s about Sergei, sir,” stammered Irena.

“What about him? Don’t shake so. Are you cold? Hm? Did you give her a little nip, Sasha? Why don’t you – and get me a little as well. And close that door – it’s chilly out there.”

Irena closed the door, and they both sat at the table. With a frown, Sasha went to fetch the drinks from the cellar.

“Now,” said Herzen. “What’s troubling you?”

“Well, sir, it’s about Sergei…” Irena trailed off.

“A friend of yours?” prompted Herzen.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“You don’t know if he’s your friend?”

Irena shook her head. “I don’t know if he’s anyone’s friend.”

Herzen squinted at her. “Now that’s a serious matter. And you want my advice?”

She nodded. Just then, Sasha returned with two small glasses of port and set them on the table.

“Ah, never so punctual as when there’s something to hear, eh Sasha?” commented Herzen, raising his glass. “Here’s to truth!” he said, then lowered his eyes to Irena. “Now, what is your objection to our boy?”

Irena took a delicate sip at her glass, then screwed her face and put it down. She looked across the table at the old man.

“He took me from my home for his revolution,” she said. “He took me from my mother and father and friends and told me he was going to change everything for the better. I gave up everything to help him, everything he asked for. I made myself brave for him. He said he would stop at nothing for the revolution, that he would kill and maim and destroy whatever stood in his way. I thought that was his way of making himself strong.” She smiled. “I know I’m not anything unusual; perhaps I’m not strong after all, but I never thought killing would help anything. I never thought Nachaev did either. But tonight I am terrified that he has – killed two men, and I don’t feel strong at all any more.”

Herzen started. “Which two men?”

“I don’t know.”

“What makes you think he killed them?”

“Who else would?”

“Was there a sign of a struggle?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Then either he defended himself, or he didn’t,” said Herzen. “If he defended himself, then he was right. If he didn’t – and this is very important – then he may have been wrong, but he was not evil.”

Sasha sucked in her breath, but Irena just looked at Herzen. “Why not?” she asked.

Herzen stood. “You don’t want this?” he asked, pointing at the port. Irena shook her head, so he picked it up and drained it in a gulp, pursing his lips.

“You want to know what I think?” asked Herzen. “I’ll tell you.” He leaned against the stove and gestured with his glass. “What is it to be – violence or peace? It all comes down to one thing. Those who’ve practiced peace have always been beaten by the dictator who acts on the assumption not of what is right or wrong, but of what is effective. And he has always been proven right!” Herzen jabbed his finger into the table. “Always! I have seen this revolution grow only in the length of its speeches, while our opposition has grown in organization and power. Nothing – so far – has been achieved.” He waved his hand. “Oh yes, we freed the serfs, but the Tsar just chained them to their landlords – whom he controls – instead of to him directly. Our fight changed only the appearance; the evil will remain until we adopt the methods of our enemies. Good or evil does not apply. What works applies. And I have seen firsthand that what Nachaev does works.” Herzen shrugged. “Of course I could wish him more gentle, or more humane, more ‘good’, but that would strip him of his power. I can’t bring myself to do that, because I am an old man who’s spent his life talking in circles, and I want to see something achieved before I die. So I say that you should march right back to Nachaev and lay down your life for him.” Herzen sat and gripped her tiny hands. “I know it’s hard,” he said evenly. “I share your fears, but I shall do exactly that first thing in the morning. If you are looking for strength, then to me that is strength.”

During Herzen’s long speech, Irena’s eyes had steadily lowered as if dragged down by the harshness of his words. But now she raised them, as if seeing the world for the first time. Sasha could see in them the reverent glow of martyrdom, and that light made her close her own.

“Thank you,” whispered Irena in a husky voice. “You have given me strength.”

“Not to mention myself,” said Herzen quickly.

“I hope we shall see each other again,” said Irena shyly.

“I’m sure we shall. Tell Sergei to come to me in the morning. There is to be no more living in the woods – for either of you.”

“I’ll tell him,” promised Irena, not without a slightly scornful glance at Sasha. She rose and, impulsively, kissed Herzen’s hand. With a quick smile, she was gone. Herzen sank back into his chair with a wan smile.

“Intoxicating stuff, don’t you think?” he asked, turning to Sasha. The look on her face stopped him short. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

She glared at him, her eyes burning. In her anger, she committed what in some houses was a death sentence – of her livelihood and, consequently, of her life.

“If I had anywhere to go,” she said slowly, “I would leave now. You are a sick man.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Gregory Makes His First Deal

Gregory’s particular utopia was Town Life – like many sickly youngsters trapped at home, his world was defined through literature. He had become an aficionado of the English novels dealing with the wonder and heartbreak of life in town. In ‘Hard Times’ he found his cause, in ‘The Mill on the Floss’ he found his soul mate; in ‘Joseph Andrews’ he gained his desire for a picaresque life. Basing himself in St. Petersburg (he imagined) he could roam at will throughout Russia, making notes of its inhabitants and ways in order to publish brilliantly insightful articles that would threaten even Turgenev’s position as the royal scribe of rural Russia. All, he believed, lay in his future – but first he must convince his father.

Gregory had barely opened the greenhouse door when he heard a sound from the house behind him. He concealed himself in the greenhouse and watched through the potted plants as the back door opened. In the murky light of dawn he strained his eyes to see who was stirring. There was a bump, a clatter and a curse, then his father emerged from the house carrying a large canvas. He watched his father peering out to see if anyone was there, his easel clutched to his chest. No-one’s here at all, said Gregory silently, come right out… Ilyavich looked around, then crossed the lawn quickly and scurried across the footbridge to the small clearing at the foot of the garden. Gregory waited a few minutes, then eased the door of the greenhouse open and crept out himself. Pulling his chair out after him, he threw his blanket over his shoulder and stomped over the bridge after his father.

“Good morning!” he cried from a break in the trees.

Ilyavich looked up quickly, but there was nothing he could do – he was caught. His easel was set up and his trousers were fit to burst with paint-tubes and brushes.

“What are you doing?” asked Gregory, stepping forward.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Ilyavich, sitting down on a small stool he had brought along.

“No? It’s going to be a beautiful day,” commented Gregory. “What’s this?” he asked, setting his chair down in front of the canvas.

“A canvas,” said his father slowly.

“An artist’s canvas? How interesting.”

“I found it in the attic.”

“And you thought you’d try a little painting?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well – don’t let me stop you,” offered Gregory, sitting down heavily on the grass. “I couldn’t sleep either; I thought I’d watch the sunrise. I hope my coughing didn’t keep you up,” he added.

“No,” said his father. “But now you’re here I’d rather talk with you than mess up this lovely canvas.”

Gregory smiled. “How nice.”

But no talk was forthcoming. Father and son sat silently among the dark trees, both rehearsing the script they expected to start at any moment.

“What are your plans for the day?” asked Ilyavich finally.

“Oh, I don’t know,” sighed Gregory. “I’m feeling a little stronger this morning, but still so very tired. Perhaps I’ll go for a walk later. Or read.”

His father shrugged. “That’s good.”

Gregory sighed once more. “It’s just that – oh, if only I wasn’t so tired!”

“It’s a shame.”

“You’ve never been ill, have you father?” he asked suddenly.

“Not that I can remember. You mother was though. Often. Perhaps you got it from her.”

“Perhaps. It breaks my heart sometimes – there’s so much more I’d love to be doing.”

“Such as?”

“Who knows? Traveling, writing. Seeing the world. Anything would be a change for the better.”

“Then you’ll just have to make your mind up to do it.”

“But I have. It’s my body that is holding me back. Among other things.”

“You mean me,” said Ilyavich.

“No – but you must admit that you had many more opportunities when you were my age.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a system that wasn’t hopelessly corrupt. Such as access to a city. Such as a strong constitution. I would have loved to be you when you were younger. It must have been great fun.”

Ilyavich turned to his son. “Gregory,” he said softly, “all that is within your power. You just have to want it enough.”

“Don’t you think I do want it? Do you think I enjoy this life?” asked Gregory.

“No – but I don’t know how to help you.”

“I’ve already told you how to help me!”

“Giving you money is not an answer.”

“Oh? And who are you to give me answers?”

“I’m your father.”

“In name only. You never stayed for more than a few days when I was a child. Our maid was a better father than you.”

“I was working to pay your bills!”

“You left me to rot here – I didn’t get the benefit of your experiences, and had no chance for any of my own.”

“Opportunities are yours to make – not mine to provide. No-one offered them to me – I worked!”

“But to work you had to be in town!”

“And I’m happy to put you in town – anytime you like – provided you work!”

“But I don’t want to work – not like you did. I want to do other things!” cried Gregory.

“What other things?” demanded Ilyavich.

“How can I know when I’m stuck out here? There’s nothing out here – even you know that!”

“If I invest in you, it has to be for a reason. What reason have you shown me?”

“Is that what I am to you? A business? I’m your son!”

Ilyavich held up a warning finger. “That doesn’t make me a charity.”

“You see – that’s exactly what I want to avoid! That kind of tyranny! Not everything can be measured in terms of rubles, father. My happiness should not be measured in rubles!”

“If I give you money,” said Ilyavich, “I have to know what you’re going to do with it. You have never, not once, told me what you plan to do with my money!”

“I’ll do what I choose to do with it! I may not be able to send you interest on it – I can’t promise that. All I can promise is to try and find some happiness.”

“And what when I die?” snapped Ilyavich. “What then? I have your sister to worry about as well. She’s going to need a dowry.”

“So she can get all the money she wants – is that it?” said Gregory. “I see.”

“I’m not going to argue the ways of the world with you, Gregory. Men work, women marry. If you want to change that, go join the revolution. But you won’t get a kopeck from me for that either.”

“I don’t want to be a revolutionary. I want to be an artist!”

“Then go ahead – there’s the canvas.”

“Not a painter – a writer!”

“Then show me something you’ve written. If you’re good, I’ll be happy to buy you pens and paper.”

“Pens and paper don’t make a writer.”

“What does then? Money?”

“Experience! And that costs money!”

“Oh, so all experienced men are good writers?” asked Ilyavich.

Gregory hesitated. “No. You need talent too. But you can never know if you have it unless…”

“Then show me your talent, and I’ll give you my money. Or make your own money and save your talent for retirement!”

Gregory looked at the canvas. “Oh – is that what this is all about? You’re going to become a talented painter now?”

“It’s something I’ve worked hard to have the time to explore, yes,” replied Ilyavich.

“And would you say that you’re an experienced man?” asked Gregory.

“Very.”

“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Gregory, scrambling to his feet. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I know nothing at all. But I’ll tell you what. If you become a good painter, then I’ll go out and seek my fortune.”

“What?”

“Yes!” cried Gregory. “If you become a good painter, then experience precedes talent, and I won’t take a ruble from you. If you don’t, then talent precedes the – experience that brings it out, and you will have to invest in my experience.”

Ilyavich snorted. “That makes no sense at all.”

“To hell with it!” said Gregory. “You’re just afraid!”

“What have I got to be afraid of?”

“You always wanted to be a painter, didn’t you?”

“I was saving it for retirement – despite my children!” replied Ilyavich.

“So you worked your whole life to become a painter. If you succeed, I’ll take my hat off to you; if you fail, surely you’ll want to give me the opportunity you lost!”

“Once and for all listen to me! Opportunities can’t be given!” cried Ilyavich.

“But experience can! I won’t ask for much. Or I suppose I could get married.”

“Yes – thank God – why don’t you?”

“What – marriage? Me?” Gregory snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“What’s wrong with marriage?”

“I have nothing to offer a woman.”

“You have yourself!”

“Then tell me – how rich were you when you married mother?” demanded Gregory.

“That doesn’t count; look where she is now – or imagine it, since neither of us has any idea.”

“But you were rich when you married. That’s my point.”

“Because I had character! That’s why she wanted me – because I worked! Not because I had money.”

“We’re getting nowhere,” said Gregory. They both watched the sun light the tips of the trees in silence.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” asked Gregory suddenly.

Ilyavich sighed. “I do nothing but listen to you.”

“That’s true. But everything has to be so defined with you. Work for your money, show me your talent, do this, do that. Why won’t you just let me explore my life?”

Ilyavich set his jaw. “I’ll tell you why. You obviously want nothing to do with the world of business. All right, that’s your choice, and you’re welcome to it. But what about my grandchildren? Am I going to tell them that they have to start clawing their way up, as I did, because you wanted to ‘explore’ your life? I don’t want them to have to go through what I went through; no matter what you think, it was not all fun and games. I worked hard for my money – I want to keep it in the family and not have it wasted in the pursuit of a talent that may not even exist. Can you understand that?”

Gregory closed his eyes, and leaned his head back into his chair. “I wish I were a brilliant businessman,” he said. “I wish I didn’t find the idea of trade so disgusting.”

“What’s so disgusting about it?” asked Ilyavich.

“Oh, the whole thing!” cried Gregory, his lip curling. “The smiling, the hand-shaking, the empty back-clapping how-are-you’s. The predatory ethic, the aggressive fitness, the sharp-suited determination to be the best, always number one, always outdoing the weaker man, a life of nothing more than signing contracts and breaking contracts and talking about contracts, nothing but words and deals and movement your whole life, while your wife cries alone and your children forget your name! Spending your life moving a million boxes to one end of the world and back again, while of the things that matter – of family, friends, art, of those things you know nothing – absolutely nothing, and to avoid that you have to go move another million boxes and keep moving them until the day you die, at which point all your acquaintances attend your funeral and say: what on earth was the point of that?” Gregory’s hands were white on the armrests of his chair as he spoke. “Not that they’ll learn anything – oh no, they’ll keep moving their million boxes around until they get shoved underground in one. Then they stroll up to God and say: look how many boxes I moved, and they’ll name a number but no matter how big it is He’ll cut them off and say I don’t care about that; how much happiness did you create? And you know what? They’ll have nothing to say to that, so they’ll go to hell and move their boxes for eternity and never know any better and that’s why I hate business,” finished Gregory, panting.

There was a pause, then Ilyavich smiled. “You know,” he said, “When you were just born, you wouldn’t allow yourself to be breast-fed. Your mother tried and tried then finally switched you to the bottle. She forced that down your throat for about a month, then you decided you wanted her milk, but by then she had dried up.” Ilyavich chuckled. “That’s you exactly.”

Gregory smiled. “My first memory was playing with a ball – that red one,” he said. “It rolled into a puddle. I wanted the ball but I didn’t want to get wet – I thought I’d shrink or something. I didn’t know what to do. So I cried.”

Ilyavich shook his head. “If I’d stayed at home with you, we’d have stayed poor, and you wouldn’t have been happy with that either.” He shrugged. “My life hasn’t been perfect – there are many things I’d change if I could, but there’s one thing I do know: there was no happiness in my home when I was young, just the eternal fight to make a ruble stretch a mile. Now there’s enough money for you not to do that; you can get rich and stay at home.”

“How could I become rich? That I don’t know,” said Gregory.

Ilyavich widened his hands. “Do what I did. One thing about Russia – perhaps the whole world: it prays to poverty, but worships wealth. Take any man – I don’t care how poor – and give him a luxury he can’t afford; he’ll take it. Everyone wants more than they’ve got.” Ilyavich leaned forward, rubbing his hands. “Things are so cheap abroad, Gregory – you can bribe everyone you need and still end up with a mattress full of money. Take a case of French perfume to any village – women will sell their souls for a dab. You don’t have to be a genius. All it takes is courage. I don’t mean criminal courage – if you bribe right, you never get caught. I mean the courage to say: all right, I have to bribe – so what? I have to neglect my wife – so what? I have to pretend to be friends with men I despise – so what? I mean the courage to take what is yours despite the system!”

“But the system still remains,” commented Gregory.

Ilyavich shook his head slowly, smiling. “You want to know what fights the system? Wealth. Who’s butchered and put down and has no recourse to justice? The poor – because they have no money. Bribery is our democracy. Violence will never work – it has no appeal to the regime; they want money. That’s what I gave them. I made it and I spread it around.” Ilyavich laughed richly. “Not that I pretended any altruism. I worked for myself. It just happens that what was good for me was also good for Russia. That’s the beauty of it.”

“Of the three solutions – violence, money and beauty,” said Gregory, staring out at the sunny trees, “I’ll choose beauty now and forevermore.”

“Then you can’t choose my money as well,” replied his father, sitting back.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Aftermath of Arms

Nachaev remained unconscious for the rest of the night and much of the following morning. Grigorin sat placidly beside his bed, cooling his neck periodically with a damp rag and keeping the flies off his face. Soon after noon Nachaev opened his eyes and gazed upon the world. The roof of Grigorin’s hut was rough-cut lumber; he could see the sky through the cracks.

“Are you hungry?” asked Grigorin.

“No. It’s time for me to think,” said Nachaev. “Leave me.”

Grigorin got up without another word and walked out. Nachaev closed his eyes, reviewing his options. Why had he come to Herzen’s? To gain the old man’s reputation. He had succeeded as much as was possible; he believed Alexander would be his in due course (not knowing, of course, that Herzen had made his speech to Irena already). The problem of gaining his support had been solved – the question now was: how to keep it? Nachaev had few illusions – he knew that his peaceful days were over and that Herzen was independent enough to continue questioning his actions if they escalated in violence.

There were two benefits to Herzen’s support – intellectual and financial. The old man was a respected voice in the world; he had a credibility that Nachaev utterly lacked. He was also wealthy, and Nachaev not fool enough to scorn that. To be a lion requires a mane, and manes can be very expensive. Nachaev viewed alliances as a means to an end – he didn’t care about Herzen himself, only the benefit he conferred. If there was a way of obtaining that benefit without having to constantly placate Herzen, he would be better off implementing it. But how?

The first thought that sprang to his mind, of course, was Natalie. To win her would secure both the intellectual and financial control he needed. That meant marriage. He had been playing with her ever since he arrived – more as a diversion than anything else – but now that he saw her as usable he realized his previous work would stand him in good stead. He need only placate her until Herzen died, he thought, then she would become unnecessary. The problem was her sister Natasha. Even if Herzen suspected nothing, he would surely leave her a good portion of his inheritance…

Nachaev thrust the problem from his mind, thinking: one step at a time. First on the agenda was finding out the extent of his injuries. His neck felt odd, and his body ached abominably. He moved his legs under the blanket; they responded without complaint. He tried lifting his head and, teeth gritted, endured the agony without a whimper. His neck felt like a red-hot spike, but at least he could move it. So far so good. He swung his legs over the bed and levered himself into a sitting position, fighting off waves of nausea. His shoulders were unbearably tense, but they supported his neck to the point where the pain became endurable. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping. Then he stood up and levered himself over to the table, where he stood with his white knuckles pressed against the wood.

“Grigorin!” he cried.

The peasant, who had been waiting outside, came in.

“You stand! Good!” he cried, clapping his huge hands.

“You must help carry me to Herzen’s house,” gasped Nachaev. “I’ll rest there.”

Grigorin gazed at him, then nodded. “Please give this to the girl there,” he said, taking a ten-ruble note out of his pocket. “She paid too much.”

“What – what is that?”

“When I left she paid me – but it was too much.”

“Maybe she wanted you to have it.”

Grigorin shook his head. “Take it back.”

“Grigorin – keep the money!” said Nachaev. “They don’t need it.”

“She said five rubles a month – she owed me a month, she gave me fifteen. Take it back.”

“Why?” asked Nachaev.

“It’s not mine,” said Grigorin.

“You can use this money. Buy some food – have a drink or two. Enjoy yourself.” Nachaev found himself forced to sit.

“I do.”

“Then the money won’t hurt. Take it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not mine.”

“So?”

“I live here alone,” said Grigorin. “Everything is my own.” He held up the money. “This is not my own. Take it back.”

“Don’t you understand? You’re being taken advantage of. Five rubles a month is slavery!”

Grigorin shrugged. “Don’t worry – I take it back myself.”

“No – I’ll do it if you want – it’s the least I could do, after all your help. But you must understand that it’s every man for himself!”

“I like being by myself,” agreed Grigorin.

“Then use the money! For God’s sake!”

Grigorin shook his head. “I take it back myself.”

“All right – I’ll do it,” snapped Nachaev. “Give it to me.”

Grigorin regarded him for a moment, then handed it over. “The young lady,” he reminded.

“I know, I know.” Nachaev tucked the money into his pocket. “You’re a strange man,” he said.

“How do you like being carried?” asked Grigorin.

“How did you carry me last time?”

“Over my shoulder.”

“That’s fine.”

He nodded. “Stand up.”

Nachaev stood, his knees trembling. “Watch my neck,” he warned.

“I will.”

“And Grigorin…” he said, placing his hand on the peasant’s shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”

Grigorin grinned. “Thanks I take. Hup!” he cried, hoisting the revolutionary onto his shoulder.

Nachaev remained conscious on the way. Grigorin’s shoulders moved under him, and he felt reassured by the man’s bullish strength. He toyed with the idea of enlisting him, but the business with the money had convinced him that the peasant was not open to argument or manipulation, so decided to leave him alone. Soon they came to the clearing where Nachaev had been attacked the night before he saw two bodies lying on the ceiling of his vision.

“Stop – stop!” he gasped. Grigorin halted and lay him down on his back. “Roll those bodies over,” said Nachaev.

Grigorin did so, and Nachaev turned his head and stared impassively at them. One man’s face had been half sheared away, and the flies congregated like myriad buzzing warts.

“Damn,” muttered Nachaev. “He got away. What did you use – a shovel?”

“Axe. I know these men – drunkards.”

“I think they would have killed me.”

Grigorin shook his head. “Broken your arms.”

“Still… thank you again.”

The peasant grunted. “Can’t see at night – lose their sight with candles. See this?” he asked, lifting up a skinny arm, “City takes their strength, but they still want to fight.” He shook his head.

“Have you killed many men, Grigorin?” asked Nachaev suddenly.

“Ach – a few.”

“How many?”

He shrugged. “Who counts?”

“I killed a man once,” said Nachaev. “In St. Petersburg.”

Grigorin nodded. “Big city.”

“You’ve been there?” asked Nachaev.

“Been there, sure.”

“When?”

“Sometime back.”

“Did you like it?”

Grigorin ripped up some grass and chewed on it. “No.”

“Why not?”

He pursed his lips, squinting at the sky. “The people there, all running. Who knows? I like it here.”

“He fought hard,” said Nachaev suddenly, turning his head to the branches above him. “I had to tear his throat out.”

Grigorin made a face. “Bad.”

“What – the act?”

He shook his head. “The taste. But you’re a good boy.”

“What? Why?”

But Grigorin didn’t answer. “Come on,” he said, standing up.

“What do you do all day, Grigorin?” asked Nachaev.

He cocked his head. “I carry you,” said the peasant, bending down and hoisting him up again.

When they reached the edge of the trees at the bottom of Herzen’s garden, Nachaev signaled to be put down.

“I can make it from here,” he said, wincing as his feet hit the ground.

“Don’t forget the money,” warned Grigorin.

“I won’t.”

Grigorin nodded and disappeared back into the forest, the leaves closing around him like possessive camouflage.

Nachaev gazed at his passage almost in envy, then turned to face Herzen’s house. The sun, overjoyed at a chance to inspect one of the forest’s denizens, turned its full blaze on him. The young man shielded his eyes and squinted his bright vision into a kaleidoscope of eyelashes; a trickle of sweat ran down his spine, giving him a hot flash and goosebumps simultaneously. He began walking forward and realized all of a sudden that he was in no state to make such a long walk in the wild heat. He turned to call for Grigorin, but the peasant was gone. Panicked, he began staggering forward, his neck growing heavier, his chest tightening. The ground swung sickeningly in front of him; he tried to raise his eyes, but his neck lanced into his skull. He plodded on, eyes closed, unsure he was even walking in the right direction. Why, he thought blindly, why do I do this to myself? He opened his eyes briefly and saw an old man sitting alone on the back porch start up in alarm, then the bare ground swung in view again; his head rolled and he saw the old man running, huffing, toward him, shouting something. Just two more, just two more, he chanted to himself, working his legs mechanically. Finally they could sustain him no more, and Nachaev pitched forward, straight into Herzen’s arms. His face, pressed hard against the old man’s soft belly, almost smiled at the sound of Natalie’s voice, then he felt a swoon coming on and demanded that it leave him alone. It didn’t listen, of course, but then he wasn’t around long enough to be angry at it.

They took him up to the guest room, Herzen, Sasha and Natalie, then Herzen sent Sasha off for the doctor. Nachaev’s forehead was cold to touch, and his neck swelled a dark, angry purple. Herzen fussed and fidgeted over him while Natalie stood in a corner, staring at Nachaev as if at an apparition.

“Come on, girl,” scolded Herzen, “Run and get some cold water and a cloth.” Natalie left the room, and when she was gone the old man leaned down over the boy’s face and very gently kissed his cheek.

“Come on, boy,” he murmured, brushing Nachaev’s wet hair off his face. “Don’t give in.”

Natalie returned and Herzen snatched the cloth from her. Dipping it into the bucket, he squeezed a cold trickle over Nachaev’s forehead.

“Father – he’s cold already! Don’t make him colder,” exclaimed Natalie.

“You want to do this?” asked Herzen.

“He needs to be kept warm! Let me,” she said, taking the cloth from him. “We need another blanket. Look at these bruises! He’s been in an accident.”

Herzen decided to keep quiet about the previous night’s bloodshed, thinking it was best not to upset her.

“He’ll have to stay here,” he said. “We can’t move him.”

Natalie dabbed Nachaev’s lips with the cloth. “Yes – I suppose so.” She looked at the revolutionary’s pale face. “He doesn’t look so menacing now, does he?”

“Natalie, I’m very worried. I don’t like the colour of his neck.”

“It’s soft to touch… How long will the doctor take?”

“Some time,” said Herzen. “Do you know how to take a pulse?”

Natalie squeezed Nachaev’s wrist gently. “It’s weak,” she said finally.

“What if he gets a fever? Remember that time Natasha had that fever? God!”

“He’s not family, father,” admonished his daughter. “But it would be bad.”

“Do you think he’s paralyzed?”

“Not unless he broke his neck when you caught him.”

“Don’t these things creep up sometimes? I read somewhere they creep up sometimes.”

“Father, stop worrying! Let’s hear what the doctor has to say first. Then we can jump to his conclusions.”

Nachaev’s body suddenly shuddered under his blanket, then he convulsed and a dark stream of vomit splashed down his cheek.

“God!” cried Natalie. “Sit him up or he’ll choke!” She knelt down beside the bed and Herzen helped pull Nachaev’s torso over her shoulder. She patted his back as he convulsed again and stream of vomit trickled down her back.

“I’ll get a towel,” said Herzen.

“Don’t worry! Just help me support him,” commanded Natalie with some effort. “Here he comes again!”

But there was nothing left to come up; Nachaev’s body twisted and cramped as if trying to turn itself inside out. Finally the knotting ceased.

“Check his pulse! Check his pulse!” cried Herzen.

“It’s all right,” panted Natalie. “I can feel him breathing. Help me lay him back down.”

They rolled Nachaev back into bed. His neck had grown darker. Natalie touched it.

“We’d better support that,” she said. “Go get a bandage.”

Nachaev’s eyes opened slowly when Herzen had left the room. He gazed up into Natalie’s lowered face, then smiled.

“You look like an angel,” he murmured, then his eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled limply to one side.

“God help him!” whispered Natalie, brushing back her hair, her hand sticky.

God was busy, but the local substitute was on his way.

Doctor Spectroff was discreet, sober and concerned – the perfect placebo for all sufferers. When someone took sick, he’d comfort the family, murmuring that he’d seen it all before and what the invalid needed was rest and silence and darkness, commenting soberly that mushrooms never got sick. The stricken family, faced with the almost certain demise of one of their members, would be as impotently deferential to the Doctor as if he were Death himself. This he aided by his appearance, which was tall, grave and bald. In private, Doctor Spectroff could be quite amusing in a dark sort of way, but professionally he adopted a guise that suggested that he was a blood relative of Death itself, and would take up the cause of the stricken patient the next time they lunched together. Families respected death when it came; they also respected its emulation, and respect in this case meant higher fees for the good Doctor.

Doctor Spectroff glided up in his black carriage with Sasha sitting nervously beside him. He levered his gaunt frame out of the carriage with his black cane, and straightened slowly, inhaling the air of the house as if sniffing for something.

“Ahh,” he said mysteriously, nodding his head. “Come – we begin!” he cried, throwing back his cape. Sasha had already climbed the steps ahead of him. Frowning, he followed.

Doctor Spectroff had developed an angular technique of turning corners suddenly, hoping to give the impression of materialization rather then entrance. This worked especially well in doorways; Natalie had glanced at the door only a few moments before when she looked up again and saw the dark Doctor, bisecting the rectangular with his thin frame. She gasped, almost dropping her tea.

“Doctor!” she cried.

He inclined his head, glowing inwardly.

“This is the invalid?” he said in his too-deep voice.

“Yes,” said Herzen, rising from his chair beside the bed.

The Doctor pulled a scarlet handkerchief from his waistcoat and delicately wiped his hands. “Alexander,” he nodded intimately. Doctor Spectroff believed he had a special relationship with the venerable old man, a meeting of minds, that would have surprised Herzen.

“Close the curtains,” ordered the Doctor. Darkness descended on the room. He approached the bed.

“It’s his neck,” said Natalie tentatively.

“Ah, yes,” Doctor Spectroff murmured significantly. “I’ve seen it before. The Crimea. A terrible injury,” The Crimean War was the unquestionable source of most of the Doctor’s knowledge. He leant over Nachaev and ran his hands along the young man’s face, pressing his fingertips delicately into the dark welt below his ears.

“Water,” he said. Natalie brought a bowl. “No, no – for me to drink,” he corrected sharply. She handed him a glass.

Doctor Spectroff made the humming and hawing noises that signified the machinations of great wisdom horrifyingly achieved. “He has received an injury to the neck,” he diagnosed. “Possibly a blow.”

The thin man lifted the covers and his spidery hands roamed Nachaev’s body, probing and pressing.

“Bruises, abrasions, contusions and convolutions,” he whispered, straightening. “Now – a few tests. My case!”

When it was handed to him, the Doctor reached inside and drew out a mallet of formidable size. He rapped Nachaev’s knees sharply, making Natalie jump. Then he pulled Nachaev’s eyes open and glared at them. “Pupils obfuscated, retina elongated. That means… darkness.” He turned his face to make the point. “Much darkness.” Before a reply could be made, his head darted down to Nachaev’s chest like a cormorant.

“Mmmm,” he breathed. “His heart struggles with the surface contusions. This means: no excitement. Is that clear?” he inquired. Herzen nodded, confused.

The Doctor’s hands wrapped around the prone man’s head and turned it slightly. “Candle!” he snapped. He held the proffered instrument close to the revolutionary’ ear. “Ah! Come! You see?”

Herzen approached and, peering into the recesses of Nachaev’s ear, confessed that he did not.

“A very, very slight bluish tinge – you don’t see it?” demanded the doctor.

The old man replied that his eyes were not as good as they used to be.

He nodded. “Then it is good I have come. It is from the internal bruising of the ear canal. I have seen it among the Crimean soldiers who survived all-too-proximate explosions. It must be allowed to heal and so – no loud noise. Understood?”

Herzen nodded again. The Doctor rose swiftly, almost knocking him over, and clapped his hands.

“For now, my work is done. I must come every day and supplant the progress of nature. Tomorrow, we work to restore his senses. Until then, no light, no noise and no excitation. It would also be helpful if I knew a little of the invalid’s past – you can furnish me with this?” inquired the Doctor.

“Very little,” confessed Herzen.

“Ah,” said the Doctor in satisfaction, stalking to the door. “Then my cure will take longer. It shall be sixteen rubles and ten kopecks per visit.”

There was a short pause. “That seems rather steep,” said Herzen.

“Oh? You impinge me? And who is this man to you?” inquired Doctor Spectroff archly. “A blood relative? A valued friend? If so, you will pay. If this man’s life means little to you, then let Death claim his prize – as He surely will. But be warned – I will be loath to approach this house in the future if it takes so little care of life in the present!”

“But last time it was only ten rubles!” defended Alexander.

“Know this, Alexander!” barked Doctor Spectroff. “I take my fee to ward off death!” He jabbed his cane at the ceiling. “Can you not see Him? Can you not hear His wings hovering over this very bed?” He inhaled deeply. “Ah, but he is close, close, and very strong… I will take him on, but I shall not starve in the process! If you think yourself stronger than I, then I depart your house, never to return.” The Doctor scooped up his case and glared at them both.

“Father – pay him,” said Natalie.

“Natalie – it is simply too much,” protested Herzen.

“Then I will,” said his daughter suddenly. “Doctor – your fee is assured.”

“Then so is your invalid’s protection; I guarantee it,” whispered Doctor Spectroff. Then he rapped his cane sharply. “So! I come tomorrow at nine! Forego all cheer, banish faintness of heart and pray to God with all your might!” he commanded, disappearing with a swirl of his black cape, making sure to tread very softly down the stairs, leaving Herzen and Natalie avoiding each other’s eyes and wondering just what had happened between them.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Helena Rides to Meet with the Devil

Rumour is a strange machine, more designed to facilitate the needs of the teller than the demands of truth. Being transmitted by rumour, the tales of Helena’s passionate affair with a brigand of the woods had drifted far from the reality of the events. In any repressed culture, the rich invariably become martyrs of sin and desire. Helena was the daughter of a rich man, and so her doings were a constant source of scandal among the beaten of the town. Garden fences were her courtrooms, worn women her jurors. Their attachment to her was parasitic – she acted out what they could only wish for, and so became in many ways closer than kin. People wept, laughed and scorned in the face of Helena’s boldness while receiving the news of, say, a brother’s infidelity with a careless shrug. She was the repository of the hoped-for success and even more hoped-for disaster that plagues people trapped by an unchosen life. Being an intelligent woman, she was aware of this; being a rich woman, she defied it, and now we find her doing just that, riding off to visit her devil.

This devil would have surprised most who came in contact with it – save perhaps a few older women who know the seductiveness of its allure. It was a devil that has plagued men since the dawn of oppression, a devil that they have fought against with all their might – chiefly because it is so desirable to the opposite sex.

Helena found the devil in a small clearing – it always waited for her, always soothed her, always placated her irritation and calmed her anger. The devil was invisible, of course – to end all mystery, her devil was solitude, solitude pure and simple, and to those who cannot understand the appeal of such a beast, it should be simply said that they either have tasted its fruits to the fullest or never allowed themselves the bliss of its spell at all.

Solitude was almost unimaginably scarce in Helena’s world. It seemed as if there was always something driving her out of the house. With the tenacity of someone determined to relax at all costs, she relentlessly holed herself up in her room to think or read, but it was not long before Gregory came in and sat sighing on her bed, or tripped over something and needed nursing. Helena was so used to having her leisure interrupted that she found herself growing tense if ten minutes passed without something disturbing her. She had taken up riding through the woods since her father retired; his restless harrumphing and constant need to fix something or other around the house had sealed the fate of her leisure. On one of her longer rides, she had come across the devil’s clearing, and had stood transfixed at the beauty of it. A large part of nature seems constructed to give our weary eyes rest from the constant tension of corners and angles we house ourselves in, but Helena’s clearing had no such pleasing chaos. It was a devil simple in its primeval curves.

Helena’s prime fascination, of course, was the clearing’s utter absence of any trace of man. (She would also have disliked any trace of woman, but not enough to recoil from the serenity of the spot.) It was a ribbed green cave which, when viewed through squinting eyes, shimmered like a cathedral of green diamonds as the wind shifted. The shrubs at the base of the trees slanted with almost mathematical tranquillity towards the center of the clearing, and through the tunnel of leaves, the gently-sloping hill revealed an exquisite tree in the distance. Helena called it the Perfect Tree, and it was the sublime goddess of her clearing. Its shape was so flawless that she often imagined it as having been constructed by some insanely fastidious architect who, having abandoned man-made materials, had spent his maturer years constructing a gently rising hymn to the passionate interplay of sky and earth. Its trunk was slender, tall, and the lower branches seemed to clear the ground with the soft regret of rising from earthly pleasures to more sublime contemplations. The middle branches spread luxuriously wide, striking for the horizon and the beauty of distance, while the upper branches were unabashedly ecclesiastical, reveling in their admiration for sun and sky, stretching ecstatically not in their reach, but in the act of reaching.

Helena tied her horse a few yards from the clearing, then groped her way towards it, her eyes shut tight. She loved to approach it blind, to make its eventual appearance all the more powerful. Opening her eyes, she let out a long shuddering sigh as the woven serenity enraptured her sight. Her hands crept to her blouse and began unbuttoning it, feeling the wind tickle her skin between the fabric. Taking off her top, she wiped the sweat from under her breasts and sat against a tree stump, throwing her head back and abandoning herself to the luxury of uninterrupted thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY: A Portrait of Immaculate Desire

Natalie knocked softly on the door to the guest room. It was late that night; her father was asleep. She carried under her arm a bowl of hot water, a cloth, a towel, and a cake of lye soap. Hearing no reply, she pushed the door open slowly. She had left a candle burning by Nachaev’s bed, in case he awoke. He lay as she had left him, his covers neatly arranged, his arms by his side, breathing softly.

She approached the bed tentatively, wrinkling her nose. Nachaev had not been overly concerned with personal hygiene even when in the city; since he had come to the country he had neither washed nor changed. Natalie sat down in the chair at the head of his bed, holding the towel to her breasts.

“Sergei?” she whispered. There was no reply. Her eyes hung heavily on the slim shape under the old blanket. Her conscience had not gone to sleep with her father; she knew that what she contemplated was wrong. It was even scandalous, but she didn’t try shielding her desire with professional qualifications. She was, to put it mildly, curious.

Biting her lip, she dipped the cloth into the warm water, squeezed it out and brought it over Nachaev’s face. Pressing gently down, she began delicately washing the pale skin, watching the water trickle over his ears. Running her fingers over the soap, she applied their tips to his nose, and began swirling her fingertips in rhythmic patterns. They began to tingle with the sensation; the soft water lathered quickly and easily. Emboldened by his helpless condition, she even ran them gently over his eyelids, exploring their fragile tension.

Lifting his head, she placed the towel underneath. Dipping the cloth again, she squeezed a steady stream over his black hair, which rejected it like a duck’s feathers. She grasped the roots and began working the soap in. His hair slipped between her soapy fingers, tickling where they spread. Pulling her hands back, fingers pressed together, she watched the hair disappear into the cracks. She looped and curled the dark strands into bizarre soapy shapes, then knocked them down with a tense smile.

After rinsing and drying his hair, she slipped her fingers under the covers and drew them down below his shoulders. She felt safe running the cloth over them, but applying the soap with her fingers was a different sensation. His muscles were hard, and his skin slid a little over them. Natalie’s breath felt short, and she listened intently in case her father awoke. Her hands had taken on a life all their own, and her shoulders shifted as they moved back and forth, back and forth.

Having rinsed his shoulders, she pulled the covers down to his flat stomach, pulling them from under the mattress to make it easier. As she worked her soapy hands over his chest, she became aware that his nipples were hardening, tickling her palms. She looked anxiously at his face, her heart beating in her ears, but there was no sign of consciousness. He had a light coating of hair over his chest, just enough to run her fingers through. Spreading his arms slightly, she ran her hands into his armpit, using her fingertips to work the soap in.

After rinsing him clean with the wet cloth, she sat back in her chair, collecting herself. Natalie was not very religious, but her mind was filled with images of crucifixion. Nachaev had the perfect body for it, and the image of his arms stretched wide apart, his face contorted in agony, made her heart beat faster. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of the room.

Eventually she rose and, gathering her tools, began washing his feet. He had surprisingly few calluses; the soles of his feet were baby-soft. Natalie watched her hands slide over Nachaev’s feet and glide up his ankles. She tugged the blanket over his calves and applied more water to his legs, spreading the soap luxuriously. Her hands were sliding and skimming over his skin, and she began to feel a little dizzy. Faster and faster they worked; it was only by effort of will that she stopped herself and used the towel to wipe his legs dry.

Finally only his upper thighs and nether regions remained. Natalie retreated to the chair in terror. He must be clean, she said to herself a little hysterically; they baptize babies, and he’s as helpless as a baby… What could be the harm in it? While she was thinking the candle sputtered and died, and she was left in pure darkness. Suddenly her fear trebled; she couldn’t see him any more. She groped around for matches and lit them, hands shaking, scared that he somehow may have become completely naked in the darkness. She lit another candle and turned to look at him. He lay silently, his covers rolled up around his waist. Natalie let her eyes wander over his figure. This is what it’s like, she thought – this is what newlyweds see… His bruised body was strangely appealing, slender and lean. Her mind was seized with violent images, and her heart beat uncontrollably. Shaking, she got up and raced to the door.

In the doorway, she stopped, angry at herself for her cowardice. Turning, she saw his legs sticking out absurdly from the little hillock of covers and had to restrain a burst of laughter. I can’t leave him like this, she thought. Still riddled with internal giggles, she approached the bed and placed her hands on the covers.

It was then that she noticed the strange shape underneath – a shape that had not been present when she began washing him. An innocent fold had been pushed outwards, a slight ribbing of stretches played out from the mysterious mound. Natalie caught her breath and her vision swam. Her hands hesitated, then very slowly began sliding up Nachaev’s thighs, burrowing under the covers. Almost breathless, she approached the point where the thighs met. This is wrong, she told herself over and over, terribly wrong, but could not stop herself. Her fingertips brushed a hardness. She was on the verge of snatching them back, but an insane curiosity allowed her hands to travel up its length. She lowered her head and her hair fell forward, masking her pale face. She felt a strong desire to grip, but fought it with all her might. Leave, leave, leave, she chanted to herself. The length grew harder under her fingertips. What if he awakens now? Get out! she cried silently. She glanced up and saw a thin sheen of sweat on the young man’s forehead. His eyes twitched. He’s awake! Breaking down, she snatched her fingers back, grabbed the blankets in a frenzy and threw them down over his feet. Jerking back, she stood against a far wall and watched him, her eyes filling with hysterical tears.

After a few awful minutes, she realized that he was still unconscious. Taking a shuddering breath, she approached the bed and, hands shaking, drew the blanket up to his neck. Gazing nervously into his face, she whispered, “God help me!”

Then she took up her bowl, her towel and the cake of lye soap, and fled the room.

The candle still glowed peacefully, but then there was a slight movement on Nachaev’s face. His eyes did not open, his body did not move, but his lips slowly, ever so slightly, widened into a secret, knowing smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: Herzen’s Decision

Natalie didn’t sleep; she didn’t even bother to try, but lay in the spare room, barely blinking, feeling the aftershocks of what she’d done slam repeatedly into her. The eternal drumbeat of the neurotic pounded into her brain: why, why, why? Why had she gone into that room? Why was her sister away? Why had she lied to her father? Why had her father believed her? Why did she fool herself that she only wanted to wash him? Why hadn’t he awakened? Why didn’t she leave it alone? Why did she let her hands touch…

Despite half a night’s scrubbing, her hands still tingled under a parade of a thousand unseen insects. In her still bed, they were the only movement; they wrung and squeezed under her nightdress, their movement from above looking like the mating of convulsive burrowing animals. Her body, huddled under her covers despite the mounting heat, felt cold. In the strange world of troubled sleep, she visited the safer climes of her life, when she was very young and secure under the protection of her elders. But she always awoke with the knowledge that there was no more innocence. In her appeal for respite, she resorted to self-torture.

The long night was pure horror; the cold dawn was worse. Nachaev’s image kept Natalie chained to the bed; it was only an effort will that made her rise and dress when she heard her father stirring upstairs. Trust was dead, she thought numbly. All from now is a lie.

Sasha was still asleep, so Natalie slipped downstairs, made herself a weak cup of tea and escaped to the back porch. She sat heavily on the rough steps, gazing out over her flattened garden. Picturing it as it had been at the start of the summer, overgrown and vibrant, she despaired of ever wanting anything as much again.

“There you are!” cried Herzen, heartily emerging from the house. “Our patient is doing well. Something during the night agreed with him – his cheeks are positively rosy!” He stood on the top step and stretched. “The sooner he gets well the better – there’s much to do. Ahh,” he sighed, “I feel a lad of twenty! What on earth was it that held me back? Tell me, because it makes no sense to me.”

Natalie remained silent, so he shrugged and squinted at the clouds. “Looks like that storm might be coming back,” he commented. “If so – I dare it! There’s nothing here to harm now. Almost makes rebuilding a challenge, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Natalie heavily.

Her father frowned. “What’s the matter? Didn’t sleep well?”

She shook her head.

“You shouldn’t nurse him so much. He’s got a strong constitution – did you see that welt on his forehead? That would have killed a lesser man.”

“You’re right – I’ll nurse him less.”

“Save your strength – we’re all going to need it now.” Herzen walked down the steps and gazed out over the garden. “You know what I’m going to do?” he said, his back to her. “First I’m going to get him some decent clothes. Then I’m going to take him to the city and give him the royal tour. Ivanovich, Toscanovich, Medvedenko – even old Gorshyn – I’ll introduce him personally. I still have some clout. They’ll come round in time. Then I’m going to introduce him to a real printing press. And businessmen – first I’m going to introduce him to Ilyavich, make him understand how to talk to them, teach him how to sell. Then we’ll start a series of talks. Not large to begin with, just to the important few. Soon we’ll be able to start recruiting. Some of his tribe, some of mine, and then, with the wisdom of age and the passion of youth, the cart will start rolling downhill, faster and faster, boom boom, and then we’ll truly start seeing things happen.” Herzen raised his hands to the garden as if an invisible crowd sat there. “All Russia will finally start to see things happen!” he cried, then turned to his daughter with a bashful grin. “Truly, it’s too exciting for words,” he said happily.

“I’m happy for you,” said Natalie quietly.

Herzen cracked his knuckles decisively. “But first, he must get better. The Doctor is due here this morning, and we’ll get straight to work.” He stopped suddenly and turned again to face the leveled garden. “The simple act of clearing some land,” he murmured. “It’s so trite it’s almost silly. But to me it means more than the world.” He came to Natalie and, kneeling on the step below her, took her hand. “But for now, the pressing question is: what role are you going to play? Aide? Confidante? True revolutionary – what?”

“I’ll help in any way you see fit,” she replied dutifully.

“Come now,” he chided, touching her cheek. “What do you want to do?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Ahh,” said Herzen with a smile. “You’re tired. But there’s no need to decide today. Get some rest. I’ll take care of him for now.”

“Thank you,” she said, rising.

“Any message for him?” asked her father, still holding her hand. “He’ll be sure to inquire if you’re not around.”

Natalie paused for a moment. A sudden gust of wind parted her hair, and Herzen felt a shock as he saw her red eyes. “Tell him I hope he succeeds in whatever he puts his mind to,” she said finally, then drew her hand from her father’s and walked heavily into the house, into the darkness of her room.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: New Beginnings Followed by a Sudden End

Natalie’s dismal moral shock followed her to her room, where she sat listlessly in a chair, grimly munching a lock of hair. If she’d chosen to lift her fears and peer underneath, they would surely have revealed an undercoat of far brighter colours, but a dull coating of false idealism kept her inner light far from the locales that resentment could reach. Pinned to the altar of the church of conformity, she inspected her failings with the obsessive eye of a fastidious collector. Her curiosity was Weakness, her fear was Weakness, her anger was Weakness, her lying was Weakness, her state was Weakness – even her desire to change her state was Weakness. In fact, she was so full of Weakness that even the word became distorted and misspelled in her mind’s eye. Confusion was Weakness too, she thought dismally.

Thus pitifully occupied, she barely heard the knock on the door. It wasn’t until Sasha opened it that she was able to raise her head from her own distorted reflection.

“Someone to see you, miss,” said the maid softly.

“Is he awake?” asked Natalie weakly.

“No, miss. It’s a young woman,” replied Sasha, wrinkling her nose. “That man Ilyavich’s daughter.”

“Helena?” asked Natalie, surprised. “Surely she knows Natasha is away.”

“I imagine so, miss.”

“Then why on earth would she call on me?” she wondered aloud. “Well there’s no use. Send her up,” she said.

When Helena entered the room, she saw Natalie engaged in reading a book. Natalie looked up.

“Helena!” she said. “What a surprise.” Putting the book down, she rose and kissed the young woman on both cheeks. “Do sit down.”

“No thank you. It’s a brisk day,” she remarked. “What on earth are you doing inside?”

“Oh,” said Natalie guiltily, “I was out earlier. I had some reading to catch up on.”

“Well, how you choose to spend your summer is your choice,” said Helena. “But you should get out more.”

“Oh, I shall – my garden is going to need a lot of work.”

“Of course,” said Helena. “Gardening takes a great deal of effort.”

“It was ruined by the storm,” said Natalie, nodding, “but as soon as I’m finished this chapter, I’m going to go right back out and put it into shape.”

“Mmm,” said Helena. “Listen – do you mind if we sit outside? It’s awfully dark in here.”

Natalie jumped up. “No – of course not. Would you like some tea?”

“Coffee,” said Helena, opening the door. “Come on, let’s expose you to some sunlight.”

Descending the stairs, Natalie said: “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. It’s a shame.”

“Oh, well, you know – we all have things to do,” replied Helena carelessly. “But we shall be seeing more of each other in the future.”

“How so?”

“Ah,” said Helena, “Plans are afoot.”

They took their coffee out on the back porch. The clouds were yielding to the determination of the sun, which chose an impressive entrance by beaming through various gaps in a thoroughly ecclesiastical manner.

“Tell me, Natalie,” said Helena, sitting down, “How many evening gowns do you possess?”

“None, really,” replied Natalie. “But father said I could use one of mother’s if needed.”

“That will never do. You will have to pry the money out of the old miser for a new one.”

“He’s not a miser. It just never came up. Actually,” she said, frowning, “why is it coming up now?”

“Father is throwing a party,” replied Helena, “and I was ordered to ensure that you didn’t dress as you usually do.”

“Oh,” said Natalie uncertainly. “Thank you.”

“The other question is: who do you want to escort you?”

“Me? Oh, no-one,” said Natalie with a nervous laugh.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Helena. “No-one will think of asking you. I talked to Gregory about you yesterday – he asked if you’d died or gone away or something. Father says it’s couples only, so tell me who you want so I can get the word out that you’re actually available.”

“What – kind of party is it supposed to be?”

“A party for the children, father says, which means a party to rid fathers of unwanted baggage.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” said Helena defensively, “although thank God for very different reasons, but I have been bullied into being social director, so you’ll have to furnish me with some kind of preference.”

“I can’t imagine what to say,” said Natalie.

“Just tell me the name of the man you think will make the least repulsive company, and he’s yours.”

Natalie shook her head. “There’s no-one I can think of.”

Helena nodded curtly. “All right. Shall I start naming names?”

“You don’t have to…”

“What about Gregory?”

Natalie shook her head. “Mmm – no. I don’t think we’d enjoy each other too much.”

“Speak for yourself – he expressed definite interest.”

“I don’t think…”

“It’s not like you have to marry him or anything,” said Helena impatiently. “In fact, if you go with him you’re more likely to escape the evening intact, not only because you’ll be perceived as taken, but also because if you’re perceived as being taken by Gregory, no self-respecting man will think of competing.”

“That’s not very nice,” said Natalie.

“So?”

“Do you really dislike your brother so much?”

“What about that Gorshynin boy?” Helena, ignoring her question. “He’s handsome enough.”

“But he drinks, doesn’t he?” asked Natalie.

“Exactly – so he’ll be the best company. If he gets you to down a mouthful or two, so much the better.”

“Who are you going with?”

Helena laughed. “No – you wouldn’t know him. But don’t worry – I won’t be devoured. He’s not that sort.”

“It’s not your…” Natalie hesitated.

“My brigand lover?” inquired Helena with a hostile glance. “I don’t think it would be wise to repeat that thought, Miss Natalie. To anyone.”

“No – I won’t,” said Natalie quickly. “Perhaps it would be better if I just stayed at home.”

“You can’t. Express orders of the man in charge. He wants to expand your horizons.”

“Ilyavich?”

“The same. In fact, you’re the reason he’s throwing the party.”

“To marry me off?”

“Don’t be silly – he knows his limits. But he does want you to meet more men than you’ve managed to so far.”

“I don’t want him to go to that trouble.”

“But that’s the purpose of family – they take pains to provide what you don’t want. There’s no fighting it. Give him what he wants, then you can go back to your reading or gardening or whatever it is you do with your life.”

“I wish we’d become better friends,” said Natalie.

“Well, we didn’t.”

“I wish I had someone to confide in.”

“What do you want to confide for?” Helena shrugged. “Confide in your father. That’s been your habit, hasn’t it?”

“No – I mean a woman.”

“Well don’t look at me. I hate all this intimacy among women. It always turns into competitive sobbing.”

“But – what do you do when you have a problem?”

“Ignore it. Sometimes, I go for a ride – to clear my head.” Again, Helena laughed.

“What if you have a problem you couldn’t ignore?” persisted Natalie.

“I raise my threshold of ignorance, so to speak,” replied Helena. “Besides, what trouble could a woman like you get into?”

Natalie sighed, holding back her tears. “Deep trouble.”

“Well, take my advice: if you want to put it in perspective, get married.”

Natalie shook her head, unable to stop a droplet from escaping her eyes.

“Don’t cry on me now,” warned Helena. “I get enough of that at home.”

Natalie shook her head helplessly. “It’s all right – if you don’t want to know about me.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Here – have a handkerchief. Don’t get stuff on it.”

“I’m so miserable!” wailed Natalie.

“Of course you are. My question is – why do you let it bother you? You’re not the only one.”

“Sometimes it feels like I am.”

“Then get out more. Meet people. Dilute your unhappiness with sympathy.”

“I don’t care about other people. I want to be happy!”

“Then you’d better leave the country – or better yet the world, for I don’t believe we are better off elsewhere. America maybe, but certainly not Europe. Have you ever read their novels?”

“I don’t care about their novels either.”

“Well, my girl, if you refuse both people and literature, you’ll have no-one left to feel sorry for except yourself. Don’t look at me, I said – I don’t go in for that stuff.” Helena looked up suddenly, hearing the sound of approaching horses. “Hello – a carriage. Who’s visiting at this time of day?”

Natalie ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to compose herself. “It’s probably the Doctor.”

“Spectroff? Ecch!” shuddered Helena. “What’s he doing here? Don’t tell me you’re father is ill again.”

“No – it’s a young man.”

“There’s a young man here?” asked Helena, turning to Natalie. “Is he handsome?”

Natalie shrugged.

“Ahah! He is, and you’ve fallen for him. And now you’re unhappy. Ah, Natalie – we may yet become friends. Who is he?”

“A revolutionary – from St. Petersburg.”

“Oh,” said Helena, disappointed. “One of your father’s anemic little protégés. No wonder.”

“He’s not really very anemic,” said Natalie, wondering at her understatement.

“What’s his name?”

“Sergei. Sergei Nachaev.”

“What? Nachaev!” cried Helena. “You mean to tell me you’ve had Sergei Nachaev here all along and never told me? I must meet him!”

“You can’t – he’s unconscious.”

“Look at him then. What happened?”

“He got into a fight.”

“Did he win? Yes, I suppose he did. Well – this must have shaken your little coop no end. Nachaev – he’s a real celebrity – did you know that?”

“More than you,” said Natalie. “He’s spent a week under my roof. He’s the one that cleared my garden. I rode into town with him.”

“Get up,” commanded Helena. “Let’s go see the great man. You know what,” she said suddenly, pausing by the door, “I may just ask him to the party myself.”

“I hope you do,” said Natalie coldly, her desire for intimacy utterly gone, “Then you’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

The two women entered the room after Spectroff had laid out his magic carpet. Irritated at being upstaged, he glowered at them from his kneeling position.

While Herzen watched, Spectroff’s chemically-browned hands waved his red handkerchief over his vials and jars, choosing the correct ingredients with an artist’s appreciation for colour. He preferred mixing oil-based liquids with his water-based ones, knowing that his fees increased with the aesthetic appeal of his swirling concoctions. Having mixed red with black (his favourite), he shook it gently and waited for the contents to settle

“What are the ingredients in that?” asked Herzen.

The Doctor looked up sharply, his hand continuing to rotate. “Ahh,” he sighed. “In this I have mixed essence of pig with tannin leaves. Essence of pig because I have long noted that pigs have a remarkable ability to survive blows to the head and tannin leaves because it is the plant most resistant to parasites.” He raised his dark fingers and pointed to the sleeping patient. “This man has received a blow to the head which has indubitably scrambled his ability to resist illness. By working the solution into his skin, his defenses will be fortified, and while that process is occurring, the essence of tannin will keep the parasites of illness at bay. I learned this from an ancient surgeon in Paris – counselor to the King’s nephew himself. It is a most potent brew. I would have used it in the Crimea save that the ingredients do not keep and the gentle mixing required was utterly unsuited to the noise and chaos of the battlefield.”

“Ah,” said Herzen, nodding his head.

Doctor Spectroff raised his head to the two women standing by the door. “Is there anyone else in this house?” he asked gravely.

“Just Sasha, our maid,” replied Natalie.

“Then I advise you to keep company with her during the course of the treatment,” he said ominously. “It is not for the faint of heart.”

“Don’t try to frighten us,” said Helena.

The Doctor pursed his lips, but decided (from experience) not to press her. “Then I pray I shall not receive more patients than I already possess,” he replied finally, setting down the vial. “A word of warning,” he said, holding up a skinny finger. “The patient’s illness may protest during the course of its expulsion; it may force Nachaev to become violent, to vomit up his resistance, to strike not only at me, but at any who aid me. I have asked extra water to be on hand because he may even burst into flame in the extremity of his distress. I have seen it before. If you believe that you have the strength to witness such horror, by all means stay. But,” he intoned darkly, “if you have the slightest doubts as to your constitution, flee now. I cannot allow myself to be distracted by screaming, fainting or paralytic attacks. Watch if you dare, but disturb me not,” he finished resoundingly.

Natalie nodded, frightened; Helena smiled. “What if none of this happens?” she asked.

“If not – and pray to God above that it does not – then the first stage of the treatment will be complete.”

“And then?”

“Then we move on tomorrow with the fortifiers: crushed squid beak and buffalo eyes.”

“What on earth do they do?”

Spectroff slowly turned his head to her. “Explanations will be forthcoming if – and only if – present disaster is averted,” he said. “And now!” he cried – “To work!”

Nachaev’s body was uncovered. Spectroff lowered his head to the young man’s torso, sniffing professionally.

“This man has been cleaned, no?” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” said Herzen. “Natalie?”

“Mmm – no,” she said quickly – quickly enough for Herzen and Doctor Spectroff, but not for Helena, who looked at her curiously.

“Then he is resistant to dirt and the stench of disease – a good sign,” commented Doctor Spectroff. “Alexander, please – my vial.”

Herzen gingerly handed over the potion. “So – ladies, you will please plug your noses,” said Spectroff, uncorking the bottle. An awful smell expanded into the room, the stench of a forest gone wild with growing. Natalie gagged.

“Cover it – I command you,” cried Doctor Spectroff. “Or leave!” He splashed a quantity onto his hands, making a tiny sizzling noise between his teeth. “Ahh – it burns!” he gasped with satisfaction. He plunged his wet hands onto Nachaev’s chest, exhaling strongly.

“Alexander – hold his arms!” he ordered, working the foul substance into the revolutionary’s skin. Herzen gripped Nachaev’s lifeless wrists with all his strength.

“Oh, he is strong – strong!” muttered Spectroff as he massaged the substance into Nachaev’s neck. The angry welt did not exactly diminish, but it looked less awful under the stringy wetness of Spectroff’s brew.

The Doctor rubbed his hands over Nachaev’s face, making sure to leave a large globule under his nose. A tear ran out from the young man’s eyes, but still he did not move.

“He has a strong will, no?” choked Spectroff, his own eyes watering. “This is also good. And so – stand back!” he cried, stepping back from the bed. “Look how his body absorbs the healing substance!”

At that moment, to everyone’s shock (of which Spectroff’s was surely not the least), Nachaev suddenly opened his eyes.

“I think,” he said softly, “I’m going to die.”

“God above! He speaks!” shouted Spectroff, standing back. “Pray now! Pray with all your hearts!”

“Take me into the garden,” said Nachaev.

Spectroff leaned down over his patient, in awe of his own powers. “Moving you could be – fatal,” he said darkly.

“Take me,” whispered Nachaev, his head.

“You are the guardian,” said Spectroff, turning to Herzen. “The decision is yours.”

Herzen knelt by the young revolutionary’s bed. “Sergei!” he whispered urgently. “Sergei! Can you hear me?”

“Father?”

“It’s Alexander.”

“Father…”

A tear rolled down the old man’s cheek, surprising even Natalie – though she was even more surprised by the stabbing in her own heart.

“No my child – it’s Alexander. Do you really want to be moved?”

“Take me outside,” murmured Nachaev, gazing into the old man’s teary eyes.

Herzen stood up. “Help me!” he cried, his heart breaking. “Spectroff!”

“Lift his head from under the neck,” commanded the Doctor. “I take his feet. Ladies – clear the door!”

They wrestled Nachaev down the stairs. Sasha, attracted by the commotion, appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“What is happening!” she asked fearfully.

“He’s dying!” cried Spectroff, his black cape cloaking the young man’s legs as they hoisted him over a banister. “Make some tea!”

Out on the porch, Natalie spread a blanket over the rough wood, and they laid him down.

“Am I outside?” asked Nachaev.

“Yes,” replied Natalie.

“It’s unusual – to be so dark…” he said.

“Please, Sergei,” said Herzen, touching the young man’s brow.

“Who’s the old man in the garden? It’s a Russian… a Kiev cloak…”

“We have so much to do!” said the old man desperately.

“No,” said Nachaev dreamily. “No, no. Not now.”

Natalie had been standing with Helena by the door. She stepped forward suddenly and knelt beside the young man.

“Hello,” he said, his eyes peering up.

“Can you see me?” she asked.

“Yes. You are…” His brows knit.

“Natalie.”

“Yes.”

“I – wanted to tell you something.”

“Mmm?”

“I think… I think you’re very brave. You always were.”

“I kissed you,” he said, softly but very clearly. “Too hard… It was a mistake.”

“No,” she said. “I made the mistake.”

“I loved you – still,” said Sergei softly. Natalie’s tears dropped one by one on his face, into his mouth. “Bitter,” he whispered, “They mustn’t be bitter. You will love a better man…” His eyes widened, and the pain seemed to hit him for the first time. “Oh!” he cried, his body arching up. “God! I’m too young – and too stupid to die! Don’t..!” His eyes bulged out of their sockets as if scrambling to escape. His arms flailed as they did that night in the forest, but now his foe was shrouded in an even deeper darkness. For a moment his form stretched taught against his blanket, a wild picture of hope, an animal straining for the future. “No! No! No!” he cried, then the darkness rose, and Sergei Nachaev’s name disappeared into history.

“Leave him alone!” shouted Doctor Spectroff, stepping forward. “Enemy of Man – leave him be!” His cane scythed angrily through the air over the body. But the young man’s eyes closed, and the sun had fled like a fallen candle.

They all stood, stunned at the suddenness. Herzen felt the presence of death palpably, almost wished for it, but it was gone in a twinkling, leaving him desolate and old. He placed a hand to his eyes. Natalie remained over the body, her hands white against her dress, her head lowered in pain.

“Your tea, Doctor,” said Sasha, coming out. She saw the faces, and then the body, half-hidden under Natalie’s hair. She screamed, and the saucer dropped from her hands with an awful crash.

“And so,” said Spectroff, drawing his cloak about him and peering at the ground. “…it ends.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: One Small Qualification

It was Natalie who found the pulse.

She was quite shocked, but it was not for her to know whether Nachaev engineered his own demise. Everyone has within them a premonition of what death will feel like – and smell like. Who can tell whether Nachaev was awake for the whole time? His injury was real; enough – he may well have been slipping in and out of consciousness in his dismal bed. Who, awakened to a foul stench after being so thoroughly cleansed, with a thin man in a dark cape glaring down at them, might not suspect the worst? The room was dark, everyone was in attendance, the candles were all lit; Nachaev was not blind to the signs. In his extremity, he may have felt the horror of his own perceived end as Death’s pale hand closing over his heart. Of course, it could be argued that all this served his purpose admirably well, but that would be to ascribe an almost inhuman sense of detachment and purpose to our young revolutionary. He did not display his consciousness to Natalie’s nursing, that is true, but at that time the room was soft and quiet and her hands were pleasing, whereas Doctor Spectroff’s administrations were of a far more extreme nature. An actor awakening in the middle of a play may be forgiven being disoriented. Natalie was suspicious, but decided to reserve final judgment until his story unfolded a little more. Perhaps he meant what he said, she thought, and being granted a new lease on life will put it into effect. Perhaps he will woo with the conventionality of custom; perhaps he will devote himself to a more peaceful revolution and respect the advice he receives from Herzen.

Or, she thought, perhaps he won’t. That remains to be seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: A Tiger Striped by Bars

Some days later a young man could be seen taking a few halting steps in Herzen’s garden. Beside the youth’s thin frame, the old man looked almost sprightly as he walked beside him, holding his elbow. He had all the tender concern of a father whose son is recovering from a sudden accident. His toes reached forward to scuff offending objects out of the young man’s path, and his head was slightly lowered, as if to catch any words his patient might speak. There was a serious light in the young man’s carriage, and his eyes did not waver. The somber gravity of an invalid reconciled to his condition showed in his every faltering step.

“I think that had better be all for today,” said the young man softly.

“Let me help you back to the porch then,” offered Herzen.

The young man shook his head gently. “If I could have a chair, I will sit in the sun for awhile.”

“Sasha!” called the old man. “Sasha, bring him a chair.”

The maid rose from her waiting-place on the porch and brought a chair out into the garden. She plopped it down and returned to the porch without a word.

“Would you like anything? Tea? A book?” asked Herzen.

“No, no,” replied the youth, sitting down carefully. “Just some time alone.”

“Of course.” Herzen turned and walked to the porch. Pausing for a few words with Sasha, who gazed at him resolutely and shook her head, he re-entered the house, closing the door softly behind him.

Nachaev’s face turned to the sun. His eyes closed to narrow slits, and he exhaled deeply. It was a weary face, and in the silence behind his eyes, a wooden post turned endlessly in mute consideration. From an upstairs window behind him, above his head, Herzen stood watching, the curtain parted slightly.

The old man frowned. His fighter’s heart had been reawakened, and now it chafed at its confinement. He had lived for sixty four years. Those years had been wonderful, eventful, and he mad moved to the country fully prepared for retirement. But Herzen was one of those valiant men whose youth re-emerges with the approach of old age. Writing his memoirs had left him discontented. Why write words that can never be read? he thought. Four decades later, the Tsar is still in his heaven and all is not right with the world… The young revolutionaries who came to his house made him despair for the future. They were anemic and raging; their words were like pigeon droppings on the grand statues they had inherited. Nachaev had impressed him by his lack of pettiness. His violence was not committed from hatred or pride. It simply occurred when it had to, and was forgotten.

Now things were… what? The horrible attack left Nachaev with no desire for revenge – or for anything. People who act unexpectedly always have a special fascination for idealists, and Herzen found himself wondering what it was that drew Nachaev to be a revolutionary. The old man knew first-hand what an awful life it could be, although he had managed to retain his values of family and home. It was these values that were at the root of his desire for revolution; like most radicals, he wanted people to have the freedom to live the life he did. Nachaev, though, had shown no desire for hearth and home – his admitted love for Natalie seemed only wrung from the extremity of death, since he had made no attempt to further his attachment since his recovery. What was it that had driven him then? To that Herzen could find no answer. Nachaev seemed to have stalled, and the old man found himself frustrated by his inability to get him started again. His only answer thus far had been patience, but his patience was wearing thin in the face of Nachaev’s indifference. Any response to his condition – even revenge – would be preferable to his present apathy.

Sighing deeply, Herzen wondered for a moment what his life would be like now if Nachaev had never entered his house. He thought of Natalie peeking into his study to ask again if he wanted any more typing done, and with a shudder he shook his head quickly and started dressing for dinner – an unusual habit, and an even more unusual uniform for a mechanic bent on giving a certain young motor a good solid whack.

Nachaev’s soul may have stalled, but his appetite was in full swing. After clearing his second plateful of Sasha’s food, he pushed his chair back from the table and burped. He sat at the head of the table, at Herzen’s recommendation, to stay in the light. Natalie sat across from him, pushing her food from side to side and watching him as often as she dared. He had been pleasant with her since his recovery, but had made no mention of his declaration. Taking his cue, she also remained silent. She found her eyes drawn to him, trying to establish whether anything existed between them or not. Nachaev’s untroubled gaze met hers without fear, without reference, but in her heart she could not believe that all her tears were for nothing. Either Nachaev didn’t remember, she thought, didn’t care, or was playing a game. The only thought that gave her solace was the first possibility, she clung to this – not out of desire, but out of a need for reality that was being denied her. Her heart, like Herzen’s, had been triggered and, like her father’s, the waiting only intensified its expectations.

“You’re eating well,” commented Herzen, finishing his own plate. “Twice as much and twice as fast.” Gaining no reply from Nachaev, Herzen turned to Natalie and indicated that he wanted her to leave. Natalie rose, stung inwardly at the power Nachaev wielded in the household. Her father had developed the art of silent communication with her that was a sharp blow to their former intimacy. A bizarre web of signals clogged the air between them; if she asked what he considered an inappropriate question of their guest, a tiny but violent shake of her father’s head would silence her immediately. She could find no rhyme or reason for his displeasure, and soon gave up trying to please. She also gave up trying to talk to Nachaev alone, for fear of committing some other undefined offense.

“I’m going upstairs,” she said, rising.

“So soon after dinner?” asked Herzen, rising as well. She threw him a confused glance, and hurried from the room.

Herzen sat down and sighed.

“Will it bother you if I smoke?” he asked Nachaev, who waved his hand, staring out the window.

“So – how’s the boy tonight?” asked the old man, striking a match.

“Good.”

“I just received a letter from an old friend,” said Herzen, puffing slowly. “We were in prison together thirty years ago now. Thirty years..! Take my advice, Sergei: never outlive your friends. His letter read like an obituary column. Gorshyn, down. Ivanov, down. Patrech, down.” The old man sighed and looked at Nachaev. “I wanted to take you to St. Petersburg, you know, show you off, but everyone I know seems to have kicked up their heels and fled this land of toil. Polezhayev is dead too – a poet. He wrote a very funny parody of Pushkin’s ‘Onegin’ when we were in our junior year. The secret police got hold of it, of course, and he was awakened at three in the morning and dragged off to an audience with the Tsar, who offered him three choices: death, exile or the army. Polezhayev chose the army, so the Tsar kissed him and told him to write to him from his post. Poor man! He was stationed in some godforsaken outpost. After three years he wrote to the Tsar, asking for an audience. Nothing. He tried again and again but never got a reply. so he deserted his post and tried to make his way to Moscow. He was caught, of course, and sentenced to a public flogging. In prison he decided that suicide was the only honourable course. An old soldier gave him a bayonet, but at the last moment the Tsar revoked his punishment and sent him off to the Caucasus. Years passed, then he finally succumbed and began to drink. He wrote ‘On Whisky’ – a terrifying poem. Finally he was stationed in Moscow – I met him again there in 1833; he was already half-dead from consumption. He dragged on for – what – four more years, finally dying in an army hospital. When I went to ask for his body, they told me it had been mislaid. The army sells bodies, you know, to universities and doctors. Finally I found it in a cellar of the hospital. The rats had been at it; his feet were gnawed away.” Herzen sucked at his pipe and smiled. “But his poems were published at least, after he was buried. They’d promoted him while he was in hospital – the picture in the book was of a full general.”

“Everyone has these stories,” murmured Nachaev. “What do they mean?”

“This one means that Polezhayev managed to keep on despite all he had suffered,” said Herzen slowly. “He didn’t swallow himself in self-pity.”

“And what was his reward? A pocketful of poems picked clean of any meaning by censors.” Nachaev snorted. “He would have been better off with self-pity.”

“And is that what you choose for yourself?” demanded Herzen.

“What I choose for myself is my own business,” replied Nachaev.

“Then you are a fraud and a coward.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am a man with just enough sense to refrain from bestowing gifts where they are not wanted.”

“So all your talk comes down to this? One little beating, and your courage deserts you.”

“I’ve been beaten before,” said Nachaev, “but never from the people I was trying to help.”

“This Medvedev then – he is all Russia?” asked Herzen.

“He’s enough of it for me,” said Nachaev. “I can fight anyone who opposes me. But if no-one supports me… I cannot kill off all of Russia, pleasant though the thought may be.”

“Then you are nothing but a lie,” growled Herzen. “If I think what I and my friends suffered in the name of revolution…”

“…then you should have the sense to realize that it was all for nothing,” finished Nachaev.

“No – it was not all for nothing. We survived to breed your band of cowards. That is worse than nothing.”

“I broke a man’s arm,” said Nachaev. “Does that mean nothing?”

“If that’s all you do, then yes! Then it simply brands you a common criminal!”

The young man shrugged, twirling his glass. “I have never claimed to be anything more.”

“But at least a common criminal does not pretend he is saving your life! At least a criminal has the courage to face who he really is!”

“And I am facing who I really am!” cried Nachaev. “I am a man intelligent enough to recognize the futility of what he does. Do you have that courage? It is all for nothing, Alexander. There are fifty of us in Russia who value freedom. Fifty against millions! Recognize that at least!”

“I recognize nothing other than that I have allied myself with a weakling!”

“Then I am sorry for you. But I have more allegiance to myself than your illusions.”

“Then you are nothing but a petty egoist!”

“And you?” demanded Nachaev, rising. “What are you? What have you done with your life but make speeches and write your little memoirs? I have failed, yes, but you – you never even had the courage to try!”

Herzen’s cheeks whitened. “And were you there when I threw bombs? Were you there when I was sentenced to ten years of hard labour? Were you there when I saw my friends hung like dogs in the square of St. Petersburg? Were you? No! And yet you dare to sit at my table and tell me that I have never tried!”

“Tried – perhaps. Succeeded – not at all.”

“But we shall never succeed if we give up!” said Herzen, forcing himself to be calm. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Sergei. I had to give up the fight when my strength gave out! I was forty when I last marched. You are twenty whatever you are, and you have given up already!”

“Because I cannot see the sense of it!” cried Nachaev, thumping the table. “Because I cannot ever have what you have! The stakes are higher now, can’t you see that? I will never reach your age, never have a wife, never have a home, never have any children to remember me by!”

“These things were not guaranteed to me either!”

“But they are utterly denied me. And now I find I want them so… badly.”

Herzen put down his pipe and took a deep breath. “All right. What is it that you want?”

“To have a home. A wife. Children,” said Nachaev, rubbing his eyes. “Alexander, please understand – I am a young man… with no love at all.”

“Then what you said to Natalie – on the porch – was that also a lie?”

Nachaev shrugged and looked away. “That may have something to do with it, yes.”

“Then win her!” cried Herzen, placing his fists on the table. “Win her!”

“I can’t! I cannot have her and the revolution!”

“She is the daughter of a revolutionary – that aspect of her education has not been overlooked.”

“I cannot ask her to take me as I am. I was almost killed last week!”

“I was not a good father,” said Herzen slowly. “I was always away, always in prison, in exile. And she has never reproached me for it! Not once! She is stronger than we know.”

“But – am I?”

“If you want to be – yes!”

Nachaev paused, then shook his head with a sigh. “We cannot barter for her like an old horse. She is a human being.”

“Yes – a woman with feelings like any other. She loves you.”

Nachaev looked up at the old man, his eyes wide. “You know that?”

“Sergei,” said Herzen gently, sitting down. “I am a man of the world. I know why a woman keeps a romance hidden.”

“We’ve had no romance!” protested Nachaev.

“You have kissed. That much I know.”

Nachaev hesitated. “That was an accident.”

“All the more reason not to keep it secret – unless she loves you!”

“Then am I right in believing that you would have no objection to my – approaching your daughter?” asked Nachaev, leaning forward.

Herzen pursed his lips. Nachaev watched his face. “No – not if that is what you want,” said Herzen finally.

“Then I submit to your wisdom,” murmured Nachaev, settling back in his chair.

“If I could manage it with her mother – who was not so different – you can surely manage it with her,” smiled the old man.

“I am beginning to think I could. To be honest, Alexander,” said Nachaev. “I was a little afraid of you. I didn’t think you would approve.”

“Oh, Sergei,” sighed Herzen, “if only you knew! I have been arranging for her to meet a man for some time now.”

“What man?” asked Nachaev quickly.

“No-one in particular. Her sister, Natasha, is finding her merry way in the world, but Natalie – oh the limits of my imagination – all I could think of was to get her married.”

“And you never thought of me?” asked Nachaev.

Herzen shrugged. “I thought you didn’t care for anyone but yourself. But now that I see you value my daughter as much as our revolution, I am satisfied. I know there are no higher values.”

“Will you speak with her?”

Herzen shook his head. “I would not deprive her of her romance.”

Nachaev was silent for a moment. He stared at his hands, which were holding onto the edge of the table. “I cannot make any promises,” he said softly, not raising his head. “I cannot tell you that the revolution will mean as much to me in the future.”

“Then take your time,” said Herzen, settling back in his chair. “This is how it will be: until we know what is happening, there shall be a moratorium on the revolution. Not a word, not an allusion, not an idea of it is to cross your mind. For a few weeks, you will live the life of a careless young man. After that – we shall see.”

“Will that be all right with you?” asked Nachaev.

Herzen grinned. “I have always believed the revolution is the road to happiness. If I cannot facilitate that in my own house, then I am a very sorry advocate of progress.”

“Then,” said Nachaev, raising his head suddenly and smiling, “Perhaps things can work to our benefit after all. Now please call Sasha, and let me try charming some tea from her stony heart!”

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE: Nachaev is Tempted by Conquest

There were now three people who were very curious how Nachaev would go about wooing: Herzen, Nachaev himself – and Helena Ilyavich. She was excited by the possibility of having a murderer in her home; perhaps her sublimated maternalism was erupting towards the macabre. She had, in deference to his illness, waited the proper time, but now Herzen’s invitation to come and discuss the upcoming party had been sent, received, and accepted. Nachaev was to arrive that afternoon with Herzen, and Helena spent the morning fidgeting around the house, touching and correcting its oddities. She was sharp with the servants, and poor Gregory found himself constantly in her way. To her father, she seemed seized by a fever, and, revealing his similarity to Herzen, he watched her, and also began to plan…

The carriage arrived in mid-afternoon, and Helena stood at her window watching Herzen help Nachaev step down. Her father walked out to meet them. Helena assessed the young man. He looked frail; his head did not have the bearing she expected, but his slim form was strangely pleasing.

“This is Ivan Ilyavich, and old friend of mine,” said Herzen proudly as he helped Nachaev down from the carriage. It was bright in the pebbly driveway, and Nachaev squinted, shading his eyes. He looked up at Ilyavich and nodded.

“You will have to excuse the immaculate condition of my house,” grinned Ilyavich, stepping down and shaking his hand, “But my daughter had been struck by an unusual cleaning frenzy. I assure you the state you find it is not at all its usual one.”

They entered the living room.

“Helena,” called Ilyavich, “Your guest has arrived!” Hearing no reply, he shrugged. “She’ll come when she’s ready,” he said, sitting down. “So – you are Alexander’s latest protégé.”

“Yes,” said Nachaev.

“And do you plan to lead him out of retirement?” asked Ilyavich.

“That has already been accomplished,” said Herzen. “I have found the fountain of youth, Ilyavich.”

Ilyavich laughed. “He always was excitable,” he said to Nachaev. “Make sure you don’t take advantage of it.”

Nachaev smiled.

“Where do you come from?” asked Ilyavich.

“A small town near Moscow. You haven’t heard of it.”

“And have you traveled much?”

“Not as much as is needed.”

“You must – it is the greatest education. Herzen scorns me because I never finished university, but I found a far better school in my feet. He cannot understand that, but then he is an academic.” Ilyavich winked. “Don’t hold it against him.”

“I don’t,” said Nachaev, thinking: I am not fooled; this is a dangerous man.

“You see,” said Ilyavich, leaning back, “in my travels I had to sell a lot of things to a lot of people. Something you will never learn in school is what makes people tick. You can learn what they say makes them tick, but a man’s heart remains open only to wives and peddlers – a similar breed.”

“If you believe that a man is what he buys, then that’s true,” remarked Herzen.

Ilyavich smiled, waving his hand, “There you see a man bitter because he is a failed salesman. I sold my goods, he sold his idea of the good. We must only compare our holdings to measure our respective success. Look, Herzen – fresh paint, last summer.”

Herzen leaned over to Nachaev. “I promise you will find him more pleasant as the afternoon wears on,” he murmured with a smile.

“No, no – none of that,” warned Ilyavich. “This is my house, a house built by business. Here we show it the proper respect. You owe more to your inheritance than any grand ideals, Alexander.”

“The ruble is a petty yardstick, Ilyavich,” warned Herzen. “It will be your downfall.”

“No, no,” said Nachaev, leaning forward. “Let him talk.”

“Ahh,” sighed Ilyavich slowly. “Here you have a rare man of sense. Mr. Nachaev – something Herzen never understood is that you are both salesmen. The world turns on the marketplace of ideas; if you want to sell them, you must make them desirable. You must make men dreams of your riches.”

“Even if they make no money?” asked Herzen.

“Especially if they make no money.” Ilyavich snorted. “I’ve read your pamphlets – ridiculous. Imagine a shoe salesman telling his customers to throw away their old shoes in order to wear his – which he guarantees will bloody their feet and leave them barely able to walk. Who would bother?”

“As I’ve said before, those who know that some pain is worthwhile,” said Herzen.

Ilyavich laughed. “Don’t listen to him,” he advised Nachaev. “People will fill a church, but they won’t have faith unless they can take something home. So I ask: what can you offer them?”

“I don’t know,” replied Nachaev. “What could I?”

“Old snake!” cried Herzen.

“Let the boy consider! That is democracy,” said Ilyavich, turning to the young man. “The church, they have an admirable racket – they make more money than I could dream of. How? Because they have Hell to give their teachings value. Men are atheists at heart, but they are skeptics, too – and that makes them afraid. What have you got?”

“The promise of a better world?” asked Nachaev.

“But not in the here and now!” said Ilyavich, thumping a fist into his hand. “And in the here and now, people get by.”

“Heaven is not in the here and now,” said Herzen.

“Tsk, Alexander – never underestimate the church. No-one lives to get to heaven. They use the idea to live with themselves – in the here and now.”

“But they could be so much happier,” said Nachaev.

“Who wants to be happier? Men seek comfort, justifications if you like. It allows them to sleep on uneasy beds without having bad dreams. Think about it – you are a Christian, I am an atheist. If you omit any effort in trying to convert me, you are damning me to eternal flames and torture. But you don’t notice many Christians giving up their Sunday brunches to convert the heathen. The church makes their hypocrisy real, then offers them a way out.”

“Then the question is whether they are damned without the church,” said Nachaev.

“Priests didn’t invent guilt, Mr. Nachaev – they merely profit from its alleviation.”

“So what is your solution, Ivan Ilyavich?”

“You have to offer them something now, today. If I want to sell a woman a dress, I don’t tell her she’ll look good in an open casket.”

“But we can’t offer them that.”

Ilyavich shrugged. “Then you need to reevaluate what you are offering.”

“If you listen to this old scoundrel, Sergei,” cried Herzen, “I shall be very disappointed.”

“You said yourself that I had to learn to talk to men like Ilyavich,” said Nachaev. “How can I if you keep interrupting us?”

“You see?” said Ilyavich. “He holds me in more esteem than he thinks!”

“Let’s talk more of this later,” suggested Nachaev. “For now, I should like to meet your daughter, if I may.”

“Mmm, I see what you mean, Alexander. All right, if you like. Helena!” he bellowed, turning his head.

As if planned, she stood at the top of the stairs, wearing a simple dark dress. Her shoulder-length hair was down for the first time in months, and her lips were bright. Nachaev’s eyebrows rose, then fell quickly.

“You’ll have to excuse father,” she smiled, coming down, “Brought up on a farm, he still calls for his children as if they were stray animals.”

“Where’s Gregory?” asked her father.

“He’s had too much sun – he says he’ll be down when his recovers from his headache.” Helena paused at the bottom of the stairs, her hand resting lightly on the banister.

“Mr. Nachaev,” she said.

Nachaev rose and bowed a little awkwardly.

“My daughter – who is indeed no animal – Helena Piotranovich,” said Ilyavich proudly.

Helena offered a hand to Nachaev. She stared into his eyes as his fingers tightened over her palm.

“The daughter of a merchant,” he murmured. “How unlikely.”

Helena made no reply, but took her seat in an armchair opposite him.

“Judging from the raised voices, you are being introduced to their means of communication,” she said to him. “Having argued the same points for forty years, their repartee is a little repetitive, but very economical.”

“It has been most illuminating,” said Nachaev, not taking his eyes from her.

“But why are you sitting in the gloom?” said Helena brightly to the two old men. “It’s lovely outside.”

“Yes,” said Ilyavich, rising. “Come, let’s leave the young people to more pleasant topics. A stroll in the garden?”

“If the young lady would be so kind as to accompany us?” said Herzen, also rising.

“Thank-you, but I also saw too much sun this morning,” replied Helena.

“Nachaev?” asked Herzen.

“I will join you shortly,” replied the young man.

Herzen stood, hesitating.

“Come – I must tell you how I am faring with your proposal…” said Ilyavich, taking his arm. Herzen paused but, having exhausted his polite avenues, allowed himself to be led outside.

Nachaev sat, staring at Helena. Conversation did not begin between them at once – in itself a dangerous sign. She stood and walked over to the window, glancing out at the old men in the garden.

“Have you heard about all this intrigue, Mr. Nachaev?” she asked.

“Tell me.”

“Oh, but if you don’t know I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Can you be trusted with secrets?”

Nachaev smiled. “I can be trusted with little else.” She kept her back to him, silent.

“You are not what I expected to see,” he commented.

“And why not?” asked Helena, turning to him.

“The similarities are obvious,” he said, “Two retired country fathers with unmarried daughters, all summer with nothing to do.”

“You thought I would be like her?”

“As I said – the similarities are obvious.”

“But very, very superficial,” said Helena.

“How so?”

“Natalie has no idea what to fight.”

Nachaev paused for a moment. So there were to be no rules. “And you do?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

“What is it you fight?” asked Nachaev.

“The same thing you do.”

“What is that?”

“You,” said Helena, widening her lips over her teeth. Her dress seemed to have fallen away from her smile, leaving her naked and dangerous.

Nachaev shrugged. “Natalie has done that already.”

“No,” corrected Helena, “she has only fought herself.”

“I see,” said the young man, pursing his lips.

“No you don’t,” asserted Helena. “You’re too busy plotting to see.”

Nachaev smiled. “I am a guest – guests don’t plot!”

“For you, being a guest must be a plot.”

“I fail to see where your understanding of me comes from.”

“I heard you with father. An admirable job.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to notice. Or to eavesdrop.”

“That’s because you are too used to tossing bombs to understand subtlety.”

Nachaev shook his head. “No, no – that won’t do. You can’t think of me as some kind of terrorist – that would be entirely too easy. And disappointing.”

“Do you think manipulating old fools sharpens your claws?”

“Claws – that’s very feminine.”

Helena glared at him, her cheeks whitening. “Don’t ever say that again. You are not my guest.”

“Then I had better just sit back and listen, hadn’t I?” said Nachaev.

“You’re assuming I have things to tell you,” said Helena.

“Why do you want to fight me? Confess.”

“You’d never understand.”

“Go on – test my subtlety.”

They both heard Ilyavich’s laugh from the garden. Helena’s cheeks turned from white to angry red. Nachaev watched, fascinated.

“Because you fight Russia, and Russia is a man,” said Helena softly.

“Then surely I fight for women,” replied Nachaev.

“You fight with the rage of an outcast ape. That part the newspapers were quite clear about.”

“You are a suffragette!” said Nachaev.

“You have no love of democracy?” asked Helena, suddenly controlling herself – how, Nachaev couldn’t tell. “I thought that was de rigeur for your kind.”

Nachaev shrugged. “Democracy – a metaphor for majority rule. Meritocracy in a democracy is dictatorship. As such, I have no quarrels with democracy. People watch the actors, never the script.”

“And what is your script?”

“Good,” said Nachaev, smiling appreciatively. “A blank page, of course.”

“But with you always as the author.”

“I fight for no-one’s power but my own.” His eyes had taken on the look of a man enjoying his secrecy.

“Not even Herzen’s? No honour among thieves?”

Nachaev smiled. “His use will pass.”

Helena looked at him coolly. “You are very sure I will not tell him.”

“It is my job to take risks.”

“Your job? How pompous that sounds!”

Nachaev leapt up. “Good – think of it as pompous! Is this the extent of your challenge? By God, I expected to find a rebel here! I thought you invited me here to rise above your lot! But you invited me here to get the upper hand – and in the invitation you surrendered it!”

“What do you know about my lot?”

“Words.”

“What words?”

“That’s your lot. You think men are your enemy? You think all the lords and kings and merchants have power? There’s just a few at the top, a tiny, tiny few – what does it matter if they are men or women? They have the reins, that crucial one percent, and they watch us squabbling about men and women and laugh themselves silly! Man is half the world. Is half the world free?”

“Freer than the other half!” cried Helena.

“How so? Because we’re addicted to war and you to pleasing?”

“You’re free because you get to do something about it!”

“Then why can’t you?”

“Because all this wiring in my head tells me not to rock the boat, and I want to smash it apart!”

“Then smash it!”

“I can’t! Who would take me seriously?”

“Who takes me seriously? The son of a postman barely able to keep his nose out of a cup? A man born of a slave? A man with just enough vision to recognize blindness?”

“You’re taken seriously because you are a man!”

“Then you take every man seriously? Do you take your father seriously?”

Helena shook her head. “It’s still an advantage.”

“No! Willpower is an advantage. And women have it as much as men. If you took one ounce of your ability to resist and applied it to your capacity to revolt – then you would be taken very seriously indeed! But you are a slave to the habits of others. Your clothes, your lipstick, this house – what is keeping you here?”

“You know. It’s not proper for me to revolt.”

“The word ‘proper’ was not invented by men. Else all men would be revolutionaries.”

“That’s not what I want to be.”

“Not even in your heart? It’s not political.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

“That you take no more suggestions. That you live as only you see fit.”

“I don’t know how to do that. What should I do? Abandon my family, my home, my entire past?”

“If it enrages you so much – yes! You can’t have revolt and acceptance. Look at Natalie – she can’t even revolt against herself! Can you?”

“Every waking moment,” snarled Helena.

“Then you have to make a choice!”

Helena stood against the wall from him, her cheeks flushed. She laughed suddenly, shaking her head quickly. “This is ridiculous. I barely know you.”

“Yes you do. I am you.”

“No you’re not – you’re a man.”

“And isn’t that what you want to be?” asked Nachaev, circling towards her.

“Not if it means oppressing people.”

“Ninety nine percent of men are oppressed by other men! Wanting to be a man doesn’t mean wanting to oppress. It means wanting to rebel!”

“Don’t you understand? I don’t know how to!” cried Helena.

“Then you will waste your life wallowing in your circumstances! Is that what you want?”

“No!”

“Then you have to make a choice!”

But any choice she may have made was cut short by the creak from the staircase. Gregory descended and poked his head around the corner.

“Is father here?” he queried. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Not getting a reply, he came into the living room and collapsed in a chair, rubbing his pale temples.

“Gregory – our guest, Mr. Sergei Nachaev,” said Helena.

“Hello,” said Gregory.

“Mr. Nachaev, my brother, Gregory Ilyavich.”

Nachaev blinked. “Your brother? How odd – for a moment I thought he was your future,” he said. “I also must have been in the sun too much. How do you do?”

“So – you are the famous man,” said Gregory. “Tell me – how are things in the city?”

“Like the country paved over,” replied Nachaev, sitting beside him. “But don’t worry about me – how are you? How did you get your headache?”

“Oh, that sun! It crept up behind me and made me swoon.”

“Tsk,” said Nachaev. “How terrible. Does this happen often?”

“Every time I venture outside, it seems. I’m just not fit for the country,” said Gregory, startled to be listened to.

“Still, there’s always the winter,” said Nachaev solicitously.

“Oh – the winter! Don’t even mention the winter! I assume you have never spent a winter in the country.”

“Not for a long time. Tell me what it’s like.”

“Terrible. Can you imagine being cooped up in an oven for eight months out of the year?”

Nachaev laughed. “Nine months perhaps, as in ‘a bun in the oven’. But no, not easily.”

“Lucky man. It’s like this, if you have to know: first the frost comes, and it’s a relief from the endless sun. For a few days you are happy, then the snow comes – just a little though, but it’s not so bad. At least you can still escape the house. But then the first blizzard comes, and the servants spend about a week digging the house out, and you spent your time huddling by the fire, thinking dear god, how am I to survive the coming months? You keep telling yourself: it’ll end, summer will come again, and with that thought you survive the cold and the drafts and the endless cups of tea. And finally the snow begins to melt, but then the mud runs into the house and you still can’t go outside for fear of being swallowed up. Finally the mud dries and you run out of the house, your heart bursting, thinking: how beautiful it looks! Then you notice the first trickle of sweat, and within an hour your clothes begin to stick to you, and then you remember the heat of the summer, and you start wishing for winter all over again.” Gregory sighed. “What an awful country!”

“I never thought of it like that,” said Nachaev.

“How can you?” cried Helena from the window. “How can you feel sympathy for him?”

“How can I?” he asked, turning to her. “How can you feel anything but?”

“That’s something my sister has always failed at,” said Gregory, seizing his opportunity. “And yet, if I truly felt a shred of sympathy – even a little – I’m sure I would be a happy man. Or happier, anyway.”

“It would be a relief,’ said Nachaev. “Why don’t you go to school? That helps some people.”

“Father won’t pay. He didn’t, so no-one can,” sighed the young man.

“Surely there are scholarships…”

“I will take nothing from the Tsar! And my writing would not be welcome…”

“Writing? You’re a writer?” asked Nachaev quickly.

“Well,” said Gregory, ducking his head, “A poet actually. But I plan to try my hand at prose someday. That’s all that sells, father says.”

“What do you like to write about?”

“Whatever comes to mind. Life, I suppose.”

“Do you like your brother’s poetry, Helena?” asked Nachaev.

“Oh, she’s never read it,” said Gregory.

“Would you mind if I read some?”

“Perhaps after supper,” coughed the young man with a quick smile. “If I have the courage. It’s quite frightening, you know.”

“I’ve always wished I could write,” sighed Nachaev. “Pushkin’s poetry – when I read it, I thought: that’s it! That’s what I feel! I even tried it myself.”

“And?”

“Excrement at best.”

“We all start off badly,” said Gregory, leaning forward. “If I ever showed anyone my first efforts, they’d just cart me off somewhere!”

“What kept you going then?”

“I’m not sure. A flash of something here, a turn of phrase there. You see, my soul has always been close to my skin – with a pen I found it was right at my fingertips.”

“That’s good,” said Nachaev. “You should write it down.”

“That’s why I want to go to the city,” said Gregory earnestly. “Pushkin is our greatest poet. Why? Was he such a great writer? Not always. But what he did have was experience. He gambled, fought, loved extravagantly. Reading him, people could live vicariously. That’s my problem – who’d want to live my life vicariously?” Gregory paused, regarding his stomach, then looked up suddenly. “You want to know my secret dream?” he asked.

“Tell me.”

“I want to go to St. Petersburg, get mixed up with a bad crowd, fall hopelessly in love with a married woman, publish brilliant poems about her, then die dueling her husband and have everyone lament that such a wonderful writer should have died before his talent had fully matured.”

“Sounds a lot like Pushkin,” said Nachaev.

“Sounds a lot like the world,” corrected Gregory. “Everything that ages gets corrupt. Only a young corpse is beautiful.”

“Ah,” smiled Nachaev. “Then we understand each other.”

“But I don’t want to do all the talking. Tell me about yourself.”

“After supper, perhaps. When I read your poetry. Do you feel well enough to take a walk in the garden?”

“I’d like to try – if you’ll walk with me,” said Gregory with a smile.

Nachaev rose. “I will.”

“Let me get my hat then!” cried Gregory, springing up from his seat and running up the stairs.

Helena turned away from Nachaev.

“That you can find sympathy for him is pitiful,” she spat.

He smiled. “That you can fear his sex so much is worse.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: Hidden Weapons

They came, as they always do, in the middle of the night.

The hammering of the door woke everyone in the house, except for Natalie, who was not asleep. Sasha kept to her room, knowing better than to answer such a summons – and besides, she was not alone – and so the pounding grew in force until Herzen made his way downstairs and opened the door. The two men shoved him aside and entered his house.

“You have a man with you,” stated one.

“What is this about?” asked Herzen.

“Murder. Crimes against the Tsar,” answered the other coldly.

“Let me light some candles,” said the old man hastily.

“Do not light except what you’re ordered to light,” answered the first. “Sit down.”

Herzen sat.

“Your visitor – where is he?” asked the first officer.

“He has left.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, and you will tell us.”

“He didn’t say where he was going.”

“So – you run a cheap hotel? You ask nothing of your guests? Tsk, tsk. That is bad.”

“He said he was heading to St. Petersburg.”

The officer took off his gloves, turned away with a smile, then spun round and struck Herzen full on the face.

“For each lie, a blow,” he said. “What is his address?”

“He said he wanted… money from me. He said he was the son of an old friend. When I refused, he left,” said Herzen thickly, through the battery-taste of blood.

“You were ordered to report anyone who came to your house.”

“I was told to report revolutionaries, not friends.”

“You are an old man. You will not survive many lies,” commented the officer. “You failed to report this man, and for that I am given free license. I ask again: what is his address?”

“His father’s name is Kostyavich, and he lives on Uldavy Street in Petersburg, number… 73.”

The man tried to strike him again, but Herzen raised his arms. The blows redoubled. Herzen sank back helplessly, his face swollen and bleeding. Panting, the officer addressed him once more.

“His father’s name is not Kostyavich! It is Nachaev’s – like his son’s.”

“Nachaev?” asked Herzen groggily, “Who – is Nachaev?”

The man looked at him pointedly, then shrugged. “I give you time to recover. Nachaev is the man who has been staying at your house.”

“He said his name was Vladimir.”

“His face has been in the papers.”

“When I get them the ink is so rubbed… I sometimes can’t even read the words.”

“A wanted man comes to your house, and you claim ignorance of his identity. You lie about his whereabouts. You do not answer my questions. What am I to do?” shrugged the officer with a shrug.

“I have a weak heart…” said Herzen.

“Then you should see the wisdom in truth.”

“What do you want to know?”

“The whereabouts of Sergei Nachaev,” said the officer.

“I cannot tell you.”

The officer turned his head. “Check the house,” he ordered. His companion touched his oversized cap, and went up the stairs.

“You all lie to me,” said the officer, sitting in a chair opposite Herzen and rubbing his face. “Sometimes I wonder why you all lie – it’s good to think about your job. Perhaps you believe you are doing the right thing. For politics I can understand it – our system isn’t perfect; I counsel my peers to be easy on the revolutionaries. But for this Nachaev, who has murdered an innocent boy, torn out his throat like an animal – that I cannot understand. There is no politics in that. He is a murderer, pure and simple. So – why lie to me? I do not wish to strike you, but I have little patience to those who say politics covers murder. You understand?”

Herzen’s reply was cut off by a thump from upstairs. The officer straightened sharply, and strode over to the stairs.

“Prokoff?” he called. There was no reply. The officer called again, louder.

“I dropped something,” came the muffled reply.

“Be careful then!” The officer turned back to Herzen. “Now: the address.”

The officer’s companion came downstairs. The shadows made him look like a specter. He held up a pistol triumphantly.

“Ah! Hidden weapons!” cried the officer. “Now you will get dressed. Say your goodbye’s quickly – we have another call to make to a friend of yours.”

Herzen rose unsteadily.

“You should at least have better taste in guns,” said the officer to Herzen as his companion came up behind him. “This kind, they tend to go off without warning.”

A flashing explosion knocked the officer forward; Herzen could see lit hairs around the man’s cap. The officer pitched forward, trailing an immense smoking wound. His companion knelt over him and wrenched him over.

“Oops,” he said, removing his hat. “You should have warned me.”

“Nachaev?” gasped the officer, staring blindly.

“Just like in the papers,” said the young man with a smile. “Now don’t move.” He raised his gun to the man’s face. Terror-struck, Herzen leapt forward to stop him, but a sick dizziness spun him to the ground as a second detonation filled the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN: Nachaev’s Revelation

Nachaev immediately threw down his weapon and ran over to Herzen.

“Alexander?” he cried.

“No, no, no,” whispered the old man, turning away in shock, blood drooling from his lips. “What have you done?”

“I have saved your life,” said Nachaev. “Sit – sit up!”

Nachaev propped Herzen against a chair, then ran to the foot of the stairs. “Everyone stay upstairs!” he ordered.

Natalie appeared at the top of the stairs. “What happened?” she asked, holding on to the banister.

“Your father is all right.”

“I’m coming down.”

“On your life – do not!” shouted Nachaev.

“Why?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

“But – father?”

“He’s a little bruised, but he’ll survive. Check all the windows, see if anyone’s outside. Then get some water. All right?”

There was a slight pause.

“All right.”

“Good.” Nachaev turned from the stairs, his hands flexing, his eyes shining. “All right. All right. The bodies,” he muttered. As Herzen stared, stupefied, Nachaev began wrestling the officer’s corpse out of the room. The young man glanced up.

“What are you staring at?”

“All they wanted was answers,” said Herzen, his voice soft with horror.

“Oh come on! Have a little more self-respect! They would have thrown you out with the morning trash.”

“What have you done?” cried the old man.

Nachaev stood suddenly, his eyes burning. “I have saved your life!”

“But – I have children!”

“And you were going to sacrifice yourself for them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are an old fool. What about those stories you told about your friends? You would have been hung! Your daughters would have disappeared! Would they be better off being raped in Siberia and left in the snow?”

“It was routine harassment!”

“Nothing is routine any more. The Tsar is scared! Don’t you understand?”

Herzen leaned forward and spat a long rivulet of blood, holding his forehead. “Just – get the body out of here and – leave this house.”

That brought Nachaev up short. “What?”

“Leave this house.”

“Did you think they were going to leave you alone because of your books?” asked Nachaev slowly. He stepped forward, trod on the dead man’s hand, then kicked it aside.

Herzen backed away. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

“I do. They broke into your house and beat you. How would you punish them? Write a pamphlet in jail? Mutter curses as they blindfolded you?”

“You are insane.”

“And you? An old man with nothing but illusions,” snorted Nachaev. “You use the murders of your friends to inspire pity then go to the same slaughterhouse without complaint!”

“Leave me alone!” cried Herzen.

“You dislike the smell of gunpowder? The sight of blood? Then you had no right to inspire me.”

“I inspired nothing!”

“A revolutionary must stop at nothing! A revolutionary must sacrifice all! You wrote that!”

“I never condoned murder!”

“Only the Tsar’s, it seems.”

“You are a sick man. Don’t place the blame on me.”

“No! You preached revolution. Did you expect the Tsar to give up without a fight just because you would? No matter what you think, how shocked you are, it all comes down to this: guns. If they can use them, why can’t we?”

“Because then we descend to their level.”

“Not if we use them on the guilty.”

Herzen stared at him, his brow furrowed in pain.

The officer’s body twitched; the smell of excrement filled the room. Nachaev took a deep breath. “Alexander. We have to make a stand. That bastard upstairs was going to shoot me. Would you have preferred that?”

Alexander pointed to the bloody carpet. “This man was not.”

“No – he was going to shoot you. Would you have preferred that?”

“For the sake of my daughters, yes.”

“Then you condemn Russia to a future where fathers must eternally die for their children. If that is what you preach, then I will leave this house. But I will never change my mind. Your life is almost over. Mine has yet to begin. Who are you to talk to me of sacrifice?”

“You have killed two men!” cried Herzen. “Can you understand that… makes me feel…”

“I have no other cheek,” said Nachaev. “I reject that entire ethic.”

“What do you accept then? An eye for an eye?”

Nachaev shook his head. “Justice.” He gestured to the dark shape at his feet, staring at the old man. “This man – who is he? If some stranger came up to me and said: choose between my life and Alexander Herzen’s, I would choose you. I didn’t force that choice – this animal did.” He looked up, frowning suddenly. “You think I enjoy killing? I want a world where there are no impossible choices. He was making you choose between your children and your life! How can you condemn me for choosing you?”

“Because it makes my life so much more difficult.”

“Do you really believe that?” demanded Nachaev. “All your friends killed themselves or were murdered by the Tsar rather than fight back. Were their lives made easier by their cowardice? Is anyone’s life going to be made easier until someone takes a stand?”

Herzen passed a hand over his eyes. “But what are we to do?”

“We must leave Russia.”

“I am an old man. I have no more taste for travel.”

“You must!” said Nachaev. “For your children.”

“God – my children! What am I to do with Natasha? She’s still in school.”

“Call her back.”

“Where will we go?”

“England. You’ve been there before.”

“And left in despair. Oh, Sergei – you make me feel so old. Just when I’m resigned to sacrifices, you come along and say no, it’s not so.”

Nachaev smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t… smile.”

“Don’t you remember? I’m the fountain of youth.”

“Why can’t you just let me slide?”

“Because I love you,” said Nachaev. He leaned down and linked his finger’s through the dead man’s fingers, leaning back to pull.

“To say such a thing… I almost wish I had your hate.”

“This man had my hate. No, that’s not true.”

“And I almost envy him,” said Herzen gloomily. “He’s beyond responsibility.”

“Come on,” said Nachaev, pulling hard. “I won’t allow you to get morbid. I’ll go and hide the bodies, and you go and get yourself cleaned up.”

“Nachaev?” said Herzen, looking up at the young man with tired, tired eyes.

“Yes?”

“Please – let me go.”

Nachaev looked at the old man silently, then smiled.

“Wash your face,” he said, then pulled the body around the corner of the living room, the man’s legs following him like logs around the bend of a stream.

While Nachaev was outside, Natalie crept downstairs. She found her father sitting in his favourite armchair, staring into space.

“Father?” she whispered, hovering behind him.

“Natalie.”

“What happened here?”

“We have to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Nachaev has – forced our hand.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just bruises. A loose tooth. Nothing serious.”

“Is the other officer – dead?”

He nodded slowly. Natalie knelt before him and took his hand. His trembled; hers did not. “I’m glad you are all right.”

“Natalie,” whispered the old man, “I know I’ve always told you never to come downstairs when the police are here, but if you had been here while they were beating me, what would you have done?”

“I would have stopped them.”

“Even if it meant murder?”

“You are my father. I would do worse than murder to save you,” replied Natalie.

“Are you sure of that? You would have killed in cold blood?”

“Father, you have always told me that self-defense is a moral right. What does it matter if criminals carry official papers?”

“Somehow I don’t feel as certain when it’s no longer theoretical. When a man dies at my feet.” Herzen looked down and paled. “Dear God – his blood is on my shoes. My trousers…”

“Don’t look. You know what is right. You have to cling on to that, or…”

“Or my whole life has been a lie. I know. But at this stage I don’t want the truth. The truth is not what I thought. The truth is a carpet that won’t come clean.”

“Don’t think of it now,” said Natalie. “I forbid it. Let’s get you into the kitchen and clean you up.”

“No,” said Herzen, sitting up. “Call Sasha down. I don’t want you to see me like this. In the light.”

“I’m sure I shall see a lot worse.”

“Please – allow me this. Call her.”

Natalie nodded, and went to call Sasha. When the maid came down, her face was stern and pale.

“The other one is dead also?” she said grimly. “Good. Three cheers for Mr. Nachaev.”

“Please,” said Herzen. “Help me get cleaned up.”

“Animals,” growled Sasha. “Come on – get up.” She helped Herzen up from his chair.

“Sasha – what would you have done if you were down here?”

“While they beat you?”

“Yes.”

“Cut their throats with rusty knives. Slowly.”

“Really?” asked Herzen.

Sasha nodded, her lips white. “When animals are mad, you kill them and don’t trouble yourself about the consequences. Now stop walking so funny – they only hit your face.”

Herzen almost laughed. “You are a wonder.”

“That’s because I see the world clearer than you do. It does a just heart good to see evil punished.”

Natalie sat for a moment, then stood suddenly. The smell of gunpowder and blood still hung in the room. In the darkness, the world loomed ominously. When the front door opened, she gasped.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

Nachaev’s voice cut through the dark. “Come here, Natalie,” he whispered.

She took a step forward, her head lowered.

“I am a murderer,” he said softly, stepping into the dim light.

“What? Please – don’t talk like that.”

“But that’s what I am,” he said, walking forward.

Natalie backed away. “You killed to save my father.”

“Yes.”

“They were beating him terribly.”

“Very terribly.”

“And… they would have killed him.”

“Without a doubt.”

“And you saved him.”

“I did.”

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything.”

“Know what you need to know. Do you want me?”

“What? I don’t know if I want any of it.”

“Any of what?”

“You, father, this. Now there is blood on my carpet. I played on that carpet.” Natalie looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m supposed to fall in love with someone. I’m supposed to raise a family. I’m supposed to grow old in peace. I’m supposed to have all these things but you take them away and what do you give in return? Blood on my carpet, and – nothing else! Nothing!” Natalie shook her head violently. “I don’t want any of it! For father, but not for you. And I think I’m going to be sick.” She leant against the door, her cheek pressed against the white wood. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” she murmured tearfully. “I just want to stay at home.”

Nachaev cleared his throat. “Natalie,” he said. She made no reply. Her head lowered, and the darkness crept into the dark rings beneath her eyes. Nachaev stood silently.

“Natalie, we will have to leave you behind,” he said finally.

Her hand rose and touched the white wood beside her pale face.

“I can’t stop who I am,” said Nachaev. “I will keep on and on. I will take your father with me. But soon we will have to leave you behind. Do you understand?”

Natalie closed her eyes and nodded.

“Where we will go is no place for you. We’ll go to England, and there you will take a life of your own. It’s – it’s all I can offer. You will go to your parties and wear your dresses and meet your men and dance and laugh and do all the things that are denied to me. But neither I nor your father will be there with you. Forget about the revolution, forget about us, and live your life as you can.”

“You are in no place to offer these things,” whispered Natalie.

“I am,” said Nachaev quietly. “I am.”

“He is my father.”

“Then you do not understand what I am. Who I have become.”

“What have you become?”

“His son.”

“That – is vile.”

“Natalie – you don’t understand. I admit to the position of son in order to avoid a viler one.”

“There is no viler one.”

“Yes there is,” said Nachaev. “Your husband.”

“What?” cried Natalie.

“Not that I would find it vile. But in time you would.”

“What have we done that you should treat us so?”

“You invited me into your home.”

“And you have destroyed it.”

“Hiding out here, he was dead anyway. I have a use for him. But that use does not involve you. And if you don’t see the value of me telling you that, you are blind. See my sacrifice, Natalie, and walk away.”

“He is an old man.”

“I know,” said Nachaev.

“What do you plan?”

“To treat him with the respect he deserves.”

“What is that?”

“As I see fit.”

“You will destroy him.”

“If he is who he says he is, he will never be destroyed.”

“But he’s not! He’s an old man who’s spent most of his life talking!” whispered Natalie, her voice cracking.

The sound of splashing water carried in from the kitchen.

“It’s still too hot,” muttered Herzen’s voice.

“Stop complaining,” replied Sasha. “And hold still!”

“Ow! What are you trying to do? Boil me alive?” cried the old man.

In the darkness of the living room, Nachaev laughed silently.

“I will tell him,” whispered Natalie, trembling. “The truth will destroy you.”

“If it existed,” hissed Nachaev, just as softly, “you would never have to whisper it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT: A Dismal Affair

The turnout for Ilyavich’s party was less than stellar. The scant nobility of the region were of a decidedly lesser order and, the country being in the state it was, opulent decadence was reserved for the class being threatened, not for those dependent on them. Ilyavich had tried his best, but his business associates refused to attend a party where Herzen would be in attendance for fear of losing their privileges. Only the utterly dissolute roused the dank impulse to attend. At first the old merchant turned them away, but on Helena’s orders he grudgingly began allowing them in. The Gorshynin family were the first to pass muster, and father and son quickly set themselves up by the bar. The postmaster and railwaymen also trickled in, and some shiftless (and shifting) families, attracted by the possibility of free food. The supply of eligible young men settled on the presence of three souls: Toskin Gorshynin, his friend Ogarin, and Fyodr Yemovich, the son of the horse merchant, who came because his father had sternly ordered him to attend parties where there were any marriageable women.

All in all, they were a dispiriting lot. The young men quickly set up a croquet game, which they played to the desperately admiring glances of the women considered far past the marrying age. The mothers circled fretfully; the fathers remained on the porch, shuffling out their observations on the dissolution of the world in general. The state of parties, it appeared, had declined to the point where the company present provided a practical metaphor for the country as a whole.

After utterly failing to plant the seeds of energy and amusement, Helena retired to a dark corner of the living room and waited with a certain dread for the guests of honour to arrive, hating the fact that she was even connected with the event. In fact, if it wasn’t for the expected arrival of Nachaev, it was more than probable that she would have escaped to the woods for the remainder of the afternoon.

After the meager momentum accumulated by the gathering had spent itself along with the snacks and alcohol, Herzen, Natalie and Nachaev finally arrived. Ilyavich greeted them on the front steps, attempting to cloud the reality of the dismal affair with his own somewhat embarrassed energy. The conspiracy that he and Alexander had planned had failed utterly, but he remained irritatingly pleasant nonetheless. Herzen, however, had his own agenda, and quickly sequestered his old friend in his study to explain his injuries and have a serious talk. Natalie wandered into the garden where, faced with the prospect of hovering with the grimly admiring women, decided to enter the croquet game at the young Gorshynin’s suggestion.

Nachaev took his seat in the living room. The bar had long ago been transported into the garden, so his privacy was reasonably assured; the little trickle of people into the house was composed almost entirely of guests looking to relieve themselves. He was aware of Helena standing at the back of the room, but made no attempt to talk to her. She stood for a time, watching the back of his head, then walked to the window and looked out over the garden.

“If this is what you want to destroy,” she remarked, her voice slicing the air, “you have my full support.”

He smiled. “Destroying this would scarcely be worth my energies. It seems to be doing a good enough job on its own.”

“I’m surprised to find you here,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“I imagined that you had many more important things to do.”

Nachaev shrugged

“Why don’t you go and join them then?” she asked.

“Those kind of games don’t suit me.”

“Then, since you remain here, I assume you came to play with me.”

“And, since you have remained here also, I assume you wanted a playmate,” replied Nachaev.

“Please – I have suffered all afternoon being polite to clever comments. Don’t add to my burden.”

“All right. I shall remain silent.”

Helena played with the frayed curtain restlessly. “How long will you be staying?” she asked finally.

“Here in general, or at the party?”

“Both.”

“At the party, about an hour. In general, not much longer.”

“Duty calls?”

“Travel, actually.”

“Where are you going?”

“Far, far away.”

“You’re not going back to St. Petersburg?”

“No – the opposite direction.”

“To Vladiver?”

“Farther.”

“Peskavich?”

“Much farther.”

“Oh. That’s the limit of my knowledge.”

“You know where I’m going,” said Nachaev.

“What’s this game called? Guess the destination?”

“I shall not be staying in Russia.”

Helena turned to him. “You’re going to – Europe?”

“The farthest point.”

“England?”

“You win.”

“But – why are you going there?”

“Because I cannot stay here.”

“And when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh,” said Helena, touching the curtain. “A shame.”

“It’s not such a bad little island.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You mean – a shame we shan’t spend more time together?”

“I mean a shame that you will have much less to despise in England.”

“Haven’t you heard? I have abandoned the despising game. I’m now looking for inspiration.”

“In England?”

“England will do.”

“Has this anything to do with Natalie?” she asked.

Nachaev shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“A wise move. But to escape so far?”

“She will not be escaping.”

“Don’t tell me she’ll be accompanying you.”

“I cannot say.”

“Why? Are you planning to – elope?”

Nachaev laughed. “The secrecy is not on account of her father.”

“Then for whom?”

“For those who would never question you as gently as Herzen. That’s all I can say.”

“Oh, how you love your little mysteries,” said Helena contemptuously.

“I’m sorry if I disappoint you.”

Helena smiled. “You know, I’ve been so pressed with leisure that I actually gave some thought to our last conversation.”

“And?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t hate men.”

“No?”

“No. I love them so much that I cannot be satisfied with the present company.”

Nachaev laughed. “Now that sounds like an invitation.”

“You in particular.”

“That must mean that I at least approach your ideal.”

“Why?”

“Because you are most dissatisfied with me.”

“The question I asked myself was: what is a man?”

“And what was your answer?”

“That man in the abstract is always preferable to man in the flesh.”

“That sounds like Natalie,” noted Nachaev, then smiled suddenly. “Though perhaps not. What is man in the abstract?”

“Strong but protective. Sensitive but secure. Generous without being demanding.”

“In other words, superior but equal.”

Helena shrugged. “I’ve decided I will give myself to a man who would never consider it a surrender.”

“Do you think such a man exists?”

“Not in Russia.”

“Not at present,” agreed Nachaev.

“Not ever. There is something in the soil that gives men an insatiable desire for power.”

“So you plan to spend you life with foreign ideals?”

“Don’t you?”

Nachaev shook his head. “I don’t want to turn Russia into England.”

“What, then?”

“I have no desire to turn Russia into anything.”

“Which in itself is a desire for power,” said Helena.

“But here, that is all that is possible. Russians are like babies. They will never learn to walk until the ground is torn from under them.”

“Then what?”

“Then we can only hope to fall on our feet.”

“You think you’re very clever, but I see right through you,” said Helena.

“What do you see on the other side?”

“I see a negative, which is worse than nothing at all.”

“But still closer to your ideal.”

“In a twisted way, you fulfill half the equation,” she admitted. “You are strong, determined and committed. In that you are superior. But you could never consider a woman an equal.”

“I have never met such a woman.”

“That also sounds like an invitation,” said Helena with a smile.

“Have you noticed? Intellectuals always begin relationships by defining their roles for each other. All in fun, of course.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“No. What we’re doing is pretending – like good intellectuals.”

“What are we pretending?”

“That ideals are all that counts.”

“That’s how you live your life.”

“I have no ideals.”

“Not even with women?”

“No. Except that I don’t believe in equality. And what’s more, neither do you.”

“No?”

“An equal cannot be protective or undemanding. You want a man so strong you can lose yourself in the struggle for what you do not want. You want to change a man who is unchangeable. You want a contradiction.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t. I want destruction. I don’t preach growth at the same time.”

“I’ve noticed that every time I ask you about women, you talk about the revolution.”

“So?”

“So I think that you’re afraid of women. Every time I talk of relationships, you talk of destruction. I think you believe a real woman would destroy you.”

“Then I am as safe as Macbeth. No such woman exists.”

“That all depends on your definition of a real woman.”

“Love is not a dictionary.”

“Evasion is not an answer.”

Nachaev smiled. “All right. You want my definition of a real woman?”

“Surprise me.”

“A real woman is someone like myself. Someone who’s not concerned with the ideals. Someone who knows that love relies on abandoning stereotypes.”

“You’re not a stereotype?”

“I’m different from the men you despise.” said Nachaev. “I have no desire to control women.”

“Only because it’s a fight you know you would lose.”

“Admitting the necessity of struggle is a loss.”

“Rubbish!” snorted Helena. “The struggle will always exist. Women only want a man sure enough of victory that he wins the fight by ignoring it.”

“Is that why you’re testing me in this way?”

“Of course.”

“Because you want to fight me?”

“That was the first thing I told you.”

“What ever happened to a simple ‘I love you’?”

“But I don’t love you. I merely despise you enough to want to fight you.”

“Is that the opening round?”

“If you like.”

“Oh dear,” mused Nachaev. “Let me run through my arsenal then. Let’s see now, I have…”

“If you’re not going to take it seriously,” said Helena angrily, “Then don’t bother at all.”

“Perhaps I’m not taking it seriously because I am so sure of victory.”

“You can’t say that. You have to prove it.”

“Another contradiction.”

“Go – go and play croquet with the other failures then,” commanded Helena, her back ramrod straight.

“All who don’t fight with you are failures?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to be a failure then. What do you want to fight about?”

“Oh, just be quiet.”

“If we were stupid, if we just let it happen, this would be much easier, wouldn’t it?”

“Much.”

“So – we’ll forget this outline ever occurred.”

“If you like.”

“Not that I’m surrendering.”

“Sounds like it.”

“No, no – it’s a tactical withdrawal. To review my troops.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“And your little verbal swordplay – is not?”

“It’s pathetic that you take challenges so calmly.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It’s also pathetic that your replies are based on what you think I want.”

Nachaev stood. “You don’t really want to be drawn into a fight with me,” he said quietly.

“Ah! A warning.”

“A piece of advice,” he said, smiling. “You are no match for me.”

“Again, you only say it.”

“You want proof?”

“Yes!”

Nachaev stood, brushed his trousers, and walked to the door.

“No – that’s exactly what I want!” cried Helena.

“Too late,” he said, and left the room.

“I will!” whispered Helena to the empty room, her jaw clenched. “I will kill him!”

“Who, Helena?” asked her father’s voice.

She turned abruptly, her eyes narrowed. Ilyavich and Herzen stood at the foot of the stairs. “Nothing, father.”

“I’ve just had a long talk with Alexander,” he said, gesturing. “Please – sit down.”

Helena did so, her insides still churning. “What is it?”

Herzen and Ilyavich sat on either side of her.

“You’re not happy here, are you?” asked her father, stroking her hair.

“No,” she replied, moving her head.

“Alexander must leave the country. I have never been happier than when I was with him in Europe, and he invited me to come along. But – I have told him that my acceptance depends on the acceptance of my family.”

Helena’s mouth opened, then closed again. “You’re asking me to go to England?” she asked.

“That’s the place.”

“What about Gregory?”

“I’m sure he won’t be too difficult to persuade.”

“How long do I have to consider?”

“Not long. Alexander leaves early tomorrow.”

“And you will need time to pack,” reminded Herzen.

“Will Natasha be coming?”

“We have a letter,” said Herzen. “She can meet us en route.”

“So – you, Natalie, Natasha, Gregory, myself and father. Anyone else?”

“Sergei Nachaev will also be accompanying us,” said Herzen. “Although sometimes I think it is we who shall be accompanying him.”

Helena froze. “Why is that?”

“He has committed – he is forced to leave the country. For myself, I still feel young enough for one last adventure,” said Herzen.

“What happened to your face?”

“If you accept, you will know the full story.”

“Well,” said Ilyavich, “you will know the full story either way, but we are short of time…”

“I see.” Helena rose and went over to the window. Outside, Gregory was laughing while he and Nachaev fenced with their croquet mallets. Natalie stood apart, laughing uncertainly. Helena saw the look in her eyes as she watched Nachaev.

“I will need time to think,” she said.

“All I can offer you is an hour,” said Herzen. “We return home to pack then.”

“I will tell you by then.”

“Good,” said Herzen. “Helena – I hope you will come with us. It will be a grand tour.” He nodded soberly, then went out.

“Now,” said Ilyavich, turning to his daughter and spreading his arms. “Freed from all politeness – what do you really think?”

“I think,” said Helena, turning again to the window, “I think that if it weren’t for Sergei Nachaev, my mind would be made up.”

Natalie could not escape the feeling that she was being assessed, and not for marriage. Gorshynin in particular favoured her with several rather unkempt stares. He was her partner in the croquet game, and kept insisting on giving her lessons on holding the mallet properly.

“Y’see,” he said, “Your palm-sweat makes the resin sticky. You have to blow on them to cool them off.” He demonstrated by wafting a breath on her that was almost visible. Natalie flinched, and he grinned at her.

“Now, you take your shot,” he offered. “Plant those legs wide apart.”

She did as she was told, but her ball rolled into a puddle.

“Ah!” cried Gorshynin, jumping up. “Get your swimming trunks! Don’t worry – I’ll save us.”

They were playing against Nachaev and Gregory who, to Natalie’s irritation, were constantly horsing around with their equipment. Nachaev was pretending that he had lost his arm, and walked about poking everyone with his mallet handle.

“Nachaev!” cried Natalie, “It’s your turn!”

“Is it? Which one am I aiming at?”

“It’s a hoop – that much I know,” said Gregory.

Natalie frowned angrily. “If you don’t want to play…”

“No,” said Nachaev, “It’s my turn, isn’t it?” He set himself up over the ball, and, wiggling his buttocks, positioned himself.

“Where do you suggest I hit?” he asked Gregory. The young man came over, wet his finger, and wet a place on the ball.

“There – exactly,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right – here goes!” Nachaev struck the ball a mighty blow. There was a dismal cracking sound, and the ball scudded over the grass.

“Oh dear,” said Nachaev, looking down. “Who owns this?”

“What happened?” asked Natalie.

“I think the handle cracked.”

“You had to hit it that hard, didn’t you? That’s Ilyavich’s oldest set,” said Natalie.

“So it’s probably seen a lot of wear and tear already.”

“You’ll have to tell him you broke it.”

“No – if I just hold it a little lower, I can keep on playing.”

“Sergei! You broke his mallet!” cried Natalie angrily, senselessly.

“I know, but I’m not going to ruin his party because of that.”

“But you will tell him.”

“Yes, yes. Before we leave,” muttered Nachaev.

“Make sure that you do.”

“I will!”

“You better.”

“What’s this?” asked Gorshynin, coming up. “Is she giving you trouble?”

“No,” growled Nachaev.

“Well then – what’s the score?”

“We’re ahead,” said Gregory happily. “It’s your turn.”

“My turn. Aaah – stand back!” cried Gorshynin, cocking his head towards the gaggle of weary ladies by the porch. “Who’ll give me a kiss if I make this shot?”

The ladies shifted. One of them giggled.

“No-one? That’s a shame. It could have lead to marriage,” said Gorshynin cruelly. “But here goes.” He hummed and hawed, then took a sound crack. The ball shot forward and splashed into the puddle alongside Natalie’s.

“Well, well,” he said turning and grinning at her. “Do you think they’ll be happy together? All wet and cozy?”

Natalie shrugged tightly.

“I’ve had enough,” said Nachaev suddenly, putting his mallet down. “Come on, Gregory.”

“Where to?”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“All right.”

The two young men sauntered off towards the foot of the garden. Helena stood on the porch, watching them go. She stood aside as Gorshynin came up the porch with Natalie.

“A word please, Natalie,” said Helena, placing a hand on her arm.

“Oh no!” leered Gorshynin, “This is a party where the women talk with the men, not other women.”

Natalie started as Helena raised her hand as if to hit him.

“All right, all right,” he said, raising his arms. “I’ll go have a drink with my father. You know where I am, Natalie,” he winked, then strolled off, his hands pressed deep into his pockets, his buttocks tight against his trousers.

“And that’s who you wanted me to come with?” asked Natalie.

“They’re all trying to make my mind up for me,” said Helena tightly. “Come inside,” she commanded. Natalie followed silently.

They stood in a hallway off to one side of the living room, under a picture of the Eiffel Tower. “Your father has told me of your plans,” said Helena, leaning up against the shadowed wall.

“And?”

Helena sighed. “He couldn’t have suggested leaving here on a better day. But tell me – what are your reasons for leaving?”

“My father is going.”

“No, no – I mean what are the reasons in your heart?”

Natalie shrugged. “I like the idea of England.”

“And that’s all?”

“There are other reasons…”

“What are they?”

“They’ll sound silly.”

“Of course they will.”

Natalie ducked her head and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I have to protect father,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

“From what?”

“What do you think?”

“What?” said Helena impatiently. “Rain? The exchange rates?”

“From… Nachaev.”

“Why?”

Natalie hesitated. “I think he’s using my father.”

“Oh,” shrugged Helena. “Is that all?”

“No – I mean using him… badly.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t!” cried Natalie.

“And you could make it to England alone?”

“What?”

“Never mind. If you’re worried, why don’t you tell him?”

“Because he worships Nachaev. And I don’t know – where I stand with him.”

“So you’ve decided to be his bodyguard.”

“Nachaev will make a mistake; I want to be there when he does.”

“And that’s the extent of your involvement with him?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean, you think so? Is it or isn’t it?”

Natalie shrugged and looked away. “I think he’s… interested in me.”

Helena laughed. “How could he use you?”

“I mean – romantically.”

Helena snorted. “What makes you think that?”

“The way he looks at me.”

“Given that it’s true – which I don’t believe – how does that make you feel?”

“Disgust. How would it make you feel?”

“What kind of disgust?”

“I don’t want to have anything to do with him that… way. I think he’s a dangerous man.”

“Redundant, but semi-intelligent.”

“He is.”

“I know. So for you the trip would be more of a mission than an adventure.”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“And you’re sure that you have no interest in Nachaev?”

Natalie shivered. “Quite sure. So – are you coming?”

“I’m trying to decide.”

“You’d like England.”

“Would I?”

“Oh, yes,” said Natalie. “There’s lots of women there like you.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“Forthright. Determined.”

“You mean aggressive.”

“Sort of.”

“Good,” murmured Helena. Darkness cut the wall in two, and she moved her face into the shadows. “You know, I think I might come.”

“I’d like that.”

“Despite your approval,” she said.

“Oh. Well I think I’d better find father. We should be going,” said Natalie, turning to leave.

“Natalie?” whispered Helena, her face half in darkness.

“Yes?”

“What do you think he’d be like in bed?”

“What?”

“Do you think he’d be good in bed? All that… focus…”

“Helena!” cried Natalie, taking a step backward, her hand at her throat.

“That’s what I thought,” smiled Helena. “All right – go and find your father. Tell him I’ll be coming.”

Natalie ran off into the garden. Helena threw her arms up against the coolness of the wall, feeling the pale colour against her bare forearms.

Gregory came tearing around the corner, his eyes wide and bright. “Helena! Helena! Have you heard? We’re going to England!”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Of course.”

“Who am I going to get to translate my poems? Will you do it?”

“Not unless you pay me.”

“You’re a stinker. Where’s father?”

“Upstairs.”

“Bet I get packed before you do!” cried Gregory, storming up the stairs. Helena turned to watch him go. When she turned back, Nachaev stood in the doorway to the garden, hopping from one foot to another.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” he laughed, “Your brother’s coming with us!”

Helena stared at him for a long moment.

“You’d better be very, very good,” she said very slowly, then turned and disappeared.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: The Dragon Prefers Experienced Maidens

Due to his unerring knack for parting the waters of the future with contemptuous shrugs at his past, Nachaev managed to forget that he had two pieces of unfinished business as he made his way back to the dismal hut in the woods. His mind was so afire with plans for his final conquest in England that he completely forgot about the bodies until he walked into the clearing. Then he stopped short, taking a deep, sudden breath.

It was all the worse because he had no-one to distract with explanations. The pair of corpses lay awkwardly on the rolling grass, as if still resisting their final incorporation into the undergrowth. Nachaev stood silently, his heart pounding. He had almost expected Grigorin to have removed the evidence, but then the peasant would no more have thought of that than of weeding the whole forest. Part of life, thought Nachaev oddly.

They were the first bodies he had seen in the light; all his previous conquests had been left behind in the frantic exhilarations of flight and darkness. He walked forward, fascinated. Evening was falling, but it lent no gentleness to the savagery of the scene. Nachaev’s imagination took flight to simpler times, before the rise of inhibitions, and the primeval forest transported him to a land of skinned animals and bloody hides. An odd stretch of thought gave him the vision of chubby and concerned mothers changing these carcasses swaddling-clothes as children, sitting by their beds when they coughed and hoping that the ravages of plague would pass them by. No no, thought Nachaev suddenly, it was a far different plague that got them. He shook his head suddenly, in the grip of a strange giggly nausea. Me or them, he thought over and over. Me or them…

The flies rose uncertainly from their prey, sensing a different kind of decomposition, but Mother Nature reminded them that she had her own ways of dealing with transgressors, and they reluctantly settled back to the feast.

Irena’s pale face appeared at the hut’s broken window when Nachaev came into view, her eyes red and chaotic. He opened the door and entered cautiously. She stood by the dark fireplace, hugging herself.

“Where have you been?” she asked quietly.

“I have something to say.”

“I have something to ask!” she shouted suddenly. “Where have you been?”

He stopped, startled. What extremity is this? he asked himself with the surprise of someone who believes that others cease to exist when they are not around.

“Sit down,” said Nachaev. “You look like hell.”

Irena remained standing. “It’s been two days, Sergei. Two days I’ve been waiting.”

“I can’t help that. Things got out of control…” He closed his mouth, afraid to laugh.

“Why was I brought along?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Why?”

“I thought you would be useful.”

“How? How was I supposed to be useful?”

Nachaev frowned, thinking: do I know? I never even considered that. “I don’t tend to plan that far ahead,” he said, watching her warily. Her cavernous eyes were regarding some inner landscape he was unfamiliar with.

“Sit down,” he said finally. “I have something to tell you.”

Irena sat down exhaustedly, as if her small eruption had drained all her remaining strength. She passed a hand over her eyes and looked up at him.

“I’m going away,” said Nachaev, taking a step back. Irena’s eyes gazed into him, through him, and wandered away over the walls.

“You are a bastard,” she said distantly. “Yes.”

“I shot two officers last night, trying to protect Alexander Herzen. We have to flee.” Nachaev frowned nervously. “What’s the matter?”

The question startled her. “I was thinking about my reputation.” She laughed, a tear spilling over her cheek. “I used to worry about it a lot. And my legs. Are my legs shapely? How should I wear my hair?”

He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“To give it up, I told myself: that’s all right. For the sake of something great. But to sit in the woods for a week alone.” Her face twisted. “It doesn’t seem such a good bargain.”

“It’s not what I wanted.”

“No, of course not. You want nothing.”

“Is that true? I don’t know.”

“Nothing could be more true,” said Irena, rubbing her eyes. “Oh God – how – how will I get home?”

“You want me to steal you a horse?”

“You can ride?” she asked, surprised, and that one odd moment of reaction somehow threw the horror of her future into terrible contrast. Deep within her a sudden bomb shook her to the core. The pain was too great to even cry about; she just stared at the fireplace, her heart pounding, her vision spinning. Her father’s face seemed to rise above the empty hearth.

Damn, thought Nachaev, regarding her pale face. “I can’t leave you like this.”

Irena’s hands tightened on her stained dress. “No no – that’s all right. I’ll just – sit here for a while.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Tomorrow I’ll start making my way back.”

“Irena. Irena?”

“Yes?”

“If things had been different – I would have been happier,” he said awkwardly.

“Yes – if you had been different you would have been happier. I understand. Now get out. You are a bastard. Get out!”

“Irena…”

She turned and half-rose, and Nachaev took an involuntary step backward. She seemed like a vulture, crouching in the chair, and his face went pale.

“It’s for the best,” he said unthinkingly, groping for the door behind him.

Standing outside the hut, Nachaev took a deep breath and stared through the dimming leaves in the direction of Herzen’s house. This time, he thought, I’m avoiding the bodies.

We have until tomorrow morning before everyone begins their long journey to England; to satisfy our curiosity, we could stay up all night watching Irena as she sits in her tattered chair, but it wouldn’t make a difference. She would not move during our vigil. Since we shall never see her again, let us take what consolation we may and note that, unlike Nachaev, she has some of the strength required to survey the corpses of her past without burying them in self-pity – and that such gazes have been known to bring the dead to life before.

And for those who find it easy to hate Nachaev, let it be remembered that the longer the journey, the smaller seem the steps that start it. Besides, before coming to Herzen’s house, it is unlikely that he would have even bothered to come and say goodbye.

CHAPTER THIRTY: A Fortune Changes Hands

Most of what they wanted had to be left behind. When they finally arrived at the train station the following morning, Herzen and Natalie had three suitcases between them, one of which was stuffed to the gills with Herzen’s writing. Nachaev was running around the station, as excited as a young boy. Gregory, afire with the fever of adventure, made frantic notes about everything he saw, interrupting himself only when Nachaev periodically leapt on him from behind. Natalie had not slept in – what – three days? She hauled her suitcase into the compartment they were sharing with Ilyavich and wrestled it onto the shelf overhead. As she did so, Gregory knocked on the window, grinned, waved madly, and dashed off again. Natalie slid wearily into her seat, feeling close to tears. She passed a hand over her eyes, angry at herself.

“Oh, stop it,” she muttered. “There’s no use in that.”

She felt dizzy with exhaustion, and the threadbare seats and railway grime in the compartment seemed etched into her very bones. The air in the train was thick, unwashed, and crowds of bodies shuffled through the corridor beyond the cracked glass window. Suddenly she wished for her room as it was in the spring, when the snow began to melt and the view from the window was white and sky-blue. She was desperate to sleep, but her mind hovered tenaciously above the gentle dark. Peskavy, Brussels, Paris, London, motion, people, trains and ships, all gritty and stale, her belongings reduced to a single suitcase, nothing to do but forever travel and travel on… Her mind spun in its narrow axis, wobbling fearfully.

Ilyavich thrust the partition door aside and entered with a grin.

“It does make one feel young, doesn’t it?” he asked. “A suitcase, a train, enough money to travel well… Just like old times!” He pushed his case into the luggage rack, and sat down with a sigh. He looked at Natalie and frowned.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, patting her knee.

“I’m very tired,” she said.

“Make sure you get your rest, because when we get to Paris – look out!” He pulled out a cigar with the grin of a man determined to rewrite his past, but this time with more money.

“If you smoke, I think I’ll be ill,” said Natalie.

“Oh. Away it goes then,” shrugged Ilyavich. “No addiction here. So tell me: does the idea of Paris excite you?”

“Their sanitation isn’t too good, is it?”

“Sanitation? Pah! That’s the last thing you’ll notice! Cafés, theatre, opera, dancing until dawn! Well, that’s for you. I’ll probably have to go to sleep at two or so. My age.”

“But the crime is very bad, isn’t it?”

“Not with us two swashbucklers at your side!”

“Where is your money?”

Ilyavich patted his stomach. “Stitched inside my belt, same as always. Take my advice, Natalie – never trust banks. Although I don’t suppose you’ll ever have to.”

“Where will we stay?”

“Wherever we choose!”

“What if all the rooms are taken?”

“They won’t be.”

“But what if they are?”

“Natalie, your father and I spent a lot of time in Europe. Leave the worrying to us, because we won’t bother.”

“You haven’t been there in a long time,” persisted Natalie, strangely irritated.

“A hotel is a hotel.”

“What if none are available?”

“Look – don’t you want to come?” scowled Ilyavich.

“Did I have a choice?”

“But this is your youth! I thought every young woman’s dream was to spend some time in Paris.”

“Perhaps with a little more planning, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

“Lack of planning is half the fun!”

Natalie scowled. “I think I have real concerns.”

“They will be met – trust me.”

“Where will we stay when we get to London?”

“At a pensione until we find proper lodgings, I imagine.”

“How long will that be?”

“I know a priest in Sussex, Father McCullity, who will be more than happy to suggest a house we can rent.”

“I thought we were going to live in London.”

“We will, but it will take some time.”

“How much time?”

“Why these unanswerable questions? I don’t know! We’ll find out!”

“All right, we’ll find out,” said Natalie, closing her eyes, “But I’ll keep worrying until we do.”

“Then you’ll worry yourself to the grave, and then you’ll worry in heaven, if that’s what makes you happy. Why bother? I’m dragging my family halfway across the world on a single day’s notice – am I worried?”

“Perhaps you haven’t thought enough about it.”

“Thought about it enough to start worrying? If that’s ignorance, I’ll take bliss any day.”

“But you don’t know what will happen.”

“No,” said Ilyavich, “and I enjoy that!”

“I don’t.”

“That’s because you don’t trust yourself.”

“I don’t trust the world.”

“Same thing. What you need, Natalie, is to build your confidence up. Something comes along, you don’t think you’ll be prepared, so you worry about it. But that’s the catch: you never can prepare yourself. All you’ll do is lose sleep and so yawn in the face of adversity. Thus adversity will always win, and your confidence will take another blow. Don’t you see? It’s a vicious circle.”

“And have you always been able to handle things?”

Ilyavich shrugged. “Most times.”

“And when you haven’t?”

“Then I haven’t lost any sleep over it.”

“I think that’s living like an animal.”

“Perhaps. But I have yet to see an animal lose sleep over its next meal. You can go crazy over the word ‘but’.”

“But I’m not going crazy. All I want is some answers!”

“The answers are in the future. Wait and see!”

“But that’s why we have a brain! To answer questions.”

“And is your worrying answering anything?”

“Yes!” She hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Ilyavich laughed. “You see? You end up with far more answers than you have questions. It’s inefficient. Life will explain far more than you can ever worry about.”

“I don’t believe that in my heart.”

“Then my arguments mean nothing, if you’re not listening with your heart.”

“I am listening. I’m just not convinced.”

Ilyavich shook his head. “Then I’m losing my touch. Let me try one more time. Tell me: what happens if we don’t find a place to stay?”

“We’ll starve in the streets,” said Natalie promptly. “We’ll sleep in the gutter, get robbed, and starve to death. I’ll be raped, and Gregory will be abducted into the army.”

“What about Helena?”

“She’ll probably die fighting the robbers.”

“And your father and me?”

“Murdered in your sleep.”

“So, we have murder, rape, theft and abduction. Well, I can see why you’re worried.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. I’m starting to get worried myself.”

“No you’re not.”

“Sure I am. I’m going to be killed in my sleep. Tell me: what do you think my chances of survival are?”

“What?”

“How likely do you think it is that we won’t find a place to stay anywhere?”

“Not high,” admitted Natalie. “But it could happen.”

“All right. I walk off a train with a hundred thousand rubles. I get them exchanged at a bank which gives me, say, fifty thousand franks. A decent hotel costs about twenty francs a night, give or take a little. Given that I have enough money for over five years at a good hotel, what do you think my chances are of being murdered in the streets?”

“We don’t have any reservations,” said Natalie.

“We can mail them from Poland, if we like.”

“What if we can’t find a hotel in Poland?”

“Then we pay a man to let us sleep in his house.”

“What if he robs us?”

“Then we take him to court.”

“With what? We have no money.”

“Then we rob him back.”

“We fail, and with our stolen money, he takes us to court.”

“And they rule in our favour.”

“We don’t know that! He could bribe them,” cried Natalie. “That’s my point!”

“All right,” said Ilyavich, “For your thesis to work, first: all Polish hotels must be full, and unwilling to put us up no matter how much we offer. Second: our first alternative must be a thief. Third: all Polish courts must be corrupt. So Polish hotels, Poles in particular and their legal system in general, must all be utterly flawed.” Ilyavich sighed. “You’re right: I am very worried.”

“If you put it like that…” admitted Natalie.

“No – you put it like that. I am just explaining what you say. Now doesn’t it sound in the least bit far-fetched?”

“But it could happen.”

“Aren’t you worried about the train ride?” asked Ilyavich. “The train could crash or explode or burst into flames.”

“But I’ve traveled on the train before.”

“So you’re not worried?”

“No. Not much.”

“Well, I’ve heard of Russian trains exploding before, but I’ve never heard of a rich traveler being unable to find lodgings in a large city. So you worry about the train exploding, and I’ll worry about where we’ll stay in Poland.”

“I can’t worry about the train.”

“Why not? It’s the more likely disaster.”

“Because – it’s stupid.”

“You know,” said Ilyavich with a smile, “when I used to sell insurance, I always steered clear of people like you, because they always treated me to an evening’s explanation of why insurance was so crucial, and then they would never buy any because they were keeping their money for emergencies. I never understood that.”

“You think that’s what I’m like?”

“I came to the conclusion that these people were unhappy, which is no crime, but that they were in love with their unhappiness, which should be a capital offense.”

“Good – now you’re talking about putting me to death.”

“So you admit that it’s true?”

“That I worry too much, perhaps – yes.”

“Any worry is too much. But here – I’ll put my money where my mouth is.” Ilyavich reached into his pocket and drew out his money belt. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Here is the answer to all your problems.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped. “You can’t give me that!”

“Why not? I trust you. I won’t worry any more if you have it.”

“I will!” cried Natalie. “What if I lose it?”

“How would you lose it? Planning on stripping nude for strangers?”

“Something might happen.”

“Look – take the money.”

“I can’t!”

“Then will you promise to stop worrying?”

“I can’t do that either.”

“Then the money is yours. If you think that it buys freedom from worry, you’ll be free. Take it.”

“You’re being ridiculous!” said Natalie.

“Don’t you want to be free?” he demanded.

“I don’t think freedom can be bought.”

“All your worries come down to money. Here it is. Take it.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because it will just make me worry more!”

“Then that is all you want to do – and I don’t want to hear any more about it!” scowled Ilyavich, sitting back in his chair with a disgusted look.

Natalie stared at the thick belt snaking through his stubby fingers. Her dizziness worsened.

“Give it here,” she said suddenly.

“Oh, now you want it?”

“Yes.”

Ilyavich laughed. “Why? Because I’m angry?”

“Because it will make me feel safer.”

“Why?”

“Never mind. Don’t give it to me. No, give it to me.”

“Natalie: why are you so bizarre?”

“You’ve had responsibility all your life; you know how to handle it,” she said.

“So you want the money?” asked Ilyavich. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Then take it,” he said, tossing the belt over at her. Natalie stood, bending her head against the low ceiling.

“Turn your head,” she commanded.

“Why?” asked Ilyavich.

“I’m going to hide it.”

The old man turned his head and closed his eyes. Natalie threw her dress up and quickly fastened the belt around her waist.

“Finished,” she said, smoothing down her dress.

“So – how does it feel? All that power?” grinned the old merchant.

Natalie paused for a moment, then yawned.

“You can’t sleep – what if it’s stolen?” cried Ilyavich.

“Don’t!”

“What if the train explodes and it’s stolen?”

“Uncle..!”

“What if Poland sinks into the sea and we’re robbed as we drown? No, don’t worry. I’ll watch over you.”

“Thank-you,” she yawned again. “You’re very kind.”

“Just an over-dedicated salesman,” shrugged Ilyavich. “Now go to sleep.”

Natalie placed her hands over the belt, sat down and was asleep almost before her cheeks touched the headrest.

Ilyavich sighed, looking at her tenderly. He chuckled and reached over to brush her hair off her face. He let his hand drift over her soft cheek, his eyes filling with tears.

“Poor thing,” he murmured. “We shall see you set right.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Gregory bolting past the compartment in the corridor. Nachaev’s body leapt after him, and Ilyavich heard the heavy thump of a body falling. He rose and opened the door.

“Come on, you two,” he called. “We’re in here. And for heaven’s sake be quiet – Natalie’s sleeping.”

Nachaev looked around from his vantage point on Gregory’s back.

“Hear that?” he hissed to the young man. “Be very quiet.”

“Then stop twisting my arm!”

“I’m testing you. Can you stay quiet?” asked Nachaev, twisting it a little further.

“Mmmff!” groaned Gregory.

“I heard that!”

“Now, now, Nachaev,” said Ilyavich, “Don’t break his arm.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Nachaev, giving a last twist and standing up.

“Where are the others?” asked Ilyavich.

“They’ve gone to get the newspapers,” said Gregory, struggling to his feet.

“Gregory – go and find them,” ordered Ilyavich. “Nachaev, come here.”

As Gregory dashed off, Ilyavich ushered Nachaev into the compartment. Nachaev sat down jauntily, next to Natalie, making her stir. He glanced at her waist, surprised. Ilyavich fixed the young man with a stern stare.

“I appreciate that you’ve made friends with my son,” he said, “But you’d better remember: he’s a frail boy. Always has been.”

“I disagree,” said Nachaev, carelessly picking at the seat. “I think he has more life in him than any of you give him credit for.”

“Be that as it may,” said Ilyavich, “I don’t want you treating him too roughly.”

“Haven’t you noticed that he’s much happier when I’m around?” asked Nachaev, raising his eyes.

“I’ve noticed he’s more hysterical.”

“Could any son of yours be called hysterical? Was his mother hysterical?”

“His mother was a fine women – there’s no point…”

“Then there’s no reason to call him hysterical. Didn’t you roughhouse a little when you were a boy?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then that is all Gregory has been lacking. A good friend,” smiled Nachaev. “And a little roughhousing.”

“Will you be a good friend to him?” asked Ilyavich.

“I shall be to him as Herzen is to you,” replied Nachaev. “Tell me the truth – aren’t you relieved that your son will have someone to see Europe with? You know he’d spend all his time in the hotel otherwise, writing his little poems. This way, there’s a chance he’ll get some sun.”

“I never liked this poetry business,” admitted Ilyavich. “Doesn’t sell.”

“Then we’ll put some life into him, won’t we?” said Nachaev with a grin. “Something to catch the eyes of the ladies. You can understand that.”

“All right – but I’ll be keeping my eye on you both,” said Ilyavich slowly. “A little trouble builds character, but I don’t want him getting involved in anything he doesn’t understand.”

The face of the young man in question appeared outside the door of the compartment, looking pale and shaken.

“Gregory! Are you all right?” asked Nachaev, jumping up and pulling the door open.

“We’re in trouble,” said Gregory in hushed tones, entering and sitting down heavily. “Good God, but we’re in trouble.”

“What is it?” demanded his father.

Herzen and Helena also came in.

“Are we all here?” asked Herzen, looking around. “Good.” He sighed, looking very old. “We seem to have a problem,” he sighed.

“The papers?” asked Ilyavich.

Herzen nodded grimly. “Front page.”

“Photographs?”

“In that we are lucky.” He held up the morning paper, and there, in a small column, was the article.

“Two officers feared murdered,” read Nachaev, leaning forward. “Crackdown promised. Oh dear. Is your name mentioned?”

Herzen nodded. “And yours.”

“What does it mean?” asked Gregory.

“It means,” said Helena, “that from Peskavy we must travel on foot.”

“But that’s over a hundred miles!” cried Gregory, looking around. “Isn’t it?”

“A little more, actually” said Helena.

“What are we going to do?” asked the young man, his eyes dull. “We’re doomed!”

“You know what we do?” said Nachaev. “We look on it as an adventure.”

The others looked at him in wonder.

“Perhaps you don’t understand…” began Herzen.

“Of course I understand. What I don’t understand is that you expected it to be so easy.” said the young revolutionary. “We’re luckier than I expected – at least there are no pictures.”

“My name is mentioned,” reminded Herzen. “And yours.”

“Names are labels, easily changed. The important thing is that we act normally,” said the young man. “If we go on as if we’re doomed, we’ll be spotted as easily as if we were painted red. This is to be our adventure – our dramatic escape!”

“Oh dear,” sighed Ilyavich. “Suddenly I feel very old.”

Nachaev smiled. “You could turn back now,” he said. “If you’re afraid.”

The old merchant shook his head. “I’d be questioned,” he said heavily, “and I’d never survive that.”

“I agree with Sergei,” said Helena. “We have no choice. If we steal some horses we can cover the distance in less than a week. This article is just a hindrance – once across the border all will continue as planned. What do you say?”

“I say she’s right,” said Herzen.

“I still say we’re doomed,” muttered Gregory.

“Come on,” chided Nachaev, “You wanted to go out in a blaze of glory – just think of the poem it will make!”

“I said that in a comfortable living room,” reminded Gregory miserably.

“And you were as right then as I am now.”

“What if I don’t have the courage?”

“Then write a poem about how you failed your ideals,” said Nachaev. “Everyone over forty will understand that.”

“All right,” said Herzen, sitting down. “The train journey will take two days. We’ll buy as much food as we can at every stop. And now the most important thing is that we rest. Are you tired, Ilyavich?”

“No.”

“Then you take the first watch, since you have the most money to guard.”

“I’ll take it,” said Ilyavich, “but it’s Natalie we have to worry about.”

“Why?” asked Herzen.

“She’s the official bank at the moment.”

Nachaev looked up. “What?”

“I gave her my money because she was so worried.”

“Well, that’s your decision,” said Herzen. “The important thing to me is that I’m about to fall off my feet. We were packing all night.”

Ilyavich rose. “Then sleep. I’ll watch.”

With a sigh, Herzen sank into his seat and closed his eyes. All of them found sleep hard in coming, but none more than Nachaev, who kept opening his narrowed eyes to look at Natalie’s sleeping face.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: The Death of All Pleasantries

A shudder rippled through his dream, and Nachaev awoke with fear in his heart. It was mid-afternoon, and his companions all slept with the strain of those who sleep in motion. Ilyavich stood smoking in the corridor, his creased back pressed against the cracked window.

Nachaev rubbed his eyes and watched the flat countryside rolling by outside. His dream had been powerful. Confused fragments of it echoed in his mind – he had been on a mountain yelling commands at a horde of legs that strutted and marched without order; then he had been underground, kneeling at an oily pool where a thousand reflections spun distorted grimaces at him. Words had erupted from his throat and wriggled down a crowd of wide splitting mouths like vultures attacking their eggs. He had stayed in the dream as long as he could, searching for symbols, but a rushing terror approached him from behind and he instinctively yanked himself awake, cursing his recoiling fear. Now he looked at his images with an objective eye, but could find no sense in them. He turned his head and looked at Helena. She lay asleep, her face a mask even in repose, and Nachaev found his eyes wandering over her prominent jaw and down her neck. A few buttons of her dress lay open, and he let his gaze float down her dress, imagining the lay of the land beneath. His imagination, still active from the dream, spread lavish and violent images against his inner eye, and Nachaev followed them, amused by their power to excite him. He imagined bending her over a bed, breaking her will with sensual power, seeing the cruel hatred in her eyes even as she yielded. But the image failed to strike his distant heart; a cold voice chided him for his childishness, his distraction.

All of them lying there, so serene, so silent… Nachaev watched them passively, dreaming of the hoops he would put them through. His heart swelled with contempt and power at the ease to which they had fallen prey to his every word. How easy it had been to separate Herzen and Natalie. How easy to befriend Gregory and pacify Ilyavich. How easy to stir Helena from irritated complacency to sullen rebellion. And how easy to throw Natalie into that frail confusion that left her pliable enough to…

To what? Nachaev stopped, having no answer. The art of manipulation is by its very nature a moment by moment affair, Machiavellian only to its victims. He held power over everyone in the compartment; how he was to exercise that power, and to what end, was still an open question. Raising the stakes was his only goal. Nachaev had spent many weeks and much energy securing his position, and that control must by its very difficulty be exercised in a decisive manner. So is the road to evil secured. In order for the end to justify the means, the means must be extravagant, else conscience makes a mockery of intention and all actions tremble in fear of their consequences – and Nachaev was not a man to be troubled by consequences.

He knew he stood in a precarious position between Natalie and Helena. In terms of reputation, Natalie was the obvious choice. In terms of money, Helena was the richer goal. Whether the destruction he desired could be served best by allegiance to fame or to finance was a question that could only be unraveled in time, and until that time came, all bets had to remain open. He did not doubt his ability to keep Natalie in her present state of confusion but Helena, the antithesis of habit, would surely tax his abilities. Nachaev was proud enough of his skills to want to test them to the utmost, but how much energy could he retain beyond the need to placate and irritate Helena? It is dangerously easy to be swallowed up in a relationship and lose sight of one’s life’s work, thought Nachaev, but could he remain confident of his powers by exercising them on such a willing victim as Natalie? That was a question he found himself unable to answer, and in musing of it his dream caught him at his heels and upended him into an uneasy sleep where vultures once more tore at the shells of their fragile offspring.

When Ilyavich shook him awake, the silence startled him. A quick glance out the window showed the woods to be motionless, and Nachaev was fully awake in an instant. The others were sitting up and rubbing their eyes.

“Sergei,” hissed Ilyavich. “Wake up! The train is being searched!”

“Where are they?” demanded Nachaev.

“Three cars ahead.”

A flow of people were scrambling down the corridor outside the compartment – perhaps refugees like themselves – clutching bundles of clothing and food and the odd muffled goose.

“How many?” asked Nachaev.

“I don’t know.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Gregory.

“We’ll have to leave the train,” said Herzen, standing slowly and rubbing his back.

“But – what about our luggage?”

“No time.”

“We’re not leaving the train,” said Nachaev.

“What?”

“Look at all those people fleeing,” he said, gesturing at the window. “Are we the only criminals here? I imagine those in the wrong vastly outnumber those defining them thus.”

“What are you saying?” asked Herzen.

“That this is a prime opportunity for a test of our commitment.”

“But – we have ladies with us!” cried the old man. “We can’t endanger them.”

“Don’t start any trouble, Sergei,” echoed Natalie, “We’ll leave quietly.”

“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” said Nachaev, “There’s no time to argue. If you want to leave, leave. But I paid good money for my ticket; I’m staying.”

“They’ll catch you,” said Ilyavich. “And kill you.”

Nachaev grinned. “Not if I catch them first.”

“Is there to be no end?” cried Herzen, rubbing his face.

“You should have thought of that in 1825,” replied Nachaev.

“I’m staying too,” said Helena suddenly.

Ilyavich turned to her, his face darkening. “I will not allow it.”

“I have long ceased to be interested in that,” replied Helena.

“Make your decisions,” said Nachaev, looking at the others calmly. “Either go now, or stay.”

They stood indecisively, choked by an ominous sense of entrapment.

“Nachaev!” cried Natalie, holding out her hands.

“No.”

“The engineers are the Tsar’s men – they’ll never start the train if there’s trouble,” said Herzen desperately.

“We’ll see.”

“Come on,” said Ilyavich suddenly, “We’re leaving. Helena, you’re choosing disaster.”

She didn’t reply. Angrily, Ilyavich grabbed the wrist of his son and dragged him from his seat.

“Sergei! Don’t be a fool!” cried Gregory.

“Goodbye.”

“Good riddance,” growled Ilyavich and, still dragging Gregory, stalked out into the corridor. Glancing back fearfully, Herzen and Natalie followed, instantly swept away in the throng struggling to the rear of the train.

“Well,” said Helena, leaning back in the empty compartment. “I hope you have a plan.”

“I don’t have a plan,” said Nachaev. “I have luggage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just one bag. But therein, two pistols, borrowed from some old friends.” Nachaev brought down a small bag and pulled out two guns. “One for you,” he said, hefting them, “and one for me. Nicely oiled, eh?”

“And are they loaded?”

“I hope not. I hate guns.”

“I am a little perplexed.”

“Trust me.”

“Oh, I do.”

“I’ll be in the next compartment. Sit here with a pistol on your lap.”

“How quaint.”

“They’ll be a little astounded, but, if you’ll excuse me,” said Nachaev, reaching for her throat and undoing a few buttons, “they’ll also start working their perverted little minds about how they should arrest you. With their backs turned, I’ll introduce myself.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” asked Helena.

Nachaev grinned. “It’s my romance. Ready?”

“If you are.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he promised, and vanished into the corridor.

Gregory’s face suddenly appeared at the outside window, motioning for Helena to come with them. With a smile she raised the pistol and pointed it at him. His eyes bulged, and his face disappeared below the level of the glass. His hand raised itself tentatively, still motioning, but Helena rapped the gun sharply against the window and then that, too, disappeared.

The corridor was empty, and that meant that those searching the train must be close at hand. Helena’s heart was beating rapidly. It rankled her deeply that her father had run without trying too hard to convince her to come. She felt charged with anger, and suddenly cursed the cowardice of the entire lot.

The door was thrust aside suddenly, and Helena found herself staring into the kindest eyes she had ever seen.

“Excuse me, miss,” said the officer, touching his cap. “Are you alone in the compartment?”

“Er – yes,” she said. He must only be about eighteen…

He nodded at her lap. “Is that gun loaded?”

“Not really.”

“I’d advise you to load it. There is a murderer on the train. And – if you’ll excuse me for saying so – I know it’s hot, but you should do your blouse right up – he’s a young man, and his crimes may not stop at murder.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The young man smiled and backed out of the compartment.

“Officer!” cried Helena.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

“Yes, miss?” he said, stepping forward, but still not enough to allow Nachaev room to fire.

“Er – what does this young man look like?”

“Why? Do you think you have seen him?”

“Perhaps.”

“I have a picture here,” said the officer, rummaging in his pockets. He pulled out a grimy sheet. “Sorry – I keep mints in that pocket too,” he said apologetically, peeling one of the sweets from the page. Helena’s eyes widened in horror. A heavily-bearded stranger’s face stared at her from the page the officer held, and she realized at once the magnitude of the catastrophe. “You recognize him, Miss?”

“No! No!” she cried, her face turning a deadly white.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mistake him,” said the young man with a smile, putting the paper away again. “But thanks anyway.” He turned to go, then looked back. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look pale.”

“Fine, yes, thank-you. But you had better go.” Stay out, stay out! she thought frantically.

He cocked his head at her. “You look unwell. Would you like me to get a doctor? There’s one in the next car.”

“No, no – I’m fine. Hadn’t you better keep on with your search?”

“You’re sweating,” he said. “Let me check your pulse.”

“No! Thank you!” she cried, pressing herself against her seat, her eyes wide with terror.

“I’ll just open the window then.” The officer stepped into the compartment.

As soon as he did, Nachaev appeared behind him, grinning, a blanket-wrapped pistol in his hand. The young officer tugged at the window while Nachaev squinted merrily at him, his tongue sticking absurdly out the side of his mouth. He aimed at the officer’s head, his heart, and finally at his buttocks, his lips stretched in a grin. Helena stared at him, transfixed.

“Don’t!” she whispered.

“Don’t what?” asked the officer, looking at her. He caught sight of Nachaev standing in the hallway and turned around fully.

“What the..?” he asked in confusion, then Nachaev’s gun erupted and the officer was thrown bodily against the window, his arm shattered at the elbow.

“Nnnuh!” he cried, scrabbling for his pistol with his uninjured arm. Nachaev strode into the compartment, his face ablaze, and kicked the young man full in the face. Blood jetted from the officer’s mouth. He slid down the window, leaving a bloody smear on the dirty glass.

“Leave him alone!” cried Helena, rising and trying to hold the revolutionary back. Nachaev’s didn’t seem to hear, but threw her violently into her seat.

“Not a word,” he hissed, leaning over the officer. “How many of you are there?”

The officer moaned, his hand rising feebly. Nachaev struck him again savagely. “How many?” he shouted.

“Sergei! Stop!” cried Helena in desperation. “They’re not looking for you! It’s someone else!”

Nachaev turned his face to her, his gaze perplexed.

“You… what?” he asked thickly.

“There looking for another man! You didn’t have to shoot him!”

He cocked his head. “Ah,” he said softly. “Then others will be along. Give me your pistol.”

“You have shot an innocent man!” cried Helena.

“A Tsar’s man. Give me your pistol,” he repeated quietly.

She stared at him in shock. He grabbed her wrist and pried the gun free from her shaking hand.

“Hold still,” he ordered and, putting the gun down, knelt and tore a long strip off the bottom of her dress. Bunching it up, he wedged it into the young officer’s mouth.

“Stay here. Keep him quiet,” he commanded and left the compartment, loading his gun as he went.

Helena sat alone with the half-corpse. The young officer moaned. As she watched, he raised his free arm and began pulling the material from his mouth. Helena stared, paralyzed. The material unfolded slowly, dreamily, covered with saliva and blood. In a panic, she leaned down and pulled the officer’s pistol from its holster, and pointed it, shaking, at his head.

“Don’t – don’t make a sound!” she whispered.

The officer turned to look at her. His eyes were still aware. His arm rose unsteadily and batted her gun away. He feebly spat out the last of her dress. Helena watched his lungs fill with air. She swung the gun back and pressed her finger against the trigger.

“Don’t make a sound – please!” she pleaded.

“Go…” he croaked. “Go… get the doctor.”

She shook her head violently.

“Please. I’m bleeding,” he said.

“I can’t!”

He looked at her silently, then lowered his head.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I have a wife,” he murmured. “And two baby girls. This is… my first week on the job. I was a farmer…”

“Don’t!” Helena thrust the gun against the young man’s temple.

“I have three brothers. My hair was… blonde… when I was younger.”

“Stop it!”

He turned to look at her, past the trembling barrel of her gun. “My wife’s name is Irene. You… look a little like her. She was afraid when… when I got this job. I told her don’t worry.” His eyes filled with tears. “She has no money. They will starve… Please…”

“I can’t help you!”

“Then please… help my children. They love… me.”

Helena tightened her face, but the tears escaped nonetheless.

“Where – is the doctor?” she asked finally.

“Next car up,” he said. “An old man. White hair.”

“You promise to make no sound before I get back?”

The young man nodded painfully. “Please – hurry.”

Helena stood and backed away to the door. She looked out, but Nachaev was nowhere to be seen. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she wandered up the corridor, looking into every compartment. They were all empty. She went into the next car and immediately ran into a conductor.

“Please,” she gasped. “A doctor.”

The conductor backed away, fear in his eyes, staring at her waist. Glancing down, she saw the pistol still held in front of her. She lowered it, wanting to throw it away.

“A man has been shot,” she said numbly. “Where is a doctor?”

As she spoke, another shot rang out. Helena flinched, and her gun clattered to the floor. Her hands fluttered to her ears. Turning, she groped blindly at the door, wrenched it open, and fled.

She found herself standing beside the train, on the top of a shallow embankment that sloped down to a wood. The sun was setting; she flinched at the colour. Her breath came in short gasps, her head pounded. Up along the train she saw a slight man running towards the trees.

“Gr… Gregory!” she cried.

The figure stopped, turned,

“Helena? Come on, for Christ’s sake!” cried Gregory, motioning to her. Picking up her skirt, she ran towards him.

“Are you all right?” he asked fearfully. In his presence, she felt true anger for the first time.

“Of course,” she said. “Where are the others?”

“In the woods. Where’s Sergei?”

“I don’t know. He shot someone. They weren’t even looking for us! It’s all so goddamned ridiculous!”

“Well don’t just stand there!” cried Gregory, tugging her into motion.

Herzen, Ilyavich and Natalie stood in the shadow of an oak tree a few steps into the woods.

“Well,” said Ilyavich as they approached. “Satisfied with your little adventure?”

“Shut up, Ilyavich,” said Herzen. “Helena – are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said shakily, furious with herself.

“What happened?”

“They weren’t even looking for us,” she said. “Nachaev shot one of them, and went off looking for the others while I.. stayed. There was another shot. We had better stay, in case he gets away.”

“You want to stay?” asked Natalie, shocked.

“Does any of us know what we’re doing apart from him?” demanded Helena. “Any?”

“I say we abandon him to his fate,” said Ilyavich. “I was asked to come to England, not be party to murder.”

“There are some here with more at stake than you,” reminded Herzen.

“You should have made that clear when you asked me.”

“He was acting in our best interest,” said Gregory. “We all thought it was us they were searching for.”

Ilyavich laughed grimly. “Is this my son the poet? Condoning murder?”

“Murder for our sake is a gift hard to ignore. I feel ill.”

“For our sake?” asked Ilyavich. “He murdered long before he knew us! It’s just a hobby we serve for the time being.”

“That,” said Herzen, lowering his head, “we will never know. Unless our turn comes.”

“That is morbid,” declared Helena. “And I agree with Gregory. It’s all very well for us to condemn him, but what if we had been right? What if they had been looking for us? We’d have been caught already, bleating out here like little lambs. No, I think the true test for Nachaev will come when we are in England. I don’t think he’ll be able to find much cause there. And if he does, I’ll kill him myself!”

Ilyavich scowled and turned away, sick at heart.

“And if he does?” asked Natalie. “He is our guest.”

“Do you really think so?” said Helena. “Are you really that blind?”

Herzen stirred fretfully. “Why are we standing here talking? The Russian disease! What is happening up there?”

“I think he won,” said Helena. “Otherwise, we’d all be in chains by now.”

As if in reply, they all heard Herzen’s name being called from the tracks.

“Alexander!” shouted the voice.

“Oh god!” cried Natalie, whitening. “He’s alive!”

“It’s a trap,” said Ilyavich, raising an arm. “Don’t answer!”

“I don’t believe he could be turned against us,” said Herzen, edging out from under the tree.

“Don’t be a fool, Alexander!” cried Ilyavich. “Wait and see, for God’s sake! This is insane!”

“I have never doubted him,” replied Herzen doggedly. “I will go.” With that, he left the group and began climbing the embankment towards the waiting train.

He saw a uniformed officer waiting by the train, and his heart sunk. Then he recognized Nachaev’s twisted jaw jutting out from under the cap.

“Sergei!” he cried, struggling forward.

Nachaev placed a hand to his lips. “Hush!” he said, smiling. “Here I am Ivan.”

“What happened?”

“There was only two of them. I shot the other one as he was circling the train looking for us. This is his uniform – it was a good clean face shot. I told the engineer that they should start the train up again in five minutes. Being Russians, all they saw was the uniform.” The young man laughed. “We are completely safe!”

“You are unhurt?”

Nachaev shrugged. “Where are the others?”

“Down in the trees.”

He laughed again. “Helena! It’s safe now! Come on out.”

Herzen turned and waved to them. One by one, they came out from the woods and stood hesitantly at the foot of the embankment.

“Hurry up!” cried Nachaev. “The train is starting any minute!”

After Nachaev’s hurried explanation, they all scrambled back onto the train. Nachaev led them to a different compartment, promising to get their luggage later. Then he poked his head out of the window. Natalie, standing next to him, saw motley clumps of refugees standing under the trees.

“Come on, you lot!” cried Nachaev, tipping his cap. “All aboard! Freedom for everyone!”

There was a fieldful of blank expressions, then a ripple of shrugs. Immune to curiosity, the refugees began climbing the embankment towards them, towards Nachaev’s laughing face.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO: Nachaev Finds an Unstable Friend and a Stable Foe

He scrubbed hard. It was slow work, and the heat and smell made him dizzy. He dipped his cloth into the bucket he had borrowed from the conductor, and noticed that it was almost completely red. Nachaev straightened with a sigh, rubbing his back. He picked up the bucket, walked up the car, and threw its contents out the open door. The rushing wind caught the last droplets as he shook them out and sent them spinning away like angry fireflies. He got more water, and re-entered the compartment.

It was almost clean. A few spatters adorned the seat covers, but the majority of it was gone. Nachaev rubbed the last of the blood away, then splashed water on the windows and quickly wiped the liquid clean before it had time to drip on the floor. He stood back and surveyed the compartment. Everything was in place. He had already cleaned the trail of blood from the hallway, and the edges of the train door where the half-dead officer had grabbed at before Nachaev had pushed him out. It was all as if nothing had happened, he thought. Everything was as it was.

“There,” said Nachaev softly. “Let it never be said that I am not responsible for my actions.”

Turning to go, he saw Helena in the doorway.

“How is he?” she asked, her eyes wandering.

“Gone,” said Nachaev.

“Dead?”

“Gone from the train.”

“Was he dead?”

“Sure.”

“He told me about himself.”

Nachaev shook his head and stood. “I don’t want to know.”

She walked up to him. “It made it very hard to sit there, watching him.”

“A standard tactic,” he shrugged. “Humanize the enemy. Deadly if you allow it.”

“He told me he had a wife and…”

“I said I don’t want to hear it!”

“Why?” cried Helena. “Afraid of regret?”

“I know what has to be done. Why make it harder?”

“Maybe it should be made harder!”

“Why? I didn’t notice Herzen’s interrogator asking him much about his personal life.”

“If he had, maybe…”

“But he didn’t!”

Helena turned and closed the door to the compartment. Turning to him, she brushed her hair back and stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “Sit down,” she said softly.

He hesitated for a moment, then sat. On a dry part.

“Nachaev, I have to know: do you enjoy murder?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Do you?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I am… sort of involved.”

“You decided to stay,” said Nachaev evenly. “That doesn’t give you free access to my soul.”

“Didn’t it mean anything to you – that I stayed?”

“Of course,” he smiled. “It meant that you won that round. You surprised me.”

“You shot the wrong person.”

“But with the right intention.”

“But a mistake like that – how can you sleep?”

“Look – I’ll tell you a story,” said Nachaev, sitting back. “Stories being the Russian bible.” He closed the door and leant against it. Helena, very alert to falsehood, could find none in his weary expression.

“There was a man who lived in my town,” he said, “His name was Nashooyav, perhaps a distant relative, I don’t know. This Nashooyav was a really bad man, there was no psychology; he had no motive, no aims and no methodology – he was just bad, clean through. He beat both his wives to death, disciplined his children with broken bottles, drank, whored and did everything he could to keep his reputation. One day, staggering back from a tavern, he was attacked by some men, mostly brothers of his – second wife I think it was. Being a bad drunk, he couldn’t be beaten; he killed one of them and drove the rest off. The one he had killed was the son of the local magistrate. But Nashooyav didn’t care – he went home and kept on drinking. The police showed up and shot him once or twice, but he escaped on a horse. Finally a government officer arrived and arrested my father,” he said, looking out the window at the streaming countryside. “Maybe because their names were similar, I don’t know. My father reached into his pocket to show his papers, but the officer thought he was going for a gun and shot him. You know – through the heart. My father was weaker than most Russians – one shot was enough to finish him. The point is that you have a few facts of this man’s life, but I knew everything about my father. So don’t try to get sympathy out of me for that animal who was happy to terrorize his fellow man for a few extra rubles a month. I don’t care if he had fifteen crippled children and a leper for a wife. Mistakes were made, yes – but they weren’t mine.”

“Sergei – you can’t blame everyone for your father,” said Helena.

Nachaev laughed. “It’s not so deep, sorry to disappoint. I didn’t like my father enough to avenge him. It’s purely philosophical.”

“You shoot people for ideas?”

“They have an idea that uniforms make them gods. I disagree. If they didn’t try to force agreement with guns, I wouldn’t have to disagree with guns. You and I disagree – do I shoot you?”

“Not yet,” she shivered.

“Don’t be stupid. You know I never would, or you’d never disagree with me. That’s what everyone fails to understand!” said Nachaev. “I am only fighting back. You go with them quietly, they take you to Siberia and shoot you. You don’t, and everyone thinks you are the violent one. Sometimes people are so blind I want to shoot them all!” He smiled. “It’s a joke.”

Helena stared at him for a long time. “I can’t decide who is more deeply disturbed – you or I.”

“That’s a game you’ve lost already. Neither. I don’t want to control others – and I don’t think you do either. These animals work for a system of centralized power, a system that only attracts unstable people as its leaders. Think of a government with almost no power – who’s going to want to run it? A lazy man – and that’s the mark of the perfect leader: laziness. You want to order people around, make the world a better place, you’re the last person who should get his hands on political power. What happens to those who disagree with the idealist? They must be wrong. To a moral idealist, they are both wrong and evil – why should they live? That’s what scares me. And that’s why I’m not an idealist.”

“You’d make a good lecturer, but a bad husband,” said Helena.

“Was I lecturing? Sorry.”

“You lecture like a guilty child. I think all human aspects of conversation seem beyond you.”

Nachaev sighed. “What are ‘human aspects of conversation’?”

“You never talk about yourself except to reinforce a political point. Because politics is your religion.”

Nachaev shrugged. “Why should I talk of myself alone? What’s interesting about me?”

“Ah, well, for one… You seem to fascinate Alexander.”

“That’s because I am who he claims to be, and it bothers him.”

“Claims to be – politically. You see?”

“Well he can’t rationally claim to be an unhappy orphan, and envy me for that.”

“You’re unhappy?”

“That’s your answer to whether I enjoy killing.”

Helena paused. “That’s human, at least.”

“I just can’t see the sense of spreading my unhappiness around,” said Nachaev with a shrug. “It’s personal.”

“Perhaps there are better ways to handle it than shooting people. Perhaps there are people who can help you,” said Helena quietly.

“That I don’t believe. I do what I have to do, and handle it alone.”

“But why must you do it alone?”

“Because no-one agrees with me. All they see is murder.”

“That’s not all I see.”

“That’s you.”

“Most people would ask what I see,” said Helena.

“Why? I know who I am.”

“Completely?”

“Yes – completely.”

“That knowledge makes you alone.”

“You and I talk a fair amount,” he said.

“But about what? Politics, men and women. Words. Never ourselves. Yet we have shared more than most lovers.”

“So? I don’t notice you turning yourself inside out for my benefit.”

“That’s because I can’t believe you’re interested.”

“Why? Because you’re not interesting?”

“No, because you are a stupid man. I’m fascinating. And so are you.”

“What makes you so interesting?”

“Everything I think. Everything I feel.”

“What do you feel?” asked Nachaev.

Helena frowned. “You would make a good interrogator.”

“This is what I don’t understand,” said Nachaev, shaking his head. “You complain that I don’t talk about myself, but when I ask you about yourself, you talk politics.”

“Perhaps because we are the same creature.”

“You have helped me murder,” murmured Nachaev.

Helena blanched. “Don’t say that.”

“What do you feel about that?”

She turned away. “Asking sounds so forced.”

“Then let’s speak of what comes naturally.”

“For you – politics and little else.”

“Then don’t let me dominate the conversation.”

“I speak naturally of what would come naturally to you – philosophy,” said Helena.

“That may take some thought.” Nachaev paused for a moment. “But you still put me in the dominant position.”

“You allow for nothing else!”

“I can’t allow you the dominant position. That would be a dominant act.”

“You know,” scowled Helena, “we talk a lot about talking. It’s quite pointless.”

“What would you have me do?”

“What I could never ask you to do.”

“Order me then.”

“No,” said Helena. “You’d shoot me.”

“Of course I would,” said Nachaev, sitting down. “Tell me then – what are you going to do in England?”

“You really want to know?”

“I really do.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh. Well that was fun.”

“That’s it? You don’t want to explore further?”

“Only with you as my guide.”

“All right then. Shut up and listen. When I get to England, I shall be a society lady.”

“Really?”

“Really. I will be the queen of the social circuit. I will be beautifully, mysteriously foreign and the object of much lust among rich young males.”

“Why?”

“So every time some dashing young prince begs me to marry him, I can say that my heart belongs to another.”

“Is that true?”

“It had better be. Otherwise it won’t be any fun.”

“A professional rejecter? That’s your ambition?”

“I think that when I have rejected a hundred men, I will be ready to surrender to one.”

“Who will that be?”

“Whoever is the hundred and first.”

“I’d better keep count then. But why a hundred?”

“Because men are so insensitive.”

Nachaev shook his head. “You’re surprising me again.”

Helena smiled. “At university no-one asked me to the graduation ball,” she said, “so I was reduced to asking two men to accompany me. They both refused. It was unheard of to go alone, so I finally had to get Gregory to come along. I spent all day trying to make him look good, but it was no use. I turned up with a dishrag on my arm. The two men who refused me were also alone. That was especially humiliating. I had planned to revenge myself on Russian men, but English men will do. Two men rejected me, men are about fifty times less sensitive: that makes a hundred men who must pay.”

“Seems to me that you are making the mistake you accuse me of,” commented Nachaev.

“What’s that?”

“Acting on the premise of collective guilt.”

She sighed. “I knew we’d come back to philosophy.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it? But there is one flaw to your scheme.”

“Oh?”

“What if – god forbid – rich young English men don’t fawn all over you?”

“Trust me. If they know I want to reject them, I’ll have to beat them off with a stick. Supply and demand. My father taught me that.”

“You think they’ll be as masochistic as Russian men?”

“I went to the same university for three years,” said Helena, “I was an ugly child, so I was very insecure about my attractiveness. I needed proof. It’s a horrible world, isn’t it – if you need self-respect everyone runs from you, and if you have it, everyone tries to force it on you.”

“Philosophy,” noted Nachaev.

“Excuse me. The point is that I slept with a few men. To get a man to go to lunch was impossible, unless it was a very, very liberal restaurant.” Helena laughed. “Anyway, now that I have self-respect, I can start with a clean slate and have all the men at my feet. All any ugly child wants is a chance to start afresh, with all the richness of personality that homeliness breeds on full display. Ugliness gives you depth, but not if those who knew you as ugly are still around. You grow beautiful sideways, but they only look at you frontwards.”

“So England is to be sort of a turning point?” asked Nachaev with a grin.

“Very good. But what about you? Were you an attractive child?”

“I don’t know. Girls always bored me, so I never really got a chance to find out.”

“And when you look in the mirror now, what do you think?”

“Usually that the mirror needs cleaning.”

“Come on now – be serious.”

“Seriously I think I look like an ape,” said Nachaev. “It’s always given me a certain confidence.”

Helena laughed. “Really?”

“Well, it was hard to believe I was made in God’s image, so Christianity never held much appeal. When I was in school, I used to sit at the back, thrust out my lower jaw like this, and peer up through my eyelashes. It made me feel incredibly stupid, but very elemental.”

“It does make you look stupid,” agreed Helena, “But the elemental part escapes me.”

“You’re not the only one. I was held back a year because they thought I was deranged. Still, I was very popular in games. When we would play tag, I would always be ‘it’, and I’d growl around with my knuckles dragging on the ground and chase the other children up the trees.”

“And if you caught one?”

Nachaev smiled. “I ate him. Or her.”

“Did you have a sweetheart?”

“A what?”

“Don’t be stupid. Did you have a sweetheart?”

“Us jungle lords don’t have sweethearts. We only mate for life.”

“You’ve never – gone out with a woman?”

“My friends used to bother me about that. I didn’t go out with women because none of them attracted me. They called me a fool. But I watched them date these awful men for the sake of ‘experience’, put themselves through hell, and I thought – that kind of experience I can get with the revolution, so that became my mate.”

“Ahah!” cried Helena. “I knew it was a substitute.”

“For me it is Russia, for you it is men. Revenge is revenge,” said Nachaev. “You can’t pretend superiority.”

“Tell me – do you think opposites attract?”

“Opposites attract and detonate. Similarities repel and circle. That’s about it.”

“And you and I?”

“You and I are in a separate category. We are intellectuals. We fascinate and analyze.”

“What does that make us?”

“Similar in long-windedness.”

“I see.”

Nachaev rose. “We would have been great as brother and sister.”

“That’s all?”

“That depends on your level of religion.”

“Why?”

“Because it is Christianity that forbids incest,” he smiled.

Helena shuddered, then caught herself. “That’s disgusting.”

“I hope not after you’ve had a hundred men under your skirts – feet I mean.”

“You’re ill.”

“And it’s catching,” grinned Nachaev. “Come on, let’s get out of this compartment. It stinks.”

Helena’s face fell suddenly, and she shivered. The officer’s face flashed in front of her mind, and she almost gagged. Nachaev stood in the doorway, extending his hand. She looked carefully at it, but it was clean. When Nachaev motioned to her, she hesitated.

“Come on,” he said softly. “It’s not all memory.”

She attempted a smile, and it came. Raising her hand, she let it be enfolded by his.

While this odd conversation was occurring, Ilyavich and Herzen were testing their friendship. They stood in an alcove between cars and shouted over the roar of the train’s wheels.

“I will have nothing more to do with him!” cried Ilyavich.

“But he is the reason for our journey,” replied Herzen.

“You are developing an unhealthy obsession, Alexander. I will allow neither myself nor my family to be sucked into it.”

“You were quite happy to leave your daughter behind.”

“She cannot be argued with. But I can remove her from the source of the problem – that insane young man!”

“That insane young man was trying to save us,” pointed out Herzen.

“Nonetheless, I don’t want my daughter spending any more time with him.”

“Do you think you can argue her out of that?”

“I don’t intend to try. I want us to leave Nachaev behind in Poland!”

“Ilyavich – that will never do. I want to introduce him to some people in England!”

“Why? So he can kill them?”

“That’s not all he does.”

“Right – he also breaks my croquet mallets.”

“You’re being stupid!”

“But not blind. What is the matter with you? He is a common criminal!”

Herzen shook his head. “Common criminals work for gain. What has he gained?”

“Your respect, which is the most disgusting part.”

“If he was a salesman, and drove people to distraction to get them to buy his goods, you would respect him. You might disagree with his methods, but you would applaud his success.”

“I was a success without being a criminal. You were too. What the hell happened to your pacifism?” shouted Ilyavich.

“What has it achieved?”

“Peace of mind, Alexander. And independence. I never thought I would see the day when you would bow to a terrorist!”

“I have bowed to them in uniform all my life. Sergei shows me a way up!”

“Yes, over a mountain of corpses! Take care you don’t join them.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“Am I? Now, he has something to gain. What will change when he doesn’t?”

“That will never happen – he has too much to learn.”

“Oh? And what have you taught him?” demanded Ilyavich.

“That he must act under my direction to achieve anything.”

“Was he acting under your direction this afternoon?”

“I wasn’t there!”

“That’s my point, you old fool! You will never be there! You’re a pacifist, for god’s sake!”

“Not any more.”

“Then what are you?”

“A realist who sees that pacifism will always lose to aggression.”

“He is aggressive! What makes you think you can beat him?”

“I don’t want to beat him! I want to guide him!” cried Herzen.

“Has he accepted any guidance?”

“No-one will be trying to kill him in England – or me. For heaven’s sake, Ilyavich! – he saved my life when I was being interrogated!”

“And now he has involved my daughter in a murder. Two!” shouted Ilyavich, leaning into a turn of the train, his face red.

“But if he had been right, he would have saved us too.”

“Are we so valuable that we rate corpses?”

“Yes! – if all we are trying to do is leave peacefully!”

“That man will bring violence wherever he goes. That’s all he has to sell!”

“For the moment, that’s true. But what about the future? You know, I want to leave my writings to him. I will remake my will; I will show him…”

“Your will! Are you willing to take that chance? You have a daughter, remember?”

“I have two! That’s why I’m doing all this!”

“I thought it was for Nachaev.”

“It’s for what he represents.”

“Murder?”

“Change! That’s what we all so desperately need!”

“Alexander – listen to me! I’ve survived on my instincts for sixty-four years. And every instinct I possess tells me that that madman cannot be guided.”

“I too have my instincts, Ivan!”

“You are obsessed!”

“I am not obsessed!” shouted Herzen. “I bow to your business sense. But this is the revolution. My instincts count here!”

“He’s not interested in your stupid rebellion! It’s just an excuse for violence! He as easily have ended up on the other side!”

“Then why didn’t he?”

“Who knows?”

“If you can’t give me any reasons, how can I accept your arguments?”

“Alexander! This is not a debate! This is life and death!” cried Ilyavich.

“I am fully aware of that – more than you, I think. But this is my territory!”

“I can’t argue with you anymore,” rasped Ilyavich. “My voice is giving out. But I tell you one thing: either he goes, or I do.”

“If you can prove to me that he is only interested in violence before we get to England, I will leave him behind,” said Herzen. “But not before.”

“All right – but if I can’t, or if you won’t believe me, then I leave anyway!”

“You’re being irrational!”

“As you like. But I’m not wrong.”

“If you’re not, then we travel on together. I already agreed to that!” cried Herzen.

Ilyavich looked into his friend’s eyes. Alexander held his ground, returning the gaze. He put his hand on the old merchant’s arm, but Ilyavich shrugged it off and, shaking his head, turned and walked unsteadily up the swaying corridor.

Herzen leaned against the shaking wall. His eyes closed, and he felt dizzy.

“Please, Sergei…” he murmured. “Don’t be stupid.”

The roar of the train swallowed up his words, and after a time he straightened and, sick at heart, went to rejoin the others.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE: The Prodigal Daughter Questions Indecision

She was waiting for them on the platform at Peskavy.

“Natasha!” cried Natalie, waving frantically from the window. Nachaev pressed against her, peering at the thickset figure approaching. Natasha raised a hand and pumped it back and forth energetically, a tight smile on her face. She had two shabby suitcases next to her; her hair was tied back, her dress simple, almost coarse.

When Natalie disembarked, Natasha came up and gave her a tight hug. “Still traveling in white I see,” she said. “Why?”

“Oh, Natasha – it’s good to see you! How have you been?”

“Rudely yanked from my studies is how I’ve been! Father!” she cried and strode over to Herzen. “Let me take those,” she said, yanking the suitcases from his hands. “Any more?”

“You’re looking well, Natasha,” said Herzen.

“My ruddiness is just surprise at your melodramatic summons. So where is this witch-doctor?” she asked, scanning around. “Ah,” she said as Nachaev came down the stairs. “This must be him.”

Nachaev put down his little bag, holding her eyes for a moment, then nodded.

“So quiet? I imagined you’d have more to say to me, if only to explain why I had to leave school before my finals,” said Natasha.

“No,” said Nachaev, turning his back on her and reaching out to help Ilyavich down the stairs. The old man refused his arm with a savage shake of his head.

“No?” echoed Natasha, looking around. “He says ‘no’ to me? Who does he think he is?”

Helena was the last to descend. Natasha caught sight of her and beamed.

“Helena! Good God! What are you doing here?”

“Natasha!” They embraced. “You’ve gotten so fat!”

“I had to – I bought clothes from a fat girl,” said Natasha with a bright laugh. “But why are you looking so thin?”

“I am not thin.”

“And sleep – have you been sleeping?”

“I’ve just had a long train ride – you can’t expect me to look like a daisy.”

“Still, it’s good to see you. Now,” said Natasha, “Who is going to fill me in on the real reason for this mass exodus?”

“Let’s find a place to eat,” said Herzen, “Then we’ll make everything clear.”

“You’d better,” smiled Natasha. “I saw a place coming in, just down the road. That will do.”

“What’s it like?” asked Gregory, tagging along unheard.

To take a break from the telling of an already-familiar story, let us see Natasha as she would describe herself sitting in the cheap café: efficient, friendly, unafraid of speaking her mind. It would be easy to get more information from her, since she always describes herself with the openness of a two-colour brochure. She would say that she is quick to anger, but equally quick to forgive. She is unaffected by appearances, contemptuous of softness and resides on the planet to make a name for herself. She despises patriarchy, yet terms her father a friend. A deadly foe of falseness, she prides herself on her ability to root it out. She is full of advice, but not sympathy. She believes men do not know how to take her, and enjoys giving them the wrong impression.

To others, Natasha is rather plain, but has a rolling-barrel sort of energy that lends appeal to her earthiness. She never wears makeup, and keeps her brown hair tied back. Her face is round, full-cheeked, and expressions cross it seemingly without conscious control. She has freckles across her stubby nose, and a fondness for animals. Her favourite season is winter. She is twenty three years old, and has little patience with her sister, though claims to love her passionately. She is equally popular with men and women, though a special friend to few if any. She never writes letters, and hates the term ‘lady’. In short, she believes herself to be a combination of the best of both sexes.

When they had seated themselves in the café, Natasha wasted no time in demanding the facts. Nachaev, claiming a lack of hunger, had gone for a walk with Gregory. Ilyavich had gone with Helena to find some horses for the trek to the border.

“But what I don’t understand,” said Natasha when Herzen had finished his story, “is why on earth we have to uproot ourselves and travel halfway across the world for the sake of one man who seems more than a little confused himself.”

Herzen sighed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. And I don’t relish the thought of having yet another person around who questions my judgment.”

“Your judgment would never be questioned if it only affected yourself,” retorted Natasha, “You have dragged me from my studies – I have a right to know!”

“What is it that is so unclear?”

“From what you’ve said, this Nachaev appears out of the blue, reminds you of your age, and suddenly you are willing to follow him to the ends of the earth.”

“Why doesn’t anyone understand?” cried Herzen, “This is not a mid-life crisis. I’m too old for that. I have my life’s work, which granted has never evoked much sympathy from my family – or anyone else for that matter – and here I see that it has some chance of being fulfilled – why is it that none of you can grasp how much that means to me?”

“It’s because you don’t have a son, isn’t it?” asked Natasha.

“Don’t start with that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? You want to pass on the mantle, and neither Natalie nor I are man enough to take it.”

“Would you take it if I offered?”

“You would never ask, because for you the revolution is one big penis.”

Herzen’s cheeks reddened. “You will not talk to me that way!”

“All right,” she shrugged, “in easier terms: the revolution is a man’s job, isn’t it?”

“That’s not true at all, and you know it. If you or Natalie were to actually say yes, I would never place my bets on someone like Nachaev. But you haven’t, so I have to go to outsiders.”

“What you really mean is that the revolution is more important to you than your family.”

“I have never denied that.”

“That is what aggravates me!” snapped Natasha, “You act as if you lived in some kind of vacuum. What about me? What about Natalie? We have our own lives. Well – I do.”

“If you want to be aggravated, that is your business. But what I’m trying to do – what I have spent my whole life trying to do – is to bring about a system where that doesn’t have to be a conflict. If my leaving wouldn’t have threatened your existence, there would be no reason for you to be here. But it does, that is the plain truth, and I am genuinely sorry that it does. But that is part of what I’m fighting against.”

“What if I don’t agree with the fight?”

“Then I’m sorry for that too.”

“Natalie?” said Natasha, turning suddenly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“Why are you sitting here like you have no interest in the matter?”

“Don’t go attacking her,” warned Herzen.

“No – I’m really interested. You’re not uninvolved, you know.”

“I know that,” said Natalie.

“Well what do you think then?”

“I support father.”

Natasha blinked. “That’s all? What about what you want?”

“That’s want I want.”

“You’re entirely too accommodating.”

“And you fighting about it – what is that achieving?” demanded Natalie.

“It’s achieving some form of protest.”

“But it’s not going to change anything. You can’t go back to school, Nachaev or no Nachaev.”

“Oh, and you enjoy that, don’t you?”

“Come on!” cried Herzen. “We haven’t seen each other for months – let’s not bicker.”

“All right,” agreed Natasha. “No bickering. But I do want to know what Natalie thinks. What do you think of what this boy has done?”

“I don’t agree with all of it,” admitted Natalie.

“Hallelujah! What don’t you agree with?”

“I think he’s too violent.”

“Yes, good – go on.”

“But I also see father’s point. I’ve seen a lot more revolutionaries than you, Natasha, and Nachaev has more direction than most.”

“Thank you,” said Herzen gratefully.

“But I also see Natasha’s point,” continued Natalie. “This trip is a rather extreme way of showing your support.”

“Sometimes I wish you two had been interrogated once or twice,” said Herzen, rubbing his eyes. “Then you’d understand.”

“Father,” said Natasha, “I understand that for a man these things are very humiliating. But they were only a few moments out of your life.”

“Perhaps, but they tend to define your whole existence.”

“Only if you let them.”

“How would you know?” he demanded. “You weren’t there. What if you’d been raped only once or twice? A few moments out of your whole life, but what effect would that be overall?”

“I’m not sure that it would have me fleeing the country,” said Natasha.

“Not even to stop the rape of others?” demanded her father.

“Perhaps,” she said. She thought for a moment. “What it comes down to, I think, is whether or not trailing Nachaev the length of the free world will change anything.”

“I think it will,” said Herzen firmly. “Waiter – can we have some more coffee?” He looked across the table at his two daughters, and suddenly his voice thickened and his eyes filled with tears. “It’s hard for me to explain without getting emotional,” he said, “but I look across the world and see this revolution of ours failing at every turn. No-one seems willing to take the necessary risks. We talk and we talk, but the powers that be remain the powers that be. Everything is in place, it just needs one spark to start the whole mass up. Nachaev is that spark. I know he’s not a great thinker. I know he’s too violent. I know I’m placing myself in danger. I know I’m acting like a disciple – I know all that. But I also believe that, given the right circumstances, he could be a catalyst for real change, and my life seems sort of insignificant in the face of that kind of opportunity. And, I’m sorry to admit, so does your university career.” Herzen put his hand on Natasha’s and gazed into her eyes. “Please – you can either try to understand that, or you can fight me at every step. But one thing is certain – you will never change my mind.”

“So,” sighed Natasha. “That’s the way it is?”

“It is.”

“Well,” she said with a grin. “If it was your deathbed request, I would have to obey. If you ask me now, your last will had better leave me in peace.”

“It is my final request,” said Herzen softly.

“Then I obey,” replied Natasha, squeezing his hand. “On one condition.”

“Here we go.”

“I’m going to corner this man, and I’m going to grill him, and if I’m satisfied that you are right – or even if I have any doubts that you are wrong, then I’m with you one hundred and ten percent. Does that sound fair?”

“I don’t doubt that you’ll be satisfied.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sorry I was so irritable. To both of you,” said Natasha, patting both their hands. “Now, to move family talk to more amicable grounds, what have you been up to since we last talked, Natalie?”

“Well,” stammered Natalie, blinking. “I was trying to fix up the house, you know, make it more pleasant for father. I worked the garden into some kind of shape.”

“This was the garden Nachaev repaired?”

“Yes. It was destroyed by a storm.”

“What else?”

“Well, I have been helping father with his papers, as usual. And – I’ve also been discovering a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

“That, well, I’m not satisfied with what I have.”

“Oh? That sounds promising.”

“And – that I want to go to England.”

“Was that a discovery, or just a recognition of the inevitable?” laughed Natasha, glancing at Herzen.

“No,” said Natalie earnestly, “I really want to go. Since I found out I wasn’t such a – terribly good scholar, I’ve been trying to find my feet.”

“And it helped being in the country, or not?”

“No – I think it did.”

“How so?”

“It gave me time to think.”

“What about?”

“Where – I wanted to go.”

“And where is that? – come on, Natalie, don’t make me pull teeth!”

“I want to try other things. In England. It’s a beautiful country. Meet people.”

“Find a man?”

“That wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“I’ve heard that English men are a little – what – oversensitive?”

“That would be all right.”

“Yes, I suppose so. So – you’ve discovered that your ambition is to go to England?”

“It doesn’t sound like much, I know.”

“Well, it’s something,” shrugged Natasha.

“What will you do when you get there?” asked Natalie.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to work at a newspaper. Be a reporter, that sort of thing. Editorials. Talk with some suffragettes, see what they have to say. Shake up some stodgy strata. There are a million possibilities.”

“They’ll rue the day I brought my daughters ashore,” grinned Herzen. “I’ll never be allowed in any clubs.”

“For a revolutionary, that should be a happy outcome,” said Natasha.

“It would be interesting to try and blend the two, don’t you think?”

“What – the woman’s movement and revolution?”

“Sure. They do have a lot in common.”

Natasha pursed her lips. “Not really.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Hell no. Women recognize that there will always be a pie – all they want is their fair share. You think the pie can be changed into something else. Totally different ends.”

“But the means?” challenged Herzen. “Don’t you think a certain amount of destruction is involved in both?”

“It’s not about destruction – it’s about distribution. What’s that line in ‘Lear’? ‘That distribution should undo excess, and each man – and woman – have enough'. But he was talking about food – I’m talking about power. Power will always exist, it just has to be shared. That’s what I’m interested in. Besides, your revolution requires anarchy, and women are still physically weaker than men – what chance would we have?”

“No, no…” cried Herzen, sitting up and waving his hands excitedly.

As the debate heated up, Natalie stirred her coffee miserably, wondering just what it was she was doing on the planet.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR: Predator Meets Predator

As they pressed on through the night, Nachaev sat on his horse, only a trifle less uncomfortably than formerly. It was a full moon, cloudless, and Gregory, who claimed to have a flawless sense of direction, led them on towards the border, promising that the fifty-odd miles could be covered by the following evening. Bereft of the need for sleep after their day’s dozing, they marched on without fatigue.

A little after midnight, Nachaev saw a horse slowing down to accompany him. He saw Natasha’s bulky form outlined against the stars, and allowed himself a broad smile. Hidden by night, he had little fear of discovery.

“Well, Mr. Nachaev,” she said as she approached, “Having a pleasant ride?”

“As pleasant as the company,” he said, “And so now, very pleasant indeed.”

“Well, aren’t we the polite one?”

“I wish I were,” he said. “To be polite to you would be the best way of getting under your skin.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you enjoy that.” Natasha turned her horse and rode beside him. “Now, shove all that aside,” she said, “I think you owe me an explanation or two.”

“I certainly do. But, politeness returned, I want to apologize to you for being rude at the train station.”

“Were you rude?”

“I should have answered your question a little more directly. But you threw me off.”

“Who me?”

“I am used to dealing with a different kind of woman.”

“That’s understandable,” smiled Natasha. “But don’t try changing the subject.”

“Sorry.”

“Good. Now tell me what it is exactly that you have done to my family.”

Nachaev scratched his head. “Other than being myself?”

“I won’t stand for any more evasions,” said Natasha sharply.

“Then you must be more specific in your questions.”

Natasha leaned up in her saddle. “We’re just dropping back a little!” she hissed, motioning for Nachaev to slow down.

When the distance had grown, she edged her horse closer to his. “You have done something bizarre to my father,” she murmured, “and I don’t think you are fool enough not to know what.”

“All right – at the risk of sounding trite: I have given him his dream,” replied Nachaev.

“Yes, that is trite,” agreed Natasha. “But potent.”

“Your father has devoted his life to his ideals. I don’t represent them – we both know that – but do I represent the chance to attain them. That is where, if you like, my power lies.”

“Then you admit to manipulation?”

“I admit to knowledge. That is all.”

Natasha frowned. “You said you represent the chance. Does that mean it’s a lie?”

“You asked me for Herzen’s reaction, not the truth.”

“All you are doing is raising my suspicions,” warned Natasha.

“That’s what I intend. I feel more comfortable with suspicion.”

“You are intelligent, and you have a lot to gain from my father. Are you telling me you have no plans at all?”

“I have desires, of course. But plans? No.”

“And what are your desires?”

Nachaev grinned. “At the moment, to stay on this horse.”

“I will get very angry if you evade once more,” warned Natasha.

He shrugged. “Well then, in regards to your father, my plan is to do as I have always done. To seek out power and destroy it utterly.”

“That act will give you power. Are you counting yourself in your list of enemies?” asked Natasha.

“Of course. To create a world that throws me in jail is my only honest desire.”

“That would be achieved in Russia.”

“That throws me in jail along with the other criminals, I mean. Not with men like your father.”

“So you admit to being a criminal.”

“But with a heart of gold.”

“No jokes,” warned Natasha.

“I am a saintly thief with his knife pointed in the right direction. But all I am is a knife. When there is no right direction, I must be destroyed.”

“And in England? What do you plan to do there?”

“That was Alexander’s idea.”

“How many right directions are there in England?”

“Are you serious?” asked Nachaev.

“I want to know.”

“Well, there are kings and queens, people starving in the street, men who work their whole lives to die in the poorhouse, taxation, women without hope, priests without faith, priests with faith, churches in general, aristocracy, snake-oil salesmen, mystics, soldiers, servants, justices of the peace, hangings for poaching, stupid ceremonies, standing armies, navies, secret treaties, alliances, diplomacy period…” He paused. “Need more, or is that enough?”

“And you want to destroy all that?”

“I do.”

She snorted. “You are one man!”

“I know. Sometimes it troubles me, all that honour… I hope my statue is never on a horse.”

“Some people work their whole lives for change that will never happen in their lifetimes,” said Natasha.

“I am not that patient. Neither is your father,” replied Nachaev.

“I think that is blind, foolish, and horribly egotistical.”

“Then you will never see change in your lifetime. Except as a result of those who don’t think so,” said the young man. “Look at the Church. There is an institution that has people bending over backwards for something that doesn’t even exist. Why? So people will be content with oppression. All it takes is for a strong man to point out that oppression is not a necessity, and all their lies will go up in flames – along with them. All people have a hunger for freedom. Now they look for it after death. What if someone says: it’s yours to take in life? What then?”

Natasha shrugged. “Then, people will kill you for destroying their illusions.”

Nachaev shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Who wants to be free? It’s an abstract concept. Look at me – I took Greek. Why? I don’t want to learn Greek. But if I want my degree, I have to. Those are the rules. I know it’s not going to help me, but I need that degree.”

“Yet you give it up to be with your father.”

She shook her head. “I gave up arrest to be with my father.”

“The opposite of freedom. Don’t tell me you don’t want to be free,” said Nachaev. “Wouldn’t the ideal be to have your father stay and finish your degree?”

“Of course, but…”

“But nothing. If you fail your ideals, you are dead whether you know it or not. Freedom is not options: it is choice.”

“The choice to murder? Stop me if I’m getting too personal.”

“If people get in the way of my free choices, they deserve to die. I will allow nothing to stand between my ideals and myself.”

“But you don’t seem to have any ideals.”

“My ideal is the destruction needed to allow for ideals. At some point.”

“But if your ideal is destruction, you must have resistance to ideals, or you will have nothing to destroy. What happens when you destroy everything?”

“Then I go to jail a content man,” said Nachaev.

The silence around them was heightened by the following pause.

“It all seems quite clear, except that a lot of people will have to die,” said Natasha finally.

“There are a lot of bastards in the world. And bitches,” commented Nachaev, patting his horse.

“And are you sure you can fight them all?”

“Fight, yes. Win, I don’t know. But I’d hate myself if I didn’t try.”

They rode in silence. An owl hooted softly in the trees, then stopped, startled. They saw it flying off, outlined against the moon.

“You know, everyone is attacking my father for siding with you,” said Natasha.

“I know. And I think you’re all stupid for doing so.”

“Why? He’s not going to change his mind.”

“Of course not. That’s why you’re stupid. If you really wanted to fight me, you’d agree with him.”

“What?”

“Come on! The man’s been a revolutionary his whole life. Opposition determines his direction. There – that’s my gift to you. The means to evict me from his heart.”

“I could choose to use it,” she said. “That’s why I’m talking with you now.”

“I didn’t think it was because you were bored. I’m not at all interesting.”

“I told my father that if I doubted you, I would support him. He trusts his instincts,” said Natasha. “And I trust mine.”

“And what do they tell you?”

“That there is a lot of falsehood about you – don’t ask me what, I’m not about to tell you. But there is also some truth. You are interesting to talk to, for a man, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I know a little of your past, I would dismiss you as an idle windbag.”

“I am a terrible windbag, but I’m not idle,” said Nachaev. “My main flaw is that I talk too much.”

“Your main flaw is that you interrupt too much!” cried Natasha. “Now let me finish. I don’t like you, because you are glib. I don’t trust you, because you won’t say what’s on your mind. I fear for my father, I fear for my sister, and I see I’m going to have to talk Helena out of a pretty serious infatuation, but the bottom line is that I am bound to keep my word. I will accept your presence for the time being. But if you step one toe out of line, I will take your advice about my father, and that will be the end of you.”

“Are you finished? Can I interrupt now?” asked Nachaev.

“You’re not going to make this easy on yourself, are you?”

“That’s not my habit. Since it’s my turn, I will tell you one more thing about your father, something that will doubtless rankle your tender little heart. He does not share your enlightened views about women. He is proud of his children, but regrets that they are daughters. Aside from all our revolutionary connections, that is a fundamental need I fulfill in him.”

“Even if that were true, why tell me? And in that tone? I will only make better use of it when the time comes.”

“Because, contrary to what you think, I sometimes do say what’s on my mind, and I am more than a little tired of everyone regarding me as some kind of parasite,” replied Nachaev, his eyes narrowing. “I do bring some value to people around me, and if you disagree, you have no choice but to think your father a fool. And if you think everything between us is political, then you are also a fool. I see a value in Alexander that none of you do. I recognize what he has done with his life. I also recognize that he is a man capable of making his own decisions, not some doddering idiot that needs his family and friends to protect him from nasty old me. I have saved his life in more ways than one, and if you don’t see the value of that, you do him more of a disservice than you do me, because you hold his life in little worth. Don’t interrupt! I’m also tired of pulling everyone’s fat from the fire and receiving nothing but scorn in return. What happened on the train, that was a mistake, but I was not alone in making it, yet because I acted on it instead of hiding in the woods, I am condemned. So basically, you can do what you like with me, but you’d better learn – and quickly – that Alexander Herzen has his own mind, and may get very angry at your meddling. Disregard that and you may lose us both – to your everlasting regret!”

With these words, Nachaev spurred his horse forward and, with considerable finesse, galloped off towards the others. Natasha watched him go with strong but mixed feelings. When he had disappeared, she suddenly realized that she was not sure of the direction that they were going. With a shudder of fear, she suddenly spurred her horse on after Nachaev’s trail.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE: A Consummation at the Border

“All right, we can see the border from here,” said Herzen, peering through the bushes at a wide darkening meadow. “Sergei!”

“Yes, sir?”

“No more shooting.”

“Yes sir.”

“I knew I’d get us here,” said Gregory, lying flat on his belly. “I have perfect direction. When I was four – remember father? You lost me in the woods and…”

“Where exactly is the border?” asked Natasha.

“Somewhere in the next mile or so,” said Ilyavich.

“How can you tell?”

“I’m a businessman,” he said. “I can smell custom officials.”

“Can we eat before we go?” asked Gregory.

“I don’t see why not,” replied Herzen. “But we’d better turn the horses loose now, so they don’t follow us.”

“Turn them loose?” asked Natasha sharply. “Why?”

“They’ll make too much noise.”

“But – in the middle of nowhere? They’ll die!”

Her father sighed, remembering a broken-winged bird of many years past. “Well, it’s them or us, Natasha.”

“Where will they go?”

“Horsie altruist heaven,” muttered Nachaev.

“What did you say?” demanded Natasha.

“You’re paying too much attention to the damn horses!” he said. “We’ll buy some more in Poland, and treat them real nicely.”

“I think that’s very rude, having no consideration for horses,” she snapped.

“Why don’t you stay with them then?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the choice, isn’t it?”

“You’re refusing even to consider a more humane solution!” cried Natasha.

“Natasha – are you here? We’re at the border, remember? This is where people get shot.”

“That must make you feel at home,” replied Natasha.

“All right, all right,” said Herzen. “Please, Natasha – I’ll take the moral crime.”

“It just makes me angry that we’re so complacent about them!” she said resentfully.

“I understand,” said the old man, “And in less extreme circumstances, I’d feel as you do, but here we have to think of ourselves.”

Natalie nodded curtly and withdrew into angry silence. Nachaev blew heavily through his lips, then laughed.

They broke out the food, and sat eating in a silence broken only by the odd slap and curse as yet another mosquito met its maker. With each crack, Natasha’s cheeks grew redder.

“What,” said Ilyavich between his food, “do the ladies have in the way of jewelry?”

“Why?” asked Helena.

“Well,” he said, swallowing noisily, “we’ll have to buy more horses to get us to the nearest town. They won’t take rubles. I have a watch that should get us two. What have you got?”

Helena shrugged.

“I don’t wear jewelry,” said Natasha.

“Natalie?”

“Um – a pendant. Father gave it too me.”

“That’s all right,” said Herzen.

“Let’s see,” said Ilyavich, extending his hand. “Mmm – that should do for another one. Sorry. We only have enough for three. We still need another three.”

“I can ride with someone,” said Natalie quickly. “I’m not too heavy.”

“All right – two. We’re still short.”

Nachaev stood. “I have something,” he said, walking over to his horse and retrieving a bag. “It should be enough for what we need, given that we’re so close to the border.”

“What is it?”

“My most prized possessions,” he said, tossing the bag in Ilyavich’s lap. “Some think.”

Ilyavich opened the bag, and drew out two shining pistols. He held them by thumb and forefinger. “These are what you used on the train?”

“The same.”

“That’s my boy,” murmured Herzen.

“And you’re willing to part with them?” asked Ilyavich.

“Of course,” said Nachaev, smiling at Natasha. “We’re leaving Russia, aren’t we?”

“Well… that’s very generous of you,” scowled Ilyavich.

“I’m off to set the horses free,” said Nachaev, “So you’re all free to discuss my latest move.” He walked off humming, his hands thrust in his pockets.

Granted permission, they found themselves unable to talk. Herzen glanced at Ilyavich, Ilyavich at Gregory, and Helena favoured Natasha with a triumphant gaze. Natalie stared at the ground, her hand at her heart where her pendant had hung.

After night had fallen, they all crept down the far side of the hill, their hearts pounding in their throats. The reality – and danger – of leaving the land of their birth was only now becoming real. Traveling through Russia was dangerous enough, but now they were in the strip of land where shots replaced interrogation and the only uniform the sentries valued was darkness. Nachaev and Gregory took the lead, followed by the women, and Herzen and Ilyavich crept along in the rear. They all strained their eyes and ears for movement, but the cloudy night reduced all but the treetops to absolute pitch. Their pace was excruciatingly slow, each one of them probing ahead with their feet for the fateful twig that could betray them all.

Nachaev finally stood on the road itself. Ignoring Gregory’s tweaking at his elbow, he stood up straight and turned to look at the low hills they had left. He gazed for a long time at his last view of Russia. The future held games utterly beyond his experience, and part of his secret heart longed to return to the jungle he knew. Europe held the possibility of growing old comfortably – something he could neither imagine or desire. His seeming wisdom would be called paranoia, and he would be faced with the strenuous task of unthreatened argument. The English, he thought contemptuously, what do they know of weapons? He saw Natalie’s dark shape edging towards the road, and smiled. At least I will be taking part of home with me, he thought, feeling a dark comfort settle over his fears.

Whether the sentries were asleep, or whether they even guarded this section of the road, they never knew. Nachaev, aware of the danger, clapped his hand over Gregory’s mouth just before he gave vent to an exuberant whoop.

“No sound, idiot!” he hissed.

“But we’re free!” whispered Gregory’s muffled voice. “Just like you said!” He tore himself away and began dancing around in the dark.

Nachaev restrained himself and waited until the others caught up.

“We’d do more damage floundering out here in the dark,” he said softly. “We’re out of sight of the road – I suggest we sleep here until morning.”

“I second that,” said Herzen’s exhausted voice.

“I’ll stay up just in case,” offered the revolutionary.

“Where’s Gregory?” asked Ilyavich.

“Off gallivanting around.”

“Oh for God’s sake! Gregory!” hissed the old merchant.

“Yes father?”

“Come here and stop acting like an idiot.”

“But I’m happy, father!”

Ilyavich’s hands itched for daylight, for a clear target. “Just settle down,” he hissed.

Natalie smoothed her dress, looking at Nachaev. “Are you sure you’re not tired?”

“Not too tired,” yawned Nachaev. “But I could use some company to stay awake. How about you?”

“I’m all right,” she said, smiling invisibly.

The others settled down in the grass, and Natalie and Nachaev stood close together, listening to the night. It was a long time before they spoke.

“You have done a wonderful thing,” she said softly.

Nachaev stood silently, sifting the quiet. “Is that an apology?”

“I don’t claim to understand you… Perhaps some of the things you said came from frustration, but I still think you are better than you say.” She paused. “I suppose it’s an apology.”

“Well – thank you.”

“I’m happy that you wanted me to stay up with you,” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s the worst thing; I still enjoy your company.”

“We haven’t talked in a long time,” said Nachaev, “but it all began with you – remember that day in the garden when I first arrived?”

“I feel I’ve lived a thousand years since then…”

“We all have.”

“But in different ways. You know, I’ve felt a little like a spectator throughout this whole affair.”

Nachaev paused just long enough to deny comfort. “Maybe that’s what you’re best at,” he said finally.

“It’s not such a consolation. You know, I felt we had something between us when it was just us two – not anything romantic of course, but that we somehow understood each other. But since Helena and now Natasha are here, that all seems gone.”

“What do you mean?”

Natalie shrugged and looked away. “You know I can’t compete with them.”

“What is the competition?”

“For – you. You are the center of everything, and I’ve never been too good in the spotlight.”

“You know, that you can say things like that,” said Nachaev, “without being flippant, makes you very appealing – not romantically, of course.”

Natalie shivered. “Oh I know we could never be – romantic, you and I,” she said, “but I’d like to think I could evoke that in – some way. I think I was born an old maid.”

“What would romance do for you?”

“I’m more of a dreamer. But I have nothing to dream about,” said Natalie softly.

“From their writing, I’d imagine that Englishmen greatly value the feminine.”

“You can’t value that…” she said, then stopped. “Is that what I am?”

“Well, pretty much.”

“I wish I wasn’t here,” said Natalie, “I wish I were already there.”

“Why?”

“It’s an odd thing; I don’t think anyone here likes me.”

“What about your father?”

“He’s too busy defending you to pay me much attention.”

“Do you like the others?”

“They’re all right, but different. They have a bossiness that comes naturally, and that makes me nervous. They don’t seem to notice that, or to care. Or perhaps they do notice it, and like making me nervous. Anyway, they seem to have little interest in anything except putting me down.” Natalie paused. “Actually, I don’t like them at all,” she said in a rush. “Especially Natasha. Helena’s pretty cold, but Natasha seems to think that everything I do is juvenile and pointless. She makes me feel like I’m wasting my life.”

“But you’re not, are you?”

“Of course not!” cried Natalie.

“Shh…”

“I’m growing inwardly,” she continued, quieter. “No-one seems to understand that. Or care. So I don’t have a degree and I’m not nimble with insults – does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so either,” said Nachaev, turning to look at her moonlit face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing down. “I wanted to apologize to you, and here I am babbling on about myself.”

“I did ask you to stay up for conversation,” he pointed out.

“It’s hardly a conversation, is it? Hearing my troubles.”

“You know, I respect you more than Gregory,” said Nachaev. “At least you haven’t become hysterical.”

“You think I’m like Gregory?” frowned Natalie. “That’s nice.”

“Look at your similarities. Fathers and siblings with strong personalities and insecurities.”

“I don’t think Natasha is insecure.”

“No?”

“No. But I do think that any confidence she has she got at my expense. She always put me down when we were younger, got me involved in things she did just to show she was better at them. I have a – problem with her for that.”

“What do you think that has done to her?”

“I told you – it’s made her more confident and me less so.”

“And that makes you want revenge?”

“Sure.” Natalie laughed sadly. “But it can’t happen. When you’re a child you want revenge; when you grow up you have the power to get it, but you find you’re too mature to do it. It’s terrible.”

“If you want to stop thinking of her as superior, you have to stop thinking of yourself as inferior,” said Nachaev.

“I’m sorry – I wasn’t listening.”

“I have an older brother who went into the civil service. He made a lot of money, a lot of contacts. He had all the power I needed. But there was a healthy part of me that rejected how he got it. One day I called him a parasite, not angrily, but I really meant it. He burst into tears. It was only then that I realized he needed me more than I needed him. My revenge – if you can call it that – was gaining confidence.”

“I don’t think Natasha is like that,” said Natalie.

“She has done everything she was supposed to do. You haven’t. That makes you strong.”

“But she’s so sure of herself…”

“If that’s at your expense, you have to stop giving it to her!” he said shortly. “Anyone who gains confidence at the expense of someone else is a slave. Show her that. Ignore her insults. Don’t insult her back, because that would be weak. Just go your own way and stop listening to her. That will get her.”

“But I love her – I don’t want to ‘get’ her.”

“The most loving thing you could do is end her dependence. Stop her defining herself in relation to you. Then you can be equals – friends,” said Nachaev. “Doesn’t that sound better?”

“I don’t know. It sounds cruel. Almost calculated.”

“Take it from me – cruelty is the first step to love.”

Natalie turned to him. “You know,” she said softly, “I thought you only knew about politics.”

“I know nothing about politics,” replied Nachaev. “All I know is human beings.”

“Then how can you – do what you do?”

Nachaev shrugged, irritated. “If Natasha was holding a gun to your head, I’d say shoot her first. But she’s not. Relationships become difficult when guns are ruled out. But they’re infinitely more rewarding. Look at your mother – and Helena’s too. They supported their husband’s careers, never complained – and died at an early age. Why? Because they never had a reason for life that was their own. They did what was expected. What I want is a world where the only thing that is expected is what you want.”

“Tell me,” said Natalie smiling. “In that perfect world, what would you be? And don’t give me that criminal business.”

Nachaev sighed. “You’d never believe me.”

“Come on,” she chided. “Tell me.”

“Why? I’ll never achieve it.”

“Just for the sake of conversation. Come on – you know you’re dying to.”

“All right,” he said softly. “Give me a moment to get my courage up.”

Clouds drifted over the moon, and the heightened darkness lent a dim passionate intimacy to the conversation. Natalie found herself almost squirming in delight.

“Time’s up!” she said impatiently. “Tell me.”

He sighed. “Did I ever mention that my father played the bassoon?”

“That can’t be it. No, I can’t see that,” smiled Natalie.

“No, but it does have something to do with it. When Tsar Nicholas was very young, he had an idea that culture should be brought to the masses. Theatre, opera, choirs – they all did the rounds of the small towns around St. Petersburg.”

“I knew you were an actor once.”

“That was always my second choice. And you’re interrupting.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“We never got any of that stuff,” said Nachaev. “But what we did get was a third-rate ballet company. Don’t squeal – you’ll wake the others. My father was commissioned to play bassoon in the production. He was really proud; we had to come to see him every night he played – which was only five. But I would have come without him demanding it, because despite the fact that it was an absolutely awful production, they had one dancer who should have known better. It was like gravity was a concept he had never heard of. Looking at him, you heard the reality of the music that was being mangled in the pit. In true Russian style, he was delegated to a minor role, while some ham-footed apes stomped through the leads. But he made the whole show.”

“So – did you ever try?”

“Of course. I am a dedicated man. I used to practice pirouettes on the roof, and kicked about doing my chores. I didn’t know anything about the moves; all I knew was that I had to forget about gravity and just float. I was getting that, too, but one day my father lost his patience after I came prancing in with his drink during a card game with some of his cronies. He excused himself from the table, saying he had to beat the fairy out of his son. I ran, but he caught me and beat the living tar out of me. That’s why my jaw is like this, by the way. After that, I tried acting, but the characters I got – because of my jaw – were all criminals and roughnecks, and try as I might, I never once got that sense of floating back again.”

Natalie considered his story. “Did that leave you with a lot of anger?” she asked.

Nachaev blinked. “Not everything we do is a reaction to the past. I’m not angry at my enemies. I’m just working to achieve a world where no-one gets beaten for doing what makes them happy.”

“Then I still don’t understand you,” said Natalie helplessly.

“If that’s what you want – from me or anyone – then you’ll go mad,” said Nachaev. “I don’t tell stories to illuminate my personality, just to pass the time. You can’t search them for meanings as if I’m some character in a play.”

“But I want to understand you.”

“Why?”

“Because you have a way of doing things that is utterly different from anyone I know, and I’m – still trying to find my path.”

“You think you’d like to be like me?” he asked. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Some parts of you. You never do the expected.”

“That’s just another kind of expected,” said Nachaev.

“No it’s not. You do what you want.”

“But that’s not what you want.”

“The method is,” said Natalie, “Not the means.”

“Look,” said Nachaev shortly, “Just decide what you want, and do it. If it’s wrong, you’ll know.”

Natalie sighed. “I know. That’s the awful part.”

“How can it be so hard?”

“Who knows? Maybe I don’t have a talent that matches my options.”

“Then make your own.”

“If I knew what I was talented at, I would.”

“How will you know if you don’t apply yourself to something?” asked Nachaev. “It’s better to do the wrong thing than nothing at all.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then how will you ever find out what’s right or wrong?”

“I never imagine you with those conflicts.”

“What? I have them all the time!” exclaimed Nachaev. “Was it right to kill those officers? I don’t know. It seemed so at the time, and I have all the reasons I need, but there’s always doubt.”

“How do you overcome that doubt? That’s my problem.”

“No – your problem is that you let doubt dictate action. Inaction.”

“So you’re saying that I should do what I feel and then judge it afterwards?”

“Exactly.”

Her father stirred, turning over. A thought struck her. “Am I being recruited?” she asked suddenly.

He turned to face her, his eyes like caves. “For the revolution? God no. Unless that’s what you feel in your heart.”

“That’s not what I feel in my heart.”

“What do you feel then?”

“This,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him delicately on the lips.

Nachaev stepped back, shocked, at a loss for words for the first time in living memory.

“Now you think I’m an awful person,” she said, turning away, her eyes filling with tears.

“No – no. I’m just – I’m very, very surprised.”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“A few days ago you said you hated me!”

“That was cruel. But you said…”

“Yes, I know what I said.” Nachaev sighed, fidgeting on his feet.

She stepped back, hugging herself. “We’d better just – forget it ever happened. I’m sorry.”

“But – what do you feel now?”

“I’m very confused. What do you feel?”

“Well – shocked.”

“At me?”

“No – at my response.”

“Why? Did you like it?”

“I – but it’s so stupid!”

“I made a fool of myself.”

“No – because I never expected you to – feel that way about me. A few minutes ago you said…”

“You said it first.”

“That’s because I wanted to put you at ease.”

Natalie laughed uncertainly. “Well I wasn’t at ease.”

“You were just – testing your desirability?”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s what I was doing.”

“Really?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m not making any demands.”

“What is in your heart then?”

“That I enjoyed the kiss,” she said, lowering her head, forcing the words out. “And – that I would enjoy another.”

Nachaev smiled. “Oh – I’m not sure.”

“But only if you would.”

“I’m not sure where it would lead.”

“We have two fathers asleep in the vicinity,” she said, “Probably not too far.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Nachaev found himself utterly unable to plan. He reached, and drew back, and hesitated again.

“So what do you want to do about it? What is in your heart?” she asked.

“To kiss you again. Yes.”

“Well… Why don’t you?”

“I…” He paused, fighting himself. Natalie closed her eyes, summoned all her courage and stepped into his arms. He stood stiffly for a moment, then surrendered.

“God!” whispered Nachaev, drawing his head up. “Is this what it’s like?”

“This is what it’s like,” she murmured, taking his head hungrily to kiss him again.

Herzen’s heart overflowed as he watched them. He had seen their journey from their first words, but in a swift inner wrench abandoned fatherhood in hope and fear for his daughter, and turned away in silence, content only to listen.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX: Brief Postcards from a Long Journey

The tale of their entire journey to England would stretch the story out to many volumes; we must content ourselves with a few snapshots of their travels, which hopefully will suffice to illustrate that those who arrived in the fair isle were significantly different from those who left their mother country. Of course, in their essence, Herzen and Nachaev, Natalie and Helena, and Natasha and Gregory, and Ilyavich remained mostly unchanged, but in their relationships to each other, alliances had formed and broken, shifted and renewed, more times than it would make sense to recount.

Suffice to say that Ilyavich abandoned his dream of abandoning Nachaev for a variety of reasons. He noted the partial staggering of Nachaev from alien to human and, on the basis of his newly-disarmed status, agreed with Herzen that he could stay. For his part, Herzen had a mandate for Nachaev that now included his daughter, and so found himself more able to shrug off the group’s intermittent yet volatile complaints about his actions. Gregory was hurt by Nachaev’s interest in Natalie, and Natasha and Helena took the opportunity to spend more time with each other – of which only a part was spent denigrating the relationship they saw forming between the two. Helena, by no means resigned to her lot, still challenged Nachaev whenever she got the chance, while Natasha kept a sullen distance from the young man, a stance that he did nothing to break.

Natalie proved herself an able manager of Ilyavich’s money, although many a conflict developed over her tightness with the purse-strings. To her credit, Nachaev was allowed no more money than anyone else, but this bothered him not at all; he was too excited to be in Europe, and energetically applied himself to the mastery of many languages and, being somewhat of a chameleon already, found they came easily. True to his nature, he left a trail of bewildered and irritated intellectuals along the major cities they stopped at on the way to England; but he did more than argue, he drank in the sights and sounds of freedom, and would disappear for days at a time, sniffing his own path through the alleyways of European history. It was noted by Herzen that Nachaev found less and less to argue about as they continued, but since he had no choice but to view their trip as a holiday, chided himself for his fears. Come England, he thought, the young man would find his fire once more.

Here are a few of the snapshots. The first is Helena’s and Natasha’s conversation in a café in Poland, shortly after their arrival. They have just come from the hotel which, much to Natalie’s mingled embarrassment and relief, they had been able to secure within minutes of arriving. The time is early evening, and a half bottle of wine after dessert.

“What I think,” said Natasha, shifting back in her seat, “Is that he’s toying with her.”

“Toying how? And why?” asked Helena.

“Well look at him,” said her friend. “He’s an energetic bastard with his own agenda. I don’t know what that agenda is, but you can bet it doesn’t include falling in love with a woman afraid of being seduced by her own shadow.”

“Don’t you think it might have taken him by surprise?”

“Don’t fool yourself: nothing takes him by surprise,” declared Natasha. “Do you think he’s still with us because he lets accidents override his plans?”

“You think your sister has no qualities?”

“None that could appeal to him. You would suit him more.”

“Unless he’s a coward. I think I scare him.”

“I don’t,” said Natasha, lighting a cigarette. “He’s up to something with Natalie.”

“If it’s money, then you stand the greater chance. You’re the one standing to inherit. Why do you think I don’t scare him?”

“Because I do, and we’re not similar enough.”

“What do you mean?” scowled Helena.

“What do you fight him about? Men, women, relationships? Men have ruled them for ten thousand years – where’s the debate?”

“I’ve also argued politics with him.”

Natasha shrugged. “Ditto.”

“What am I supposed to fight him with then? My parasol?”

“Fight like I do – refuse to fight.”

“He shows no interest in you at all.”

“That shows how little you observe,” said Natasha.

“What have I missed then, if you’re so perceptive?”

“You’ve missed the fact that he always manages to avoid me.”

“We avoid being groped by Polish men – does that mean we are secretly fascinated by them?” asked Helena, taking a swig of wine.

“I never said I fascinated him. I said I was beating him.”

“I fail to see that.”

“That’s because he’s beaten you.”

“And you – what are you winning?”

“Control through pacifism.”

“What kind of control?”

“I keep him on edge. He doesn’t know what to do with me.”

“I see,” said Helena skeptically. “And you know all this because he refuses to spend time with you?”

“Helena, Helena, Helena,” said Natasha, “I am part of the equation. I am Herzen’s eldest daughter. And he can’t have failed to notice that I hold great sway over Natalie. One word from me, and her infatuation will come to a swift and incomprehensible end. Yet he never tries to influence me. What does that tell you?”

“That he doesn’t want to spend time with you.”

Natasha shook her head. “That’s why you’re losing. You misunderstand the essentials.”

“Which are?”

“That he needs me.”

“For what?”

“Whatever he plans.”

Helena laughed. “Tell me – do you think that he spends as much time talking about you as you do about him?”

“Of course not. But he thinks more.”

“How can you say that?” she cried. “You don’t know.”

“Because, as I already said, he needs me.”

“I think you’re putting yourself on a pedestal,” said Helena.

“A pedestal that until recently held your image. Come on, Helena – isn’t that what’s bothering you? Be honest – didn’t you come along to be with him?”

“He was part of it, yes,” she said, looking away.

“So you are interested in him.”

“Yes. He interests me. And you too, judging from your level of involvement.”

“I’m just looking out for my interests. That kind of serpent you have to second guess,” said Natasha, stubbing out her cigarette. “But you are disappointed that he’s spending time with Natalie and not you.”

Helena shrugged. “Somewhat.”

“I expected that. And I must say that I’m disappointed.”

“That’s your choice.”

“You don’t want to know why?”

“No.”

“Of course you do,” said Natasha briskly. “The why is because you have grown more and more like Natalie.”

“What?”

“Don’t get upset – I speak my mind, take it or leave it. You have. The country life – it’s left you all peevish. I warned you before I left.”

“Don’t hold back,” said Helena acidly.

“I don’t intend to. Whatever happened to all your plans? You wanted to travel. You don’t until Herzen tells your father to bring you along. That’s Natalesque. You wanted to stay single, to find yourself, and the first young man that comes along you follow clear across Europe. Natalie again. What have you done with the seven months since I left? There – you’re squirming. That’s what Natalie did when I asked her.”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Rhetorical question. Natalie again.”

“That’s enough!” snapped Helena. “What do you know about what I’ve been doing with my time?”

“Well – what have you been doing with it?”

“Rebelling.”

“Against what?”

“The country. The whole world. Trying to break free.”

“And have you?”

“I’ve certainly defined more of what I want. Despite it all, here we are sitting in Poland when I said I wanted to see Europe.”

“But with who’s permission? Who’s money?”

“And your father didn’t help you with school?” demanded Helena.

“Rhetorical. Of course, but it was just a stepping stone.”

“And my father’s money is the stepping stone to Europe.”

“But you’re still not free,” said Natasha. “You’re still relying on others. What if your father cuts you off? At least I’ll have my degree.”

“I have a degree! Look what it did for me!”

“That’s my point – nothing. Because you didn’t do anything with it.”

“What would you have done?”

“I would have gone further. I will go further. The whole question boils down to this: what will you do in England?”

“Probably what I’ve been doing here – teaching English to the others.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I can’t just dump them on the country without any knowledge of the language!” cried Helena. “Is that what your advice boils down to?”

“It’s a bargain – you teach your father English and he pays your way. You’re still not free.”

“What about you? How are you paying for supper? Selling yourself on the street?”

“It’s still only a means to an end,” said Natasha calmly.

“What end?”

“Journalism in England.”

“And when I get to England, I will decide what I want to do.”

“There aren’t going to be any signposts,” said Natalie. “You’d better decide now.”

“All right – I will teach Russian.”

“What a wonderful reason to travel to England!”

“What is your point? That anyone who decides differently from you is not free?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. What I’m saying is that you should define for yourself what you want.”

“What if I want to teach Russian?”

Natasha shrugged. “Wasn’t in your plans before.”

“And they can’t be changed?”

“You’re not changing – you’re adapting.”

“So? You wanted a degree – you’re adapting to that. Why don’t you get off your high horse, Natasha? What if no-one wants your journalistic talents? What is your experience? A few undergraduate rants in the school rag?”

“Cheap shots; Natalie reversed, but still Natalie. I’ll do something else.”

“Like what?”

“Well – I’ll decide that when I’m there,” said Natasha with a sudden laugh.

“You see? Don’t laugh – it’s no different.”

“Sure it is. I have a plan already.”

“You don’t know if it will succeed!”

“But I am sure of my resources.”

“And so am I,” said Helena. She sat for a moment, then reached for the bottle and poured the remainder into her glass.

“You should take it easy on that,” commented Natasha. Helena glared at her, then they both laughed uncertainly.

By odd coincidence, the same table was occupied by two more of the group only two hours later. They had been forced upon one another by the absence of the others.

“Don’t slurp your tea!” said Ilyavich sharply.

“Mmm,” said his son, putting his cup down hastily and wiping his mouth. He picked up his pen.

“And what’s that you’re writing?”

“Well – it’s – nothing,” he said.

Nothing echoed around them. Ilyavich stared surreptitiously at his son’s lowered head. It seemed like every morning he rose with the vow that today was the day he would start to like Gregory, then every morning at breakfast he gazed in wonder at what he had created. His son sat, staring at his page like a newborn. What happened? asked Ilyavich for the thousandth time. His mother was a titan; I am a self-made man – where on earth did this come from? The debate raged; Come now, he is just a boy. But he’s twenty four! You have pampered him too much. Only by default! He is finding his way. I found mine at nine! He is a poet. Faugh! Come on – he’s more sensitive. Was Pushkin? He may have a secret talent. That’s a delusion!

Ilyavich forced himself to meet his son’s supplicating eyes, trying to hide his inward shudder.

“What’s the matter?” asked Gregory nervously.

“The shrimps. They’re not fresh. Waiter!”

The waiter approached the table. He hated father and son parties.

“These shrimps are not fresh!” said Ilyavich.

“Arrived this morning, sir,” he said with a bow.

“I don’t care if they arrived five minutes ago. They’re still not fresh!”

“Father – don’t cause a fuss. I’ll eat them,” offered Gregory, glancing around the restaurant.

“No you won’t. You’d be up all night with a tummy ache.”

“Would you like another plate?” asked the waiter.

“What have you got that’s fresh?”

“Everything arrived this morning.”

“And nothing is fresh? Who do you get it from?”

“I don’t know, sir. We get the best.”

“Well I’ll tell you straight: I am a seasoned traveler, and I have never eaten in such a shoddy establishment.”

“I can recommend the fish, sir.”

“I don’t care what you recommend. Where is the manager?”

“On break, sir.”

“What – at suppertime? What kind of place is this?”

“I could get the maitr’d.”

“Forget it. Just bring me the fish. And it had better be fresh. And you had better not serve these to anyone else.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter, taking the plate and beating a weary retreat.

“Disgraceful!” muttered Ilyavich angrily, lighting a cigar.

“My food is fine,” said Gregory, spearing an artichoke.

“You wouldn’t complain if they put a corpse on your plate. Where does it all go? You’re still so skinny.”

Gregory did not reply. Ilyavich fretted and fumed, consumed by smoke.

“So – this is Europe,” he said finally. “It’s changed a hell of a lot since I was here last.”

“How old were you then?” asked Gregory.

“About your age,” said Ilyavich, shuddering again. “And I wouldn’t have been caught dead with my father. I was with a different lady every night.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” asked Gregory quickly.

“Just do something – for heaven’s sake!” Ilyavich controlled himself with an effort. “I’m sorry – it’s the shrimp talking.”

Gregory shrugged. “It’s all right.”

Why, why, why is everything all right? cried Ilyavich silently. “The point is not to be with a different woman every night,” he said. “That was youthful excess.”

“I’ll try to find some, if it would make you happy.”

“Why don’t you listen? I’ve just told you no! Just try to remember that there’s more to Europe than scribbling on a pad.”

“I will. It’s just – my way of dealing with the change.”

“Well if it makes you happy…” muttered his father, “But for the life of me I can’t see the sense of it.”

“You won’t read anything I write…” began Gregory.

“I know nothing about poetry. It’s not my business. But you get something published, I’ll buy the first hundred copies to get you started.”

“I may not be published for some time. If ever.”

“Why not?” demanded his father. “Shakespeare was.”

“I’m trying something new. A different kind of poetry.”

“Why haven’t you ever submitted anything?”

“In Russia I couldn’t. Here, it’s all in Russian.”

“So get someone to translate.”

“I asked Helena, but she won’t,” replied Gregory.

“When I was twenty, I spent three months trying to sell insurance in France. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t. What did I do?”

“You moved on – I know. But you were still a salesman.”

“And a damn good one too. And you’d better learn that if you ever want to get published.”

“It’s not the same. But you’d never understand that.”

Ilyavich drummed his fingers on the table. “Gregory, you don’t know how lucky you are,” he said. “I have never, not once, demanded that you follow in my footsteps. From the moment you were born I accepted the fact that you were different – god knows how. Right now I’m trying with all my might to be supportive. But you’re a writer; you’re a man with a product. You have be able to sell it! What is so difficult about that?”

“Were you selling your own soul?”

“When you write something down, it’s not your soul! It’s words on a page! Some people like looking at that, god help them, and if they do, they should pay for it!”

“Then why don’t you help?” asked Gregory, his cheeks colouring. “Why don’t you get someone to publish me?”

“Because you can’t sell what you don’t understand,” replied Ilyavich. “Or like. I’d just end up saying: here is something my son wrote, I have no idea if it’s any good, but please sir, publish it anyway. Can you see me doing that? Can you?”

“No,” admitted Gregory miserably.

“Then you’d better learn to do it for yourself. Or give it up. Who knows – you might be good at insurance.”

“Insurance!” cried Gregory, recoiling.

“Yes, helping people prepare for emergencies – now there’s evil incarnate.”

“There’s no use disagreeing with you,” said Gregory miserably. “It’s just so unfair!”

“Tell me: what is so unfair?”

“I don’t want to take your money. But I have no choice.”

“Why not?”

“I need time to write.”

“What write? All I see are notes!”

“I write what I see – but I’ve seen so little! I need experience!”

“Gregory, you can’t claim to want experience and have me foot the bill. Experience isn’t observation – it’s risk!”

“I don’t want to have to be accountable to you!”

“Then you should have taken that scholarship.”

“From the Tsar? Excuse me, but that’s blood money.”

“The Tsar robbed me blind his whole life long! You should see my tax bill! Why not take some of it back? I lived with injustice – why can’t you?” demanded Ilyavich.

“I don’t want a tyrant’s money!”

“The only reason you lived was because I paid them off – all the little bureaucrats, all wanting a slice of the pie – the pie you ate!”

“You feel guilty about that?”

“To hell with guilt!” cried Ilyavich, thumping the table. “We are Russians!”

The waiter appeared with the fish and the maitr’d. “Pardon me, sir,” said the maitr’d, “but I’ve had requests from the other customers that you please keep your voices down.”

“Excuse me. Excuse us!” cried Ilyavich to the restaurant in general. “We’re family!”

“Father!” cried Gregory, mortified.

“We’ll keep our voices down,” he hissed, turning to his son, “but by God we’re going to finish this! I won’t have you making snide remarks about how I made my money. I’ve made mistakes, sure, but my biggest mistake was giving you all the leisure you wanted. You’ve just wasted it. All right – perhaps you need this, whatever – sensitivity. But at the moment it’s just a hobby. What happens when I die? If I leave you money, you’ll just fritter it away! That wasn’t what I worked for. How will you provide for your children?”

Gregory fought back tears. “I want to provide for my children!” he stammered. “I want to work. But there’s something inside me I can’t ignore, father. I wish I was like you. I wish I could – get started. But the world is so full of wrong that it chokes my soul!”

Ilyavich paused, staring at his son. “But – why are you so sensitive?” he asked, a little more softly.

“It’s who I am! When are you going to accept that?”

“But there’s always been wrong in the world.”

“I can’t co-operate with it. I won’t let it!”

“But you have to do something! You can’t let the fact that wrong exists paralyze you. What good would ever be achieved then? What good does shrinking from it do?” asked his father.

“I will not do – anything – wrong!” cried Gregory, jabbing at the air with a bent finger.

“If you do nothing, the total is zero. Is that what you want? Zero?”

“I want to do the right thing!”

“So if you can’t see it by thinking, then act! You’ll find it out soon enough.”

Gregory hesitated. “I can’t take that as an answer.”

“Why on earth not?” asked Ilyavich, genuinely puzzled.

“It leaves me too open to being wrong.”

Ilyavich stared at his cold fish. “Your problem has nothing to do with right or wrong,” he said. “You’re just afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of everything.”

“But you’ve earned nothing! Productivity and love – that’s it – that’s all there is to happiness. And you have to earn them both.”

“So if I make a million widgets and get married, I will be magically happy?” demanded Gregory.

“It’s not magic,” said his father. “It’s reality.”

“What about you? You’re not working. And your wife buggered off with a German!”

The slap raised several heads around them. Gregory stared at his father, shocked. For all his failings as a father, he had never before hit his children. Ilyavich saw the maitr’d approaching, and stubbed out his cigar angrily.

“Never mind – we’re going! What a stupid country – I would be applauded in Russia for slapping a son who had spoken to me as you did!”

In the cab to the hotel, Ilyavich’s anger drained away and left him with a strangely heavy feeling.

“Don’t think I’ve given up on working,” he said sourly. “When I get to England, I’ll start all over again.”

Gregory stared out the window sullenly, quietly rubbing his cheek.

“I’m not going to sell,” continued his father. “I’m going to paint. And I’m going to fund myself. Because I’ve earned it.”

Gregory turned and stared at him balefully. “So I should put off writing until I’ve retired? Now there’s a consolation.”

“I want you to write now,” said Ilyavich. “Look – I do admire you somewhat; if I’d had just a shred more courage I would have chucked selling after school – I never would have gone in the first place – and I would have painted. You have more leisure than I ever had – you have no idea how valuable that is. But you have to earn a living – it’s not my rule. I’ll tell you what,” said Ilyavich suddenly, leaning towards him. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you don’t need to work. Let England be the test. If you can be happy there, I will fund you for a year, whatever you want, no questions asked.”

“And if not?”

“Then I cut you off. Without a – what – penny? That’d be an experience for you.”

“You’re not serious.”

“If you’re truly happy just writing, then all I have is yours. But you’d better change it all, because you’re not happy now.”

“What if I pretend happiness?”

“I’ll know. What do you say?”

Gregory sat up. “I say yes!”

“Good. Shake on it.”

They shook hands. Gregory smiled turbulently.

They were down by the water, far from the restaurants and bright lights. A tranquil moon shone on them, and their hands touched peacefully, sensually.

“That’s what I remember first,” said Natalie, “The sound of water. We lived by a lake when I was young.”

“What was it like?” asked Nachaev.

“My mother was still alive. Father was gone a lot. Natasha was in school. Quiet. Peaceful. What about you?”

Nachaev shrugged. “Nothing so picturesque. I’d rather hear yours.”

“It was just mother and me. She used to draw, out in the garden in a big white hat. She made me pose for her. She’d dress me up, take me into town. Everyone gave me something.” She laughed. “I was so adorable you’d die.”

“I can imagine.”

“When father would come home he’d always bring something, stay for a few weeks. My mother was giddy when he was home; he would dress in his Sunday best and we’d go for rides. Sometimes he’d sit down with Natasha and me and tell us about his work. I’d sit on his lap and fall asleep smelling his pipe. Natasha used to wear his clothes when we were alone and tell me what to do. Actually, childhood was pretty boring, come to think of it. No worries.”

“So you have a lot to make up for.”

She punched his arm gently. “Don’t be silly. There was a time father was taken; he was gone for months. Mother lost a lot of weight, and Natasha got really tense. I thought he was never coming back. When he did, I didn’t recognize him. I told the maid to shoo him away; she dropped a plate and crossed herself when she saw him. Mother was crying, and my father looked very tired. He spent a lot of time in bed. I would sneak him his pipe, and he would tell me I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Sometimes, I slept with him. I’d lie so still, hoping he’d forget I was there. When Mother came in the morning she didn’t even know I was there, and I’d get thrown to the floor in the eiderdown. Then we’d have breakfast on the porch. Natasha would tease my father, and I would eat too much. I always ate too much. I was a chubby child. That was my nickname – chubbykin,” she said, staring out at the water.

In the silence, Nachaev shyly squeezed her hand under the gentle pressure of the moon.

“It’s a beautiful vision,” he whispered, his voice thick with feeling.

“I wish there was something I could do to make your past better,” she said, turning to him.

He smiled. “What past?” he said, and kissed her again.

PART TWO: ENGLAND

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN: Disquiet in the House of the English God

Father McCullity was sick of incense. It was the only thing he disliked about his job. Every morning before dawn he trudged around his church and lit the little sticks, gagging slightly at the smell – an oversweet smell like rank cheesecake that made him hungry and nauseous at the same time, an uncomfortable sensation – and if there was one thing Father McCullity despised, it was discomfort.

He was a short man, stocky, with neatly trimmed red hair. His eyes gazed out of his slightly fleshy face with the ease of an acolyte of the god of tiny pleasures. Dionysus was the God that Father McCullity secretly worshipped, but in that deities’ translation to a sleepy English village, goat’s blood had been transformed to tea, Greek wine to short sherry, and orgiastic lovemaking to cheery gloved applause. The ruthless god of politeness spread the inward oil of social ease on Father McCullity’s congregation, an ease lubricated by his pleasantly scrupulous face.

Faced with these observations, Father McCullity would have dismissed them with a wave of his hand and a contemptuous mutter of ‘paganism’, but later in the evening he would have turned the ideas over in his head before retiring. The thought would have struck him that there was a grain of truth in even extremist accusations, but his sleep would only have been prefaced by a slight shrug, the equivalent of saying, “so?” If his job was to make easier the material passages of his charges, where was the sin in that? Father McCullity was a philosopher of sorts, and believed that the history of man was the story of a vast majority too poor to avoid sin. Freedom from sin is also freedom from poverty, he thought, and God cannot be so cruel as to test his children by stacking the odds against the majority. The middle class that made up most of Father McCullity’s flock relied on him to help line their moral nests, free of the justifications of extreme poverty or riches. For this they required comfort, ease, and a certain savagery of social opinion, for they knew that the devil was helpless against the strict application of moral conformity. Thus he believed the bourgeois were the most moral race on earth – or had the potential to be, given the right guidance.

The drawback was that since conformity is a ritual, rituals themselves cannot be disturbed. And so it was that Father McCullity spent the first part of every morning lighting the sickly incense, reminding himself patiently that through ritual came salvation.

On the morning we first see him, he was not alone. A man had entered the church, bowed to the altar, then turned to face the priest. He waited for a moment, then coughed slightly.

“Just a moment, just a moment,” murmured Father McCullity, lighting the last stick. “Oh, it’s you, Jenkins,” he said, turning and smiling pleasantly at his sexton.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Jenkins, touching his cap, “but Mr. Plodsworth is waiting outside for you.”

“What – at this time of the morning? I thought he never rose till noon,” said the priest.

“He’s in quite a state, sir.”

He sighed. “Well, send him in then. Wait! Dust him off first – I just had the floor cleaned.”

Mr. Plodsworth was shown in, and a perceptive observer would have noted Father McCullity’s nostrils expanding ever so slightly – but to point it out would be unkind.

“Good morning, Mr. Plodsworth,” cried Father McCullity, spreading his arms in professional magnanimity.

The man did not return his greeting, but came forward and sat heavily on the first pew.

“I,” he said gruffly, “am a desperate man.”

“Oh dear. What seems to be the trouble?”

“’Seems’ nothing. It’s the wife again, you know – can’t you talk to her?”

Mrs. Plodsworth, Father McCullity well knew, was a woman who prided herself on her burdens and alternated between desperate attempts to shake them off and even more desperate attempts to trumpet them as virtues.

“The truth is, Reverend Father, that I’m flat broke.”

“Oh?”

“Steamed clean.” Mr. Plodsworth sniffed balefully. “I was wondering if there’s anything you could do.”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that, my man,” said the priest, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. “What have you done this time?”

“I was robbed last night. Cleaned out.”

“By the barkeep?”

“I resent that suggestion,” sneezed Mr. Plodsworth. “I was coming out of the Spotted Dog and I was set upon by a regular band of ruffians. They took everything I had.”

“I see. And my job is to..?”

The man scratched his neck. “I was hoping that, as a regular Christian, I could lean on the bosom of mother church for a week or so until some other interests come through.”

Father McCullity narrowed his eyes – authoritatively, he hoped. “This has been occurring with fair regularity, Mr. Plodsworth.”

“I know,” said the man, ducking his head, “But the truth is, I am the unluckiest man alive. You have seen my misfortunes.”

“And their cause,” observed Father McCullity.

“My theory is, I’m being tested. For my faith. But I have always believed in the blessed generosity of the Holy Church.”

“That generosity does not extend to subsidizing sin,” said the priest sternly.

“Is it a sin to be robbed?” demanded Mr. Plodsworth. “I’m sorry, father. I have no cause to be raising my voice in the house of the Lord.”

“That you have not. Truth be told, Mr. Plodsworth, I am growing a tad tired of your constant misfortunes. Did it ever occur to you that if you had not been at the Spotted Dog until the wee hours none of this would have happened – if indeed it did.”

“An honest worker is allowed his ale, isn’t he? It’d be a real misfortune if he weren’t.”

“You want to hear real misfortune, Mr. Plodsworth?” asked Father McCullity. “Real misfortune is when a certain member of my church believes that he can come running to me and I will hand out poor relief, no matter how questionable his actions. Real misfortune is when a man promises to change his ways and then calls the results of continuing his sinful habits misfortune, as if God was only concerned with testing his ability to come home sober. Real misfortune is when that man comes to me with his family as hostage and expects me to fund his dissolution for their sake!”

Mr. Plodsworth nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said, “But the point is that they will starve if you don’t help us.”

“I won’t help you,” said Father McCullity, folding his arms.

“What?”

“But I will help them. I will send them food enough to live on. That is all.”

“That’s – very kind, sir. But the point is that the money I was stolen from was supposed to pay a debt.”

“Gambling?”

“No, sir! A business debt. If I don’t pay it this week, it’s buckets for me.” Mr. Plodsworth shuddered. “Toast.”

“Hmm,” said the priest, nodding sagely, “I can see I shall have to get a little stern with you. You want this parish to help you financially?”

“No sir. But I can’t see no other way.”

“Then you must tell them that.”

“Pardon?”

“You must tell the congregation on Sunday exactly what it is that is troubling you. I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Five – but sir! I can’t go up and beg for money from them!”

“You’d rather I do it?”

“But – really – that’s your job, isn’t it?”

“No – my job is to ensure proper moral standards in my congregation. That is a capacity you are failing in. If you want relief, you must ask for it.”

“I am asking for it!” cried Mr. Plodsworth.

“Not from me. From them. You see, I’m not sure I could justify the expense.”

“I been a regular here since before was born!” the man protested.

“And put a penny in the box every week, that’s true. Twenty eight years, two shillings a year, that makes fifty four shillings. In the past year alone you have received almost sixty shillings in relief. That puts you considerably ahead of the game, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t like parishioners who always manage to stay ahead of the game.”

“It’s only been my misfortune, sir!”

“We have a sympathetic parish here. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“But – you can’t run charity like some kind of – business!”

“I can’t run it at a loss, either, Mr. Plodsworth, now can I?”

“But to get up there and tick off my problems – can you understand how it would make a man feel?”

“Terrible, I’m sure. But how do you think it feels for your family to be considered parasites because of their father? Have you ever thought of that, eh?”

“My wife – she could come up here on Sunday, tell about our troubles,” grasped Mr. Plodsworth.

“No no, my man. That is your job.”

He shook his head. “I have my pride, father.”

“Then you’ll not get a farthing from me.”

“I have rights, you know. I could take this to the bishop.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even know his name.”

“I could – I could write to the newspapers. Or find someone to write for me.”

“Be my guest.”

Mr. Plodsworth rose, his arms jerking spasmodically.

“In all my years,” he said, “I have never seen a Christian so uncharitable. I have never seen a priest who won’t help a fellow man. And to change the rules without so much as a by-your-leave… We are all sinners, but the sin of despair is the worst – and that is what you have given me! I will continue on my path. I will drink, I will whore, I will sell my soul to the devil! And it will all be on your head. You will have lost a soul for God!”

“Come come, don’t be hysterical. Your soul is your own business. Change your ways, and I welcome you with open arms.”

“They will kill me if I don’t pay!” he cried. “Kill me with all my sins uncleansed! Do you know what that means?”

“The money would better go to those who want to be saved,” replied Father McCullity adamantly.

“I won’t argue with you again,” said Mr. Plodsworth, striding towards the door. When he got there, he turned and paused. “I only hope that when you go for your final reckoning, St. Peter calls you up and says remember that Mr. Plodsworth? Remember him? You could have saved him once. He was right on the brink. But you turned your back, and for that you are going straight to hell. And I hope that when you arrive, I’m put in charge of you.”

“I’m sure you’ll hold a higher position than I will,” replied Father McCullity

Mr. Plodsworth slammed the door on the way out. Father McCullity stood for a moment, his hand tightly gripping a pew support, then laughed.

“Saint Peter,” he muttered to the empty church.

Father McCullity set out the hymn books for the after-lunch choral society, hung the numbers for the evening mass, and retired to his study. Half an hour later, his paperwork lay untouched on his desk, and he had turned his chair to face the window, filled with a strangely familiar lassitude. A fiercely intellectual debate in his church the previous day had left him drained – or at least given his tiredness a reason. His son Robert had led the debate on evolution as part of a Science and Religion evening. The evening had begun pleasantly enough, but it had dissolved into a virulent attack on the church in general. The older people had been shocked (a very nasty term, thought the priest) and had responded with the age-old attack of a fading generation, charging the younger men with lack of respect for tradition, and the cozy bosom of amicability had been rent by accusations of absolute right and wrong. Words had flown like barbs, buried resentments had surfaced, and the still lake of life had been furrowed as if it had received a rather large and misshapen boulder.

Father McCullity sighed. Where are my rewards? he thought with more than a shred of self-pity. When he was a young man, he had embarked on an ecclesiastical career partly from a desire to gain the respect his own generation had given to religion. Where is my certainty? If I had desired a life of conflict, he thought dismally, I would have lowered himself to trade.

His wife only made things worse. Sarah had been raised in a house of stout devotion, the only daughter of the last parish priest, and she remained utterly outside the bounds of compromise. It all started, he thought, when my son met those men in school – those… socialists. Father McCullity tasted the metallic tang of the word in his mouth with a mental shudder. At present an unshaven young man was staying at his house, making domestic life difficult for his wife by stirring up the hired help – and it’s a truth as old as marriage that when the wife isn’t happy, neither is the husband. Father McCullity settled back in his chair and watched a swallow building its nest in an alcove outside the open window. That’s right, he mused, his eyes consumed by the flickering of its tiny blue wings. No anger at the hawks, just an acceptance of your role in nature. Whoever made the world is long gone, but we must still obey His rules. Church, state and man, not to be disturbed. Science was all very well, but did it teach one to be a good man? Of course not. It measured and dissected, but there are places where that must stop. It must stop at the doors of the Church. Inside, the tranquillity of the ages ruled with a stern but kind hand, leading people to the right path. Disturb all that, and who knows what chaos may result? Barbarism, thought Father McCullity, pure barbarism, stirring images of those who used tea-bags a second time.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said a woman’s voice from behind him. He turned sharply, and his face broke into a smile at the sight of his wife.

“Well, dear, I was just finishing,” he said, closing a folder.

“No you weren’t,” replied Sarah, coming in and setting a basket on his desk. “You were being lazy.”

“Just musing. How are things at home?”

She grimaced. “Let’s have lunch in the graveyard. It’s your son. We have to talk.”

The graveyard was their special place. Moss-grown headstones jutted around mosaic paths that wound through the neat grass; trees buried the dead in loving shadows. They set down their basket and spread out mackintosh squares to sit on. Father McCullity sat with his back against a bench, enjoying the sun’s warmth on his face.

“What’s the problem now?” he asked, shading his eyes.

“Young Alex and your son have taken over the garden and turned it into one of their ‘discussion groups’,” said Sarah. “The maid is very sullen, the cook wanted to postpone lunch until after the meeting was over and the gardener mis-planted an entire row of tulips. In short, I have been hounded out of my own home. Also, Mrs. Plodsworth asked for an appointment. I had to have an excuse to leave.”

“Yes – her husband was in this morning. He claims to have been robbed, poor helpless soul.”

“Well – was he?”

He favoured her with a weary glance. “What do you think?”

“There has been more crime lately.”

“He was not robbed. When I told him I would give him food for his family, he cursed me and ran out.”

“Cursed you? What? In the church?”

“Right there.”

Sarah’s lips whitened. “We should teach them all a lesson.”

“Well, without going to extremes, I think I did.”

“How?”

“I told him that I was not going to give him a farthing.”

“Good for you!”

“But don’t think it will end there. He’s far too resourceful.”

“Well I think it’s disgraceful. Cursing a priest. They should be run out of town. My father would never have stood for it, you can be sure of that.”

“Well, dear, your father lived in different times.”

“My father made his times. He could have lived with the savages of Africa and had them all kneeling inside a week.”

“Are you criticizing me, dear?”

“You have to be more firm. Things are getting out of control.”

“What can I do? Have him lynched?”

“It’s all in your bearing. You nod too much.”

“Only when I agree with people.”

“Which you also do entirely too much. My father used to turn beggars out on their ear.”

“I do that, and I’m called a tyrant.”

“As was my father. But never, never to his face!”

“Back then a show of anger cowed people. Now it just makes them more angry.” Father McCullity blinked sadly. “It’s an odd world.”

“Are you really so simple? It’s this science, nothing but. People believe in it because priests don’t show the power of God. Look at you – Scientific meetings, church debates on evolution. In my father’s day the Church was where you came to be saved, not to argue about apes.”

“People aren’t as afraid any more.”

“And that’s a crying shame. What will become of them without fear?”

“Robert showed me an article that tried to disprove the idea of the soul.”

“I hope such filth is no longer in my house, John,” said Sarah.

“I sat down and tried to talk with him, but he just kept saying ‘proof!’, ‘proof!’.”

“This can’t go on. Something has to change. Deviled egg?”

“Thank you.”

“Mmm,” said Sarah, chewing, “We have to get him away from this young man.”

“Alex?”

She nodded. “I feel less with grace with him under my roof. He’s a symptom of everything. A scientist,” she scowled. “Some kind of thinker. He gives me the willies.”

“Well, he’s just studying.”

“It’s enough.”

“But anything we try is liable to set Robert off.”

“Set him off! Set him off? Who are the parents, pray tell?”

“We are, but…”

“Then I refuse to be cowed by the idea that my son is some kind of – bomb! In time he will just have to understand that we do things for his own good.”

“What – things?”

“We shall have to invite someone else and tell Robert that his friend has to leave because we need the room.”

“Mmm,” he said, shaking his head, “Why not just come out and tell him why?”

“I don’t want to encourage his infatuation with open resistance. He’s at that age.”

Father McCullity sighed. “Why is it that young people these days have to have such meaningful summers? In my day, you brought a friend round to play tennis and swim and fish, not disprove God and save the world.”

“Don’t evade the issue.”

“I’m not. Things are changing. Robert will find his own way. What am I supposed to do? Call in the militia?”

“Lock him in his room and refuse him supper until he comes around,” said his wife simply.

“What – and set a rack up in the yard too? That’s not the kind of house I want.”

“He is forcing your hand, John. You have to be a good man – that’s what you get paid for. Not these pleasant social affairs.”

“I think they have more influence than trying to be a bully.”

“The Devil is a bully. Fight kind with kind.”

“We’re not getting anywhere,” said Father McCullity wearily.

“That’s because you refuse to do your duty.”

“All I can promise is that I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh? And how many ‘talks’ have you two had this summer?”

“You know, I don’t like the fact that your placing all this on my doorstep, Sarah.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“What it means, is that – he spent far more time with you when he was growing up.”

“I beg your pardon?” said his wife dangerously.

“You must accept some responsibility if he’s going off on a tangent. You are his mother after all.”

“Excuse me, but I raised him to be a proper gentleman. You were the one who encouraged this liberal university business. You were the one who allowed him to make his own decisions. Did we? No! We did what was expected, and counted ourselves lucky!”

“So it’s all my fault.”

“You are the father, he is the son. He’s your responsibility.”

“I wish we’d had daughters,” said the priest. “This is so unfair. I always have to be the bogey man.”

“And the longer you leave it, the harder it will be.”

“I said I will talk to him! No – nothing to drink. Thank you.”

Sarah put the glass down with a soft thump. “All I want is that young man out of the house. Evolution this, chemistry that. We’re a laughing-stock!”

“We’re living in a transition. We must be patient.”

“It’s a degeneration. And it’s up to you to stop it! Where is your spine?”

“All right, all right! I’ll cancel the Science and Religion evenings.”

“Is that enough? I’d think a rebuttal was in order. What about a Man and Religion meeting, with some good old-fashioned brimstone? Scare them away from all this callipering.”

“My God, if I do that, I’ll lose half my congregation.”

“But save the other half. Or would you rather lose them all?”

“It’s not a question of that…”

“Souls, John. That’s what we’re after. If times changed to support nuns as prostitutes, would you accept that?”

“No, but really…”

“That’s what we’re moving towards. It has to stop now. The whole world is threatened!”

This kind of talk made Father McCullity very uncomfortable. “I can’t save the entire world,” he said uneasily.

“You can save your little corner of it. Make a stand!”

“All right, all right. On Thursday we’ll have a new meeting.”

“I want to chair it.”

“Why don’t you just take my job?”

“You know you won’t be firm enough.”

“I’ll be just as firm as I have to be.”

“Which is not enough.”

“Sarah! Be reasonable! I’m giving you what you want.”

“Only because I’m nagging you. You should do it because it’s what God wants.”

“And who gave you that special connection? God may be talking to me too, you know.”

“Your career is talking to you. The numbers of your flock, not their spiritual health.”

“How do you know that? I am not without training. There are many other ways of looking at it.”

“God’s way, Satan’s way. That is all.”

“You’re too Old-Testament, Sarah, always have been. There is compassion there too, you know.”

“I’m not preaching lawn burnings or nailing people up, John. Unfortunately, those days are gone. But you have to be more of a leader and less of a mediator.”

“But there are so many things outside of my leadership. There’s a tide of humanism bearing down – it’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. I can’t fight that by locking my son in his room.”

“It’d be a start.”

“Right. Then I could lock you in a room for spoiling my lunch with your Genghis Khan commandments.”

“I haven’t spoiled your lunch – have I?”

“You made me splutter so much I think half my food is lodged in my sinuses.”

She sat for a moment, licking her lips, wanting to be in a good mood. “John?” she said.

“Yes, dear?”

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

“I’m joking. It’s that famous tone of voice.” He mimicked her. “‘John?’ Always happens late at night. ‘John, if I got struck by lightening and half my face was burned off, would you still love me?’ Or: ‘John, what will we do if Robert gets brain damage from holding in his sneezes?’ Or: ‘John, what if Judgment Day has come and gone and we’ve all been left behind?”

“I’m not like that.”

“You can be. But I’m exaggerating.”

“I’m just worried.”

“Well let’s take a stroll into town and let the sun evaporate your fears,” he said, standing. He held out his hand with an engaging smile.

“I’m not going to forget this,” she warned.

“That’s what I married you for.”

She smiled thinly, and took his hand.

As they walked into the sunlight, Father McCullity breathed yet another prayer of thanks to the tiny god of good humour.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT: The Last Supper

Alex and Robert sat on the swings.

“You know what the problem with life is?” asked Alex.

“Tell me,” said Robert, taking a drag on his home-rolled cigarette.

“The problem with life is it lets you eat your illusions but never shit them out. Take me. When I was nine, I came to the conclusion that summers were an interminable bore. Now I am nineteen, and with the wisdom of age I now see that summer will forever be an interminable bore. Also when I was nine, I thought that hotels were the best thing in the world. Traveling with father last summer proved that the only thing more boring than summer was summer in a hotel. Women – another example. At nine I was consumed with salacious thoughts. Having consummated a fair number of them now, there is nothing but to conclude that the only thing more boring than summer in a hotel is summer in a hotel with a woman.” Alex leaned his face to the sky, displaying his lean cheekbones. “Oh, a cheap world that has such wisdom in it!”

“I’m glad you’re here,” smiled Robert. “You take the edge off the boredom by describing it with such authority.”

“And then there’s smoking – a man’s art. I truly think I am addicted now. After all my illusions, it’s just another disgusting habit. Everything we value comes down to a disgusting habit.”

“Except socialism.”

“Even that. But at least socialism has the distinction of making disgusting habits universal.”

“Oh, such strange and worldly cynicism!”

Alex swung his swing round and round. “Can you say that, after the events of the afternoon have had time to sink in?”

“Yes – I can say that.”

“On what grounds?”

“We achieved something like a revelation. There’s a lot of anger in the land.”

“Exactly,” said his friend, stopping the swing to face him. “A lot of anger, a lot of hatred, a lot of class resentment. All disgusting habits. A lot of young men picking at their pimples and shifting in their chairs and complaining loudly about the system that gives them the leisure to complain. How many of them, I wonder, would remain true to their ideals in a poorhouse?”

“Would you?”

“No – and I pride myself on that.”

“What?”

“Come on, Robert! What do you think would happen to any of us if we didn’t have the time to complain? We’d all go squealing back to our respective breeding-holes crying ‘oh, mumma – take me away from all this horror!’ Ugh – it makes me shudder.”

“Urbanity can do that to a soul.”

Alex clapped. “Very good! ‘Urbanity can do that to a soul’. I like it – a pleasing array of syllables, containing little rhythm and less sense. You will do our cause a great service. Socialism begins with slogans, and ends with slogans in action, meaning violence.”

“You are beyond comprehension,” declared Robert. “A thrilling, beautiful maze sans minotaur.”

“I applaud you once again.”

“That you can live in an age that contains such hope, and be utterly immune, smacks of a certain evolutionary bubble.”

“A moral dinosaur slays its kin out of respect for the mammals,” said Alex lazily. “That’s all we’ll ever amount to, you and I.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“It is true, and I know it. Did you see that poor Mrs. what’s-her-name – the wife of that vagabond fellow.”

“Plodsworth.”

“Yes – Mrs. Plodsworth. Fairly strangling herself in her zeal to agree, pouncing on our every pronouncement like some love-starved maternal vulture. Alternatives, Robert. Therein lies the channel for destruction. Open it up, and the world explodes. And, God willing, we’ll go with it.”

“What a morbid thought.”

“You can’t destroy the world and escape destruction. Or haven’t you realized that yet?”

“You’re in a pedantic mood, Alex. Destroying the world? We had a meeting, and only five people showed up.”

“It’s what it means, what it means… But you’re right – I am being sucked into the sunset. Do excuse me. So tell me – what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

“What – whatever you like?”

“A spot of tennis?”

“That would be lovely. Can we muster a cricket game?”

“I imagine.”

“And drinks for after?”

“Yes.”

“And admiring ladies? And too much for supper? And a ball? And a walk in the garden? Nonentities to amuse ourselves with? Social diseases? Toasting shrubs for their fruit? Singalongs? A pleasant evening’s chatter with the local notables? I must say, it does sound splendid.”

“You, “ said Robert, “are a cynical old bastard.”

“And that’s why you love me,” drawled Alex. “Come on, it’s time for supper – shall we go and shake up the family nest?” He stood. “I should warn you, Robert. Your mother is going to attempt a coup tonight. She’s been avoiding my gaze – always the first sign of impending eviction. She must have left at lunch to enlist your father in the exorcism, and now they’re doubtlessly whispering fiercely about me in the living room and casting vicious glances at the garden door.”

“You’re paranoid!”

“All right then, if your father offers me the vegetables first, I’m out. If not, I’m paranoid.”

“If you’re out, then I’m coming.”

“Oh, but why? It’s the same at my house. Except my mother’s dead, so my father has no-one to conspire with but the servants, which he’s too proud to do. No, if I am to be cast out, I go like Cain alone into the wilderness.”

“But you said…”

“Change of heart, old boy. I must say that for all your pleasantness, you do make a rather repetitive companion. Oh don’t make faces – would you rather I lie?”

“You wanted to come here – I only assumed the hospitality would be returned,” said Robert, stung.

“But you’ve seen London. I’d never seen the country. Or so I thought.”

“London would be better than here, in the summertime.”

“It’s nothing but hotels. Even the houses are hotels. When they’re not brothels.”

“I only thought…”

“Please don’t whine on me, Mr. McCullity of the Scottish heritage. You’d only be disappointed if you came. And uncomfortable. My father and I are like Turk and Russian. No holds barred.”

“Then why don’t you stay here?”

“That would be all right. But I suspect maternalism at work, and I cannot abide feminine subterfuge. If your mother says go, go I shall.”

Grinding his teeth, Robert dropped off the swing and followed his friend indoors.

“A lavish spread,” murmured Alex to his friend as they surveyed the dinner table. “All the best silverware. That’s to remind me of the Eden I shall shortly be cast out of.”

“Don’t get your suspicions up.”

“Those vegetables represent the tree of knowledge. If I take them – I am doomed.”

“Good evening, gentlemen!” cried Father McCullity from the doorway.

“Where is your lovely wife, pray tell?” asked Alex, straightening.

“She – won’t be dining with us tonight, I’m afraid. She’s indisposed.”

“Well, I do hope she’ll be joining us later. I have a Havanan cigar I was hoping she would enjoy biting the end off.”

“Ha ha,” laughed Father McCullity awkwardly. “But let’s sit. I hear you had a rabble-rousing session with the local discontents this afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Alex, tucking in his napkin, “in your garden. I hope that won’t be awkward. I mean, people must have faith in your reputation. Did you kick me just now, Robert?”

“Just – moving my leg.”

“Well, a little less energetically next time, eh?”

“Sorry.”

“Well, let’s start with the vegetables,” said Father McCullity. “Alex?”

“Please – Robert first.”

“No, no – guests go to the front of the line.” The priest held the quivering silver bowl over the table. Alex made no move to take it.

“You don’t want any? It is getting heavy.” A pause, and the bowl fell with a small bang. The priest’s hand darted to another bowl.

“Potatoes?” he asked.

“A little filling. I usually eat them after, and I don’t want them to get cold.”

“Then let me pass you the meat,” said the priest doggedly, raising a large plate of roast beef. It also hung there. “Don’t tell me you don’t want any of that,” he asked with a nervous laugh.

“I will have some water to cleanse the palate first,” said Alex with a smile, pouring a glass.

“The food will get cold,” warned Father McCullity.

“I’ll take that,” said Robert, grasping for the plate of beef.

“Uh uh uh, Robert. Manners.”

“He doesn’t want it right now.”

“Still, guests must go first.”

“I think I’ll have a smoke, if you don’t mind,” said Alex. “Do you?”

“We can’t very well eat with our guest smoking, can we?” said Father McCullity, jabbing the plate in his direction. “Have some meat.”

“Oh, dear – it’s already lit,” said Alex. “My mother rolled these for me before she died. Died rolling them, I believe.”

Bump went the plate down on the table. Father McCullity sat back angrily, folding his hands over his lap.

“Well, we’ll just wait until you’re finished,” he said.

“Please,” said Alex, waving his hand, “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Manners stop us,” replied Robert’s father. “If it’s cold, it’s cold.”

So they sat, beads of sweat forming on Robert’s forehead. Halfway through Alex’s nonchalant cigarette, Robert suddenly seized the vegetables and scooped some onto his plate.

“Robert!” cried his father.

“But I’m famished!”

“Have you no protocol? Guests eat first!” he cried.

“Well it’s on my plate now.”

“Then leave it alone until Mr. Underwood has finished his cigarette.”

“Ahh, England,” sighed Alex. “Guests eat first because Kings were guests. It reinforced their power. How the tables have turned. Now I must eat first to reinforce your power.”

“Power?” asked Father McCullity.

“How was your lunch?” asked Alex quietly.

“I had a pleasant lunch, thank you. Tell me – must you smoke it right down to your fingertips?”

“It is my mother’s. The ashes remind me of her.”

“That’s – proper,” said the priest uncertainly. “More water?”

“That’s quite enough, thank you.”

“Father,” said Robert, unable to bear it any longer, “Must Alex go?”

“Oh, tsk, tsk,” chided his friend. “Very unfair.”

“As a matter of fact, our Auntie Margaret is coming, and we do need your room,” said Father McCullity to Alex. “I do apologize.”

Alex took a last drag from his cigarette. “How long do I have?”

“Well, as soon as possible, if you don’t mind. We need to air out the room. She’s allergic to smoke.”

“Where is she coming from?”

“London – derry.”

“That’s good, because there’s a lot of smoke in London,” said Alex with a smile.

“I’ve asked the maid to pack your bags.”

“I can do that myself. I have arms.”

“Well – pay for them, might as well use them,” said Father McCullity jovially, then realized it was the wrong thing to say.

“Father, I think I will take some time off and go with Alex,” said Robert.

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” replied Alex. “Apparently we have an aunt coming from France who’s allergic to whining.”

“But you said…”

“Now, now, Robert,” said his father, “You know better than to impose yourself on a host. Perhaps next summer.”

“Well, if my bags are packed already,” said Alex, “I’ll leave tonight.”

“That’s not completely necessary,” said Father McCullity.

“I’m sure it would ease your wife’s conscience.”

“It’s the aunt, you see…”

“Your wife’s sister, I assume.”

“Well – yes.”

“When’s the last train?”

“Midnight. Comes through from Tottenham. Take you straight to London, two hours, tops.”

“And then your house can return to normal.”

“I hope you are not taking any of this personally,” said the priest.

“Is there any reason I should?”

“Please – some vegetables.”

“No – I think I’ll go relieve the maid from her duties,” said Alex, rising with a bow. “Good evening.”

When Alex had left, Father McCullity studiously avoided his son’s eyes.

“That was very cruel, father,” said Robert finally.

“What can I do? Auntie Margaret…”

“You can’t expect me to believe that pathetic lie. What – in one day you sent an invitation and got a reply?”

“I’m relying on your mother’s report.”

“Don’t hide behind her! He was my guest! How does it make me look?”

“Can I be happy if your mother’s not happy?” whispered Father McCullity. “Can any of us?”

“I was!”

“You’d do well to apply some of your self-pity to me. I have to sleep in the same room with her, you know. When do you think the last time was I got some rest?” demanded Father McCullity.

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth? Everyone knew you were lying.”

“In an hour he’ll be gone. Why make things unpleasant?”

“There’s a disciple of Christ for you,” said Robert bitterly.

“What does that mean?”

“He goes to the cross for truth, and you lie for comfort.”

“You’re right,” said the priest mildly, “I should have nailed myself to his door to make him leave.”

“It’s all a symptom – of disease.”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t start with that!”

“Isn’t it? Or is this falsehood civilized?”

“One little white lie…”

“A transparent lie which demeans all who come in contact with it – and who don’t expose it.”

Father McCullity speared a potato and edged it into his plate with his fork. “Contrary to what you think,” he said, “I am not about to martyr myself because you happen to dislike convention.”

“No – you’d rather lie.”

“I will not hear that word again!”

“Then don’t – lie!” cried Robert. “This is exactly what we’re fighting – this falsehood. And that’s why we’re atheists – because the Church is at the bottom of it all!”

“Now that’s enough!”

“Myth this, myth that, believe what we tell you because we tell you. Anything that demands lies is wrong – and that goes for the church, the state, and all your petty little social niceties!”

Father McCullity pushed his plate away. “I think it is time for you to leave the table.”

“I left the table a long time ago!” said Robert.

The priest blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” cried Robert. He threw down his napkin and stalked out the door, fuming.

Father McCullity noticed his hands were shaking, and felt the knots gathering in his stomach. He stared miserably at his untouched supper.

“Christ,” he said softly, secretly enjoying the transgression, “I give up.” He rubbed his face and tugged at his beard, trying to calm down. What the hell am I supposed to do? he wondered silently. I didn’t make the world! Before Robert’s imaginary reply sprang to mind, he cut the silent debate off with a violent swipe of his hand and took a deep breath. It’s youth, he thought, it’s chemistry, it’s the wrong friends, it’s the first flush of real education and there’s probably a girl involved somewhere. He’s a good boy, he’s just going through some changes. But…

Locked in the age-old volleys of paternalism, he didn’t notice his wife come in.

“I see he’s packing,” she said. “Good for you. Why haven’t you eaten? That’s good food going to waste. Where’s Robert?”

“Outside.”

“What happened? I heard shouting.”

“He took Alex’s leaving pretty hard.”

“So he shouted at you? Brat. It’s about time he realized he can’t get everything he wants.”

Father McCullity rubbed his slightly-graying temples and stood up. “Please, dear. Not now.”

“What’s the matter? It’s a matter of discipline. What are you doing?”

“Opening the door.”

“Why?”

“Robert’s out there.”

“Let him stay,” she said, scowling. “Learn some manners.”

“I said I’d lock it in five minutes. I wouldn’t want to be called a liar,” he said heavily.

“My father would have…”

“Yes I know, your father would have taken him to the woods and beaten him with a tree to teach him a lesson. Sarah: I’m not your father!”

“You should be. And I resent that example. And…”

“Just – don’t talk to me now, Sarah.”

“Excuse me? I have a right to talk in my own house!”

“We’ll only fight.”

“Don’t threaten me!”

“All right – if you want to fight, you want to fight,” he said wearily.

“You are being exceptionally rude tonight.”

“Yes I am,” he said, heading to the door. “Next thing you know, I’ll be an atheist.”

Her lips whitened again. Damn but she looks like a marble Madonna, he thought. “Take that back,” she said.

“What is this – a schoolyard?”

“You take that sentiment back!”

“Leave me alone, Sarah,” he warned.

“I demand you take it back!”

“Fine. You demand, I’ll leave.”

“I beg your pardon? You will not leave when I am speaking to you!”

“Why not?”

“Because I am your wife!”

Suddenly he abandoned comfort, and felt an ugly rush of anger. “You really want to fight? Do you? I wouldn’t advise it, Sarah. Not just now.”

“I will not be threatened in my own house!” she cried.

“Then go out and join your son!”

“John! You will not speak to me like that!”

“Then leave me alone!” he shouted.

“I will not!”

“I got you what you wanted! He’s leaving! Is there anything else, your majesty?”

“Out of this house! Out. Now.”

“What?”

“Out! Return when you have learned some manners.”

“Good. Yes, good. I will leave,” cried Father McCullity, striding over to the garden door and wrenching it open. “You can lock it if you like, and prove you are your father’s spoilt little brat!”

“I will lock it! And the front door besides!”

“Don’t push me,” he growled, “I’m warning you!”

“Disgusting man!” she screamed, “Go!”

He went outside, resisting the urge to hit one of the panes as his wife whipped the curtains shut behind him and drew tight the bolt. He sat on the step, his heart pounding. What is wrong with women? he thought. Fighting becomes their lovemaking. He buried his face in his hands, trying to grind the emotion out of his features. He heard the creak of a swing, and suddenly laughed.

“Robert?” he called, then waited for a reply.

“What?” Sullenly.

“Come and keep your father company.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, looks like you’ll have all night say it.”

A pause.

“Mother’s upset?”

“I think so, yes, pretty much.”

“She’s just angry she missed out on our fight.”

“You know,” said Father McCullity, “I’m glad you said that.”

“Why?”

Robert was sitting on the swing. His father walked over and leant against a pole. “Because you’re too polite to say it to her face,” he said with a smile.

“So? Neither are you,” said Robert belligerently.

“But at least I don’t scold you for it. Like you did me.”

“That’s because I know it’s wrong.”

“Does that make it better?”

“It makes me more aware.”

“Come on, I’m only teasing.” He pushed at the chain, making Robert turn slightly towards him. “Don’t think of me as evil. I may be old, but I still want to understand.”

“Do you really?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“Why should I tell you? Because you’re my father?”

“No, because we’re both locked out of the house. You have a more pleasant way to spend the night than trying to understand each other’s position?”

Robert almost smiled. “I suppose not.”

“So – tell me.”

“It’s – it’s hard to explain,” he said hesitantly. “It’s just that you don’t seem to see that the world is wrong, and false, and awful. And even that isn’t so bad. It’s that you hold it up as some kind of ideal that makes me sick.”

“Thank you,” said the old priest, sitting on the swing next to his son. “All right,” he said, “I have to work within it. Two things. One, look at my profession. I deal with people. A physicist can’t deny the laws of physics – a priest can’t deny the law of people. And the law of people, for better or for worse, is politeness.”

“It’s not as immutable as you think.”

“Second: I wouldn’t mind so much being damned by an avatar, but the fact is that your white horse seems a trifle muddy at the knees.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“There are many branches to philosophy, Robert. Epistemology, metaphysics, perception, essence, psychology, all the others you learn in school. All are worthwhile studies. But the study of human hypocrisy will only make you bitter. Look at your friend who, for all his keen intellect, is astride a horse with no legs.”

“But it’s all so sickening, so trite…”

“Why do you assume you have to fight me on that? You don’t think I know? I see it every day I go to work.”

“Because you see what you do as more than a job. You’re a defender of the faith.”

“I am that. But we’re all so low on the rungs, Robert. Maybe in a thousand years people will be able to speak their minds. But a lot has to change before then.”

“Including the Church.”

“You want to talk about that?” said Father McCullity, slightly rocking his swing.

Robert shook his head. “You’ll just get upset.”

“I’ll try my best not to. We have to thrash it out. If I know where you stand, free of hysteria, you’ll at least have my respect.”

“I doubt that.”

“Try me.”

“Should I start easy, or hard?”

“Easy please. My nerves are a wee bit jangled at the moment.”

“Easy…” sighed Robert. “Then – here’s what I think. When we didn’t know anything, why there was thunder, or why rocks fell on our huts, we invented gods to explain it. Is that all right?”

“I’m not an advocate of paganism.”

“That desire to explain things was the first step towards philosophy. But it went wrong, because the priests and the kings got together,” said Robert, sitting forward on his swing. “The kings said: we must control people, and the priests said: we must control souls. The king controlled through force, the priest through ideas – through myth. The kings feared rebellion, and the priests defused rebellion through guilt. When they got together, the king gained control over the majority of the population through the priests, and the priests got control of the rebels through the might of the kings. Those who agreed with the priests were slaves to the king, and those who opposed the priests were killed by the king. It was a vicious circle.”

“But you’re missing something.”

“What?”

“That the world became a less violent place through the efforts of the church,” said his father.

“Only through guilt. That’s not real. And look at the crusades. Or Galileo.”

“What other choice was there?”

“The choice we are facing now. Here comes the hard part.”

“I suspect it will be a lot longer than the easier part,” said Father McCullity.

Robert shrugged. “After paganism came Christianity.”

“Which stressed individual responsibility to principles.”

“No – it stressed individual adherence to obeying principles. It’s not the same.”

“You don’t think principles should be obeyed?”

“Not if they’re irrational.”

“‘Thou shalt not kill’. You’re right – that is extreme.”

“But Christianity doesn’t rest on that commandment. A lot precedes it.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as original sin.”

“That’s Catholic. I don’t preach that. Or agree with it.”

“All right, Hell then. Hell is just a sick way of saying: believe this, or else!” Robert paused. “So is heaven, come to think of it.”

“And do you really think people would be nice without a damn good reason?”

“I don’t think threats are the best answer.”

“What is then?”

“Reason,” said Robert.

“I see. So I should go the thief and tell him not to steal because it’s irrational?”

“It’s not a one-by-one thing. You should go to the King and tell him he shouldn’t steal from the poor.”

“And so he puts me to death. You want the world, there’s the world. Are the poor any better off?”

“In the short term, no. But in the long term, if people begin to see royalty as parasites, at least they’ll see they’re being robbed.”

“How long does that take? And how much slaughter does it entail?”

“We have a few people with a lot of power, and a great deal of people who believe in that power. If you get the masses to stop believing in it, it’s stripped of its myth and revealed for the brutality it really is. The problem I have with the church – any church – is that it powders the fangs of the rulers.”

“An odd metaphor, but – would that violence exist without the myth?”

Robert shrugged. “At least it would be a clean fight.”

“But a fight that would never end. That’s why I prefer the myth. At least it brings a semblance of peace.”

“But how do we know if the fight will end if we don’t try something different?”

“All you’d get is a repetition. Civil war and anarchy would just give rise to another church. All you would have gained is a few thousand deaths – maybe more. People fight, Robert – that’s Darwin, if you like. The church at least channels that desire into something better.”

“But through myth! It’s not true!”

“It is true that there’s less violence. How it’s achieved is less important.”

“Ahah. This is where socialism comes in.”

“Does it?” asked Father McCullity dryly.

“Yes. Socialism believes the best in people. It says: given freedom from myth, given freedom from the competition of the marketplace, given equal opportunity, people would rather be good than fight. So the idea that the church exists to prevent eternal war falls to the ground.”

“So what does socialism do with our thief?”

“It re-educates him, trains him, and gives him money to live while he finds productive labour.”

“Money – from where?”

“From the state.”

“Meaning from others. Isn’t that just like royalty?”

“No, because the state uses it for the good of the people.”

“Actually, the thief.”

“But isn’t it good for people to have less thieves around?”

“Suppose I’d rather invest in a night watchmen?”

Robert paused. “That’s something you can’t really do.”

“Why not?” asked his father.

“Because a night watchman protects private property. In socialism, there’s no such thing.”

“So who controls property?”

“There is no property. Everyone.”

“All right: I want a horse, my neighbour wants it too. Who gets to use it?”

“Whoever needs it most.”

“And who decides that?”

“They decide among themselves.”

Father McCullity laughed. “In that case, there was no need for religion in the first place, if people can get along so well.”

“And if they can’t decide, the state decides.”

“How does the state decide?”

“Objectively. If you need the horse to plough, and your neighbour needs it to ride, then you get the horse.”

“What if we both need to plough?”

“Then you take turns. But the point of socialism is to give everyone his own horse – and a lot more.”

“From where?”

“From an effective management of resources. If competition is eliminated, there’s a lot more to go around.”

“There wasn’t much competition in the middle ages.”

“But there was the church!” insisted Robert. “And the church had no stake in making the world a better place. Socialism does.”

“Altruism.”

“Material altruism. It’s the same as heaven, translated to the here and now.”

Father McCullity pursed his lips. “You said you disliked hell because it was a punishment. I assume you dislike heaven because it’s a reward.”

“Yes, because it’s a selfish reward.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s only your own soul that you’re concerned about. Given the alternatives of heaven and hell, what are the chances that someone will go to hell so a hundred people will go to heaven? Eternal torture for your beliefs is a pretty tough demand.”

“Christianity says that you are responsible for your own soul, yes.”

“And socialism says you are responsible for the bodies of others. Not their bodies, but their physical health. Food, clothing, shelter.”

“So a poet must build a house for a carpenter?”

“No, that would be inefficient. The poet writes, the carpenter builds.”

“Ah, so the poet writes poems for the carpenter, and the carpenter builds a house for the poet. Who would become a carpenter?”

“You see, you’re still thinking in terms of advantage and disadvantage,” said Robert. “Without the market system, those values don’t apply.”

“So everyone was an altruist before capitalism?”

“No – because there was the church.”

“And the state, you know,” said Father McCullity sharply. “You seem to forget that. The state made all the wars. In your system the state is everything – it controls the property, and so the food, and so the lives of each of its citizens. Will you find a ruler so enlightened that the power of life and death over millions of people will leave him uncorrupted?”

“But there is no single absolute ruler! Everyone takes turns!” said Robert.

“What, the thief too?”

“When he’s better, yes!”

“You’d put a criminal in charge of the lives of millions?”

“He’s not a criminal! He’s a man who stole once. That doesn’t define him for life.”

“But it should make you think twice about giving him absolute power, eh? What about the genius? He gets the same time as the fool?”

“Yes – although he should really get less.”

“Less! Why?”

“Because he’s smart enough to try taking advantage of the system. He’d be disastrous.”

“So the ideal ruler is a man with a mediocre mind?”

“You’re still thinking in terms of rulers. Socialism has no rulers – just expressions of the collective will.”

“So how do they enforce their decisions?”

“With – but everyone would agree!”

“Even the genius?”

“If he knew what was good for him, yes.”

“What if he didn’t agree with the decision?”

“That couldn’t be allowed. Otherwise, no-one would get to use anything. There’d be nothing but disagreement.”

“So what if he tries to take the horse?” demanded the priest.

“Then he’s stealing, and we…”

“Stealing requires the concept of property.”

“All right, he’s going against the will of the people! That’s wrong.”

“So what do you do?”

“It would never happen!”

“What if it did?”

“Then he’s obviously unfit to live in a moral society. So we banish him. Why not?”

“There’s the flaw,” said his father, nodding slowly. “You have a moral order you have to enforce, but without the church, you have to do it with guns.”

Robert shook his head. “Everyone will agree.”

“The Church has tried that for two thousand years, Robert – even with Hell, it’s had a hell of a time. What would you do with Luther? Or Savonarola? Or Calvin? Or Zwingli?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” asked Father McCullity suddenly.

“Of course.”

“I have a theory, a theory which strikes me at odd moments. It probably doesn’t mean much – I’ve never told it to anyone.”

“What’s that?” asked his son, curious.

“I sometimes think,” said the priest, “that the church is only barely good enough to ensure its own destruction.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Catholics were smarter than us. They got you both ways. Your salvation depended entirely on your actions – you were rewarded for the good and damned for the bad, and at the end of it all everything was tallied up and you went either to heaven or hell. Luther, he didn’t like that one bit. Neither did Calvin – seemed that the idea of God as a supremely talented double-entry bookkeeper rubbed them the wrong way. They pulled a switch: they said that bad acts made you bad, but good acts didn’t matter at all – it was all up to God, and there was no way of telling in advance. You see? No carrot, all fire.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Robert softly.

“Carrots made people rebellious, you see. Made them question their rulers. Made them think of contracts. No-no, said our good Reformation, the rulers don’t matter at all – it’s out of man’s hands entirely. An important step. You socialists are appallingly uneducated; you look at – what is it – alienation? – and you say: ‘Ahah! Market forces!’ But we took away man’s power to achieve salvation, we made his morality all punishment and no reward, we stripped him of his loving God and all you can talk about is the commodification of labour. It’s very unenlightened – for an idealistic lot you are supremely ignorant of basic ideas.”

Robert shook his head, utterly confused. “But – it’s your church, father…”

“So how can I climb into my robes every morning? Robert – we are not all so stupid. Religion is a warm bath mankind has been sitting in for ten thousand years – do you think bounding out will be so easy? I sometimes believe that in time the church will end – not just the hymns and kneeling, but the need for any of it. You see – we can’t beat the businessmen. And unless you’re willing to go to greater lengths than we ever dared, you never will either.”

Robert snorted. “What do you mean, we can’t beat the businessmen?”

“The Church has Hell; socialism has the State; all businessmen have is the power of persuasion. The Church is monotheistic; there are no competing gods. Socialism relies on a single State; only businessmen thrive on competition. Freedom, seduction and happiness in the here and now – how can you beat that?”

“So why didn’t you go into business?”

“I don’t like trying to convince others. Too fractious.”

“But capitalists compel all the time!” cried Robert. “Advertising, wages, monopolies…”

“Advertising is not compulsion, but suggestion. Wages are freely entered into, and can be left at any time. Monopolies… Many human beings long to end debate with the power of the state. All organizations tend towards monopoly; socialism and the Church are no different. Some capitalists will always try to commandeer the power of the state; it is up to society to resist them. But remember: the poor are no different. Look at Mr. Plodsworth. He would vote for the state to give him money.”

“You said the church could end – how?”

“One of two ways,” said Father McCullity, leaning back and staring up at the stars. “We’ve whittled God down from good and bad to bad alone – the next step is up to you. Either you say – there is no good and bad (which is the end not of just the church, but of morality itself), or you follow the businessmen and say: good and bad is man complete and as an end in himself, sans God, sans society, sans tradition, sans the state. And the choice,” he said, swinging round, “is up to your generation. Because ours is heading over the horizon, and losing its taste for such things…”

Robert sat for a long time, his mind whirling.

“Of course,” said his father eventually, standing and rubbing his legs, “it’s just an odd theory that strikes me once in a while. I shan’t remember it in the morning.”

“I have to talk with Alex,” said Robert, jumping off his swing.

“Good luck getting in the house.”

“You fought with her. I didn’t. Tell you what – here’s my material altruism. I’ll talk with her, try to get you off the hook.”

“Thank you. I am a little sleepy.”

Robert nodded, and ran towards the house. The back door was locked, so he went through to the front door and banged on it.

“Who’s there?” asked his mother’s voice tremulously. She’s been crying, thought Robert, surprised.

“It’s me, mother.”

“Where’s your father?”

“In the garden.”

“Tell him if he apologizes, he can come in,” she sniffed.

“I have to get in! Alex is leaving!”

“Apologies first.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not you. Him.”

“Mother! Open up! That’s between you two!”

There was no reply. Robert pounded on the door. Silence. Scowling, he ran back into the garden.

“Come on,” he panted to his father. “You just have to apologize.”

“To you?”

“Don’t be stupid. To mother.”

“I’m not going to apologize to her.”

“Father – please – I have to talk to Alex! He’s leaving!”

“Principles, Robert. I wasn’t in the wrong. Would you apologize?”

“It’s just this one time – come on!”

“Ah – so expediency for me is all right?”

“I’ll help you do ten right things tomorrow for just one infraction tonight.”

“It doesn’t add up, Robert.”

“All right then, do what you like,” cried Robert, thoroughly exasperated. “But I’m getting in that house if I have to tear the door down. And it’s on your head.”

“Hypocrite.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Robert over his shoulder, running to the back door.

“Mother!” he shouted, pounding on the doorframe, making the window beside it tremble. “Come on! Open the door!”

He peered through the window and saw her come into the dining room.

“Open the door!” he cried.

“I don’t see your father,” she said coldly.

“I don’t care about father! I want to come in.”

“I am not opening the door.”

“Mother! I live here!”

“God lives here,” she replied calmly. “The rest of you are tenants.”

“Oh, for… Pete’s sake! Mother!”

“Don’t try pounding. The maid has her orders,” she said, and left the room, closing the inner door.

Infuriated, Robert banged the door until he banged his wrist awkwardly. The pain shot up his arm, and he moaned, frantic with anger.

“God damn it!” he cried, standing back. “Alex!” he bellowed.

An upstairs window opened.

“Romeo?” cried a falsetto voice.

“Don’t be an idiot. Come down and open the door.”

“Uh uh,” said Alex, shaking his head. “It’s safer in here.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“So talk to me.”

“Not like this.”

“If the barbarians are in the castle, you don’t leave by the gate,” said Alex.

“What?”

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve just had an argument with my father.”

“So why doesn’t he kick you into the house?”

“About socialism.”

“Shh!” hissed Alex, “She’s boiling the oil. Man the ramparts – atheists abound! Why don’t you just abound up here?”

“Will you be serious?” demanded Robert.

“What was your disagreement?”

“About… oh don’t be stupid. I can’t talk like this. Open the damn door!”

“Why must it be the door?” asked his friend. “Expand your horizons. Think vertically. Climb the drainpipe.”

“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

“Beats having to clean them, child of the aristocracy.”

“All right,” sighed Robert. “Keep your window open.”

Alex nodded. “I’ll barricade the door.”

Robert began clambering up the drainpipe. He had taken his first step when he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Where is that accent from? asked Robert silently. He turned and dropped. He saw a slim young man standing beside the back door, the light falling over his angular face. His hair was dark, his jaw oddly twisted.

“Who are you?” he asked, shaken by the apparition.

“A friend of a friend of your fathers,” said the young man. “Now come down and do it sensibly.”

“Who’s down there?” called Alex.

Robert ignored him, and approached the young man, looking at his deep eyes.

“Are you a thief?” asked the stranger.

“I beg your pardon, but I live here.”

“But you want to get into this house.”

“Yes I do. But I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.”

“These locks are… inferior,” said the young man, taking a strip of metal out of is pocket. He inserted it into the doorframe, twisted it delicately, then stepped back.

“Voila,” he said, gesturing at the door.

Robert tried it. It swung open easily.

“Er – thank you,” he said, nodding uncertainly.

“Well, well – what have we here?” asked his father, walking up from the garden.

“My name is Sergei Nachaev,” said the young man. “You are Father McCullity?”

“Yes I am.”

“I am a companion of Ivan Ilyavich.”

The old priest’s jaw dropped open. “Ivan Ilyavich!”

“We have recently arrived from France.”

Father McCullity blinked. “What? Where is he? How is he?”

“We have escaped from Russia.”

“Good Lord!”

“Who is – Ilyavich, father?”

“A man I knew in Paris, when I was studying, years ago…” said the priest. “An old friend. Where is he?”

“Waiting at the train station.”

“What – here?”

“No, at the train station.”

“Oh… Well, come in, come in,” he said, taking the man’s arm. “Thank God,” whispered Father McCullity to his son, “another guest.”

Nachaev removed his arm and shook his head. “I came to check on the address,” he said, “I must go back and fetch him.”

“Well – is he coming here tonight?”

“There are six others.”

“Including yourself?”

“Seven.”

“I can’t put up seven people!”

“Where can we stay then?”

“Who else is there?”

“Ilyavich, his son Gregory, his daughter Helena, Alexander Herzen and his daughters Natalie and Natasha.”

“Alexander Herzen?” cried Father McCullity, his eyes wide. “What about Tolstoy?”

“He didn’t come.”

“Well, I can’t very well send the great Alexander Herzen to a hotel. Go – tell them to come here. We’ll find room somehow.”

“Good,” said Nachaev, turning to go.

“Wait a moment. You said your name was Nachaev?” asked the priest.

“I did.”

“It seems I read… Aren’t you – wanted by the police?”

Nachaev turned and smiled. “Not any more,” he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE: The God of Comfort Spreads His Pleasantries

Using all of his Herculean (though some could say British) powers of compromise, Father McCullity restored his house to a semblance of order before the arrival of the Russians. Without surrendering to haste, he had pacified his wife, humoured his son, and rescinded Alex’s banishment. The only people unable to be pleased were the cook and the maid, who blanched at the news of seven guests, but by promising them a week off afterwards (out of earshot of his wife), Father McCullity placated them too.

So, after shooing Alex and Robert out into the garden, placing copies of ‘God & Christ Weekly’ around the living room to reassure his wife – and cajoling the maid into tidying up on her evening off – Father McCullity flopped heavily on the sofa and thought of Ivan Ilyavich.

They had met at a terminally thoughtful faculty party in Paris in 1829 (and despite himself, Father McCullity felt a twitch in his innards when he remembered those days). Taking an immediate liking to one another, they had quickly left and argued through the night at Ilyavich’s one-room apartment. Somehow the alchemy of disagreement had brewed a potent friendship, and they had ranged far and wide with the infinite energy of restricted youths set loose in a foreign land. How sad, thought the priest, that my son did not know me then… He often thought that there was a faulty part of his son’s brain that imagined his parents had been created at the same time he was. Does this mean I have changed? he thought, and that led him back to Ilyavich, imagining how he might have changed. Ilyavich was already a ‘hustler’ then (the root of many of their arguments), paying his way through school by selling odd things at night. Once, when McCullity had asserted that business required no creativity, Ilyavich had invited him along to observe his methods. McCullity had challenged the Russian to sell his goods to the first person he pointed out, which was a charwoman. Ilyavich had sold her a necklace that was probably worth about a month’s pay, and returned with a triumphant look on his face. The long-ago conversation drifted back into the priest’s mind…

“There,” Ilyavich had said. “Was that uncreative?”

“You’re right,” the young John had replied, “Business does require creativity.”

“Thank you.”

“But at the expense of morality.”

“Her life is a grindstone with nothing to look forward to,” he laughed. “She will have to work harder to pay for the jewelry, but hasn’t it broken her routine just a little? Hasn’t it brought just a bit of romance into her life?”

“You bullied her into buying it,” said John.

“Nothing is bought without desire – she wanted it. The job of a salesman is to free the customer from her reservations and aid her in fulfilling her deepest needs.”

“And make a profit.”

Ilyavich shrugged. “It’s a valuable service,” he said. “You will need all my skills to be a good priest. You have your payoff and your incentive, heaven and hell, and your hook, which is guilt. I don’t force people into buying – I show them how exciting life can be if you take a few risks.”

“But you aren’t interested in their souls.”

“You’re just repeating what I told you. Souls are your basis, the reason for your sale. You don’t sell God, you sell souls. I don’t sell jewelry, I sell romance – something equally intangible, but far more rewarding.”

“I should know better than to consort with a slave of evil,” John laughed. “Your shamelessness fascinates me.”

“Which is why you will never sell, and I will never believe. Fascination with the salesman is death for the product – they’ll bother you to study, not to buy.”

“So I fascinate you?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because you are a priest with curiosity. That’s as unusual as a salesman with guilt.”

“What happens when the fascination ends?”

“We shall go our separate ways, thoroughly enriched.”

John felt sad then. “School is almost over. Are you still going to return to Russia in the fall?”

Ilyavich nodded. “The businessman is the most civilized man in any country – the only man who takes the risk of losing his argument and having to walk away. Russia needs men like me.”

John had shaken his head. “I find your opinions incomprehensible.”

“That’s not true – you need to, because you clearly see the choices.”

“What choices?” John had asked.

“The choice of selling versus damning. Will you write to me?”

“I’m an Englishman,” he laughed, “we flood the market.”

“You know enough to say nothing of my position.”

“Of course. Will they read French?”

“Some. I will write too, but I can’t promise volumes. I shan’t have the leisure.”

“Meaning I shall.”

“Of course – you are an English priest. Just make it a small church.”

“It seems a shame to have never resolved our arguments.”

“Where reason fails, life proves. If we see each other at the other end of the tunnels we dig, we shall compare notes.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“Try,” Ivan smiled. “Stranger things have happened.”

Now Father McCullity sat on his sofa, arranging the lessons his tunnel had taught him. Stranger things indeed! he thought. Where will you be, old man? Russia has proven hostile to its businessmen, and you have fled. Here we live for business, the Great Boom is over but still they thrive. Perhaps I should flee to Russia. But I am a thinker, in my tiny way, and they have also ejected Alexander Herzen… Ilyavich had spoken of him in by-gone years, and Father McCullity had followed the old revolutionary’s writings avidly, hungry for the progress of Russian thought. He had given some of Herzen’s books to his son, but Robert had only skimmed and discarded them with a yawn, declaring them hopelessly out of date. How enjoyable it will be, thought the priest, to see him talk with a similar but superior mind. This idea had also been at the root of allowing Alex to stay; Father McCullity was setting the stage for some fascinating debates. His only concern was whether his household would survive.

“Well, I’m at a loss, John,” said his wife, coming into the room.

“What is it, dear?”

“I cannot imagine where we are going to store all these people.”

“They are refugees, Sarah – I’m sure they’ll be happy to have a floor to fall on.”

“I’m not having any guests sleep on the floor!”

“It’s not as if we invited them. Decorum will stand aside for a time.”

“No – we didn’t invite them. But I can’t help but notice how they come at such a convenient time for you,” commented his wife.

“What?”

“I asked you to eject one freethinker from my house. Not only does he end up staying, but here come seven more.”

“We relied on guile and lost it. The perils of politeness.”

“But if one aunt was enough pretense to throw him out, why aren’t seven Russians?”

“Because, my love, being uninvited, they cannot be considered guests, and so they cannot displace a guest who was.”

“Convoluted, but quite self-serving,” she noted.

“Why?”

“Don’t imagine I don’t see what’s going on, John.”

“What’s going on?” he said, stoking the fires against his will. “I didn’t expect them either.”

“Science and Religion meetings, a liberal school for Robert, freethinkers as guests – and now seven virtual atheists arriving. My authority is being undermined, John. I know what’s what.”

Father McCullity pursed his lips. “Come here, dear.”

She shook her head. “Don’t try any of your business.”

He smiled engagingly, patting the sofa. “Please. Sit beside me.”

She sat, her back stiff. He put his arm around her.

“Sarah, I do understand how this must feel,” he said, stroking her shoulder. “But you must remember that I am a priest of the church, and I married you because you were the daughter of the man I respected most.”

She frowned. “A funny way of showing it!”

“I know I have a habit of straying from the path – that’s your job, to keep my keel even. I had no idea that Ilyavich was coming, but we can’t bar our door now – especially when one of Russia’s most famous literary figures is accompanying him.”

“You like it because it’s prestigious, don’t you?” she asked.

“I must admit – I do. But along with that comes good old-fashioned English hospitality. These people have fled a brutal land. They are frightened, unsure of kindness. We have to show them that kindness still exists. If they fear and despise England, will they ever love our church?”

She turned her face to him. “Tell me openly – is that your intention?”

“That is always my intention,” he replied, spreading his hands. “All we disagree on is how to go about it. But it’s not unproductive – I temper your fierceness, you temper my generosity. In the middle is the right road. Don’t you think?”

She smiled. “It’s times like this I almost regret loving you.”

“We have a happy home, and a fine son – for all his faults. Come on – let’s put aside our differences while Ilyavich is here.”

“All I can promise is that I’ll try.” said Sarah, holding up a warning finger. “But if I hear atheism, I will respond – and promptly, too.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. But will you do something for me?”

“Don’t ask me before you’ve asked me.”

“Sorry. But please – will you hold your tongue until we are alone? Remember,” he said rapidly, trying to preempt her reaction, “these people have fled from tyranny. The least we can offer them is some kind of sanctuary. I’ll listen to you as much as you like when we’re alone. But please, Sarah – let them have some peace – at first.”

“Peace to damn themselves?” she asked sharply.

“Peace to find their feet. Only then can we point them in the right direction.”

“And if they still persist in their unbelief?”

“Then I will turn them out – personally. Count on it. All I ask is for a few day’s respite.”

“Oh John,” she sighed, sitting back, “you make me feel like some kind of Valkyrie.”

“You can be a trifle – aggressive,” he said slowly.

“I only do it because I care about people!”

“Then care enough to let them recover from their flight,” he said, thinking far different thoughts.

She twirled her hair, considering. “All right,” she said finally, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. Over her shoulder, he saw Alex’s head dart around the doorframe. Seeing his wife, the young man grinned and winked. Father McCullity smiled, winking back unthinkingly.

Alex laughed and ran upstairs, where Robert was pulling an old mattress from the attic.

“Coast is clear,” he announced, “The dragon has been fed. Your father’s honesty, if not a virgin entire.”

“Good,” grunted Robert. “Give me a hand with this.”

“It looks dusty – I’ll open doors for you. You know I’m allergic,” said Alex.

“This is quite a turnabout. With mother.”

“Turnabout making fair play. Are you looking forward to chatting with Monsieur Herzen?”

“I hope in him to find your wisdom stripped of cynicism. Should be very refreshing,” said Robert, giving the mattress a shove. It fell over with a dusty thump.

“‘All cynicism masks the failure to cope’,” quoted Alex, “How wrong he was. Cynicism masks the failure to compromise with banality, which is actually strength.”

“Open the door.”

“Do you think any ladies will be along?”

“Open the door, please!”

“All right. Well?”

“Three. Herzen has two daughters, Ilyavich has one.”

“Russian ladies are a vintage I have yet to sip. Should be refreshing.”

“Any ‘sipping’ you plan to do had better be far out of sight of my mother,” warned Robert.

“Really? I thought dragons ate virgins, not shielded them from dark knights.”

“God you’re vile.”

“Ah, that’s just the mater speaking.”

“No, it’s common sense. Russian fathers are quite old-fashioned about their daughters,” growled Robert, trying to wrestle the mattress down some circular stairs. “Can you grab the bottom, maybe pull it round?”

“Tsk – I’ll be in bed for a week. Alone.”

Robert sighed and bounded over the top of the mattress.

“Where is this one going?” asked Alex.

“Mother’s sewing room.”

“It looks serviceable enough,” said Alex, poking at it with a self-consciously wicked grin.

“You leave them alone in this house!” grunted Robert, lifting it again.

“The rural you is surfacing, my dear.”

“Why on earth do you want to make love to people you don’t even know?” demanded Robert.

“Experience.”

“Experience for what? Move, please.”

“In order to appreciate pleasures, one must be able to classify them,” said Alex, stepping aside. “We’re bound to marry fossils – how can we classify them without thorough study of the alternatives?”

“Your metaphors are getting extremely laboured.”

“They seem thus to you because they describe unknown territory,” retorted Alex. “To the initiated they are quite clear.”

“Door. But what is the point of all this promiscuity?”

“The dissection of pleasure.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s not a science. It’s just gross sensuality.”

“If by ‘gross’ you mean quantity, then yes – I should hope so!”

“You know, all this pleasure hasn’t made you a whit less cynical.”

“Cynicism is my ideal,” said Alex lazily. “Unwarranted pleasure serves it beautifully. The female myth must be penetrated in order to be dispelled. So to speak.”

“So what are you left with?”

“Knowledge of the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That a shy girl is a hungry girl, and a hungry one despairing. That’s a good one, isn’t it?”

“Pointless.”

“But no. A woman in a thousand dresses is the most available. The openness of a woman’s heart is inversely proportional to the layers she covers it with. That’s why I came to the country. Simple skirts are the greatest challenge.”

“You know, for all your talk,” said Robert, dropping the mattress and dusting his hands, “I still get the feeling that you are full of the most unmitigated shit of anyone I have ever met.”

Alex shrugged. “Cynicism is the only male cosmetic; a masculine thousand dresses.”

“So your heart is an open book?”

“Indexed for the asking. That disarms you, doesn’t it?”

“Just another layer to a hollow center,” replied Robert.

“Of course it is. Hollowness seeks to cover itself just as it seeks to fill itself.”

“Your eloquence reveals nothing but loneliness.”

“Have I ever admitted otherwise?” smiled Alex.

“Why are you lonely?”

“For the same reason you are.”

“What’s that?”

“The prevalence of one simple word: why?” said Alex, pulling out a cigarette and sniffing it. “Politeness: why? Decorum: why? Morality: why? Every answer stops somewhere – go one step more and you are lonely, beyond the soft bosom of convention. One’s mother dies: why? God willed it. Why?” Alex shrugged. “No answer.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about that?” asked Robert.

“Because, to paraphrase Claudius, my mother lost a mother, and her mother lost a mother. The difference is, none of them asked why.”

“Why do you?”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes you sad,” said Robert, dropping the mattress and rubbing his back.

“Would you rather I be ignorant?” asked Alex.

“No.”

“Be sure of this: sadness is vintage ignorance. My mother spent her last week of life cursing my father, cursing me, cursing the world. Why? Because she never asked why. She waited for life to reveal an answer, but all it revealed was death. I don’t want that to happen to me,” said Alex.

Robert sat on the mattress, aware of the fragility of his friend’s mood. The room was dusty; Alex slouched against a discarded dresser.

“So what is your answer?” asked Robert quietly.

Alex lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “To keep asking ‘why’ until I become an answer – and the only method I’ve found is experience. Maybe it’s wrong, but at least you can’t curse life for lack of trying.”

“But what is it you are really doing? Seducing the inexperienced?”

“All the ‘why’ has taught me is to hate those who never ask it,” said Alex. “A virtuous woman can live her whole life without a single question if no scoundrels come her way. Scoundrels represent the possibility of choice. Polite society breeds no choices, at least in the ideal. It only breeds guilt for imagining them.”

“We were talking about your mother, not society,” reminded Robert.

“It’s the same thing.” Alex frowned. “Do you know I have not shed a single tear over her? Why? Because I despised her life. She lived like a cow, ate the food she was given and harvested the children she was sown with. It’s an animal’s existence, and one doesn’t weep for animals unless one is overly tender-hearted.”

“But she was your mother.”

He scowled. “She was my womb, then my curse. That is all.”

“So she made you angry?”

“Of course, but only as a symptom, not an individual.”

“I can’t believe you see it that way.”

“Because you still believe in convention. Sentiment. The ‘why’ places you beyond weeping for what you don’t value. If my mother wasn’t my mother, I would never have bothered with her. Convention placed me in her life, but it doesn’t dictate my response to her death.”

“Is that what you and your father fight about?”

“Christ!” spat Alex. “They slept in different bedrooms, and I can count on the fingers of a missing hand the number of kind things they said to each other. She’s dead and boom! he’s off chasing hordes of mindless young women. He can’t claim to mourn her any more than I, and he knows it!”

“But the effect has been the same. You’re both off chasing mindless young women,” said Robert.

Alex smiled. “Are you impugning our guests before they even arrive?”

“You’re acting on the assumption that they are. Otherwise, you wouldn’t plot so blithely.”

“That’s because, as far as women goes, the assumption is inevitably correct.”

“I hope they’re strong willed,” said Robert, “I hope at least one of them is as cynical as you. You’d be off like a shot.”

“Untrue. I would relish the challenge.”

“That I will believe when I see it. But you still haven’t told me what you and your father fight about.”

“What do you and yours fight about?”

“Everything. What I think, what I say, who I am. Everything.”

“As do we. But it all comes down to one thing: adherence to convention or adherence to truth. My father only resents my actions because I refuse to pretty them up, which makes him a hypocrite for adhering to the former.”

“Although the actions are the same.”

“It’s the intention that counts,” said Alex, grinding out his cigarette. “I’m honest about it, and honesty is a virtue. Not the greatest of virtues, but a step in the right direction.”

“And the second is..?”

“Pride in one’s actions, not just one’s candour.”

“And when does that come?”

“When one hits bottom. Which is a task I am applying myself to assiduously.”

“When you get there,” said Robert sadly, “I hope you remember which way is up.”

Alex grinned. “Oh don’t worry about that!” he grinned, lighting another cigarette. “I don’t plan to be alone!”

CHAPTER FORTY: A Revival of Old Friendship, the Formation of New Alliances

Father McCullity heard the sounds of approaching horses, and his heart leapt. He opened the front door and saw the weary troupe coming up the front path.

“Ivan!” he cried, running forward.

Ilyavich lowered himself from his horse and the two men embraced. The priest was surprised to find tears in his eyes. Greeting old friends is always like coming home, he thought.

“How are you, John?” smiled the old merchant, holding him at arms length.

“I’m well. Did you find the house all right?”

“Nachaev showed the way,” said Ilyavich.

There was a slight pause, as both men searched for the means to restart the old motor.

“How was your tunnel?” asked Father McCullity finally.

“Ah! You remember! It led me to you,” cried Ilyavich. “What that means remains to be seen. But reminiscence must bow to necessity. Come – this is Alexander Herzen,” he said, introducing the old man.

“How do you do?” The priest shook Herzen’s hand, feeling very young. “I am an avid reader.”

“So far away?” Herzen nodded. “That is good to hear.”

“And this is his daughter Natalie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said. She’s pretty, thought the priest nervously.

“And my children, Helena and Gregory.”

“So this is an English house!” cried Gregory energetically, pumping the priest’s hand and looking around. “Wow!”

“And Natasha, Herzen’s other daughter.”

“How do you do?” asked Father McCullity.

“Tired!” announced Natasha, “But grateful for the hospitality.”

“And Sergei Nachaev, whom you have already met.”

Nachaev and Father McCullity shook hands, the latter surprised at the energy the former put into the gesture.

“So – come inside,” said Father McCullity, “And I will introduce you to my family.”

After all the introductions were made, the entire group stood awkwardly crammed into the living room, unsure of what to say. Natasha finally took the reins.

“I think I can speak for the others when I say we will all feel more human after a good night’s sleep. I suggest we all retire and converse in the morning,” she said, proud of her command of the tongue.

“I second that notion,” said Father McCullity, “for the youngsters at least. Ivan, if you have the energy, I’d love to stay up and talk.”

“Of course,” said Ilyavich. “We will.”

Nachaev volunteered to stay up as well, which meant that Gregory followed suit. Herzen made his apologies, and Helena and Natalie also voiced their desire for sleep. Alex concurred, eyeing them all.

Sarah showed them to their various accommodations, apologizing constantly until cut off by Natasha, who insisted it was entirely unnecessary. Then she, too, retired.

The young men, Ilyavich and Father McCullity finally stood in the darkened living room.

“All right,” said the priest, “You young people will have to amuse yourselves elsewhere; this room is reserved for old memories only.”

“Come on,” said Robert, “I’ll show you about the garden.”

After they had left, Father McCullity motioned for Ilyavich to sit down.

“Sherry?” he asked.

“That would be good, yes.”

“Lord – I hardly know where to begin,” said the priest with a laugh, pouring two glasses.

“I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality,” said Ilyavich.

“You should have written,” chided Father McCullity. “Not that you were ever very good at it.”

“I found I had not packed your address. All I remembered was the village. This is why Nachaev had to find you.”

“Still – here anyway, safe and sound. I’ll drink to that,” he said, raising his glass. “So tell me – what brings you here?”

“I retired a few months ago,” said Ilyavich, “and for the sake of my children – and Alexander – I decided to come to England.”

“Business bad in Russia?”

“Everything’s bad in Russia. For me that is not so hard, but my children are not built for the road I took.”

“What road did you take?” asked Father McCullity. “You married, obviously.”

“Yes, to a difficult woman. She left me ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ilyavich shrugged. “It happens. For me there is little to tell. I sold just as I did in Paris, and I found my way around the silly laws, and eventually I became rich.”

“And that made you happy? That’s where we left off, if you remember.”

Ilyavich shrugged again. “Happiness depends on one’s children. Somehow they were not.”

The priest sighed. “I understand that.”

“Helena I sent to school, and she did very well. Then she came back, and for three years could find no feet – that’s her phrase; don’t ask me what it means. Gregory was not so fortunate. He refused a scholarship because the Tsar was a bad person, and wanted to write instead. I said all right, and he lived at my country house.”

“Country house!”

Ilyavich smiled. “As I say, I did well. But after two years he still had nothing to show, and he began fidgeting when I retired, saying he wanted to live in a city. Rather than fund such uselessness, I brought him here.”

“So now he can write.”

“If he’s able, yes.”

“You don’t think he can?”

“He shows no interest in selling, and I won’t do it for him, so how can he sell?”

Father McCullity blinked, then laughed. “I thought you’d be the same, but this is amazing.”

“But it’s the truth!” cried Ilyavich. “No-one as yet understands this. He could be a good writer, but if he’s discovered only after death, what is the use?”

“Some don’t see it that way. But why did Herzen have to leave? Finally published something too radical?”

Ilyavich shook his head. “He became enamoured of a young man, this Nachaev, and after a violent incident Nachaev had to flee, and Alexander decided to go with him.”

“Ah – so everything hinges on Mr. Nachaev,” said Father McCullity.

“More than you think. Please – you must keep your eye on him. He is a dangerous man.”

“Yes, I read in the Russian papers that he is wanted for murder.”

“That was just one man. Since I have known him, he has killed four more times.”

Father McCullity stared, shocked. “That’s – remarkable. Is he armed?”

“He gave up his guns at the border, and would have us all think he is a changed man, but I do not think a man changes in this way.”

“Still, as he brought you here, I have reason to be grateful. It’s good to see you,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Ilyavich. “But tell me about your life. Slowly.”

“Pff!” exhaled Father McCullity, settling in his seat. “Well I graduated, much to everyone’s surprise, but low enough in the class that all I could get was a rectorship here – please don’t think I actually took your advice about getting a small church. It was pretty dismaying at first – I was raised in Edinburgh, if you remember. But I gradually grew to like it, and married a local girl, Sarah. Her father was the priest here, Father Ratchet, and he was a thorough old bastard, if you’ll excuse me. Everyone liked the gentler way I did things, and I can honestly say I’ve made my little corner of the world a better place. We had a son, Robert, and then found out that was about it, unfortunately. Robert has just come back from his first year at university, and is even more insufferable than we were.”

“Insufferable,” pronounced Ilyavich, shaking his head. “This is bad?”

“Pig-headed – with just enough learning to despise broader knowledge.”

“You think this not good?”

“It’s all in the way one goes about it. He’s right up there on his little pulpit, damning this and cursing that, and refusing to believe that anything has any value.”

“Then you had best keep him from Sergei Nachaev.”

“There’s no use to it – they’re everywhere these days,” sighed Father McCullity. “They’ve grown eloquent in our rebellion.”

“Ah – so you have joined the other side.”

He smiled. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, but yes, to a degree I have.”

“This is interesting,” said Ilyavich, leaning forward. “Because I expected it.”

“It’s you I should keep Robert away from then!” said Father McCullity. “What else? As usual, the march of science has threatened the peace of my home.”

“Your wife then – she is religious?”

“To the core, as in hard-core.”

“Mmm – bad.”

“But she’s a good woman at heart.”

“She is the one who effected your – desertion?” asked Ilyavich.

“She – instructed me in the need for compromise. Which you also must have learned.”

“No.”

“Are you telling me you never had to work outside the law in Russia?”

“In Russia to work within the law is a compromise,” said Ilyavich – a little smugly, thought Father McCullity.

“Well, I married her, and that is that,” he said. “Since then, I’ve tried to forge some common ground between what is happening in the world.”

“You mean, between faith and reason? Is that right? An impossible job,” said Ilyavich.

“I think I’m achieving some kind of success – relative to the prejudices involved.”

“What success is that?”

“I have each side listening to each other.”

“But not agreeing.”

“That will take time.”

“An eternity – given the prejudices involved.”

“How did you learn English so well?” asked the priest, wanting to change the subject.

“I dealt with Englishmen on a business level, and my daughter learned it in school. She has spent the trip here teaching us its uses.”

“She has done quite a job. Philosophy is the hardest part of language to master. Would you rather speak French?”

“My French is rusty,” smiled Ilyavich. “They were never good businessmen.”

“You know, you’re still an idealist. That surprises me.”

“Was I ever?”

“All you talked of was business in school. You remained true to it somehow.”

“That’s not idealism. That’s – good sense.”

“You still have your values. Is it still work and love that makes you happy?”

“Of course. Except for children.”

“So age has ripened you somewhat.”

“And you?” asked the old merchant. “Has the road to God made you happy?”

“Well – that’s a hard question to answer. More sherry?”

Ilyavich nodded. “You seem comfortable.”

Father McCullity rose. “Oh I am, I am… But I think happiness lies somewhere between comfort and ideals.”

“In compromise?”

“If you like. If that’s happiness, that’s where I am.”

“You don’t know?”

“Are you happy?”

“I am satisfied with my life, and so happy. But for my son.”

“I am satisfied with my compromises, and so quite comfortable,” replied Father McCullity.

Ilyavich laughed. “We are still students, no? Now, outside of your happiness, tell me of your life.”

Father McCullity, smiled, and launched into a rambling narrative that shall be passed over in order to eavesdrop on his son, who was becoming quite astounded at the depths of his ignorance.

Robert, Nachaev and Gregory sat on the back steps, looking out on the darkened garden. Resentments being the surest ice-breaker among young men in the flush of first learning, they were flowing fast and furious, with Gregory far in the lead.

“…and on top of all that, he never takes me seriously!” finished Gregory after a long list of complaints.

“So what? Neither do you,” observed Nachaev.

“Oh, what do you know?”

“Seems to me,” said Robert, “that you can take from your parents to live, but not to work.”

“If I had a job that paid money, I would agree,” said Gregory, “but I am a writer – must I starve to death?”

“Why don’t you take a job then and write at night?”

“What – in Russia? You only get paid to oppress people. No thanks for that,” said Gregory.

“But you’re in England now,” said Robert.

“My English is not good enough.”

“It sounds fine to me.”

“Not really good enough. I am a master of language – a writer must be. Until I can – eloquent exactly what is on my mind, I’d have to rely on manual labour. Have you ever tried writing after a hard day’s work? It doesn’t happen, I can assure you.”

“But you have enough leisure now to do what you like,” said Robert. “Why don’t you write?”

“With the experience I’ve had, all my poems would be about boredom and frustration.”

“Still…”

“Don’t try, Robert,” advised Nachaev. “It’s no use – he just feeds on the attention.”

“So do you, but at least I don’t shoot people to get it!” hissed Gregory.

Robert was shocked, and his arm twitched to stop Nachaev from striking the sickly boy, but Nachaev just laughed. “If you think the revolution is about attention, Gregory, you’ll never be a writer.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gregory grudgingly.

“Never mind. So you’re the son of a priest,” said Nachaev, turning to Robert. “What is that like?”

“It’s the best upbringing one could have,” replied Robert.

“Oh? How so?”

“All the issues are made abundantly clear.”

“What issues?”

“Society, niceties, compromise. All the bugaboos.”

“Bugaboos,” murmured Nachaev, tasting it. “Nice. But your father does have a goal – the saving of souls. That raises him above many.”

“You think he’s after souls?”

“Aren’t all priests? In Russia they are.”

“Well,” laughed Robert. “Not here. Here the job of the priest is to make everyone feel comfortable.”

“This is a word I never understood,” said Nachaev.

“Comfort? Well it’s – making everything feel nice. Making sure there are no disagreements.”

“None at all?”

“Well, none that can be avoided.”

“Like what?”

“Like – my father wanted Alex to leave, so he told him we had an aunt coming and needed the space.”

“This Alex – he is a dangerous man?” asked Nachaev.

“No – not really.”

The young man frowned. “Then why should one lie to him?”

“To avoid a scene.”

“You mean – shouting?”

“No – I mean people knowing they’d been kicked out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Robert laughed. “Lucky you. It would make my father uncomfortable to know that Alex knew he was being kicked out.”

“Why?”

“Because my father doesn’t like kicking people out.”

“This Alex knew he was being kicked out?”

“Sure.”

“So everyone knew.”

“But Alex couldn’t do anything.”

“He could demand the truth. Or expose it.”

“But he would still have been kicked out.”

“Why didn’t he make your father uncomfortable enough to let him stay then?”

“Because that would have been rude.”

“Your father was doing it.”

“When you’re an Englishman’s guest, you have to surrender to his right of comfort,” said Robert.

Nachaev paused. “And I am a guest.”

“Yes. But don’t think this is my idea,” said Robert quickly. “I’m just as against it as you are.”

“I didn’t say I was against it,” said Nachaev.

“What? Why?”

“It strikes me as very pleasant that you should never make your host uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“Because then if you have to do something your host doesn’t like, you are obliged to keep it from him, no?”

“Well,” said Robert uncomfortably. “I – never looked at it that way.”

“You are English – it is understandable,” said Nachaev.

There was a pause. The stars almost threw shadows.

“One thing I am curious about,” said Robert nervously, “But do tell me if I’m being rude.”

“I shall,” replied Nachaev, “I am not your guest.”

“Father says you are a – revolutionary…” Robert paused, unsure of how to continue.

“I see. And you are a student – is that correct?” asked Nachaev.

“Yes.”

“No it isn’t. You go to school. You are a human being.”

“I see your point. But if someone were to say to me: what’s it like to go to school, I would say such-and-such.”

“So you want to know what it’s like to be a revolutionary?”

“I… yes, if you don’t mind.”

“So why don’t you?”

“What – be a revolutionary?” Robert laughed tensely. “Don’t be silly.”

“Then I’m not sure how to answer you. What’s it like going to school?”

“Well, it’s all right. You learn a lot. It’s a lot of work. It’s nerve-racking sometimes. Sometimes I think you learn a lot more outside of the classroom.”

“Then that is my answer too.”

“But sitting here on the steps, chatting – I never imagine revolutionaries doing that. Stop me if I’m being rude.”

“You have never talked with a soldier?”

“It’s – but you’re a civilian.”

“I am not a civilian,” said Nachaev.

“So it’s like a war.”

“No. It is a war.”

“But you don’t fight foreigners.”

“I fight those foreign to justice.”

“But in your own country?”

“That’s geography, not morality.”

“Am I upsetting you?” asked Robert.

“You’re upsetting yourself.”

“Am I?”

Nachaev nodded, smiling. “You have a category in your head: revolutionary. I should be foaming at the mouth and full of hate. This is all right – you are English, and here those who revolt are often wrong. Where I come from, violence is only a form of disagreement. You cannot understand that a man who kills may be right, so you are uncomfortable. Perhaps it is your categories that should be rethought.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude. I just have trouble understanding it.”

“You are lucky then,” smiled Nachaev. “I would rather have trouble understanding it than understand it so well.”

Suddenly Robert felt hopelessly middle class. He looked out at the well-tended garden; a wooden gnome stared back blankly. “I admire you,” he said suddenly.

“Why?”

“Certainty like yours is very rare.”

“Only because it is so dangerous.”

“How did you – get that way?” asked Robert.

He shrugged. “How does anyone? By making decisions on what they see.”

“But most people are never sure.”

“Then that is the decision they make,” said Nachaev. “If you want to see real evil, talk to the man who says: I don’t know how to fight evil. Who compromises. Who says he never made the world. It’s a lie. Everyone makes the world.”

“What you say – my father says that,” said Robert slowly.

Nachaev spread his hands. “He is my host.”

“You really think that is evil?”

“To be obeyed, evil must be ignored. Good must be compromised. Comfort courted. A man who takes the world as it is always makes it worse.”

“That makes – uncanny sense.”

“You are an – evolutionist?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand. Darwin was the greatest revolutionary.”

“Because he believed in struggle?”

“No. Because he proved its value.”

Crickets mourned in the darkness beneath the hedges. Robert shivered suddenly.

“Sergei – may I call you that? Sergei, I was having an argument with my father earlier about socialism,” he said, somehow relieved to be eager. “He said that a socialist ruler must be unjust because he has so much power. Because there is no private property. So I said…”

Nachaev stood suddenly. “You are asking the wrong person.”

“You are a revolutionary!”

“But not a thinker. I know what to fight. But I don’t know what to fight for. And I don’t want to know.”

Robert frowned, confused. “That’s – what?”

“Darwin. Each species fills a niche. Your lot will build the good from the evil I destroy. I demolish; I have no time for blueprints.”

“You can say that again,” muttered Gregory. “I’ve tried,” he said to Robert. “It’s no use.”

“That’s very frustrating.” Robert turned to Nachaev. “You strike me as possessing a first-rate mind.”

“That’s why I don’t want it cluttered up with ideas,” said Nachaev.

“You don’t think ideas have value?”

“Not to me.”

“What are you going to do here then?” asked Robert.

“Continue my work.”

“What – violence?”

Nachaev laughed softly, relaxing. “Living in peace, you think of destruction as only physical. I will find your clergy, your aristocracy. They will be no match for me.”

“Why not?”

Nachaev grinned, showing his teeth. “Because I am not polite.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for you to talk with Alex,” said Robert with a sudden smile.

“He is an aristocrat?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then I shall enjoy the exercise.”

Robert frowned. “What about my father?”

Nachaev shrugged. “A village priest. And my host. I will not make him – uncomfortable.”

“Then we should be in for an exciting ride,” smiled Robert.

Nachaev turned to him. “This is what it means to you?”

Uh oh, thought Robert. “No, I just meant…”

“If you expect me to be your revenge, you will be disappointed.”

“That not…”

“You secretly dislike your friend, so you hope when I destroy him you will enjoy the – spectacle?”

“Yes,” said Robert, surprised. “Yes, I will.”

Nachaev nodded. “Petty, but commendable. Listen to me, Robert: know what you hate, and let your hatred be large. You can do no wrong.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Uncertainty is the only sin.”

“But I want to be sure.”

“Then I hope you get what you want,” said Nachaev, standing and stretching. “Come on, Gregory – time for beddy-byes.”

“I’m not tired. I want to talk.”

“But think of our host; I’m sure he’s tired – aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Robert, standing quickly. He turned and regarded the sleek animal that stood beside him. “Thank you,” he said, not knowing why he said it.

“It was easy,” replied Nachaev with a pleasant smile.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE: The Oldest Church, the Newest Religion and the Greatest Sin

After breakfast, Robert offered to take them all for a walk.

“Oh, but you mustn’t miss the sights,” drawled Alex. “Pastoral drudge is in vogue the whole world over. They’re even remaking Paris to…”

“All right, Alex – don’t give it all away,” said Robert. “Who’d like to come?”

Herzen declined, saying he wanted to speak with Nachaev. Gregory said he wanted to write. Helena, Natalie, Natasha and Ilyavich all voiced an interest in exploring the outdoors.

“All right,” said Robert, “Here’s the game plan, or route for those unfamiliar with colloquialisms – sayings. First we go up to the abandoned church – eleventh century, quite beautiful this time of year. Then we swing down to the village – it’s market day, so there should be lots to see. Turning back, we’ll stop for a bowl of milk at the Fresnick farm – as French as we get around here. We should be back about lunchtime. Bring a hat, a sketchpad if you’d like to draw, and wear white if you have it. And no short-sleeves – even the English sun can burn. We’ll meet on the front steps in ten minutes.”

“Very good,” said Alex after the others had left. “You should get a commission.”

“Why don’t you come along? You haven’t seen the church.”

“Oh,” said Alex, cocking his head slowly, “A bit picturesque for me, don’t you think?”

“The ladies are coming.”

“No point tiring myself out if they will, eh? I’ll guard the home front, ambush them when they come home. Spike the wine for dinner.”

“I know why you won’t come,” said Robert.

“Oh? Pray tell.”

“You don’t want to be caught dead having a good time. Look how pale you are! It’s a moral crime in summertime to look that dead.”

Alex sucked in his cheeks, “It’s the sun – the sun!” he said, twitching, “I cannot bear the sun!”

“I bet you can’t,” smiled Robert. “Get you in a sunny spot and I bet you’d be gamboling about like a spring lamb inside of ten minutes. Shameful.”

“Did you hear that?” asked Alex, drawing a sharp breath.

“What?”

“I distinctly heard the sound of a gauntlet hitting the ground.”

“Don’t evade. I still say you’re afraid.”

“Ah! There it goes again! Who’s flinging gauntlets about?”

“I am. Are you coming?”

“If it’s to be a duel with my darker side, how could I resist? You see,” he said somberly, leaning forward, “It’s only a war of darker versus darkest.”

“Well tell your armies to go upstairs and get a hat,” smiled Robert. “I’d hate to see them faint in front of the ladies.”

England sought to impress her guests with the single-mindedness of the professional hostess. She draped her train in brightest sunshine, kept the bees at an amiable distance, and even sent the odd wandering cloud to paint dark patches on the green hills. The party strolled along, Robert at the head. He pointed out various points of interest; the Roman marker at a crossroads and a kestrel floating high and trembling on the breeze. Alex underscored the commentary with several detracting notes, but his high spirits kept him just on the brighter side of irritation. Robert went doggedly on, so Alex eventually tired of the game and fell back to the rear of the group to walk beside Natasha.

“Well,” he cried, “How are you enjoying our little excursion?”

“Well enough, thank you,” was the staid reply.

He tsked. “No, no, my dear. Such doggedness is only allowed to the host at the end of a tiresome party. You must be more sprightly.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“In English summers, we worship youth and energy! I’d be doing cartwheels if it wasn’t for my trick knee.”

“Please – don’t bother me with your noise,” said Natasha, walking faster.

“Should I rather hum like a bee? Hmmmmmm.” Alex frowned. “I see you are no match for my flights of fancy.”

“Luckily my bad English is no match for your idiocy,” said Natasha.

“Oh, the maiden doth protest too much! Are you still so irritable?”

“I am trying to enjoy the view.”

“Then I shall be as silent as the grave.” Alex walked beside her for a moment. “Urgh,” he groaned suddenly.

“Just hush now.”

He staggered forward, his arms waving like a zombie. “I was buried – aliiive. Urrrgh!”

“Look – I shall hit you in a moment.”

He stopped. “You’re serious?”

Natasha turned to him, hands on hips, eyes glaring.

Alex declined her irritation and returned to Robert’s side, remaining silent, verging on sulky.

“What’s the matter?” asked his friend. “Stung by a bee?”

“I didn’t think they flew this far west,” muttered Alex. “Or if they did, they would be pacified by a good night’s sleep.”

“Oh dear. Well don’t feel bad – you’re still a man in my eyes.”

“You impudent pup!”

“No fighting now – we’re approaching holy ground. All right!” he cried, turning to the others. “We’re going off the path to the church! No straggling!”

“You call that a church?” cried Alex as they arrived at the top of the hill. “More like a crater.”

The others ignored him, lost in contemplation. The church lay beneath them, its grained walls rising like the base of a soft molten arch. At the rear of the church were some steps worn down to a flowing stone ramp. It was set on a high hill; bare sparkling granite shone through the patchy grass. One of England’s petit-montains rose beyond the ruins, the rock towering up through the diminishing green like pride itself. The woods ended at the base of the hill; faint rustlings and bird calls drifted up with the breeze.

“Very nice,” murmured Ilyavich, opening his sketchpad as the others walked towards the ruins. He had brought his pencils from Russia, and used a knife to sharpen them. He sat on a small boulder and propped the pad on his knees.

The paper stared at him, defying definition. Ilyavich squinted at the ruined church, feeling a yawning emptiness within him. The moment of truth, he thought. How do they do it now? He remembered listening to an acquaintance telling him how to approach a subject. A few sketches to get the sense of the broad outline, then start methodically, in detail, always remembering the relationships, x and y. His hand felt clumsy as it staggered across the page. He completed a few sketches, barely looking at what he did, aware of the clumsiness of his lines, the crumpled pages being thrust in his satchel without a second glance. Finally he dared look down. He stared at his shape, then at the church, his insides churning, then allowed himself to start proper. He chose a dark patch where the stairs met the foundation – a difficult shape, but it cut the horizontal and vertical lines perfectly. Chewing his lip, Ilyavich brought his head close to the page, closed one eye, and began. His world tightened; the sunlight narrowed and the birds disappeared. Just his pencil working, enlarging, controlling. Looking up at the patch, he began to see the shapes within it. He followed their lead, letting the blunting of his pencil control his shading. Right, left, up, down, this edge descends to this curve, moving across to that light patch. The detail was immense for such a tiny shadow. He sighed, thinking that if he had a year, he could get it right. After a time, his pencil refused to go any further. He looked up at the shadow, down at his page, and allowed a glow to creep up from his innards, growing to a fierce exultation. He leapt to his feet.

“I’ve got it!” he cried. The others, milling around the church, looked up at him curiously. He stared down at them, embarrassed.

“Nothing – excuse me,” he called, then sat down on the rock, gazing in happy wonder at his tiny smudge.

I have two motives, thought Alex, watching Natasha trying to climb the stairs of the old church: either I want the embarrassment, or I think it’s worth it. She’s not the kind of woman to fall for glib talk; the question is – will she fall at all? As if in answer, she slipped on the rock and skidded off the side of the stairs.

“Natasha!” cried Ilyavich from up on the hill, “I’m trying to draw that!”

“All right!” she scowled. Alex approached her.

“There’s an easier way up,” he said, bowing low.

“I’m fine,” said Natasha, briskly dusting off her walking-pants.

“There’s a section of collapsed wall around back. It’ll take you right up – I imagine it’s quite a view.”

Natasha pursed her lips, regarding him with a scientific eye. “Are you going to make noise again?”

“With you, it’s the furthest thing from my mind.”

She hesitated. “Show me then.”

Natasha followed Alex out of the church. He led her to the opposite side of the worn wall. A tumble of rough bricks draped down, easily climbable.

“Follow me – I’ll check that it’s safe,” he said.

“Oh? How heavy are you?” asked Natasha.

“One hundred and fifty pounds – without clothes.”

“You’re lighter than me – what is the point of you being brave?”

“Chivalry – but it’s nothing if you don’t like it,” smiled Alex, bowing again and motioning her on. He watched her climb until she reached the top of the wall. Standing against the blue sky, her trouser-legs trembling, she looked suddenly vulnerable.

“Is it nice up there?” he called.

“It is.”

“Do you mind if I come up?”

Natasha turned and almost smiled. “Just follow my steps,” she said. The action made her sway, and her arms reached for support.

“Be careful!” cried Alex.

“I’m fine!”

“No more gymnastics. I’m coming up.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” she said.

“It’s not for you,” said Alex cheerfully, “I don’t want you falling on me. You are the heavier one, right?”

Then she did smile, but turned her face away.

There was no denying the view. England being the pancake it is, even a small elevation can reap tremendous rewards. Perched on the wall of the church, they saw the checkered quilt of grain fields stretching to the horizon. The crazy lines of old copyhold boundaries zig-zagged like the last plan of a mad draftsman.

“It’s quite chaotic, but very productive,” said Alex.

Natasha didn’t reply. He looked at her, wondering how her brisk wide face would look with her hair down. She became aware of his glance, and he looked away, not wanting to begin a conversation, but knowing it would not start without him. He sat down on the wall and put his chin on his hands, gazing out over the countryside. Natasha stood and looked around like a sergeant-at-arms, first north, then west, then east, then south. She seemed to record it with precision, then turned without a word to Alex and began clambering down.

He felt his cheeks grow hot with the insult, then he broke into an incredulous laugh.

“Excuse me!” cried Ilyavich from up the hill, “But you’re sitting in my light!”

Alex turned and looked at Natasha’s stiff back as she levered herself over the rocks. With a sudden smile, he followed her down.

Robert saw Helena lazing on the grass to one side of the church.

“Doesn’t the church interest you?” he asked, walking up to her.

“Fossils are not my style,” she said, rolling to one side.

“I wish they were all fossils,” he said, sitting beside her.

She regarded him, plucking a blade of grass and chewing it. “That seems funny, coming from you.”

“Your father seems happy,” he said, ignoring her comment.

Helena turned and looked at Ilyavich. “He always stressed the value of hobbies.”

“What are your hobbies, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I have none,” she said. “No accomplishments. That’s the word you use, isn’t it?”

“For ladies who can play piano and sing, yes. I meant real hobbies.”

“You mean, hobbies that better the world?” She laughed, looking away. “I have none.”

“So what do you do in those endless Russian winters?”

“Everything but what I should, or so I’m told.”

“Ah, then you are staying at the wrong house. You should go to Alex’s. He’s richer than I am. He can afford laziness.”

“Quite an abrasive little fellow, isn’t he?”

Robert smiled. “It’s his hobby.”

“He’s your friend?”

He nodded. “A little out of place in the country though. Actually, I’d better warn you about him,” he said seriously. “He’s thinks himself a bit of a rake.”

Helena laughed. “Does he?”

“Don’t laugh. He’s merciless.”

“An English rake,” she mused. “Sort of a contradiction, don’t you think?”

“We don’t have the reputation of the French, say, but that’s just because we’re a little more subtle. Our bread, for instance.”

“We?”

“I mean, English rakes,” said Robert, embarrassed. “You’ll enjoy the market more, I’m sure.”

“I doubt it. My father was a salesman. I’ve seen all I can stomach.”

“So you came to laze around on the grass?”

“That’s right.”

“Well it’s the perfect place for it.” Robert eased back, looking up at the sky. “You can muse on eternity in such a spot.”

“Actually, I was just getting sleepy.”

“Too abstract a thought?”

“By far. How many people are there in your father’s church?”

“Two hundred on a good day. Usually less.”

“Is he a good priest?”

“A practiced priest. An expert negotiator. Good for the parish, bad for the home.”

“You shouldn’t put down your home,” said Helena. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“You should have been here last night,” laughed Robert. “A right old war zone.”

“Really?” She rolled over to regard him. “What do Englishmen fight about?”

“Oh, mother wanted Alex to leave.”

“I can understand that.”

“And my father and I were arguing about socialism.”

She smiled. “How Russian.”

“You’re lucky there. Your evils are clear. English institutions are just pleasant enough to be applauded as tradition.”

“So you wish all churches in ruins.”

“Look at us here – no guilt, a beautiful day. Don’t you get a sense of peace because this church is abandoned?”

“I was just enjoying the sun,” said Helena, stretching back.

“No English girl would do that,” said Robert, staring at her.

“What?” she said lazily. “Refuse a pointless debate?”

“It’s quite pagan, abandoning yourself on the grass like that.”

She shrugged. “It’s a pagan church. My form of worship.”

“The only religion that makes sense is sun-worship. The source of light and life.”

“You don’t have to convert me,” she murmured. “I’m already the altar.”

“Did you leave a boy back home?” asked Robert.

“No – we brought him with us.”

“What?”

“My brother.”

“No, I mean a sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart,” said Helena slowly. “What a pleasant phrase.”

“You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”

“No.”

“Why did you leave?” he said after a pause.

“I was deceived.”

“By a man?”

She shrugged, playing with the grass. “Of course not.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I don’t know. Father would like me to get married…”

“But..?”

“But I can’t imagine marrying an Englishman, so I’ll have to become an old maid.”

“That’s a long time to wait.”

“And you? Why aren’t you married?”

“I’m a student. Students don’t marry.”

“What do they do for fun then?”

“Avoid marriage.”

She laughed. “I see. That will be difficult.”

“Why?”

“A well-connected young man like yourself? Surely you have to beat them off with a stick.”

“That’s not the English way. If I was considered desirable, I’d have to beat their mothers off with a stick.”

“In Russia, when a women likes a man, the first thing she does is argue with him.”

“I mustn’t tell that to Alex,” said Robert. “So – a pleasant chat indicates boredom?”

“Not necessarily.”

He smiled. “I’d better round up the others. The day is getting on.”

“Oh, damn – I was just getting comfortable.”

“We’ll have to find something to argue about someday,” said Robert, standing up and brushing off his trousers. “It would be a refreshing break from all these accomplished English ladies.”

Helena didn’t reply, but watched him walking away. A good man, she thought. Child of a free land. What would it be like? She suddenly felt the possibility of tears, but shoved them aside, turning resolutely to the warmth of the sky.

They gathered in the remnants of the church. The foundations rose around them, monuments to a blind, passionate past, a stone bowl of warmth, wide open to the sun. The priests were long gone, of course, but the foundations still stood, musing and mourning the forgetfulness of their children.

Natalie had half-heard them talking about the morning’s plans from up in her room, but decided to sleep for a few extra hours. Her days were diminished; her nights still vivid with imagination. She was excited to be in England, excited to be in love. She stretched out on her mattress in the spare room, burying her head in the pillow. Turning her head, she saw the ruffled whiteness of the sheet before her eyes, and imagined Nachaev lying there, his lean form. He should be smoking, she thought, but he doesn’t smoke any more…

In the midmorning, she rose and dressed quickly. She peeked into Father McCullity’s study and asked directions to town, hoping to meet the others at the market. Hard at work on his next sermon, he mumbled the road she was to take. Glancing through the window, she saw Nachaev and Herzen walking in the garden, deep in conversation. She smiled, wanting to say something, then strolled out the front door and started walking.

Natalie hummed to herself as she ambled through the gorgeous tapestry of the summer road. The few people she saw on the road nodded to her, curious that such a young woman should be walking alone. Heedless of their concern, she hello’d a good morning to all she saw.

The village was picturesque to the uninitiated, which is to say that the sight pleased the eyes before the smell hit the nose. Wrinkling her own, Natalie descended to the main street, marveling at the bounty of England. Compared to the paltry markets of Krak, this was an avalanche of sights, smells and sounds. Pigs were hoisted and hawked, children shouted through the streets, cows mooed uncertainly, fenced bulls pawed and snorted, and everywhere was the rapid chanting of auctioneers, the shouting of bidders and the cries of women scolding their spendthrift husbands. Natalie wandered through it all, drawing not a few glances, regarding the whole affair with the mute happiness of a shy bride in a new palace. Even the poorest of the Englishmen carried their heads with a carriage Natalie had never seen before, and she began to feel the effect that freedom has on a population. Truly England is in her heyday, she thought. The Corn Laws were gone, trade barriers were falling the length and breadth of Europe, and the Royal Navy was giving way to endless streams of merchant shipping. London was the launching-point of the wealth that barreled through the countryside, and everywhere was the brawling, sprawling life of men and women in cheery possession of the legacy of the industrial revolution, changing and enlarging the bounty their parents had wrestled from the familiar earth with unfamiliar methods. True patriotism rang from every throat; the patriotism of opportunity allowed for the first time to one and all. The grinding poverty of the middle ages and tumult of the last century had fallen away to reveal a land bursting with the energy of its people, people reveling in creating wealth. The country fair Natalie walked through, she thought, was witness to the unleashed pride of man.

Ducking into an alley, she furtively felt under her dress for Ilyavich’s money-belt, drawing forth one of the crisp wide English pounds. She had exchanged their money in Paris, and even given the weakness of the ruble, felt almost pregnant with the thickness of the belt. A one pound note gripped in her hand, she rejoined the jostling herd, enjoying the thrust and parry of the crowd. Men loomed before her, hawking their wares, but she smiled and shook her head. To gain a moment’s respite, she fought her way over to a tiny, ill-attended stall.

The grimy man behind it seemed out of place. He was short, bent, rank with the smell of cheap alcohol and had a slanting gaze that refused to raise itself to the bustle of life around it. On his table were a few pathetic goods, obviously culled from a household in dire distress.

“Good morning, pretty miss,” he said, scratching an ear. “Here be the fairest goods in the fair, cheaper than any you’ll find anywhere. See what you like, like what you see, take what you like and help a family in need. No haggling here, these prices are as low as they come. Come on – what do you say?”

More to rest than anything, Natalie poked hesitantly through a box of old and mostly shoddy jewelry. She found a little silver necklace; the tiny tiger’s-eye in its pendant was the exact colour of Nachaev’s eyes.

“How much for this?” she asked.

He frowned. “Now that is the wife’s, and it was a real fight getting her to give it up – it was her grandmother’s.” He sighed. “But there’s no use to it – mouths to feed, you know. For you, a just a bitty pound note, barely enough to scribble on.”

Dare I? thought Natalie. She had allowed herself even less money than the others, afraid of irresponsibility. Just this one little trinket, to even things up… She nodded at the man, and handed over the note. He took it from her eagerly.

“If it’s bargains ye’re looking for,” he said, eyeing her closely. “I have another box out back you should really see.”

“That’s all I can afford, I’m afraid,” she said.

“What – a pretty lady like you? Worth a million, I’ll bet. Come on, just take a few minutes,” he said, tugging at her sleeve.

“No, thank you, I have to go,” she said, stepping back.

“Please – my wife will kill me if I don’t bring back a little more. I haven’t been doing too well today. Just a little look – please.”

“Where is it?”

“Just inside. My wife will give you a drink if you like. Nice tea. It will only take a moment.” He winked. “Who knows? You might find something you can’t afford to miss.”

Natalie looked at the dark interior of the man’s house. She could see no movement.

“I think not,” she said, backing away. “Thank you.”

He caught her sleeve. “You are suspicious?” he demanded. “All the poor are thieves, isn’t that it? I have six children meself, but my farm just washed away, and now I have to sell me wife’s past. Just one look,” he said, smiling and winking again. “Just one. Do me that kindness.”

Natalie paused, then relented. As she went into the house, she thought she heard someone calling her name. As the man tugged her inside, she turned to look, but her eyes were confused by the bright colours and, with the man tugging at her sleeve, allowed herself to be pulled into the darkness.

“Natalie!” cried Robert. He stood with the others in a little pocket of inactivity on the other side of the street. They had just arrived.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ilyavich, staring in wonder at the wild colours of the market.

“Nothing – she probably came to meet us,” he said anxiously. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He pushed his way through the crowd with such energy that even the market-goes voiced their objections. Apologizing left and right, he heard the final auction begin at the end of the street. As one, the crowd surged ahead, and Robert fought against the tide, but the bodies were pressed so tightly that he was borne along helplessly. Finally he came to rest against the wall of a house, and began working his way along it to the place he had last seen Natalie. He found it, and went in without knocking. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; he found himself in an empty smithy. The forge was cold, which meant no-one had been there all day. The room was large, dusty, and the sunlight beamed in through a hole in the roof like a ghostly slanted pillar.

“Natalie?” he called. There was no reply. Blinking, Robert stumbled to a door at the rear of the room. It was even darker in there, and he smelled the acrid fumes of stagnant coal. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a pale shape lying against the far wall as if suspended in midair. He scrambled over the coal towards it. It was Natalie, draped over a pile of coal, her dress hiked up around her waist.

“Natalie!” he shouted, grabbing her wrist. A pulse beat softly against his hand. Picking her up, he gingerly stepped over the uneven surface and carried her out into the smithy. He placed her gently on the cold floor, lowering her dress. A smudge of blood stained his palm as he took it away from behind her ear.

“Oh, Christ,” he whispered, his vision swimming. “Oh sweet God!” He sat for a moment, feeling ill, then raised himself and ran out to rejoin the group.

“Natalie has fainted,” he said. “Alex, come with me. We’ll take her to a doctor for some salts. The rest of you meet us there – it’s the last house on the street – a green door. Alex – come on.”

Disregarding their questions, Robert and Alex ran across the by now near-deserted street to the smithy. Robert stopped Alex before they entered.

“She went into the smithy with Mr. Plodsworth,” he panted. “She’s doesn’t look good.”

Alex nodded, and they went inside. Natalie was sitting up, feeling her head.

“Are you all right?” asked Robert. “I bet that’s a right old bird’s egg.”

“Robert?” asked Natalie, frowning.

“Yes – you remember Alex.”

“Yes I…” Natalie’s face went dead white as she felt around her midriff. Her mouth opened, and her eyes widened in terror.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice trembling, “But did either of you take a – money belt from me?”

Robert shook his head. “I think you’ve been robbed, Miss Herzen.”

“No,” she cried, her hands around her neck. “No – I can’t have been robbed. I can’t have been! That was all our money! I was entrusted with it! All of it!” Her voice rose hysterically.

Robert kneeled down and gripped her shoulders, hard.

“Listen to me,” he said evenly. “You’ve been knocked on the head. Forget about the money. The first thing we have to do is get you to a doctor.”

“It wasn’t even my money! Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” she moaned, her voice thick.

“Come on – help me get her up,” Robert called to Alex.

“I – I can stand,” said Natalie, struggling to her feet. “Where is Ilyavich?”

“They’ve gone to wait for you at the doctor’s.”

“How can I tell him? It was his life’s savings! Oh, I wish I had been killed!”

“Natalie!” said Robert. “You are not to blame.”

“He entrusted me with it! How can I tell him?” she cried, her chest working as if unable to breathe.

“You carried the money around your waist?” he asked.

“Yes – I… Why?”

“Your dress was up,” he said slowly, “and I thought…”

“Oh, I wish that were true! Better that than… Why did I come to town? What was so important? It was all he had! What am I going to do?”

“Come on – let’s get to the doctors. I’ll help you explain. The man who robbed you is a known thief. We’ll get the money back.”

Natalie blinked, as if she had not even considered the possibility. “Do you think there’s any chance?” she asked pathetically.

Robert put his hand on her shoulder. “He robbed the poorbox once,” he said. “We got the money back. Don’t worry.”

“It was even in pounds,” she groaned. “Six thousand pounds!”

“Six thousand!” cried Alex, thunderstruck. “Six thousand!”

“Alex!” hissed Robert.

“Yes, I know, but – six thousand!”

“You don’t think we’ll get it back?” Natalie asked Alex.

He could not meet her eyes. “That’s a great deal of money.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m going to run away. Tell them I was gone when you came back.” She wandered towards the door, sobbing helplessly.

“Natalie!” cried Robert, so sharply that she stopped. Even Alex jumped. “Natalie, you have to face this,” he said. “It was an accident. You had no way of knowing. Most people in this village would see that money lying on the ground and find its rightful owner. But you just happened to run across the one man capable of robbing you. That’s not your fault. Ilyavich is a businessman – he’ll understand. But you have to tell him. Don’t worry – if you like, I’ll be there with you. I promise. But you’ve got to get your head looked at first.”

She hesitated, hugging herself tightly. “All right.”

“That’s my girl,” said Robert encouragingly. He took her by the arm and led her out, ignoring Alex’s skeptical gaze.

Robert knocked on the doctor’s door. Natalie stood to one side, feeling poised on the edge of a precipice. She obsessively ran over the events that led to her robbery. If I hadn’t been greedy, if I hadn’t flashed any money around, if I’d stayed in bed, if I’d… The door opened, and a maid glanced her up and down.

“We don’t give no money here,” she said flatly, moving to close the door. Natalie glanced down at the streaks of coal dust staining her dress. Robert’s hand leapt forward and pinned the door open.

“Yes, Mister Robert?” asked the maid coolly.

“Where is the doctor?”

“Out, of course.”

“Out where?”

“Why, at your house,” she said, blinking. “Didn’t you know?”

CHAPTER FORTY TWO: Eden Forsworn

“We leave for London next week,” said Herzen, walking with Nachaev in the garden after the others had left. He wore his best white linen, a fabric that reflected the sunshine so violently that he struck the eyes like the teary afterimage of a blinding light.

“What for?” asked Nachaev.

The old man blinked. “To introduce you around, of course.”

“I see.”

“You do remember.”

“I remember,” said Nachaev.

Herzen paused, glancing at him. “Look at this garden,” he said. “Do you know I can’t see a single weed? A true feat of engineering. Even the flowers grow to the same height.” The grass spread beneath them like emerald iron, restoring their footprints easily as they strolled.

“Do you know that the last great storm in England was over thirty years ago?” murmured Herzen. “Russia – the world’s orphan, abandoned by its Asian parents, forever search of its history. England is nature’s favourite child. I can see how it could temper even the most able of men.”

“It wasn’t England,” replied Nachaev softly, understanding.

“I did bring you along, fled myself, brought my family – in order to continue our work,” said Herzen, gazing around. “This garden is not all that England is. Don’t fool yourself. We walk on the poor.”

“What do you want for the poor, Alexander?” asked the young man.

“Justice. Equality.”

“Happiness?”

“Of course.”

“I was born poor.” Nachaev stopped. “Hold up a moment – I still am poor.”

Herzen halted and turned, searching the young man’s eyes. “Most of the world is poor – you owe them something.”

“My own misery?”

“You’re supposed to want it. If necessary.”

Nachaev stood resolutely. “Sacrifice. Yet you had a family.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s been on my mind.”

“You will never have what I had. We are different men. I could wage war from a study. You cannot.”

“Only if I choose to fight. For others.”

Herzen paused. “What else is there?”

“Myself.”

Herzen saw a frankness in the young man’s eyes he had not seen before.

“Something has happened, Sergei?” he said.

“I am allowing myself certain questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as: what is the revolution? Social, or – personal? Must I damn myself for other’s happiness, or must we fight our own battles? Where does my responsibility lie? To others, or to myself?”

“To the mediocre, it is to themselves. Your talents are too great to be confined to selfishness,” said Herzen.

“Can there be two moralities?”

The old man shook his head. “There is one morality: the revolution.”

“If you’re right, if I am a powerful man – why must I sacrifice my happiness to mediocrity?”

“To put an end to it. To raise everyone to your level.”

“Is that possible?”

“That’s the point of revolution. The end of inequality.”

“I was born different than most,” said Nachaev. “Can I make a moron as intelligent as myself?”

“You must work to end his shame.”

“How? By pretending I am stupid? I can’t fight reality.”

Herzen smiled tensely. “I welcome this change, Sergei. You are looking beyond destruction for the first time.”

Nachaev looked away. “And seeing very little point to it. Tell me, Alexander – what is it you would have me do?”

“What do you mean?”

“In England. Here. You want us to go to London next week – why?”

“To introduce you around, of course. To everyone I knew who fled. Revolutionaries like us.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Herzen mopped his brow, astounded. “Sergei – these are valuable men!”

“To whom?”

“To us! These men can provide you printing presses, contacts, ideas, enterprises. Point you in the right direction.”

“I’m not some kind of dagger.”

“You have been up to now!”

“Tell me, Alexander – am I your protégé? Or am I your friend?”

Herzen paused, his cheeks reddening. “Both.”

“Then am I not part of the others whose happiness you desire?”

“I can only use you to an end – the happiness of others.”

Nachaev nodded sadly.

“Sergei – you are too valuable to be selfish! Your energy, your dedication, your ruthlessness – we’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you!”

“We?”

Herzen waved his hand. “Us – thinkers in general. You are a man of action.”

“So together we can achieve something?”

“Yes!”

“What?”

“Change! The world!”

“Can we change the world?” asked Nachaev. “Is that possible? Can we say to the garden: do not grow?”

“The stupid cannot change themselves: the intelligent owe it to them to change their circumstances.”

“So I must forever be at the mercy of the stupid?” asked Nachaev.

“That’s – compassion.”

“What about compassion to myself?”

“Helping is its own reward!” cried Herzen energetically, his brow shading into wrinkles.

“Alexander – try to understand,” said the young man. “There are things I want that will make me happy. Things very close. The revolution makes them impossible. If I act to change the world – if that is even possible – I will only make myself miserable.”

“You don’t have a choice, Sergei – you are too intelligent!”

“So the intelligent sacrifice, and the stupid receive.”

“That’s the way of the world.”

“Then I reject it!”

“Sergei!” cried Herzen, amazed. “What – has come over you?”

“What have I ever done for myself?” asked Nachaev passionately. “I killed – for you. I fought – for the revolution. I denied myself love, tenderness, family, friends. Why? For everyone but myself! I have no soul, Alexander!”

“Your soul is in giving!”

“But I have given up my soul! That frightens me.”

“You can’t stop now – it’s too late!” said Herzen.

“If I thought that, I would end it now. You have used me, Alexander,” said Nachaev, his jaw twisted in anger.

“And you? Was it all altruism for you?” demanded Herzen.

“Yes – all of it! That’s the point! But at least I am trying to stop!”

“You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“Alexander – I am saying no to power! Look – I could come to London, growl at your friends, make something happen – but what would that be? If you cared for me, you would applaud my choice. If you cared for anything, you would fall to your knees in thanks!”

“I care about you too much to let you waste yourself!”

“Then allow me to be happy!”

“How?”

“By giving me permission – to marry your daughter!” cried Nachaev angrily.

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I meant to bring it up,” said Nachaev awkwardly. Herzen stood very still.

“Are you all right?” asked Nachaev, watching the old man’s pale face.

Herzen shook his head. “It’s – just the heat. Come – we’ll sit down.”

They walked silently over to a bench. A sudden gust of wind rippled through the trees, making their vision swim. The blue sky shimmered through the hanging leaves. The silence of the afternoon hung heavily between them.

“I never thanked you for getting us out of Russia,” said the old man after a while, leaning back. “You were very helpful, even in your mistakes. You provided – a lot of strength.”

“She is very beautiful, Alexander.”

“She is,” murmured Herzen. “I know she is.”

“Perhaps the true revolution must come from the child unafraid,” said Nachaev. “It’s something I never had; I desperately want to make it. I think with a shred more kindness, I would never have taken the road I did. It’s a very empty road.”

“And a road that isn’t going to take you to London, is it? No matter what I say.”

“You’re a wonderful old man, but the idea of spending my life with wonderful old men like you is – well, not too pleasant,” he said. “Or with young bastards like me.”

“Compared to spending it with Natalie, that is.”

“She’s taught me a lot, Alexander. And I am proud that she responds to me. She’s shown me a good I never imagined. I can’t give that up for guns.”

A tear escaped Herzen’s old eyes. “So,” he said, “it comes down to this, after all this time. I end my life as a father.”

“You are a good man, Alexander. There are many revolutions. Natalie is my bravest one.”

Herzen pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “So – to be a trifle maudlin – you intend to propose?”

“With your permission, and at the earliest opportunity.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” He sighed and squinted at the sky. “You have my – permission. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in tears. It’s such a loss.”

Nachaev placed his hand on Herzen’s. A bird sang, then stopped, startled at the sight.

“What will you do – here in England?” asked the old man. “You won’t go back to Russia.”

“No. There are too many temptations. This is the garden of Eden. No watching my back, no plotting. It’s a load I never even knew I carried.” He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s a little hot.”

“Shall we go indoors?”

Herzen shook his head. “Too many people.”

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” said Nachaev softly. “I really am.”

The old man paused. “You know, Sergei, I never had a son…”

“I know.”

“But if I did, there is something about you that would foot the bill,” he said softly. “You are very brave.”

Nachaev closed his eyes and held the old man’s hand quietly. “That’s – thank you, Alexander.”

“You are out of the shadows,” murmured Herzen. “The revolution is over.” So saying, he sighed and fell heavily to one side.

“Alexander!” cried Nachaev.

“Sorry,” said Herzen thickly, struggling up. “It’s the heat.”

“You look pale. Did you have breakfast?”

“I think you’d better – help me to the house.”

“Has this happened before?”

“A few times,” grimaced the old man. “The strain of the journey. Ouch!” he cried.

“Come on – lean on me,” said Nachaev, helping him up.

“God… so fast!” he cried, staggering. “Now!”

Nachaev reached down and picked Herzen up bodily. Legs bowed, he staggered towards the house.

“Call a doctor!” he shouted. “Alexander is sick!”

Father McCullity appeared on the back steps.

“What?” he cried.

“A doctor! Now! Do you have cold water?”

“God! Help him inside! I’ll see!” shouted the priest, running inside.

“You’ll be all right, Alexander,” murmured Nachaev, feeling the sting of tears. “Easy now. Oh God! How can someone so heavy be sick! Come on! Put some of that fat to use!”

Gregory raced down the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” he panted.

“Heart attack, I think. Get some water,” gasped Nachaev, carrying the old man into the living room and laying him down on a couch. He opened his collar. The old man’s face was puffy, his breathing shallow.

“Stupid old suit in the sun!” snarled Nachaev. He leant his face against the old man’s chest. “You’re too stupid to live, you old bastard!” He raised his fists, frantic. “Come on!”

Gregory ran into the room, slopping a bucket of water. “Nachaev?”

“Come here!” Nachaev reached over and tore a cushion open with his teeth. Shaking out the stuffing, he dipped the cloth into the water.

Nachaev squeezed the water over Herzen’s face, then pressed the cold cloth against his neck, his chest.

“Oh, God,” he said, agonized. “How long will it take for the doctor? Why does everyone live so far away?”

“What else can I get?” asked Gregory.

“I don’t know. Has this ever happened before?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When will the others be back?”

“They went for a walk after breakfast with the young man. They said they’d be back before lunch. That’s all I know!”

“Do you know anything about medicine?”

Gregory shook his head numbly. Nachaev felt for Herzen’s pulse. “It’s weak.” he said. “What are we supposed to do?” he cried.

“I don’t know!”

“Help me take his jacket off.”

They tugged Herzen’s chest off the couch and pulled it off.

“He looks paler,” said Nachaev.

“He’s still breathing though – isn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”

Nachaev ground his teeth, then dipped the cloth back into the water and began methodically swabbing the old man’s chest, thinking over and over: no-one even heard his finest moment…

CHAPTER FORTY THREE: Rage in the Room of Death

As night was falling, Doctor Bartholomew called for the immediate family, and with a grim sense of foreboding Natalie and Natasha went into the bedroom.

“He was far too old to travel,” said the doctor sternly.

“It was his idea,” said Natasha. “He wanted to leave.”

“It would be murder to move him. The palpitations have ceased – for now. He must not be excited. Who is the eldest?”

“I am.”

“Then take this,” he said, handing Natasha a bottle. “Give him some every four hours – no more than a tablespoon, do you hear?”

“What happened?” asked Natalie.

“He’s had a massive heart attack. You must leave this door open, and if it’s not cold, open the window at night.” He shrugged. “Other than that, hope.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“That depends on his constitution and his will to get better. Some come back, others…” he trailed off with an eloquent depression of his hand.

“Thank you, Doctor Bartholomew,” said Natasha briskly. “Rest assured: you’ve left him in good hands.”

“I’ll be back in two days. If he begins to convulse, you can send for me, but it will be brief enough.” He bowed and left.

Natalie approached the bed. She brushed her hand over her father’s forehead, smoothing his lank white hair.

“Well I hope you’re satisfied,” said Natasha from the corner.

Natalie turned. Her sister’s mouth was thin and white.

“What?”

“You and your – boyfriend!” spat Natasha.

“What? What has he got to do…”

“Why do you think he left? Stupid child!”

“I – don’t understand.”

“You’re so pathetic! Who do you think would have married you if not him? Father was desperate – he clutched at any straw, and it’s almost killed him! Don’t give me that simpering look – it’s your fault!”

Natalie blinked, unsure of where she was. “What?”

“You left school, you refused to make a life of your own, so we all had to make room for you. I had to leave my studies and father had to trek halfway across the world because your only prospect went and killed someone! So now he lies where you put him!”

“You’re mad!” cried Natalie, backing away.

“Am I, little Miss Perfect?” said Natasha, advancing. “Why did he come to England then?”

“For Nachaev! You know that! For the revolution!”

“And did he say a word when you and Nachaev began simpering over each other? Even though he knew it would probably mean the end of Nachaev’s desire for revolution? Can’t you see? He kept quiet for you, because Nachaev was the only hope you had!”

“He didn’t even know!”

“Oh come on! Don’t be moronic. Even Gregory knew.”

“We just – spent some time together.”

“Muttering and murmuring sweet nothings to each other. Well I hope you’re happy!”

“How – how can you tell me such things?”

“Because I’m tired of you,” said Natasha flatly, “I’m tired of your prissiness, your blindness, your sad belief that the whole world revolves around you. It’s time you learned a little about what you really are.”

“I’ve learned that!”

“You have learned nothing! You’ve only fallen in love. And with what? A murderer! I left school – what were you willing to sacrifice? But no, you were afraid of men, you just had to stay home. You didn’t like school, so you just had to leave. How do you think that made him feel?” she asked, jabbing a stiff finger at Herzen. “His youngest daughter turning into an pitiful failure before his very eyes!”

“He loved me!” cried Natalie, her hand at her throat.

“He pitied you! Didn’t you even know that? He told me himself!”

Natalie turned away. “That’s a lie!” she faltered.

“You should read his letters to me,” snarled Natasha, “Where is Natalie going? What is to become of her? How have I failed? You caused him nothing but despair. And now he is going to die.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Go – get out of this room. You’re not fit to take care of him!”

Natalie raised her bruised face to her sister, but Natasha stood taut, afire with hatred.

Natalie reached forward supplicatingly, tears streaming from her eyes. “Natasha..!”

She stepped back. “Don’t look at me.”

“We’re family..!”

“Go to your lover! Go! Take what you wanted and be happy!”

“That’s something you’ll never have!” cried Natalie, then regretted it immediately and turned and ran from the room, sobbing.

She passed Nachaev in the hallway, standing with Ilyavich. He caught her arm, but she tore free and ran blindly up the stairs.

“She’s upset,” said Ilyavich, turning his head.

“You heard them in there,” said Nachaev, his cheeks white.

“Easy now.”

“Let me go,” he said. “And don’t come in until I come out.” He opened the door and went in, shutting it softly behind him. Natasha was kneeling, lighting a candle on the night table.

“That door has to remain open,” she said, then turned and saw Nachaev’s face.

“What did you say to Natalie?” he asked.

“Nothing but the truth,” she smiled, smoothing the covers.

He approached her and seized her arm.

“What did you say to her?”

She looked up at him coldly. “Take your hands off me.”

“Answer me!”

“Not until you release me.”

Nachaev stood very still, glaring at Natasha’s pale eyes. He lowered her arm slowly and loosened his grip.

“Don’t try to bully me, mister revolutionary,” she said, brushing her arm.

“What did you say to her?” he repeated.

“What she needs to know. That she needs a little more responsibility.”

“What made her cry?”

“Father is ill – you need more than that?”

“Don’t evade!” he shouted, then regained control instantly. “She will tell me,” he said softly.

“Oh yes!” cried Natasha, “She will tell you everything.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Of course, and men are always used to getting what they want, aren’t they?”

“I am quite prepared to get ugly, Natasha,” warned Nachaev.

“That shouldn’t be too hard, should it? You must be awfully pent up; no murders for what – two months? Been quite a strain, hasn’t it?” she said.

Nachaev’s arm flashed out; his hand cracked across her face like a gunshot.

“That’s for Natalie,” he said softly. “If you upset her again, I will kill you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and stalked from the room.

“No surrender, Nachaev!” shouted Natasha. “No surrender!”

Ilyavich came into the room; slamming the door against the wall.

“He hit me, Ilyavich!” cried Natasha.

“Get out!” he shouted. “What’s the matter with you? He needs peace!”

“I have to give him his medication!”

“Give it to me,” growled Ilyavich, grabbing the bottle from her hands. “Go and get some rest. I never saw such a bunch of vultures!”

Natasha turned and walked out. Ilyavich took a deep breath and approached the bed.

“Poor Alexander,” he said softly, touching the old man’s face. “Perhaps you’d better not come back.” He smiled, his cheeks wet. “But I know you will.”

Nachaev opened the door to Natalie’s room. She was sitting on her mattress, her head pressed limply against the wall.

“Come on,” he said, motioning to her. “Let’s get some air.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” she whispered.

“What did she say to you?”

“Sergei – we can’t see each other any more…”

“What? Why?”

“It’s tearing my family apart!”

He sat down, rubbing his face with his hands. “They are so valuable? Your family?” he asked.

Natalie closed her eyes and turned away. “Natasha hates me.”

“Because you’ve found love! Which she never will.”

“It’s more than that,” she said, her voice catching. “She thinks I killed him.”

He swore softly. “And you believe her?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Does it make sense to you?”

“Please – leave me alone.”

Nachaev reached out to touch her arm, but she jerked it away.

“I have responsibilities!” she said.

“To who?” demanded Nachaev. “Your sister?”

“To my family.”

“Well you can just leave your sister out of it. Anyone who says that to you is plain evil. That just leaves your father.”

“She said – he only came here because of me!”

“That’s stupid! He was – is his own man.”

“It was my fault – because I never got married,” moaned Natalie.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Father saw us kissing, Sergei! He knew what it meant.”

“Then it’s my fault if it’s anyone’s. I was the one who forced him to leave.”

She was silent. Nachaev sat, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“The happiness we have – that means nothing?” he asked.

“Not if it kills people.”

“Natalie! You’re not making any sense – we haven’t killed anyone! Well – you haven’t.”

“Father…”

“Your father’s heart attack was an accident! No-one planned it! If you could have avoided it, would you?”

“Of course, but…”

“Then you hold no blame. Unless you want to. Is that what this is about? That – you don’t love me any more?”

“I did! I do! But I love my family too.”

“Does your father love you?”

She turned away. “I thought so.”

“He does, Natalie. That’s what we were talking about this afternoon. He loves you very much.”

“But Natasha…”

“This came from your father’s mouth: Natalie is beautiful, and Natasha is often cruel to her. That’s what he said. Who are you going to believe?”

“I don’t know who to trust.”

“You’d rather trust your sister?”

“She’s family…” whispered Natalie.

“And look what she’s done to you! What you believe is not real! It’s all the shadows of frightened people! Respect your elders – why? Love your family – why? If they’re brutal? Can you love that? No! And why should you?”

“I can’t live like that!”

“You already have!” said Nachaev slowly. “You chose me.”

“And look what happened!”

“What has happened? What in the name of God is so bad that has happened?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then what do you know, Natalie?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” she said. “That’s what everybody says…”

“I won’t accept that.”

“Don’t then.”

“You’re not stupid. You can’t claim that you don’t know. You can claim that you can’t decide, but you cannot claim that you don’t know.”

“What am I supposed to know?”

“Who are you going to believe? Yourself – or others?”

“Why is everything so black and white for you?”

“That’s not me – it’s what is. That’s reality!”

“I can’t live selfishly!”

“Do I? Your joy is my joy – because I choose it. Is that selfish? Of course! But it’s not wrong. My love for you is not wrong!”

“How can you be so sure?” cried Natalie, agonized.

“Because I know what is right for me!”

“How?”

Nachaev shook his head and took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, exhaling. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m the most evil person who ever lived. I don’t think so – but perhaps. So what? You think, and you act. If you’re wrong, you change your mind. That’s all you’ll ever get, Natalie.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Then you choose death,” said Nachaev.

Natalie paled. “Don’t say that!”

“I love your father too! I’m not saying he should die!” shouted Nachaev. “Just – please – for the love of – whatever – please: just do something!”

“What should I do? Tell me!” She raised her hands helplessly, her face twisting in agony. “I’m so sick of it all!”

“Marry me, Natalie,” said Nachaev suddenly, grasping her hand.

Her eyes widened, her mouth opened and closed. “I’m going mad…”

“Your father gave his consent this morning. The revolution is over. Marry me.”

“Why – why ask me now?”

“It seemed like the right time.” He blinked. “What – you don’t want to marry me?”

“No, it’s not that.” She faltered. “I – I can’t answer you now!”

“Why not?”

“Don’t badger me – please!”

“I don’t have a right to know?”

“It’s all so… complex!”

“What? Why?”

“If I marry you, I lose my family!”

“That’s not true!”

“Natasha will…”

Nachaev dropped her hand and raised his behind his head, turning away. “All right – I give up my life’s work for love. Your sister acts like a haughty bitch for no reason at all and you prefer her. Fine. Fine. I’m out of patience.” Nachaev stood and strode to the door. “And I’m out of your life too. Goodbye.”

“It’s not all – wait!” cried Natalie.

He turned at the door. “Let me know when you have some idea who really loves you,” he said, then turned and left.

Natalie sat, staring at the open door, a thousand miles away. She slid down the wall onto the floor, wishing it could swallow her up and take her away from everyone, forever, to nothing.

The candle sputtered, and Helena started awake guiltily. She blinked; the dark room swam into focus. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, checking the clock. Three. She had relieved Natasha two hours ago. They had not exchanged a word. Helena sighed, rose and walked over to the window, rubbing her neck. It was a fairy tale night outside; soft stars hung over the dark ropes of hedges stretching over the distant hills. Here is the magic kingdom, thought Helena, but the King is asleep and all his subjects swarm in disarray… She looked down at Herzen. He lay, his eyes closed, breathing softly. She blew on his face.

A figure watched her from the door. She saw it from the corner of her eye and almost jumped.

“I brought you some coffee,” said Robert’s voice. He came into the room. “I thought you might be getting sleepy. How is he?”

“The same.”

The young man paused, then pulled up a chair. “May I?”

Helena shrugged.

Robert regarded the prone figure. The candlelight softened the lines of the old man’s face. “Did you know him well?” he asked.

“He and my father are old friends.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I think he’ll be all right. Yesterday’s walk made me dizzy too. He’s addicted to gardens. It’s hotter here than in Russia.”

Robert touched the covers. “He’s a great man, isn’t he?”

Helena stared at Herzen’s face. “It’s different when you grow up with it.”

“You can’t go back, can you?” he asked, turning to her.

“To Russia? No. Leaving without permission is leaving for good.”

“Do you think you can make a home here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did your father come?”

“He was sad about us.”

“You and Gregory?”

“We’ve been a bit of a disappointment to him. Gregory more than I.”

“How did you disappoint him?” asked Robert.

“Russia is too young for educated women. I didn’t want to turn out like Natasha. Education raises your expectations.”

“Not here. Here we have suffragettes, agitators: thinkers of the fairer sex abound. Trouble is, most men have a hard time catching up.”

“They’re too busy disparaging us.”

“I don’t know that it’s so one-sided,” commented Robert.

The candle guttered, then caught. Shadows jumped across the walls. Helena sat down.

“Sometimes I wish I was a washerwoman,” she sighed.

“Why?”

“A washerwoman is the perfect beast of burden – she doesn’t even know she carries a load. Far better.”

“The men you’ve… I mean Russian men, they’re ignorant?”

“Of everything but that.”

“What I think is, women are equal to men.”

She sighed again. “Thinking doesn’t make it so. There are too many institutions – even here.”

“I used to have hope, but sometimes I think the world is doomed to institutions. That way of thinking, anyway.”

“Your father..?” said Helena.

“He believes in institutions,” replied Robert. “He has faith.”

The odd night sound drifted in through the window. Helena gazed out at the garden.

“Hard to imagine,” said Robert, following her gaze, “that all this was once primeval forest, isn’t it? Everyone dancing naked and praying to rocks. Everything is so pleasant now, but the rocks still remain. We just pile them up and call them churches.”

“Please – if you knew anything about Russia, you’d understand that part of the reason I left was to avoid intellectual discussions,” said Helena, shivering a little.

“I was just thinking how funny it is that we worship everything except human beings. Life. Herzen said once that this is the age of sacrificing flesh and blood to abstractions.”

“It’s the way we are.”

“I can’t make sense of it,” said Robert. “Except to think that we can’t worship human beings in general…” He smiled. “Just individuals in particular.”

“Are you being terribly subtle?” asked Helena, her cheeks reddening. “Because if you are, worship is beyond me.”

He paused. “I don’t think so.”

“One walk, and you know me so well?”

“I’m being ridiculous – forgive me. I’ll have the good doctor check me over next time he’s here.”

“That may be a good idea. But – thank you anyway.”

“If you knew anything about Englishmen, you’d realize that what you think of as subtlety is actually the most brazen daring,” he said softly, standing. “Don’t let your coffee get cold,” he reminded, turning to go.

“Robert,” she said.

“Yes?”

“When I said thank-you – I meant it.” He opened his mouth. “Please don’t say you knew,” she said.

“Good night,” he smiled. “Shall I leave the door open?”

She nodded. “Doctor’s orders.”

When he was gone, Helena turned to Herzen, then stopped, aware of a growing tingling in her belly.

“Oh stop fraternizing,” she said irritably, picking up the coffee. Still warm.

It took several hours for Natalie to summon the courage to see Ilyavich. Yet another sleepless night had left her pale and strained, and it was with a sinking sense of foreboding that she knocked on his door at dawn the next morning. She had spent the night imagining ways of breaking the news; she only knew one thing: she mustn’t hide behind excuses – there were none. Her carelessness had robbed a man of his life’s savings. The drug of freedom had evoked the image of universal benevolence, and she had been taught a sound lesson in the perils of naïveté. What made her so sick was that it had been at the expense of someone else…

“Come in,” Ilyavich called when she knocked. Natalie pushed the door open and entered.

He was already dressed, but unshaven; his clothes were the same as yesterday. He had been given a cluttered old corner of the attic that Father McCullity had used as a study in bygone days. It had a single tiny window, and Ilyavich had pulled up a chair and was gazing out of it when Natalie entered.

“Natalie,” he said warmly, turning to look at her.

“Hello,” she said, unable to meet his gaze.

He reached over and pulled another chair next to him. “Come and sit down.”

She sat. Ilyavich stared at her for a while, rubbing his stubble. “Your father was shot once – did he ever tell you that?”

“Er – no.”

“I’m an old hand at this. He’s tougher than he looks. The doctor in Paris took one look at him and said he was as good as dead. That made your father very angry. He cursed the doctor and got better out of spite. He’ll survive this – if he learns to act his age. You mustn’t worry.”

“That’s not – what I’m worried about,” faltered Natalie. “I mean I am, but it’s what I was worried about long before that worries me now.”

He frowned.

“You remember on the train – we had a conversation about my worrying,” she said.

“Oh yes – the money business.” He laughed. “I know – you want to keep it. I applaud you – you’ve been very responsible. More so than I would have been.”

“I haven’t been – responsible,” stammered Natalie, biting her lip.

“What’s the matter?”

“Yesterday – in town – I didn’t faint.”

“No?”

“I was – knocked out. Oh, Ilyavich – I was knocked out – by a thief.”

The old man drew a sharp breath and held it, his eyes narrowing. “And?”

“And – when I came to, the money was gone. I’m not giving any excuses for myself – I – went to buy something, and the man said come in here, so I went, but there was nothing there, and he hit me from behind.” Her voice caught. “You know I would have given my life to save your money, but I just – couldn’t…”

Ilyavich stared at her. “And – it’s all gone?”

“All.”

There was silence then. Ilyavich turned and regarded the window. His face worked, his breath came up short. Natalie sat in agony, her stomach churning. Ilyavich put his hand to his mouth and his chest heaved.

“Anything you want to do to me,” said Natalie in a rush, “I deserve.”

“No,” said Ilyavich with difficulty. “It was an – accident, and I’m happy that you are all right, but – it was… all my life.”

“I know,” said Natalie, a tear running down her still face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Everything – my blood, my soul. My life.”

“There is a chance we can get it back. Robert is taking me to the police this morning.”

“We won’t get it back,” he said softly. She found no reply. “But I was right in trusting you,” he said, drawing himself up with visible effort, “because you had the courage to come to me. That must have been very hard.”

“Oh, Uncle Ilyavich! I feel so stupid!”

There was a long, agonized pause. Ilyavich rose and gazed out the window, then leant his forehead against the cool glass. “Money is – nothing,” he said softly. “Everything I did – I still did. But – it was something to retire on. It was for my – children.” She could hear the strain in his voice. She stood and reached a hand out to him. He lifted his head and took it without turning. “This is not to blame you, Natalie, but it is a great – shock,” he faltered. “It was all I had.”

“If I could have done anything…”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” laughed Ilyavich suddenly, painfully. “Now I can’t support Gregory any more. Or be a painter.”

Natalie’s heart broke clean in two. She patted his back awkwardly. Suddenly, his shoulders shook. She flung her arms around him and held him tightly as he sobbed. He surrendered to her, clutching her arm as he shuddered. Eventually he stopped, and straightened. He turned and put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.

“I want you to know I don’t regret it. At all. It was not your fault,” he said gazing at her steadily.

“I don’t want any more responsibilities,” she said tearfully.

His hands tightened painfully.

“Natalie!” said Ilyavich, “You were robbed, and you came to me. You didn’t make any excuses. That was very brave. But I invested more than my money in you. If you let this destroy you, it is truly lost. This coward knocked you out from behind – that you could not fight. But what you let that mean – in your soul – is your choice. Don’t be brave to me and a coward to yourself. He took your money – don’t give him anything else. Do you understand?”

Tears streamed from her eyes. “That is – unimaginably good of you,” she said.

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Now leave me alone. I must grow used to youth again.”

Natalie started to say something, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. She turned and left.

Alone, Ilyavich knelt down, hugging his knees. Desolation worked ruin through his body, ravaging his plans, annulling his age. To start over, so late! he cried to himself. The road ahead stretched agonizingly, fraught with tension and strife. No! he thought savagely. Find something to sell, sell it, accept reality! He thought of his painting and a crippling shock shot through his innards. All gone, he thought, just as there was hope… All my life, as if it never was… Then again, by a violent act of will, he forced himself to think: except for the experience of living it. Except for the desire to paint. You tell your son to sell his work – what’s stopping you? It’s a challenge, he thought. “So be it,” he murmured, letting the thought sink deep into him. So be it.

Natalie, child of totalitarianism, was shocked. After seeing Ilyavich, she had gone with Robert to the police station more as a gesture than anything, but the energy with which the town bailiff applied himself to the theft sowed a grain of hope in her field of despair. The bailiff was asking for a full description when Robert interrupted him.

“There’s no point to all these questions, George,” he said. “It was Mr. Plodsworth – I saw him myself.”

“Then rest assured, young lady – he’s no criminal mastermind,” said George. “We’ll probably find him at the Spotted Dog, mopping up his riches.”

“Will you go there right away?” asked Natalie.

“Doesn’t open until one,” he said, scratching his head. “But Mr. Blenkinthorp, that’s the owner, he lives right near here. Let’s see what he has to say.”

Their walk took them past the smithy where Natalie had been attacked. Robert took her arm silently.

“Were the bills registered?” asked George as they walked.

“Yes – I have the receipt,” she said, handing it over.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself then, Miss – any bank will spot them in a second. All businesses in the area will be informed. Five and ten pound notes aren’t too common in these parts – or anywhere, for that matter. We’ll get them back.”

They knocked on Mr. Blenkinthorpe’s door.

“He won’t like being roused at such an ungodly hour,” commented the bailiff.

That proved correct, but what incensed Mr. Blenkinthorpe even more than the hour was the first mention of Mr. Plodsworth’s name.

“God-damn that layabout,” he snarled, distorting his fat face, “Owes me three guineas! Where is he?”

“You haven’t seen him?” asked George.

“Every day I open!”

“I mean last night.”

The barkeep scowled. “Last night, sure.”

“Where?” asked Natalie, her heart pounding.

“Where’dye think? At the Dog.”

“How late did he stay?”

“Tennish. He was talking with some men – real brutes. I wasn’t watching much. Gave me the frights.”

“Did he give them any money?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Don’t serve him myself. My wife’s the one with the tender heart.”

“Could we speak to her?”

Mr. Blenkinthorpe shrugged. “Ethel!” he called.

His wife appeared; it seemed they had grown old and large as one. “George!” she beamed, “You must come to dinner! Who’s this?” she asked, squinting at Natalie. “Hello, Robert.”

“Business, I’m afraid,” said George. “I’m trying to find Mr. Plodsworth.”

“Who isn’t?” She clucked her tongue. “Poor soul.”

“You served him last night?”

“That I did. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“He’s stolen some money.”

“Well, he has his reasons, that’s a fact.”

“I’m sure he does,” said George easily, “but the fact is I have to find him. Did he do or say anything unusual last night?”

“He was in an odd mood – said all his troubles were over. Didn’t stay long.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“On a holiday, he said. Looked like he needed one, too.”

“Where?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Where did he say he was going?”

“Nowhere – he didn’t say.” She paused, then shook her head. “No – there I go, lying again. London. He said he was going to London.”

“London!” cried Natalie. “We’ll never find him there!”

“Easy now,” cautioned George. “Mrs. Blenkinthorpe – was his wife with him?”

She shook her head again. “Never comes. Poor soul. No life at all.”

“When you catch him,” said her husband, elbowing her aside, “remember he owes me three guineas. It’s on the books!”

“I will,” said George, thanking them and closing the door as they began arguing.

As they walked away, Natalie felt her hopes dissolve.

“That’s about it, isn’t it?” she said.

“For him, yes,” said George.

“What?”

“Tsk, miss – think about it. There’s only two roads to London from here. He’s traveling with his wife and – what – seven children? He’ll leave a trail a mile wide. And even if he does get to London, any large purchases he tries to make will be caught out. And he won’t be able to leave England if we know the city he’s in – the captains will keep an eye out for him if we post a reward. The money’s as good as in your pocket – minus his living expenses along the way, of course.” George grunted. “Now go home. I’ll ride to Tottenham and put the word out. The coaches’ll beat him to London, and there’ll be ten bobbies posted along the way. I know every inn between here and London. We’ll get him, miss – don’t you worry.”

Robert offered to walk George back to the station. They turned a corner and saw a distraught woman pounding on the front door. She turned and saw them. Wiping her eyes, she staggered over.

“Oh, George!” she cried, “I’m destitute! After all these years! After all I gave him, too! Who’s going to feed my little ‘uns? – not that he ever tried, the useless lout!”

“Where did he go?” asked George.

“As if I knew!” wailed Mrs. Plodsworth. “Not a word, his bed wasn’t slept in. Oh, that it should come to this! All alone in the world! They’ll take my home! We’ll starve! Oh, George!” she snarled suddenly, “Find him so I can kill him!”

“Now, now, Mrs. Plodsworth – you’re distraught…”

“Distraught nothing! I’m going to throttle the little weasel!” She sobbed. “This is all the thanks I get?”

Her sudden changes of mood left Natalie a little dizzy, but she remembered Ilyavich’s command. Straightening her back, she turned to the policeman.

“This makes it more difficult,” she said, “doesn’t it?”

“Difficult!” cried Mrs. Plodsworth, “So you’re to blame! I hope he took everything you got, dressed up like some fine bird! Don’t you worry, dear,” she whispered, leaning forward. “I’ll make him sorry!”

George frowned. “If he’s traveling alone he can stay off the roads. But he’s not smart enough for that.”

“There’s nothing else I can do now, is there?”

He shook his head. “Get some rest. You look worn out. And don’t worry.”

“I won’t.”

Robert thanked him and they left to go back home. There was a long silence as they walked up into the hills.

“I’m sorry if I got your hopes up,” he said finally.

“They’re still up,” she said.

“What?”

“Anyone stupid enough to marry someone like that will never get away,” she said. “Look – is that a kite?” she asked, pointing up at the sky.

Robert squinted, but the blue defied him. He glanced over at Natalie, surprised at the firmness of her jaw. Incomprehensible, he thought, but not without admiration.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR: Three Deaths

“Natalie?” whispered Herzen.

It was late that night. Natalie was sitting beside his bed. She had given up on sleep and had come to relieve Ilyavich. A sudden fortitude had possessed her since the morning, a feeling that her life was somehow hoving into view – not her plans or expectations, but a powerful feeling that it resided within her, that randomness was not her only lot. All her life had been reaction, she had thought during her vigil, but here in England the tendrils of freedom were starting to tear the vines from her clogged soul. Possibilities abounded – her family was not an absolute – and neither was Nachaev. He had been with the others after lunch, out in the garden, and she could see the raw wound in his face, but made no attempt to talk to him. He cannot demand from me either, she thought – what he wants is not an absolute – and I don’t want to marry him now. It feels too much like a trap. He wanted me a certain way, and I don’t feel that way any more. Why did he want me as I was? She felt a certain scorn for him then, for his concern and his ever-present dictatorial helping hand. I’m worth talking too despite my desolation, she thought. All her prior pain seemed pointless, circumstantial. My sister is unhappy – there is something about her that I cannot grasp, but it’s not healthy. Even my father… but no, even in her desire to retaliate she still melted before that image. He has never once given me advice, she thought in wonder, yet he and Ilyavich have been the only ones who have helped. And George, funnily enough. He said don’t worry, and did something about it. What has Nachaev done except try to help?

Lost in her thoughts, she missed her father’s first sign of consciousness. Five minutes passed before he had the energy to repeat himself.

“Natalie,” he whispered.

“Father?” she cried, half-starting from her chair.

“Don’t – move,” he murmured.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh,” he said, “not too well.”

“The doctor thinks you may have had a heart attack,” said Natalie, “but you’ll be all right.”

“A doctor once told me – I would die,” whispered her father with a faint smile. “What do they know?”

“He said so!”

“It’s not so,” said the old man with all the certainty he could muster. “But I know what I have lived for, so it is not so bad to die.”

“No,” whispered Natalie.

“I want to say one or two things,” said Herzen, “because you have always been my – confidante.”

Natalie saw his eyes lose their focus. Her heart almost stopped, but he rallied himself.

“I know when you find what you want to do – you will be good at it. And you will – find it.”

“I will,” said Natalie.

“Good… I like how you say that. And – I know of a certain young man’s – need for you. You must be careful… the woods he is in are very large. He is not – out of them yet.”

“I know that.”

He seemed not to hear her. “My last work – on the revolution…” he whispered, his breathing laboured, “don’t try to publish it… burn it. It was all wrong. I was wrong – my whole life – Nachaev knows. But be careful… He also knows…” His eyes cleared, and he looked straight at her. “I didn’t waste it, Natalie. I loved wrong sometimes – but I loved. Remember – that’s all you need to know… don’t waste it. It’s too beautiful…”

“I won’t.” She felt dreamlike, unable to concentrate. There was something she should do, something she should say…

“I had a dream,” murmured her father, “And you must remember it… write it down if you can.”

“You must rest…”

“No! Listen: there are to be no privileges – no-one is not… No rich, no revolutionaries, no priests or races or gods or politicians – and most of all: no men or women… Natalie – tell them: do not fight us, always… We are also human. There are to be… no privileges. Write it down…” He smiled, his eyelids flickered. “Make it sound better.”

“I must get Natasha,” she said, rising.

He caught her arm, then his hand dropped suddenly.

“Tell her – tell her she must also be careful – of herself…” he whispered. His mouth opened, saying her name silently, and then it slowly closed, and that great mind, that incomparable existence, everything faded to a little pinpoint of light in his eyes and, as she watched, winked out without a sound, and the covers settled with the great ease of utter finality.

Natalie stood, feeling her existence folding around her. She bent down and kissed her father’s face. His hair won’t need to be cut, she thought. I’ll never watch him shave again. He’ll go into the earth. Natalie felt dizzy. But the greatest of faiths, the need to see death as a sleep that is wakened on joining rose in her breast like a great snowy owl, spreading soft wings over her mounting pain. Now that it was over, now that what was said was all that could be said, the belief that there existed a place where reckoning could be made, fought mightily with a savage sense of self-condemnation, of selfish waste. He brought me a cap when I was twelve, she thought, and I don’t even know where it is. Did I thank him? Did I thank him as a child does, rushing off to try it on, or did I thank him with respect, for everything he meant to me, everything he told me by how he loved, what he hated? Natalie’s brow puckered, her heart straining to remember. Warring dirges for father or chance stirred in her breast, one casting her eyes down at the bed, the other casting them deep into her soul, into the cold attic corner where her inner child lay waiting for life to fly through the window and land on its lap. He gave me a window, thought Natalie, and her father’s body suddenly blurred before her. He gave me an open window, with a view of blue skies and whirling trees, and leapt through the grass to entice me out, but then he fell and died in the garden, waiting in vain for me to do more than watch…

The urge to mourn herself, to observe her pain, to bewail the wisdom begun in a heartbeat gone, struck her like the old curse of an uninvited fairy. I could have spoken at any time, thought Natalie, her grip faltering. I have lived dumbly, as dumbly as I watched him die. To live such a life and spend your last breath giving advice to a daughter so stupid she barely knows which way is up, to have to be a father up to your dying moment, to have to guide and protect what should have made you proud – how bitter that must have been! How galling! Natalie’s soul, white in the grip of universal Death, slipped free and embraced his friendly emissary that seemed to be forever riding her breast, riding a hammering machine that endlessly turned tulips to terrors, brightness to blindness and growth to convulsive self-indulgence. Her mind recoiled from the necessity of pain to engineer its own destruction.

Poor Natalie! – standing uncertainly over her father’s death, fighting ambivalence with avalanche. In the cold moments when breath fades, the racing of a nervous mind can erase an entire life, skimming it to find the few oddities that feed its fantasies. Buried under her compulsive imagination, Natalie could not see that truth is revealed in stages – it cannot be swallowed whole without the hook of illusion. It must be nibbled, picked at, released. The truth can come as easily from a silent afternoon as from the most strenuous thought; because thought allows no contradictions, thought is the enemy of riddle, and truth is so often riddled with contradiction. To the question: what did she feel?, Natalie swallowed the word “GUILT” whole, more to avoid the terror of selection than anything else. Her father’s ghost was exorcised by simplicity, banned to invisibility by the swift death of unresolved issues, by Natalie mourning her past instead of his passing, and all his bright world was pounded and squeezed and hammered into one simple formula:

I never thanked him.

Natalie nodded, fought a great sleepy sigh and, gently blowing out the candle, turned and left the room to find her sister.

Nachaev sat alone on the roof, under the depths of starlight. All my life, he thought, I have lived for other people. My heart is mirrored, but mirrors is all it is. Beyond that… He looked down at the garden, thinking: I have no idea what a garden is. I only know what it means to people. People are machines – pull a lever and they yell, push another and they cry, push another and they laugh, push them all and they love. But pushing levers is having levers. Natalie is weak, he thought angrily. She can’t fight back – nothing with her is an open battle. Compromise becomes humiliation, humiliation becomes rage, and despair turns rage upon itself. Who in this world will suit me? A self-contained woman would see through me in a moment. Nothing, that’s all I am. A tailor sewing an emperor’s funeral clothes. What could I offer someone who didn’t play by my rules? What can I offer except a reaction? What do I offer except manipulation, destruction, means to an end that doesn’t exist. And it will never end, he thought suddenly. I worked and worked for something I could never define – for something I refused to define. Power. But power can only be exercised against the weak. Who will I have to surround myself with to remain who I am? Cowards, hysterics, nothings. Voids I seek to fill myself. Natalie: a void. Gregory: a void. Helena: a void. Natasha: an angry void. Ilyavich hates me – no – Ilyavich is indifferent to me, as strength will always be, because I am nothing but weakness…

He sat hugging his knees, aware that he could stop his thoughts with very little effort, but they pulsed with such a strange power that he let them rise. The sickness he felt was a demand, a challenge: the knowledge of who he was. A manipulator of weakness. And you thought you were powerful, he thought. It’s all second hand. Real power has no need for weakness. Real power is its own end – there is no sacrifice of others, no sacrifice of the self. I have taken all my gifts and placed them at the mercy of incompetence, of living incompetence. The house below felt like an abscess, full of filth and corruption. What do I care about these people? Do I respect them? Do I value them? Do I love them? Then why do I make myself their slave? Because indignation is their only passion. Gregory hates me – Nachaev could see that in his eyes – yet I do everything to keep him mine. Why? Because I value nothing but subservience. I recognize it in myself. Sacrifice. He tasted the word in his mouth. What haven’t I sacrificed? Nothing I have is my own. I have given up everything. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let them win. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them control me. It’s finished, he thought. My revolution is just beginning…

His thoughts continued, expanding, evaluating, ruthlessly revealing the waste he saw as his life. It hit him with a series of gruesome shocks, but he let them echo through his being, knowing that to think and feel are one and the same, the only road to growth. And I imagined I was using people for my own ends, he thought. I had no ends. Using denies ends. The end does not justify the means, he thought: the end is the means. Slavery cannot exist save through slavery. Destruction is always destruction, a road that leads nowhere. Rubble is not a foundation; there is no shining future save where you are…

Nachaev rocked on his haunches, his shadow sliding across the sloping roof, accelerating as it descended. A static wind drifted through the leaves, ruffling his hair. His hands roamed, drumming on his knees, tapping his forehead, knuckling his nose, cracking themselves. As he watched them move, he was suddenly struck by a terrible thought. I came on the roof to think, but my hands are moving… The meaning eluded him, but it troubled him deeply. I came to think, my hands are moving. He clenched them shut, watching the white skin spread around his creased palms. Stop it! he thought angrily. But his hands wanted to roam. He let them go, but now they distracted him. What the hell was I thinking about? The wind gusted, as though to distract him further. Almost amazed, he watched the frustration build in himself. What is the matter with you?

He lay back on the roof, opening his eyes to the starlight, then sat up with the sudden jerk of one who has angrily accepted that he will not sleep tonight. Fine, he thought. It’s only a roof – let’s pace a little. He stood up and, shoving his hands into his pockets, began marching back and forth along the roof, his head bobbing up and down absurdly due to the different height for each leg. His hands rolled around him, clapping him on the back, scratching his head, and a sick tension clung to his stomach. All I want is to be free, he thought, clamping the definition over his soul. His soul, rebelled, smelling a faint draught of fresh air, strengthened in hope. What do you know about freedom? it asked. What do you know about freedom, coward?

Nachaev stopped and shook his head, surprised and a little frightened at the intensity of the voice, a sound the conscious mind hears only on the rare occasion when an impatient dream peeks through the curtains of sleep before they are fully drawn, or in the twilight world beyond the curtain when the doors of reality slam behind it. He shivered. The tension rose.

What do you know about freedom? demanded his soul. Waiting for it, the sound rang clear in his mind. Nachaev almost cried out, barely stopping the impulse to clap his hands to his ears. What do you mean, me? he cried silently. I am alone here. I am not alone.

“All right,” whispered Nachaev, relieved at the sound of his own voice.

He waited for the other voice, but it was silent. His mind railed at the quietness, fearing it almost as an emptiness. Suddenly a picture rose in his mind. He twisted his head to avoid it, but it blazed in front of him. He felt sudden sweaty flesh under his fingers.

“No!” he shouted, staggering back, his feet slipping.

A distorted face grimaced at him, pleading, angry.

“Stop it!”

But the face remained, and others joined it. His finger tightened over cold metal, and it disappeared in a shower of blood.

Killer, said the voice.

He gasped.

Killer.

Nachaev felt dizzy. He sat down, but the slope of the roof seemed to swerve under him. He scrabbled for balance.

Dear God, he thought.

Murderer!

I must get down, he thought frantically, crab-walking down the roof. He swung his legs over, and a wave of vertigo sent his vision scrambling for cover. The ground swung up before him, dark and hard. His hands gripped the eavestrough. He closed his eyes. Another bout of terror slammed into him, making him shudder. The wind seemed like a huge fist, pummeling him. His hands flew up; his legs swayed; he tried to lean forward but the wind seemed to lift him, turn him blindly to the sky. He felt the eavestrough, heard the scraping of shoe on metal, reached in vain for a tree branch, shouted his father’s name, then pitched backwards into darkness…

Nachaev awoke with a start. He looked up, and his heart almost stopped as he saw a dark figure standing over his bed.

“Alexander?” he whispered.

“Come with me,” murmured the figure, motioning.

For a single sickening moment Nachaev thought that he had fallen too far, that he was never asleep, that now he squatted in some shady anteroom of death.

Father McCullity frowned, wondering if the young man was sleep-talking.

“Nachaev,” he said, “Come on – you have to get up.”

“Why?”

“Alexander has – passed on.”

“Passed on,” said Nachaev blankly.

“He’s dead.”

His jaw went slack. “I know what it means,” he whispered.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE: One Resurrection

It was a quiet corner of the graveyard. The sloping ground met the low stone wall, where the grass that had escaped the scythe grew high in the fertile soil. Willows, rooted in the dead, peered over the wall, their sensitive branches trailing down to the freshly-turned earth, as if mourning the beings that fled so quickly. They stood in dark clumps, nature’s headstones, a few of their lighter limbs spiraling towards the sky; nebulous as thought, rooted as guilt.

The shadow of the church eased down the hill as the sun descended, a Gothic shade which mingled with the lesser streaks of headstones and sarcophagi, reaching like dark fingers to the woods beyond the low wall.

A man approached a new grave; the trees rustled, approving his torpid state with slow oriental grace. He sat on the ground, where the leavings of the turned earth lay strewn among the grass. The man sat, not brushing the few leaves from his hair, staring at the new grave.

Nachaev sighed and rubbed his face, more for the sensation than anything, his eyes staring straight ahead, worlds away from his surroundings. The wind, the church hunched behind him, the vainly muted birds, the comforts of the countryside, all seemed to sigh and drift around him, serene, indifferent, comfortless. His youth caught a glimpse of the bitter cup of conclusion; a cup that can be neither raised nor lowered, a flat mirror lying in the dregs. Nachaev closed his eyes, finding his inner graveyard more vivid than the scene around him. Such a world he had pictured for himself, marching like a colossus, demanding, imperious, crucial… His legs, striding the dividing paths of revolt and love, had collapsed in their reaching, and he sat like a torso in an abandoned field, his only view the distant road untraveled. His road had led him to Herzen, he thought, then to England, and finally to a grave at the bottom of a sloping hill, a hill he found himself utterly without the energy to climb. The stillness of the scene sobered him beyond hope, beyond the imagination of revolution. All Herzen’s thoughts, he thought, adrift in the world, skimmed by a curious few, like lost flags floating over the wars of a world that never seemed to change. You will be studied, he said silently: a hundred years from now students will highlight your books and smugly conclude your life. What you became, the love you found, the fatherhood you accepted above and beyond your cry for change, all that will be forever unknown. And for me, a man the world should have cursed in fear, a man who lost his certainty to find the truth, who lost you, your daughter, himself, for reasons he might never be rewarded for – all that will be gone in a single seasonal heartbeat. Finished. You kicked the backside of the world, and it sat on you without even turning around. I shot it in the face, but a stupid grin eats all wounds, and the rest of my life will be a tiny dirge for wisdom found and forever damned. Because you taught me that in all this chaos, in all this complexity, life is the only revolution. Man is the only class. I don’t care if I never love again. I don’t care if I live alone to my dying day. I have learned as much as I need, that life cannot be sacrificed for life, that the world is only now, that destruction is nothing but loss. I learned and lost, thought Nachaev, and now I sit here without the strength to rise again.

His momentum lost, his past slammed into him like crashing boxcars behind a broken train. His parents, unconsidered for years, his teachers, his few childhood friends, his choices and escapes, his fire and his wood, the debris of a life unexamined, the bane of Callicles, all washed up on his inner shores, clogging his feet as his dream of a mad flight inland passed from sight. I don’t want any of it! he cried silently. I don’t want to be smart, I don’t want to be perceptive, I don’t want to live in the black of a blind world. Natalie’s attachment to family, the squalid religion of Father McCullity, Ilyavich’s money-lust, Gregory’s fears, Helena’s hostility, all the scraps and leftovers of collapsing pasts and uncertain futures – I want none of it. I want to act, not decide. I was so close – so abominably close to escaping it all! But decisions unraveled are fears reknitted, and so Nachaev sat alone in his graveyard, where his dead stirred in their confinement, unable to see that to create destruction it is to administer it, to become it.

“What did you expect, Alexander?” he whispered, needing to be heard by the earth, by nature, by anything. “That you could summon me from darkness and depart without instruction? It doesn’t work for me. I'm lost, Alexander. Love is the natural enemy of the born fighter… When I hated, I acted. Now I love, and so evil will outlive me. When I become the revolution, the Tsar laughs his way to a natural death. You said: show the world goodness, and it will discard evil. But it can’t be done. You were the world’s physician, you saw the cancers and the nightmares that bind them all. But the world is a hypochondriac of health, as unaware of remedy as it is of illness. It would rather blind us than borrow our eyes. And our treasure, our fountainhead, our white light on the endless treason of lies, all of it amounts to no more than a brand of madness on our foreheads. The world rests on belief, not truth… In a thousand years, we may be enshrined in monuments to the unknown soldiers of thought, who speak before swords and reason in the face of howling mobs. They want gods, Alexander, they want devils and goblins and families and countries; they want comfort, not truth. And to those that dare say otherwise, who wag questioning fingers at the murderous mask of certainty, they reserve their highest hatred. The nobility of truth is nothing: the aristocracy of lies is all.”

Nachaev stopped, his voice hoarse, his body shaking. The church broke the setting sun, its edges flaming, unscathed. Nachaev stared at it, his vengeance spurred by despair. He sat down, wiping his eyes, and smiled suddenly.

“I wish this,” he whispered, wrinkling his nose. “I wish that trees and ground and sky were all there was, that every person in the world could suddenly dry up and blow away. That I was alone under a sky unpoisoned by the faith of man. We’d be better off gone than calling the clouds our fathers.” Nachaev lay back on the earth, gazing at the sky. “The wonder of the world lies in us,” he murmured, “but we nickname our animals and fear the anger of others and believe that all confidence must bow to the lost thunder of old books. This world is ours to make, Alexander, it is ours to command. But we approach it in our knees, like a mad master begging for mercy from imaginary servants, and pray to a sky we know is only blue! And we believe, we search for clues; in our vanity, we turn an indifferent universe into a stern and loving instructor! The majesty of our minds is prey to the fall of a sparrow! We give a black cat, a ladder, a yellowing picture-page the power of kingship. In terror of our natural thrones we erect an infinite ladder and wallow at the base, begging to survive the insignificance we create from our own distorted sight. Why? If we stand we part the clouds! If we open our eyes we see beyond the stars! The energy of the universe is fixed, inert; we are the only original thing in the whole of existence! Why can’t we just accept that and embrace the joys of our prodigality? The world exists twice – in itself and in our minds. Why do we use that power to degrade ourselves? What are we afraid of? Our birthright is to live beyond physics. To decide. Yet we choose instead to believe. To obey only what we cannot conceive. To obey men in long robes and silly hats. To obey an unearned privilege that cannot survive the light of reason. The eternal, beautiful ‘why’ of this most beautiful world we damn by faith.” He sat up, his eyes streaming with tears. “So tell me, Alexander, tell me this: why you lived your life, why you died a fugitive in a foreign land, why you tried at all. You tried to move the earth, the earth of illusion. You planted your seeds in the sky. In me. Why, Alexander. Why.”

Nachaev sat by the grave, feeling the damp earth pressing against his buttocks. His long speech had felled no trees; the wind passed by heedless, still in search of its name, the church still stood. Overhead, a bird soared, circling. Nachaev watched it, thinking – why does it fly? It wakes from its nest and never thinks to crawl. Why? As he watched, the bird – a kite – folded its wings and fell from its beautiful height into the sea of trees. As he watched, the answer came suddenly, shockingly.

“Why,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears again. “In our natures, we are as simple as physics. You could do nothing else. I could as easily be taught to bow to rocks.”

Something sweet and soothing flooded through Nachaev’s tired and twisted soul. I question, he thought, as surely as I will end. In the forest of man, I am the tree that grows only to the sun, not to other trees. And if that gives me a broader view, a hatred of the cowardice of clinging vines, that is as natural to me as the sun I desire. And I have no choice but to keep rising, because I do not call the forest my roof. I choose to strive as far as life will let me; not others, not their illusions, but my own desire for truth. And, some day, I may see a tree that is as far above me as I am from the ground, and when that day comes I will give thanks to the sun for bringing such growth.

Nachaev looked up, letting his eyes drink their fill of the world that surrounded him. He looked at the trees over his head, leaning lazily over the silent mound at his feet, and laughed, lying back on an earth framed by the shifting sands of matter and let his gaze fly up, over the trees, over the cross that shattered the clear sky, beyond the blue, up, up into the very heart of the sun itself, and beyond.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX: Arguments for Love

Herzen’s death cast a pall over Father McCullity’s house, contrasting cruelly with the joy that had accompanied his arrival. Natalie kept to her room, eating her meals alone, and Natasha, cut off from her contempt, drove herself out of doors on endless marches through the countryside. Alex accompanied her once or twice, but came back pale and spent, a relief to the house that had no time for his wit. Ilyavich put aside his painting, and spent his time sitting in the attic, staring at his remorse with the patience of the hopeless. Helena rallied best of all, her quiet determination to avoid depression the only net under the others who swayed on a thin rope hung between remorse and understanding. Robert sat with her sometimes, pretending to read, hoping she would speak, but she was still, silent, spending her time writing to various newspapers in hopes of employment. Only Gregory seemed to sail through it all, his obliviousness speaking of a life incomprehensible to those around him.

Father McCullity gained a short respite from his wife who, out of a white-lipped respect for the dead, allowed a short span of mourning to lie between his guests and her desire to evict them. He spent much of his free time examining his feelings, rallying his arguments for the onslaught he knew would come. He had no intention of allowing his hospitality to continue indefinitely, but he knew his patience was greater than Sarah’s and hoped to stave her desire for solitude off for as long as possible. It was Nachaev he feared most – the young man had moved from the easily-pegged label of protégé to something that Father McCullity could not allow himself to examine too closely. His initial stance of combativeness had shifted to something less clear, a broader statue of quietness and observation, and that made Father McCullity exceedingly nervous. He took pains to keep Robert away from the young revolutionary, afraid of questions deeper and more dangerous that the organization of the socialist state. Detail was the pride of Father McCullity’s philosophy, but the underlying beliefs that allowed for quibbling he did not allow under his roof – of his mind or his house.

Herzen had died on Thursday; Saturday evening Father McCullity sat entombed in his study, hard at work on his Sunday sermon. Helena sat in the living room, reading over the few replies she had had to her letters. Her figure sat erect, but the wear and tear of travel and overuse was turning her clothes into a state that defied her best attempts at aristocracy. Robert stood against the window, looking out at the garden. He had been there a quarter of an hour, glancing at Helena from the corner of his eye. The way she sat, her stained clothes hanging from her rigid frame, made his heart almost break. He desperately wanted to help her, but her unbending resistance to pain made her distant, inaccessible. If only she would confide in me, he thought repeatedly, aroused by the enigma. It’s so clear in her body, and so silent on her lips. He imagined a picture of her: Portrait of Loss. None could regard it unmoved.

She wouldn’t speak, he knew, so he occupied himself by imagining all her replies to all his words, the imaginary conversations branching off in a thousand directions, but all emerging to a scene where she clung to his breast, sobbing her misery into his neck, her hair passing under his clutching fingers.

“He seems to be taking it quite hard,” he commented finally. There was a pause of a few minutes before Helena replied.

“Who’s this?” she said absently.

“Nachaev. He’s sitting in the garden – he’s been there for over an hour.”

She glanced up. “You’ve been watching him for that long?”

“In between other things. Any luck with the papers?”

“Those with the courage to reply haven’t had the courage to be original. The letters are remarkably similar,” she said, dropping them on the table.

“That’s a shame.”

Helena sighed, sitting back on the couch. “We can’t stay here much longer, can we?” she said.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“It’s true though. And anywhere we go, we’ll be apart. Alexander was our reason for leaving – well, Alexander and Nachaev. Alexander is gone, and Nachaev has become unusually quiet.” She spread her hands over her stomach. “There’s nothing holding us together any more.”

“Where will you go?”

Helena shrugged. “London, I suppose. It doesn’t look like I’ll have any luck with the papers. I suppose I’ll become another casualty of the linguistic pride of our émigrés.”

“Meaning?”

“A governess for Russian children.”

Robert frowned. “That seems far from ideal.”

“Only if you’re idealistic. The facts have presented themselves,” she said, waving at the letters.

“Something may come along,” he said, then regretted the banality of his words. “You could, of course, start your own newspaper.”

“With my father’s money – even if I had wanted to take it – that might have been possible. But now that’s gone. And, given the stellar education I almost finished, my powers of observation and analysis would be confined to judging who was the better piano player, or what stitches are best to use on a silk tablecloth.”

“Nothing like that exists, I don’t think,” said Robert.

“Out of pride, I’m sure.” She shook her head. “A governess would be better.”

“Can you see no other option?”

Helena frowned. “You mean marriage? I don’t think I could accept a match born of desperation.”

“What do you mean – desperation? What about love?”

“Love is choice,” she grimaced. “I could never be sure that I loved a man if my only other option was teaching. Were I rich, independent – no, I suppose I’d then never be sure of the man’s choices.” She shook her head. “It’s too messy. I can’t see it.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Register your complaints with any man you see,” she said, not without bitterness.

Duly noted, thought Robert. “Actually, I find myself with a similar problem,” he said.

“Oh, yes – I can imagine.”

“I’m serious. I consider myself quite happy, stable, affectionate. I’m not hideous. Plus, I stand to inherit a certain amount of money, not to mention this house. Nothing princely, of course, but enough to bring parasites of a certain predatory kind hammering at my door. How can I ever be sure they’re choosing me for me?”

Helena shrugged. “Your happiness, your stability – surely they’d be attractive enough. Given their rarity.”

“But even if I were dirt poor – mightn’t it be my looks they were after?”

“Only if they were shallow, and I’d hope you were intelligent enough to see through that.”

“What if I wasn’t?”

“Then you’d deserve what you got.”

Robert laughed. “You know – and I’m not talking about you in particular, just Russians in general – or perhaps people as a whole – but if you took half the advice you offered, you’d be a much happier person.”

“Don’t shroud criticism in generalities,” said Helena sharply. “Say what you mean.”

“You’re telling me I should choose my partner on my judgment of their sincerity and love. Yet you deny yourself that very option, saying you have no choice in the matter.”

“But I don’t. You can survive without marriage.”

“I want to raise a family.”

“That’s still a choice,” said Helena.

Robert shook his head. “Read your Darwin.”

“A choice,” she repeated.

“So the only way you can say yes to something is if you can also reject it?”

“If you have an ounce of pride, yes.”

“Then here’s my advice to you,” he said.

“Here we go,” sighed Helena.

“Why don’t you pretend that this is a perfect world, that you have as many choices as you deem necessary. Would you still like to marry?”

“To the right man, yes. Perhaps.”

“All right. Now all you have to do is just – slide that choice into the real world. It still corresponds to the options you have open to you. You can still marry.”

“In the real world, it’s no longer a choice.”

“You could be a governess,” reminded Robert.

“Not a pleasant option, so not a real choice,” returned Helena.

“Can you work to expand your choices?”

“Not at present, no.”

“So you’re just reacting to what exists. You’re letting it win.”

“By not marrying, I’m exercising my choice.”

“But only to spite yourself, since it’s what you’d like to do.”

“Only if it were choosable,” said Helena. “Enforced, it’s an insult.”

“So because someone says: you must do it – even if it’s something you want to do – you reject it. I see. Is that sensible?”

“A pointless gesture, but it shall not go unnoticed.”

“By who?”

“By me.”

“It will make you happy then?”

“No. But it will satisfy me. And that’s as happy as I get.”

“With a family, you could raise your children differently. Without, and you die unvindicated,” offered Robert.

Helena smiled. “I suppose this is entirely theoretical to you,” she said.

Robert’s face reddened. He turned to the window, fidgeted with the curtains, then turned back to her. “You really enjoy embarrassing me, don’t you,” he demanded.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but yes.”

“And humiliating me.”

“What do you think it does to me? Bartering away in the abstract. It’s the most cowardly proposal I ever saw. Not that I’ve seen many, but still…”

“You want me to be braver?” he asked, turning to her.

“Oh, Robert – no,” she said. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“I will not be played with.”

“You’re playing alone, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. You see, I’m not attracted to you.”

“But – why not?”

“Because you assume I am.”

“That’s not true.”

“No? Every second word you utter is self-praise. ‘Helena – have you noticed how absolutely stable and loving and rich and handsome and noble I am?’. All I notice from that kind of talk is abominable vanity.”

“It’s confidence,” said Robert defensively. “I am sort of rich, and I’m not ugly. And I am loving. You never give me a chance to show it, so I have to say it.”

“Driven by impatience, you regard the pool.”

“Is that what you require? Patience?”

“Robert – for heaven’s sake!” cried Helena, thoroughly irritated. “Love is not a shopping list! If I tell you what I want, and you strive to fulfill it, I’ll lose all respect for you. If you don’t display it to begin with, there’s no point in struggling for it.”

“So you do respect me?”

“You’re impossible!” Helena cried.

“Is that a smile?”

Her face froze. “Don’t presume.”

“My greatest error,” he said softly, “is presuming I know what’s best for you.”

“That’s your second greatest error,” corrected Helena.

“What’s my greatest?”

“Smiling when you say it.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t shake the notion.”

“Disgusting vanity.”

“Not so. Vanity would never survive the pricks you give it.”

“Complacency then. Hatred of women. The need for dominance – call it what you will, just don’t call it pleasant.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Robert, faltering in his extremity. “I… actually…”

“What encouragement have I given you?” demanded Helena. “Is my mere existence a come-hither?

“You – seem to enjoy my company.”

“I do – on occasion,” she said. “Every time you walk in the room, I think: this may be pleasant, as long as he refrains from wooing me. You’re not a bad companion, but you’re too obsessive to give up when you’re racing alone.”

Robert nodded. Regret washed over him, but he waved it down.

“I apologize then,” he said simply. “No romance is no romance.” He clicked his heels and saluted. “Friendship alone is sought, your majesty.”

“If you can keep it professional, so to speak, you are welcome. But no mooning, or I shan’t speak.”

He grinned. “All my days shall be sunny.”

“Euch!” she cried. “You’re a hack with a metaphor!”

“And you make funny noises – what’s a little eccentricity among friends?”

“Go – go into the garden now,” she commanded, “- go and cheer up Sergei.”

“Cheer him up? What am I supposed to do – make it rain?”

“He intimidates you, doesn’t he?”

“The man’s a scalpel!”

“He’s a human being, Robert. His mentor has died. Be kind.”

“Why me? You know him better.”

Helena turned her face. “I don’t talk to him any more.”

Robert’s intuition bore fruit. He blinked. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“I will not talk about that – with you or anyone,” Helena said coldly.

“Why not?”

“In Russia we value our privacy.”

“If it’s true – it surprises me no end.”

“Why?”

“The man’s passions are a straight line – I can’t see him interested in women.”

“Robert – there is a world beyond appearances you would do well to explore.”

“Meaning?”

“You think Gregory is irritating, don’t you?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Why?”

Robert thought for a moment. “He seems to think everyone is better than him, and is out to prove it.”

“He bestows those around him with attributes he doesn’t have. Nachaev has a purpose, doesn’t he?”

“And I don’t? So I’m jealous of him?”

“You’d rather Gregory just treat you as a human being with flaws and virtues, wouldn’t you? That would make him more relaxed, more pleasant.”

“All right. So I just sit down with Nachaev, all chummy and how’s-the-weather? Is that it?”

“He needs someone to talk to.”

“I’ll only irritate him,” said Robert. “He thinks I’m frivolous.”

“Or is it you who does?” asked Helena.

Robert smiled and nodded. “Touché. Off I go,” he said, “- at the behest of a friend.”

Nachaev heard his solid and sunny footsteps approach. In every man lies a child that recoils from the trials of the mind, and that child in Nachaev felt a rising spite at Robert’s generally pleasant existence and, despite his best intentions, once again doubted his beliefs. He seems happy, thought Nachaev. That can’t be right.

“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?” asked Robert.

“Lovely,” said Nachaev.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Help yourself.”

“How’s the man?” asked Robert, sitting on the grass. “Keeping to himself these days, isn’t he?”

“Me?” asked Nachaev.

“Yes.”

He nodded curtly. “Yes.”

All right, thought Robert, plucking a blade of grass and propping it in his mouth. We’ll wait and see.

“You know,” he said, “it’s days like today that really lull the moral sense of man.”

“Oh? How so?” asked Nachaev.

“Look at that panorama. Sunshine, breeze, frogs thumping their legs on lily pads. One can imagine all the evil in the world has disappeared.”

“It’s days like today that put me most on my guard,” said Nachaev. “Since evil would never appear as itself. The garden of Eden was the serpent’s lair.”

Robert laughed. “No snakes in England,” he said. “Scotland, maybe, Ireland, yes – but not here.”

A long, sunny pause. Robert could feel Nachaev tensing to leave.

“Do you think it’s silly to miss someone you barely knew?” asked Robert.

Nachaev frowned, but didn’t answer.

“A few days, and even then I barely spoke to him. But I feel a loss now he’s gone.”

“But he’s with God, surely,” said Nachaev.

“I’m not my father,” said Robert. “I don’t drug myself with that.”

“With the devil then.”

Robert propped his chin on his hands. “In Ireland they have something called a ‘wake’, where they sing and get drunk when someone dies. I was at one when I was a child – some friend of father’s – and I had to help move the body because it was getting in the way of the dancing. That’s not a bad way to be mourned. Happy that you lived, not sad that you died.”

“Yes, thank you – I am thoroughly cheered up. Who sent you?” asked Nachaev.

“Sweet Lord!” cried Robert, shaking his head. “You people are impossible! Don’t you want to be happy?”

“Do you believe in God?” asked Nachaev suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you?”

“Some sort of divine power, yes – I think so.”

“So you’re an agnostic?”

“More to the religious side. But not Anglican.”

“Christian?”

Robert frowned. “Hard to say. Not really. Why?”

“Herzen is dead. It’s been on my mind.”

Robert sat again. “You’re an atheist, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So – how do you deal with death?”

“As a natural end.”

“I don’t mean philosophically – I mean personally.”

“Personally, anger. And frustration, because there’s nothing to curse,” said Nachaev.

“That’s all?”

“That, and a re-examination of my beliefs.”

“In God?”

Nachaev laughed bitterly. “In humanity. In all the sordid mass of you who still believe in something beyond the span of life. Tell me – your belief in God – what does it do for you?”

“Hmm,” said Robert, taking another blade of grass. “For me, when I’m sad or frightened or lonely, I think of a divine being, or if I have a problem I talk to Him about it, and sometimes I feel a certain guidance.”

“Voices?”

“No – just an impression of the right thing to do.”

“And you act on that?”

“No. I think about it. Then – maybe.”

“That’s remarkably vague,” said Nachaev.

“I suppose it is. But I don’t believe in fire and brimstone.”

“Just – impressions?”

“It’s not very defensible,” admitted Robert. “But it does give me comfort.”

“Do you think the world is a happy place?” asked Nachaev.

“Not from what I’ve seen.”

“Why?”

Robert frowned. “Well, I suppose because people don’t know how to achieve happiness.”

“So how do you achieve happiness?”

“Well, Socrates said…”

“I’m not interested in what Socrates said. I’m interested in what you say.”

“Most people seem guilty, I suppose, and they believe in a lot of things that aren’t true,” said Robert after a pause.

“Such as?”

“Society, more or less. Kings, priests, politicians, that sort of thing.”

“What’s not true about them?”

“Well, a king is a man. Anything more, you’re making it up.”

“So why do people believe it?”

“I don’t know. Because they’re taught to, I suppose.”

“How do we know it’s false?”

“By applying reason.”

Nachaev nodded. “So everything that exists should be subject to reason?”

“I think so.”

“And if it’s not rational then it’s not true?”

“Whoa – just a minute there. There are some things beyond reason.”

“Like what?”

“Like the spirit. God, if you like.”

“Like kings and queens and – society?”

“No – that’s physical.”

“So what’s physical is open to reason, and that decides if it’s true or false, and what’s spiritual is not open to reason and rests on faith.”

“That’s right.”

Nachaev smiled. “Tell me something. I have a goblin sitting on my head that you can’t see, taste, smell, touch or hear. Is it there?”

“How can I answer that?”

“But I’m telling you it is. I’m telling you that I believe with all my heart and soul that a goblin is sitting on my head. Do you believe me?”

“All right – no.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s crazy!”

“Why?”

“There’s no goblin on your head! I can’t believe I just said that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can’t see it. Because if it’s not perceivable by the senses, how can there be anything but belief?”

“So if I say we’re sitting on grass, are we sitting on grass?” asked Nachaev.

“Yes. Because I can see and feel it.”

He grinned. “Poof! God has disappeared. Felled by logic.”

Robert paused, his mind racing the trail of the goblin.

“You can’t prove he doesn’t exist,” he said.

“Prove my goblin doesn’t exist,” retorted Nachaev. “You can’t, because being beyond reality, it’s beyond proof.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“But it is,” said Nachaev earnestly. “A king is a man, you said – anything beyond that is not real. Why? Because it’s not within reality. It can’t be proven, so it doesn’t exist.”

“All right,” said Robert, rolling up his mental sleeves. “Prove to me that you exist.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you could see and touch my goblin, you’d know it existed. If it doesn’t contradict the senses, it exists.”

“But your senses can’t always be trusted. What about a mirage?”

“How do you know a mirage is not a lake?” asked Nachaev. “Because you can’t swim in it. If we were walking in the desert and I said – look, there’s a lake, and we approached it and it disappeared, I’d have to revise my opinion. But if after an hour of splashing around in it and drinking it I suddenly said this could be a mirage, you’d laugh at me. Why? Because all your senses confirm it. If none of the senses contradict each other, the object must exist.”

“But all you’ve done is proved that the idea of god is irrational, which is scarcely revolutionary.”

“I’ve established a criteria for truth,” said Nachaev. “Proof. God cannot be proved, disproving is impossible, therefore God does not exist.”

“In the realm of the senses. What if there are other realms?” asked Robert.

“If there are other realms, then kings and priests can be more than men. Ergo, the world must be unhappy. By your definition.”

“Wait a moment – why is a king like God?”

“Because both claim a reality beyond the senses.”

“And if there is such a place?”

“Then you get gods and kings. You can’t choose one or the other. They’re a package deal.”

“Which is why socialism rejects God and kings,” mused Robert. “Interesting.”

“And instead puts the state in their place.”

“What?”

“Socialism, logically, has no more proof than God.”

“This – coming from you?”

Nachaev smiled. “I’ve had time to think.”

“All right – tell me why. But I warn you – I’m far more attached to socialism than to God.”

“Fight me then – I could be wrong,” said Nachaev, sitting down again. “What is the prime moral criteria for socialism?”

“The good of the collective.”

“The collective doesn’t exist in the realm of the senses.”

“It’s the majority!” cried Robert.

“In reality, the majority is simply a gathering of individuals. It’s geography, not morality.”

“But when choosing between the good of the many and the good of the few, socialism says it is the many that shall benefit. That’s why we damn capitalists, kings, priest, and anyone who gains from exploitation. The individuals who rob from the collective.”

“But surely if robbery is occurring, it must be individuals from individuals. Since there is no ‘collective’ to rob from.”

“A few from the many, yes.”

“So a law that forbids theft deals with the problem.”

“But that’s archaic! Socialism’s greatest claim is that it desires to create good, not just punish evil.”

“And how does it do that?”

“Through redistribution. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor.”

“Who does the taking?”

“The state.”

“Which in socialism is a definite minority, right?”

“At first, yes. Before it withers away.”

Nachaev smiled hollowly. “Trust me. Morality doesn’t exist in the future. So the state – which is a minority – takes from the majority. Isn’t that exploitation?”

“No – because it gives it all back.”

“But not to those it’s taken from.”

Robert scowled. “You’re looking at it all wrong. There is no property, so there is no ‘taking from’.”

“So if you remove property from capitalism, why isn’t it socialism?”

“Because the state does not have control over the means of production. Factories, health, transportation.”

“Property is having control, isn’t it?”

“Of course. No! The state manages it for the benefit of the people!”

“The state controls who loses and who gains. No-one else does. Therefore, the state owns all the property,” said Nachaev.

“It’s not property!”

“What would you call it then?”

“Management!”

“How does it differ from present property?”

“Because socialism removes the profit motive,” said Robert.

“So the motive is all?”

“Right!”

“And who enforces the motive? Given that the socialist sees the modern world as mired in self-interest and exploitation, who ensures that the state does not develop the same attributes?”

“The organization is designed to better the human spirit.”

Nachaev paused. “If it doesn’t, the most bloody dictatorship would result.”

“That’s a risk we are prepared to take. Given that the dictatorship of money is scarcely worse.”

“Is it?”

“Come on! Look at the average industrial worker!” snapped Robert. “It’s a miserable life. Up at dawn, home at dusk, and he only gets to keep a part of his what he produces.”

“Whereas in a socialist state, he gets to keep none of it. Don’t you see? You give the state the power to control all property, which includes food, shelter and clothing. Suppose they don’t like someone. Surprise – they suddenly don’t get any food. What recourse do they have? None – the state controls everything. Wham – they’re dead. And tell me something – just what the hell is the ‘social good’ anyway?”

“You’re getting combative,” said Robert.

“No – I’m curious. I’ve fought and killed for it, but when I actually hold it up to the light and I can’t make head nor tails out of it. You just hold your belief – I’ve strangled for mine. You can bet your life I was more attached to socialism than any of you!” said Nachaev.

“All right – the social good – as I’ve said before – is what is best for the majority.”

“Best – how? What is best?”

“Whatever gives them the chance to live the happiest life.”

“What is that?”

“A life of dignity, of security, of knowing there will be food on the table if they get sick.”

“From each according to their ability, to each according to their need – it’s even better in the original. So you’re telling me that a man whose only claim to income, to food, to life, is petitioning the state for his failures is living a life of dignity? Will you listen to yourself?”

“So what are you saying? That we should embrace the capitalist ethic and all run off and make money?” demanded Robert.

“Yes,” said Nachaev. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Though not in those terms.”

“What? That’s pathetic!”

“And you know who taught me that?” asked Nachaev.

“Rockefeller?”

“No – Alexander Herzen.”

Robert threw Nachaev a contemptuous look. “You’re mad! He was the greatest socialist thinker of our time!”

“Are you in love with Helena?” asked Nachaev.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” asked Robert, reddening.

“Everything,” said Nachaev. “Are you?”

“I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this.”

“I hope you are… I think you’re a good sort of man – a little thick, but then I’m one to talk. Are you in love with her?”

“Are you?”

Nachaev shook his head. “I’m too much of a coward. I can’t handle that much hostility.”

“I’m with you there,” said Robert with deep feeling.

He laughed. “So you understand?”

“Your feelings, yes. Your philosophy, thank God no! What do you think is wrong with her?”

“The classic female disease – of which we are the primary cause.”

“What do you mean?”

“In Russia, the state is male. The state is also oppressive, unjust and violent. Russian women – at least those intelligent enough to rise above mindless patriotism – see all males as extensions of the state. Submission is cowardice, resistance is heroism. They excite love in order to damn it. It’s their revolution.”

“What a pity,” said Robert with feeling.

“What?”

“You make some sense of women, but total gibberish of politics.”

“So you do love her.”

“Yes I do, cursed that I am.”

“So you need her to make you happy.”

Robert laughed bitterly. “That’s questionable, given her attitude.”

“Seriously.”

“Yes, I do. Why, I don’t know.”

“You value her above all other women.”

“Yes.”

“Then you are not a socialist.”

“But I would sacrifice my love for the common good.”

“Then you are a fool,” said Nachaev contemptuously.

Robert frowned. “I am on the verge of finding you offensive.”

Nachaev pointed at the bench at the foot of the garden. “There it was that my conversion took place. Not that I was smart enough to know it at the time.”

“Herzen?”

The young ex-revolutionary nodded. “I wanted to marry Natalie.”

“Natalie?” asked Robert, surprised.

Nachaev shrugged. “Her appearance is deceiving.”

“What has that got to do with..?”

“Just listen. My past has been – well, checkered, to say the least. I didn’t want to drag Natalie into all that. I was faced with a choice: love – or revolution.”

“And you chose love.”

“I did. And – more importantly – so did Alexander. He chose a son over a revolutionary. He chose his daughter’s happiness over changing the world. Because his daughter is the world. We, I, you are the world. What else is there? Can you point to this thing called society? We were trying to change the wrong thing. Society doesn’t exist.”

“Sounds like a rather desperate extrapolation,” said Robert. “And a self-serving justification.”

“Is it?” asked Nachaev. “We disagreed on aims, but our methods were the same. He wanted me to continue his work. That’s why we all fled Russia. But when it came to his daughter, his values were clear. Her happiness – and mine – over the good of the whole world. And you – in love with Helena. If you marry her, that will take time away from any socialist work you might want to do. Your happiness, not the world’s. No self-sacrifice. And don’t tell me you’d sacrifice anyway, because you haven’t as yet.”

“How does that make me a capitalist?”

“Because capitalism says the individual is his own end. Or hers. Individual property, individual rights. You can’t live one life for love and another for politics. Give up Helena or give up socialism, or be a hypocrite and end your days in misery!”

“And are you happy?”

Nachaev shrugged. “No.”

“So where’s the proof?”

“I have a past – and a set of beliefs – that will be a long time dying. But I am doggedly going to pursue happiness – not at the expense of others, but for myself. If I choose that, the revolution is out the window. Or rather in my soul, which is the only place real revolution can occur.”

Robert looked at the man beside him, his resentment grudgingly tinged with admiration. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when he heard his name called out from the porch. They both turned around, and saw Helena standing on the steps.

“Robert!” she called, “All right – I have something to say.”

Nachaev smiled.

“Don’t smile,” said Robert, not turning around. He stood. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Nachaev. “Go to her.”

He stood, indecisive. “You’re taking all the fun out of it,” he complained.

“Robert! Did you hear me?” cried Helena.

“Coming!” he cried, then turned to Nachaev. “I’m not buying anything from you,” he said.

Nachaev grinned up at him. “Your heart disagrees.”

Ilyavich barely stirred when he heard the knock on his door. He sat crouched over in his chair in the attic, his knuckles on his chin, rocking slightly back and forth, trying to resolve the question that would allow him to stand. There was a knock, and the door opened behind him.

“Ivan?” said Father McCullity.

“Come in,” said Ilyavich, straightening.

The priest came in, a fixed grin on his face.

“All right, old man, I think we’ve just about had enough, eh?” he said jovially. “Beginning to cast a bit of a pall over my house, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ilyavich.

Father McCullity blinked. “We have changed, haven’t we? That was my most irritating opening. Surely you can do better than that.”

Ilyavich shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Come on,” said the priest, sitting down, “What is the worst thing that can happen now?”

“That money was my whole life, John.”

Father McCullity frowned. “I was happy you came here, Ivan. Why? Because I looked forward to seeing an old friend, a man of intelligence, energy and creativity. I wasn’t aware that a mere pile of cash was entering my house.”

“It’s not the money – it’s what it meant.”

“What did it mean?”

“Tell me – are you afraid of senility?” asked Ilyavich.

“As much as death, I suppose, in as much as when it happens I will be past caring. Why?”

“Senile people can’t remember their lives. That money was a reminder of my life. I can’t remember what I did at the age of twenty five, but at least I had the money to show I did something. I achieved something.”

“So you did steal the money then. I knew it.”

“Of course I didn’t,” said Ilyavich listlessly.

“Then you – what – made the money?” asked Father McCullity.

“Yes.”

“Then the money was just your shadow.”

“A reminder.”

“No. You came into the world, you made some money – you made it, Ivan. The money was stolen, you remain, with all the energy and power that created it in the first place.”

“If you lost your congregation, would you be a priest?”

“If you mean would I still have the same relationship with God, then yes, of course. I would be a different kind of priest. A hermit, I suppose, living in some attic.”

“Would that be disturbing, if it happened overnight?”

“Yes, it would.”

“I’m not destroyed, John,” said Ilyavich. “I’m not out, but I’m down. It’s been a terrible shock.”

“If you know that, I’m reassured. The question is now: what next?”

“Oh, Lord I don’t know.”

“Are you sick of the attic yet?”

“Heartily. But I don’t know what else to do.”

Father McCullity looked at him intently. “Could you start again?”

“The business part I always loved. What I hated was raising the funds. It’s been so long since I had to establish my credit. I don’t know the banks here, or the laws. I have no collateral. I’d have to pound the pavement for years for the capital to even get a loan. And I’m too old for the long-term if I fail, so I’m not sure even who would lend to me. What are you smiling at?” asked Ilyavich angrily. “I’m not sure I said anything funny!”

The priest grinned. “You might not remember this, but I have – for forty years.

“What?”

“The biggest argument we ever had.”

“Which one?”

“People, production – people, production. God, you used to fight me on that one! You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“You said a real businessman only needed his wits to survive. I always said he needed connections. You really don’t remember?”

“Actually, I’m pretending not to remember, because I have a horrible feeling you’re about to prove me wrong.”

The old priest sat back in his chair. “No, no, no. You’ve spent forty years proving your end of the argument – and succeeded. Now it’s time for me to prove mine.”

“How?”

Father McCullity rubbed his hands. “If we’re going to talk business, we’ll do it on my terms.”

“Which are?”

“In the kitchen, over a cup of tea.”

“Will it be worth my while?”

“That’s for you to decide,” said Father McCullity, standing and extending his hand.

Ilyavich gazed at it, then raised his own to grasp it.

“Thank you,” he said, forcing it out.

“Don’t thank me – I expect a percentage,” said Father McCullity.

Ilyavich laughed. “That’s a relief. I thought for a moment it was charity,” he said, painfully unfolding his legs. He held onto the priest’s arm as they lurched into the kitchen for tea.

“In my time as a village priest,” said Father McCullity, pouring Ilyavich’s cup, “I had very few opportunities to develop any upper-class connections, but those I did I hung on to like a miser. Last summer, a great lady, a world traveler and authoress, took rent of a large house in the country outside town. Naturally, I presented myself with all the decorum I could muster. I found her absolutely enchanting and, not to sound vain, believed she found my company not without merit. She is due to return to the house tomorrow, back from a trip from – yes, of course: Russia. She is fluent in the language, and a great admirer of the late Alexander Herzen. She is attractive, astoundingly wealthy, and though not an entrepreneur herself, is willing to recognize the changing times enough to fund those with promise – for a suitable return, naturally. I suggest that tomorrow we present ourselves in our Sunday best. You can turn that miraculous charm on her and, to be blunt, milk her for all you’re worth.”

Ilyavich smiled grimly. “How enjoyable this must be for you.”

“The chance to help a friend? Of course,” said Father McCullity.

“No, no. I mean the chance to so decisively prove an old argument.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, of course, but now that you mention it, I am positively tingling with pleasure.”

The old merchant frowned. “So I must, between now and tomorrow, dream up a scheme solid enough to enlist this lady’s aid?”

“On the contrary,” said the priest, “I think that the less you plot the more successful you will be.”

“Why?”

“Oh, my friend – how little you understand business!” cried the priest, sitting down merrily. “You can’t present yourself with a ‘may I have some tea and ten thousand pounds?’ approach. Aristocratic contacts are decidedly skittish in the face of bald approaches. She would just refer you to her lawyer – or worse, her accountant, which would be a pointlessly dismal affair. No, no – you must be all smiles and bows and hope for an opportunity to mention that you are a businessman, which if it doesn’t arise tomorrow, will arise on some future visit. Besides, you know that the worst way to get credit is to reveal how badly you need it. You must present yourself as merely a social caller, a friend of Alexander Herzen’s. If the chance arises, slip a word or two in, hesitantly, reluctantly, and instantly drop the subject as if it were of no consequence.”

“How do you know all this, John?” asked Ilyavich. “Is this how conversions are effected nowadays?”

“Sadly, yes,” sighed Father McCullity. “Not like the old days, when it was faith or off with your head. Now we must cajole and threaten ever so subtly and study Machiavelli before the Old Testament. And be educated. There is nothing more humiliating than being challenged by some snot-nosed freshman giddy on the wine of first philosophy and having to duck arguments that cannot be answered, nodding at his vapid superiority as if he were the first man alive to ever ask such questions. Why is there evil? How can God be both all-powerful and all-knowing? Where are the miracles now? Prove it, prove it, prove it. Reason, Ilyavich – it’s the scourge of our age. With it will come crashing down all the equality that religion has granted to man. Remember: some people are better at reasoning, but faith is accessible to all.”

“Faith, meaning guilt,” said Ilyavich. “I assume her wealth is inherited.”

“Why? Because she is a woman?”

“No – because she must be approached socially. Someone who had earned their money would never regard it as a social disgrace to be approached on a professional level. That’s why you English will fail in the long run. You’re inefficient. You have too many traditions that block the productive flow of capital. And when the aristocracy is gone, the people will create the poor in their image. This is a land of envy. That’s what the next century will be, the natural child of the Age of Progress: the Age of Envy.”

“We’re both waxing,” noted Father McCullity. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand.”

“You started it.”

He laughed. “All right.”

“How much does she have to invest?”

“That depends on how much she likes you. Don’t make faces – it’s important.”

“How can I make her – like me? It’s disgusting.”

“You must be pleasant – and witty. Witty is good. And mannered. And deferential. Nod a lot and laugh at the jokes she makes – but not too much. Never sound obsequious – or superior. Never mention money. Criticize the aristocracy in general, their inefficiency perhaps, but never the institution itself. Monarchy is taboo. So is the church. Sex, of course – but I don’t have to tell you that. Don’t eat too fast. Finish what you’re given. Only ask for seconds if they’re offered. Don’t ask for obscure drinks. Don’t use difficult words if she starts speaking in Russian. Don’t criticize the Tsar – he’s a relative of a relative of the Queen or something. Watch her at the end of the meal and rise exactly when she does – otherwise you look deferential. Elbows off the table, always. Sit after she does. She sets the pace for coffee drinking – and don’t slurp, for heaven’s sake. If she wants to take a walk after lunch, don’t offer her your arm – walk beside her and watch her elbow. If it rises, you may extend yours. Then match your steps to hers so you don’t bounce. Never, ever carry her parasol – it’s her accessory. Praise her choice of gardeners, not the garden itself. And above all remember that although times have changed, the aristocracy still believe that they are surrendering their power for the common good. They have turned from rulers into philanthropists, which makes them dictators of morality – a far more powerful realm, if you ask me. Don’t disturb them on that point. They are England’s conscience, her moral outrage, her guiding light and bedrock of correctness. I don’t know how much you agreed with Mr. Herzen, but we believe we have found a system that works, and glancing around the world, we cannot find a great deal of people who are in a position to criticize us – Russians in particular. So it would be best for you if you didn’t suggest that the aristocracy are thieves, or parasites, or impediments to the productive flow of capital. You won’t puncture her sense of correctness one bit – you’ll just make yourself a damn sight poorer. Is that clear?”

“You know,” said Ilyavich, “you are far more passionate about manners than you are about morals.”

Father McCullity smiled. “I am a priest,” he said, “living on a vastly overpopulated island. Our last civil war was three hundred years ago. What did they fight about? Manners. Look around – an Arab will kill you if you don’t burp after his meal. A Sikh will kill you if you point your feet at his holy book. A Jew without his cap is a marked man. Manners are the rituals that keep people from each other’s throats. Primitive, not pure philosophy, but good enough for the masses. Here we enforce manners, not transgressions. Our weapon, our Satan if you like, is embarrassment. Our highest ideal is comfort. Despise that if you want, but we have advanced more than any other country this century. We have successfully secularized the notion of sin. Guilt – you’re right – but what do they do in Russia? Have you heard of the quaint little punishment there where a man’s belly is ripped open, his intestines nailed to a tree, and then he’s forced to ride away on a horse? Or the one where an unfaithful wife’s breasts are punctured, a rope passed through them, and she’s hung from a tree? That’s a personal favourite. Here people would glance at her contemptuously and shun her socially. And believe it or not, it’s far more effective – and that’s why I sound more passionate about manners than morals. Because without manners, morality is violent. Your homeland is proof of that.”

“This is the first sign of decadence,” said Ilyavich, putting down his tea. “A fear of absolutes. Look at your century – a surge of advancement, a smashing of aristocracy, of monopoly, of injustice, all followed by a huddled retreat and a desire not to rock the boat. Why? You were on the right path – why stop now? Aristocracy cannot be wrong when it’s big and right when it’s small – it’s either right or wrong. You knew that in the thirties. But now they’ve been tamed, so you’re afraid to run them out. Don’t be fooled, John – if you forget they’re wrong, they’ll come back, maybe as politicians, maybe as union leaders, maybe as representatives of the ‘underprivileged’, but if you don’t fight the ideal of privilege – legal privilege – you might as well have stayed in the fields in the first place. All you’ve done is change the cast.”

Father McCullity frowned. “Admirably put, but less important than the question of how you will react to Lady Richmond tomorrow. If you’re going to be heretical, you may as well stay home. Because even though you may despise her, I enjoy her company, and I’m not about to lose it by introducing her to a man with a mission.”

“My mission is to make money,” said Ilyavich firmly. “I’m not so young that I think insulting one woman will change the world. There are too many like you who would think of it as – rude.”

“Then we are settled,” said Father McCullity, rising. “I won’t ask you for your word. I must get to work.”

“One thing.”

“Yes?”

“Can my son accompany us?”

The priest frowned. “A bit – flighty, wouldn’t you say? Can he be trusted?”

“I’ll tell him to keep his mouth shut. Not that I’ll have to – being Russian, the sight of an aristocrat will terrify him so much, I doubt he’d be able to squeak to save his life.”

“Very well then,” said Father McCullity, nodding and leaving the room.

Ilyavich stared out into space, enjoying the humming of his mind. Last chance, sonny of mine, he thought with relish. Last chance.

When he rose to find him, Gregory was nowhere to be seen. Asking the maid, he found out that the boy had left the house early that morning, taking a horse with him. Ilyavich sighed, and went instead to find Helena. Passing by the living room, he heard her voice speaking with more animation than he had heard in a long time. He paused at the door on hearing Robert’s voice, driven by fatherly concern (he told himself) to listen to their conversation. It had not escaped him that the young man had been straining to surmount the bounds of hospitality.

“It’s my past, if it’s anything,” Helena was saying. “It’s not you – It’s men in general.”

“Something to do with your father?” asked Robert’s voice.

Better not be, thought Ilyavich in the pause that followed.

“No,” said Helena finally. “It’s all relative. What’s caution in Russia is paranoia here.”

“Caution about – what?”

“Everyone has a motive – that’s no secret. Your motives may be good – but I’m not used to believing that.”

“It’s the same here. An English girl would be paranoid of seduction.”

“What do they do about it?”

“Let their mothers worry about it, I’m afraid, and live vapid lives. Butterflies of fashion, we call them.”

“That’s harsh.”

“I don’t pretend to be ahead of my time. I’m with the times. The rest of England lags behind.”

“I hope that wasn’t an attempt at modesty.”

Robert laughed. “No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

“Tell me – what is it that attracts you to me?” asked Helena.

“Your independence; your energy.”

“That’s exactly what steers me clear of you,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’ve seen it before. You’ve changed your values, but not your sex. You profess to value my judgment, but fight it when it falls against you. In time your real self would emerge. I’d have to constantly fight your inevitable desire to control.”

“Am I controlling you now?”

“By listening so intently and never arguing, yes.”

“If I argued you’d call me aggressive, wouldn’t you?”

“So you don’t argue to please me – which is control.”

Good for you, thought Ilyavich from the doorway, surprised.

“I agree,” said Robert pleasantly. “You are paranoid. It doesn’t bother me that you find me unattractive; it bothers me that you find men in general unattractive. I could bow to a rival; I can’t bow to prejudice.”

“Why don’t you find a nice young English girl then?”

“Because they’re all so boring. I live for challenge!” he said, a little self-consciously.

“Even to the point of futility?”

“If I believed it was futile, I’d leave you alone.”

“You know, you are very male in one crucial respect.”

“Which is?”

“You waste tremendous amounts of energy trying to convince me I’m wrong, rather than being yourself and letting me choose.”

“Being prejudiced, you’d make the wrong choice – which would be no choice at all!”

“That’s your prejudice,” retorted Helena.

To keep his head from spinning any further, Ilyavich entered the room. Robert jumped to his feet.

“Good morning, sir.”

“No need for formality, young man. Just privacy.”

“Eh? Right – excuse me,” said Robert, bowing and ducking out of the room, his face red.

“Well – playing with the hosts, Helena?” said Ilyavich, settling himself into a couch.

“You seemed cheered up.”

“Indeed,” he said, pursing his lips. He looked at her and smiled. “Father McCullity seems to have saved my soul.”

“Oh. Good,” she said distantly.

“You aren’t surprised, an atheist saying that?”

“Mm? Yes, of course.”

“I should know better than to speak to a woman who’s being courted,” he said irritably, rising.

“Oh, father! Sit down. I was just musing.”

“Do you want to listen?”

“Of course. What happened.”

“I’ve had an investment opportunity.”

Helena stared at him, then turned away. “I see.”

“Come on! We’ve barely spoken since we arrived!”

“You’ve been sitting in that bloody attic of yours!”

“You knew the way.”

“You would have just yelled at me if I’d tried to comfort you. You know you would.”

“I suppose so,” he admitted. “Anyway, I’m going with Father McCullity tomorrow to see a Lady Richmond. She’s wealthy, and keen on expanding her portfolio. I wanted to take Gregory with me – show him the ropes a little. Expose him to something, anyway. Do you know where he is?”

“What?” said Helena, sitting bolt upright. “He’s not in his room?”

“Apparently he left early this morning on a horse.”

“No!” cried Helena, her cheeks paling.

“Why? What is it?”

“He’s gone and done it! God, father – you should have been more careful!” she said, standing agitatedly.

“Me?”

“You drove him to it!”

“To what?” asked Ilyavich, amazed.

“He’s gone to get your money back!”

Ilyavich’s mouth dropped. He sat dumbly for a moment, then burst out laughing. “What?” he cried. “That’s wonderful!”

“Wonderful – are you insane?”

“It’s about time he had an adventure! I can’t believe it!”

“Father! He barely knows which end of the horse to face, let alone how to deal with a dangerous criminal!”

“This Mr. Plodsworth is a drunk, isn’t he? Scarcely dangerous. By God, it’ll do him good! Maybe he’ll find his vocation – creditor.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” said Helena.

“What did you expect me to do – run after him crying ‘my son – my son?’ It’s a noble quest!”

“He could get killed!”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Don’t you – don’t you care about him?”

“Do you?” demanded Ilyavich angrily. “You don’t care if he’s breathing until he goes off half-cocked, then you run around screaming about how awful I’ve been? It’s a hell of a time to show your concern.”

“Well at least I…”

“And what about this ‘equality for all’ you talk about? First crisis you face, a crisis you are partly responsible for – and you get hysterical and blame me – a man. This emancipation of yours is – pathetic! ‘Is it your father’s fault?’ – yes, I overheard. And you considered the question – you considered it! That a man could shape your life!”

“I stand here and tell you that your son is missing, and you take it like it’s some kind of joke!”

“And five minutes before that you were being enjoyably chatted up by that young man, without a thought in your head for your brother! Does that make you a saint?”

“If you’re shouting, I’m leaving,” said Helena coldly, turning to go.

In a flash of rage, Ilyavich bounded up from the couch and caught her arm painfully above the elbow, spinning her round.

“Oh no you don’t,” he panted. “Perhaps I was too lax when you were growing up, but now it’s time for you to learn some responsibility!”

“What are you going to do? Spank me?”

“I’ve half a mind to, yes.”

“Typical,” she said flatly. “The avenging warrior.”

“I paid for your school, and asked no questions,” growled Ilyavich. “I paid for your room and board and asked no questions. When you refused to make anything of your life, I asked no questions. So in some ways this is my fault. I accept that. That’s my responsibility. Now you accept yours.”

“Which is?”

“To stop blaming us and take some responsibility!”

“Who is going to set me that example?” demanded Helena. “You? Off making money instead of raising your children, driving your son out of the house and calling it an adventure? Can you teach me responsibility?”

“I admire him more than you. At least he’s trying to do something.”

“No he’s not!” hissed Helena, yanking her arm away. “He’s off trying to prove to you that he’s a good son! Why didn’t you send him to town, father? Too expensive? You might as well have, because it’s all gone now, and I’m glad for it – yes, I’m glad!”

“You should have had a mother – I should have remarried,” said Ilyavich, suddenly realizing the depths of her anger. “I had to be away – don’t you understand that?”

“Yes – to gild up the cage,” said Helena. “And a mother wouldn’t have changed a thing, because she would have been just as dependent on you as everyone else.”

“Your mother never thought that!”

“That’s because she was too stupid to see the truth of her condition: slavery.”

Ilyavich’s hand rose and slapped Helena across her cheek. Before the redness came, he slapped her again, harder.

“One for calling your mother stupid, one for calling her a slave. She was a good woman,” he growled, grinding the words through his teeth. “Now get upstairs!”

“Is that an order – master?” she spat venomously.

He stared at her distorted face, then turned away, a deep sadness rising in his chest.

“Ah, parenting is a lie,” he said dismally. “You don’t respond to reason or anger, you are your own mistress. Do what you like.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’m going to look for Gregory.”

“It’s not safe. You notice I’m not shouting because I know I can’t control you.”

“I’m going to get my hat. This conversation is over,” she said, turning and running up the stairs.

“Damn, stupid bully,” muttered Ilyavich, sitting down heavily.

“Everything all right?” asked Father McCullity from the doorway.

“My children are running amok,” muttered Ilyavich.

“Oh dear,” murmured the old priest, coming into the room.

“How did you manage it? You’re a busy man.”

“Robert constantly runs amok. The letters I used to get from school… I was terrified the congregation would find out – it would have destroyed my credibility. His antics were like the collected scandals of the confessional.”

“What did you do?”

“Glossed them over. All fathers are high priests – even laymen like yourself – you’ve just forgotten the formulas.”

“What formulas?”

“You know, all the old standards – he’s old enough to make up his own mind, I can’t control him, I did the best I could, there are other influences in his life. It’s easy to live in the fantasy land of when they were young, when you were their whole life, before they met other people and began reading books. The age is theirs, Ivan, and they didn’t make it in our image. What can one father do? We cease to become signposts when they take their own paths.”

“You have developed a rather chilling wisdom, John. I’m rather envious.”

“Of what?”

“Of your life. Of your ability to answer.”

“You can sell, I can comfort. Occupational hazards both. You like buying things?”

“What?”

“You like walking into a store and thumping your money down?”

Ilyavich shuddered. “No, no – I’m a terrible miser.”

“There – you see? Don’t envy me. You find it easy to sell and hard to buy – I find it easy to give advice and hard to take it. My life isn’t so enviable.”

“Why not? You have a lovely house, a wife and a son, a good occupation, security, comfort.”

The priest sighed. “So says the vagabond at the zoo.”

“Why – what’s wrong with your life?”

Father McCullity paused, biting his lower lip. Ilyavich stared at his face, feeling the weight of their years. The priest’s face had not aged well – he had developed a porcine chin and bags under his eyes. His features sagged like sails under a waning breeze. His eyes were still a piercing blue, but they seemed like pegs his face hung from, a picture whose nails were finding less and less grip in their crumbling plaster.

“What happened, John?” murmured Ilyavich. “We used to be so young.”

“The world aged, and we went with it. Even the youngsters seem old. Cynicism, lethargy, occasional rage. Senility. My life is comfortable, not comforting,” said Father McCullity. “I envy the farmer who comes to me with his hands dirty and his shirt sweaty. He plants, it grows, and he harvests. His faith is in his hands, not in the soil. I plant and I plant, but nothing ever grows. More and more I doubt my hands.” He laughed. “What I don’t doubt is the fertilizer, of which I have plenty. Do you think we got too comfortable? I have given my son everything, I bow to every demand of my wife, and in return I get pleasant days and sleepless nights. And if I slip, once in a while, it’s just as pleasant to say nothing. Who cares? Who really does? To be undisturbed is the ideal. And I never disturb that. The problem is, that disturbs me.”

“What have you done that is so wrong?” asked Ilyavich, curious at his friend’s strange mood.

“Everything. Nothing. One day, when I have courage, when I’m backed into a corner, I may tell you.”

“Someday,” murmured Ilyavich, “we’ll be so wise that wisdom will cease to be a dirge for stupidity.”

“Father McCullity,” said Helena, coming into the room while tying her bonnet. “I need to borrow a horse.”

“Mmm? Yes, of course my dear – as long as your father approves.”

“Father?” she demanded. “Say yes – you know I’ll do it anyway.”

Ivan Ilyavich looked at her, at her set reactive face. Suddenly it all seemed so unimportant. Her mask of resistance was not wisdom, not intelligence, just blind striving will.

“When you were six – do you remember?” he asked inconsequentially. “You fell off my horse and bruised your face. You ran to me and told me never to let you on a horse again. But I did. I put you on that horse. And eventually you stopped being afraid. I was proud. But I was also sad that you never came running to me any more.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“It means – if you put yourself on a horse now, you can’t come running to me any more.”

She shook her head. “Can I have the horse?” she repeated.

Ilyavich sighed, waving his hand. “Go. Go where you want to go.”

“Thank you,” said Helena. She paused as she turned, then shook her head again and walked out.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN: An Unexpected Child in the House of Mirrors

“This is nice,” said Ilyavich as they turned the corner to Lady Richmond’s house. Nice it was, if a little out of harmony with its surroundings. The architect, poor soul, had begun with his faculties intact, with a nice solid respectable frame, but the original owner (who had suddenly come into more money than was sensible) had looked at the figures for bedrooms, dining rooms and servants quarters, and had said only one word: more. So the harried architect had gone to work, the foundation already laid, and whistled for more rooms to come and roost on his creation like so many ungainly birds. They had flapped down, jutting out willy-nilly, suspended it seemed only by the strength of the artist’s will. It was like a haircut in reverse, rising from lean crewcut to ungainly mop. A little more here, a little more there, one compromise leading to another, and finally the original lines had been swallowed up in the need for comfort, size, prestige, and the owner had ended his days wandering its childless chambers, wondering just why he wanted so many rooms.

“I don’t like it,” said Nachaev, reigning in his horse.

“Why not?” asked Father McCullity. “Too decadent?”

“That word has no meaning. It’s – messy. The planning was all for vanity, not beauty. Show, not life.”

“Welcome to the world of the upper class then,” said the priest, casting the young man a warning look. “But do recall that you were allowed to come on the condition that if you have nothing nice to say, you are simply to nod pleasantly.”

“And bolster Ilyavich’s prestige, isn’t that right? Alexander’s heir?” said Nachaev.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” said Ilyavich doggedly, leaning on his horse. “But I take what I want, and pay for it.”

“Only if you want what you take,” retorted the young man, spurring his horse up the path.

“Don’t worry – he’ll be all right,” said Ilyavich to Father McCullity.

“Don’t comfort me,” he frowned. “It’s your neck that’s on the line.”

They were received by a butler, an ancient man who seemed offended that they had not managed the journey spotlessly. He took their coats with two fingers, one at a time, and hung them on a brass hook by the door.

“These will be – cleaned – by the time you depart – assuming you are staying for dinner. If not, I will air them outside.”

“We’ll be staying, thank you,” said Father McCullity, bowing to him. Ilyavich marveled.

“Why thank him?” he whispered as the butler retreated. “It’s his job!”

“Don’t start, Ivan,” hissed the priest.

A maid approached with some slippers, beckoning for them to follow her. They put them on and walked, filled with a strange amazement. Along the walls hung the kind of paintings destined to be displayed in historical books as “representative”; portraits of old men so grim it seemed that the artist had omitted not just smiles, but also the muscles that might produce them. There were diamond-glassed cabinets that shifted the vases nestled inside into fragmenting shards as they passed, and occasionally the maid would swerve to one side, making them all walk like mountaineers beside some priceless carpet. The ceiling undulated like the belly of a dragon, rising to present jeweled chandeliers pressed to its innards before descending to just over head height. Low dressers passed by, adorned with little ivory houses, perfume bottles from the Orient – even once, a glass-encased monkey skull that lay next to a mounted tear of amber with a tiny insect hung deep within, far from the tide of time.

Finally they came to a double door which the maid curtsied before, then opened wide. Inside was a room with a staggeringly high ceiling, painted with dim religious frescoes; on the far wall were a set of wide French doors framing the view of the garden beyond. Low couches spread their bellies over the floor, but the room’s sense of abandon ended there. All other articles presented themselves like soldiers at attention; a grandfather clock presided over a wall of timepieces, ticking like a fieldful of crickets; on another wall was stretched a full elephant hide, tusks still attached, its tiny eyes restored to their full brilliance. The three men could not escape the sensation of being watched, and stood awkwardly at the door, utterly at a loss of where to sit.

They jumped when the door opened behind them. “Milady wishes you to sit here,” said the ancient butler, carrying in two chairs. “She was only expecting two. I shall retrieve another,” he said, placing the chairs in a little alcove next to the door. Father McCullity and Ilyavich sat; Nachaev stared around the huge room.

“This is beautiful,” he whispered.

“Yes, lovely…” said Father McCullity.

“What is so beautiful?” demanded Ilyavich. “I mean,” he added, “I’d like your perspective.”

“It’s like a church – don’t you think so, Father?”

“Yes, in some ways – of a secular sort,” said the priest.

“Look at that elephant – I’ll bet that took ten shots to kill.”

“Doubtless.”

“And all those clocks! Who would ever know the right time? I’d only wind one, of course, but then most people don’t need to know the time at all, so why shouldn’t she be confused?”

“Nachaev…”

“And look at that couch over there,” he said, gesturing at a couch that had been painstakingly painted to represent a sunset. “If you painted that cushion the colour of the sun, you could lean on it and look just like a god – until the stuffing came out, of course.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” said Father McCullity automatically. “She’s done the place up since I was last here, that’s for certain.”

“And I’ll bet most of these were gifts, which only proves the truth that you need money to be rich,” said Nachaev.

“It’s got nothing to do with money,” said Father McCullity, his cheeks reddening. “It’s taste.”

“It would be very generous to allow people to file through and see it,” said the young man. “What about it, Ilyavich – they’d probably pay!”

“Hush!” whispered the priest. “Someone’s coming!”

They heard a scratching at the door, then a thump. A mournful, unearthly cry echoed from beyond the door, making their hackles rise. Nachaev went over and opened the door, then took a step back.

“A baby!” he said. Ilyavich and Father McCullity sprang up and stood beside him.

“Oh!” cried the priest, raising his hands to his face. “Whose could it be? She’s unmarried!”

“I don’t know,” said Nachaev, bending down and poking his finger into the child’s belly. It was a little dark-haired boy, his legs pudgily thumping the carpet. He looked up at the ex-revolutionary and giggled, grabbing at his hand.

“Let me take him,” said the priest, lifting the boy up professionally, examining him.

“Oh thank God!” cried a woman’s voice. Nachaev’s head snapped up. He saw a stout young woman in her late twenties coming up the corridor, her hair tied tightly behind her head.

“I fell asleep, sirs – this won’t happen again,” she said, taking the child from Father McCullity’s arms.

“Quite all right,” said the priest.

“The Lady hasn’t arrived, has she..?” asked the woman, glancing around the room. Her eyes alighted on Nachaev and her voice suddenly trailed off.

“Sergei,” she said, her voice hushed.

“Sasha?” he said, walking forward in a daze. “What are you doing here?”

“I was – brought by the Lady,” she stammered. “What are you doing here? Ivan Ilyavich – is that you?”

“Good day, Sasha. Are you well?” asked Ilyavich, still in professional mode.

“Quite, yes. I can’t talk now – I’m supposed to be in the kitchen, but perhaps later…” she said, staring at Nachaev.

“Of course – yes, we must,” he whispered urgently.

She nodded emphatically and went out, whispering to the child. Father McCullity closed the door behind her.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Alexander’s old maid,” said Ilyavich. “Though how she came here is beyond explanation.”

“She’s not – married?”

“Not that I know of. Nachaev?”

“No. No.”

“Then – the child?” asked the priest, his face pale.

“She never mentioned a child,” said Nachaev.

“Not something she’d want to spread around though, eh?” said Father McCullity. “Hup – someone else!”

As the footsteps sounded, they to took their chairs like a reverse of startled birds.

There was a silence, then the door opened and the butler stood respectfully to one side.

“Milady Richmond,” he said, bowing low.

The Lady Nora Richmond entered, smiling radiantly.

“A silly habit,’ she murmured, “but I can’t break him of it. Good day, Father McCullity.”

“Milady,” said the priest, bowing low. From Ilyavich’s perspective, standing behind his friend, she seemed to rise above the priest’s descending back, floating above his dark coat like an ascending angel. Her eyes wore a shroud of amusement, sparkling with intelligence and life, and her dark hair was tied loosely, framing a face as perfect as man or God could envision: a full mouth, cheeks that curved up to high cheekbones like arches exulting in their freedom from gravity. It is a face that deserved something to rise above, thought Ilyavich.

“Good afternoon,” he said, thinking – is it even afternoon?

“And who are you?” asked Lady Richmond.

“Ilan Ivylavich. Ivan Ilyavich.”

“A Russian – how pleasant!” she cried, smiling. “And your son – is it your son?””

“Sergei Nachaev,” said Nachaev, taking her pale hand and bowing, pulling her a little off balance.

“Easy, Mr. Nachaev,” laughed the woman, stepping back. “We have no music as yet!”

“Excuse me.” Do I kiss her hand? he wondered.

“Come – let us sit down,” said Lady Richmond, leading the dazed trio over to the couch. She sat easily on the sunset sofa, turning her head so it appeared as if she gazed over the rim of the world. Studied, thought Nachaev – but effective. He tried to collect his thoughts, but he gazed at the lady’s face with an almost painful sense of possession, feeling that to study it for eternity would be no great loss.

“How are you, John?” she asked.

“Quite well, thank you. Your arrival, so pleasantly anticipated, is amply fulfilled by your presence,” he said, ducking his head awkwardly.

“Well,” she said, leaning back. “Jamison – some coffee for our guests,” she said. The butler bowed and left.

“So to what honour do I owe the presence of three such handsome gentlemen?” she smiled.

“Since in your last letter you wrote of your travels to Russia, I thought it a good idea to present you with some natives of that illustrious land. I trust your trip was enjoyable.”

“A grand tour,” replied Lady Richmond, “valued all the more because I fear it will be the last of its kind.”

“How so?”

“Terribly impatient, these Russians – you see? Mr. Ilyavich is already jiggling his leg.”

“I apologize,” muttered Ilyavich. “Poor circulation.”

“Then we shall take a walk after our coffee. I hold you as only an example of the rush of the Russians, so to speak, Mr. Ilyavich. Where the English are content to let us die a slow and dignified death, your people seem to want to snatch the pillows from under our heads and place them firmly over them. Hello – you perked up at that, Mr. Nachaev. You are young and have the means to travel, which means you are either fleeing the fight, or drumming up support for it. Please tell me I’m not wrong,” she said, leaning forward.

Nachaev shook his head. “No. I mean yes, I did want to extend the battle. Until I came here.”

“If that’s a compliment, I shan’t believe you,” she replied.

“No – to England. I came with Alexander Herzen…”

“Herzen? Here?” She sat up. “Why didn’t you bring him?” she demanded, turning to Father McCullity.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “and much though it pains me to bring this up so unexpectedly, I must report that he died a little over a week ago.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, settling back with a sigh. “Do you know I traveled all the way to his lodgings, all set for an exciting match of wits, but found it deserted save for one young woman and her child? I brought her back with me, poor thing – more out of respect for Mr. Herzen than anything else. I had planned to hunt him down in England, but I see I am to be disappointed in that as well.”

“I’m sorry,” said Father McCullity.

“Don’t be,” she said. “You may be closer to Him than us, but you still can’t control that. What a shame. But I am growing inured to disappointments.”

“How can such a lady be prone to disappointment?” asked Ilyavich. “Surely not due to the drabness of the world, bringing as you do such light to it.”

“Ah you grand old men,” chided Lady Richmond, “compliments flow where the ground is least fertile.”

Ilyavich felt his cheeks flush, seventeen all of a sudden.

“No,” she continued , “it was the desperate lack of frowning on the Russian visage. It seems such a terrifying visage too – unlike our friend Mr. Ilyavich’s here – it quite makes one flinch at a distance, all these murmurs of revolution. One approaches with the trepidation of a sinner, but one is regaled with the honours of the Pope – no offense, Father.”

“None taken – of course.”

“Why is it, Mr. Nachaev, that Russians are so subservient? Ah – I see by your face that you consider replying a form of submission.”

Nachaev frowned, then shrugged. “Is this common among the upper class?” he asked.

“Now, now, Sergei,” said Father McCullity in a dangerously genial tone.

“England seems built on the social niceties that ladies such as yourselves are supposed to exemplify,” said Nachaev, leaning forward, “yet you enjoy breaching them with every breath, don’t you?”

“Russia at last!” she cried, smiling. “How perceptive!”

“Aristocracy is a nation’s ideal civilization, as I see it,” said the young man.

“That’s not how you see it at all!”

He shrugged. “So I’ve been told then. If you ignore the graces, you fail to pay your rent. So I suggest you treat these gentlemen – and myself as well – with the respect we are due.”

Lady Richmond leaned forward. “But – as you are attempting – will they earn it?” she whispered.

“Such a rash youth!” laughed Father McCullity. “Expressly bid, he still cannot keep his word.”

“You were not listening,” said Nachaev, turning to him. “The lady has been begging for a fight since the moment we arrived. Obligation is all I serve.”

“And is that the extent of your challenge?” asked Lady Richmond. “Obligation?”

Nachaev shrugged. “You argue for effect. Stripped of spectators, we shall see…” He gestured and stood. “For now, please – exchange pleasantries. May I take a turn in your garden?”

“It would please me if you waited,” said Lady Richmond, her eyes fixed on him.

He smiled. “I doubt it. Don’t worry – I won’t trample anything.” So saying, he turned to go and there was a pause as his footsteps echoed through the room. Finally he opened the French doors and strolled out. An odd breeze ambled in through the open door, curious.

There was a brief silence. Colour flashed across Lady Richmond’s cheeks as she stared out the open doors. Father McCullity coughed.

“If offense was taken, I am to blame,” he said.

“Oh, pish,” exclaimed the woman. “A boy – offending me!” She smiled. “Let him walk if he chooses – it’s still my garden.”

The butler came in with a tray of coffee. A stiffly confused allocation of lumps and cream followed, and when they were all comfortably settled again, Ilyavich spoke.

“So – good lady!” he said haltingly “Who was it you met on your travels? Artists – no revolutionaries of course – bureaucrats, men of state, of the cloth – bishops? Perhaps – businessmen?”

“Yes, you’re right, yes, no, yes, no,” replied Lady Richmond.

“No businessmen?” said Ilyavich, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Surprising – there being such an outgrowth of business in Russia lately. I think we have a good chance of overtaking the revolution. Depends how much wealth we can generate, and if the rest of Europe stays at peace, which, with the trade barriers rising again, seems less than likely. Have you noticed that the first people to be controlled before a war are the businessmen? I can’t think of a single country with good business sense that has ever started a war.”

“Mmm, no,” murmured Lady Richmond. “I suppose not. Some do profit though.”

“Depends on how you define ‘profit’, doesn’t it?” said Ilyavich with a nervous laugh. “Distribution of wealth from taxpayers to arms profiteers is not profit, just organized theft. Don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know,” said Lady Richmond. “An ignorance of economics is an occupational hazard of leisure.”

Ilyavich glanced at Father McCullity, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. He sank back in his chair, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. I’m not built for this, he thought dismally. I need a product to be charming.

“Is milady tired?” asked Father McCullity. “Perhaps we should postpone…”

Lady Richmond shook herself delicately. “No, no. Mr. Nachaev was right – we must not ignore the pleasantries. Please excuse my absentmindedness. Some fresh air would make all the difference.” She rose, and instantly the two men were at her arm.

“Goodness!” she cried, walking forward, linking her arms to both. “Such peripheral gallantry!”

From an upstairs window, Sasha had seen Nachaev stroll outside alone. She had darted down to the servant’s door and called to him softly. He stood from his critical examination of the flowers and ran over.

“Where is she?” asked Sasha in Russian.

“Inside with the fossils,” replied Nachaev.

“Let me see you properly,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. She frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Why?”

“You look relaxed.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly – I’m surprised, that’s all. It’s good to see you again.”

He shook his head brusquely. “What’s all this talk for? Why didn’t you tell me about…”

“About what?”

“You know about what,” said Nachaev, waving his hand at thigh height.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. That.”

She shrugged. “What’s to say?”

Nachaev blinked in amazement. “What’s to say? Have you been with that many?”

“No!” cried Sasha. “What do you think I am?”

“To comment on him so nonchalantly… Is he – he must be…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nachaev shook his head slowly. “You – what?”

“You saw fit to discard me,” she replied. “What difference can a child make?”

“You – you think I’m that kind of monster?”

“I think you are Sergei Nachaev, who seduced me and left,” said Sasha evenly. “I don’t want your charity because of a child. I’m happy here.”

“What – with her? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“Not then, no,” conceded Nachaev, “but now, now I’m…”

“Oh, I know – now you’re a new man, suddenly aware of all his responsibilities, who’s very sorry and wants to make amends.” She shook her head. “It won’t work, Nachaev. Not twice.”

“You don’t know who I am now!” he said, grasping her shoulders. “The revolution is over. I am a new man.”

“How nice. I should like to meet who you’ll be tomorrow.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You of all people!” she snapped. “I was hoping you wouldn’t try to be honourable. It doesn’t suit you at all!”

“I was false before! Not now.”

“So now what are you? Going to make me an honest woman? You, lord of liars? Well you missed the train, Sergei. Go back to your aristocrats.”

“Why do you think I came into the garden?” demanded Nachaev. “I can’t stand her!”

“You don’t find her beautiful?”

“Oh, that!” he exclaimed. “She’s a vase, a painting. Still life.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Not to me.”

“Is she?”

“Are you jealous of her? She’s some – titled – thing! Do you still see the same old threat everywhere?”

“You made me see it,” exclaimed Sasha. “Mooning at everything in a dress!”

“Before! Not now!”

She shook her head and raised her hands, stepping back. “Come on, Sergei. Let’s kiss, pass the time of day and make believe we’re old friends.”

“We’re more than friends – we’re family. What’s his name?”

“He’s my family,” said Sasha. “You ran away.”

“Please,” he pleaded. “Please, Sasha!”

She stared at him, then sighed. “I hate you,” she murmured.

“No you don’t.”

“Charles.”

“Charles? What is Charles?” Nachaev’s eyes widened. “You named him Charles?”

“You weren’t the only one who wanted to escape, you know,” said Sasha.

“But – Charles?” spat Nachaev. “That’s not even a man’s name – is it?”

“A king or two had it,” she said.

Nachaev laughed incredulously. “A son named Charles, which we hope is a man’s name. She doesn’t mind?”

“Lady Richmond? No – I should hope not!”

“Why?”

Lady Richmond’s voice carried from the garden: “Where are you, Mr. Nachaev? Trampling my roses?”

He looked around. “We can’t talk now.”

“Called by someone else, you go,” said Sasha.

“Don’t make this hard.”

“You want to go, so go.”

“Try to understand.”

“I do understand, Nachaev. Go,” said Sasha, turning to leave.

“Sasha!” cried Nachaev.

“What?”

“Is – is he a – good boy?”

She smiled. “Oh yes. He stays,” she said, closing the door in his face. Staring at it, Nachaev felt his old rage beginning to break loose. A wave of loss convulsed him – my son is growing up, and he doesn’t even know me! He remembered the feel of the child’s hands, clutching his fingers, smiling happily, oddly at ease with strangers. With strangers… I must get her back! he thought. Somehow I will overcome her. Natalie’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, but he brushed it aside. Sasha came from poverty like me, he thought. We understand.

Setting his mind like narrow sails against the wind, he turned and approached the others.

“Have you been eating my flowers, Mr. Nachaev?” asked Lady Richmond merrily, holding up a leaf. “Or was that the caterpillars?”

“Coward,” he snarled. “Contemptible coward!”

There was a shocked silence, and his words hung like convicts, swinging in the air.

“Nachaev!” cried Ilyavich.

“It’s all right, my knights,” she said, tightening her arms. “The poor will always call rudeness revolution. You may wait inside, Mr. Nachaev, or you may leave.”

He stared at her, and Father McCullity and Ilyavich, arm in arm, an impenetrable wall of tradition. He felt alien, almost inhuman. With a savage scowl, he spun on his heels and walked into the house.

“Moody,” Father McCullity murmured to Lady Richmond. “And very undisciplined. Such a shame.”

“But we must be thankful for youth,” she said, “else how would we value maturity? Think no more of him than of clouds gathering on the horizon. Let us enjoy the day.”

Ilyavich glanced at the scudding clouds. They looked quite menacing. He wished himself far away, his satchel full of samples, riding off to test his wits. That would be leisure, he thought – this is nothing but work…

But he needed his connections, so he turned and trudged along behind the odd pair.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT: One Woman’s Generosity and the Entrance of an Aged Knight

“Sit down, Sasha,” said Lady Richmond, struggling to maintain her regal tone.

“Thank you, milady,” said Sasha, sitting down and smoothing her dress.

“Please – for now, Nora will do. Just for now.” She stretched her neck; her dress suddenly felt restrictive, and she almost envied Sasha’s plain and comfortable clothing.

“You had words with Mr. Nachaev,” she said.

“Yes – Nora.”

“Intimate ones?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew him before?”

“Yes – when we were young.”

“At what age did you part?”

“Some time ago. He went to the city; I stayed with my family.”

“Commendable,” said Lady Richmond automatically. “It could complicate things, however.”

“Not really, given the ages involved.”

Lady Richmond pursed her lips, considering. “No, perhaps not. And you have not seen him since?”

“He stayed with Mr. Herzen for some time before they fled,” said Sasha.

“You were in Herzen’s service?”

“Yes.”

“And you never mentioned it to him?”

“No, milady.”

“That’s good, or at least not irreparable. What did you speak of this afternoon?”

“We were just – catching up.”

“Did he express surprise about the child?”

“Of course.”

“It was very careless of you to let him run loose,” said Lady Richmond. “It must not happen again.”

“I’m sorry miss. I’ve moved him to the east wing. He can’t walk that far yet.”

“But in the future?”

“At some point I must own that he is my child,” said Sasha. “I can claim to be widowed.”

“Yes, I suppose that will do. You don’t think me too harsh, Sasha?” she asked suddenly.

The young woman’s face reddened. “You are doing what you have to.”

“Do you resent me for it? I wouldn’t have you resent me.”

“I am grateful for the position. I would have starved otherwise.”

“And you’re sure you won’t have any help with him?”

“I’m sure,” said Sasha firmly. “I’m very fond of him.”

“That’s good,” said Lady Richmond. “Once more, I will thank you.”

“Don’t,” she said, her lips set.

“Good. Then if there is nothing more…”

“No, milady,” said Sasha, rising. “Except…”

“Yes?”

“The name…”

“Will stand,” said Lady Richmond firmly.

“It’s not very Russian,” said Sasha, fighting herself.

“I’ve explained this many times, Sasha,” said Lady Richmond slowly. “In time, I will leave an annuity for you both – nothing extravagant, but enough to get by on. If he’s to be accepted in England, Vladimir Arkady just wouldn’t have done. If that’s not generous enough, you will just have to go elsewhere.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind,” said Sasha. “Please – please don’t think me ungrateful.”

“But we must not rock the boat, hm?”

“I understand. Now – may I be excused? It’s feeding time.”

Lady Richmond paused for a moment, pain sketching thin lines over her drawn features. “By all means,” she said, closing her eyes as Sasha left.

Lady Richmond’s first marriage had been childless; a marriage of convenience in which her elderly husband had fretted himself to an early grave over his supposed infertility. The diversion from father to husband had been achieved in a sentence, and she had accepted him, partly to please her parents, partly to appear more mature than she really was, and partly from the hope that from appearance would come truth. Nora herself had been an accident, born when her parents were in their late forties; she had grown up solemn and withdrawn, surrounded by quiet luncheons and still dinners. Children being natural mimics, Nora had learned to ape age long before understanding its penalties; her self-control and forlorn amusement were mere outgrowths of such meager soil. This had put her in a state of immobility, a dream from which the chance of awakening receded with every passing day.

Nachaev had seen all that (and more) in his first glance and, had he not been provoked by Sasha, he may well have unearthed a side of her that none would believe existed, the side that felt like a doll in an oversized house, fed and clothed by mannequins in the airless security of a glass case. After her husband’s death, she had engaged in several drab affairs (invariably with older men) that had tired her more than she believed possible. The death of her father some months before had cemented her cage; she found herself unable to converse with her temporal equals (as she designated them), finding their energy and merriment almost as absurd as their moodiness and depression. To live sensibly and die as constantly as she had lived was her only remaining goal. The thought of death, though, made her more and more uneasy as the years passed; it was a sore spot within her that she returned to again and again, as a tongue revisits the loss of a tooth. It was a fearful, dutiful reunion that left her increasingly paralyzed with terror, trapped in that awful time of life when one realizes that one’s mistakes will not somehow be corrected in the distant future, but that action must be taken now, today, at once – if one could only imagine what must be done. But sealing her panic were the bland ramparts of approval, covered with the slippery oil of flattery, cajoling her into complacency with the insistent murmur that the lever of her life was beyond her reach. Her response was to spend her days playing and her nights plotting her escape, a second-hand childhood that was strict mother to itself.

Lost in her reflections, Lady Richmond didn’t hear the tapping at the window. So absorbing were her thoughts that when it was repeated, her first reaction was irritation, until she remembered Nachaev. How interesting, she thought with a sudden rush of feeling. A tight dark suit, thin spider legs…

She rose and went to the French doors, shielding her eyes to see outside. An old man stood there, trembling, hat in hand. She glanced down, and covered her scant cleavage. More like a trough… She unbolted the doors.

“Come in then,” she said, stepping back.

The man entered, his breath coming in gasps.

“I don’t have long,” he panted. “I said I was going for a ride. She’ll expect me back within the hour.”

“Well, I’m flattered at the exertion, but I’m not sure of the necessity,” she said oddly. The man followed her into the room.

“I had to see you,” he gasped.

“You already have,” she commented, locking the door to the rest of the house.

“I mean really see you,” he grimaced, holding his chest. “Oh – I must – sit down. May I have some water?”

“There’s none here,” she replied, “and you know I cannot send for any. Sit down – you’re too old to be running around like a lost child.”

“Don’t speak to me of age,” said the man, sitting down and running his hands through his gray hair. “It feels too close tonight.”

“Well?”

“Well?” he repeated.

“What is it you have to say to me?”

“Must we be so formal?” he said. “You have returned, after all.”

“And why not?” she asked. “It’s pleasant here.”

He frowned, loosening his collar. “You’ve changed, Nora.”

“I’ve traveled. Is it wise, wearing the collar? It’s quite visible at night.”

“Wise, no,” said the priest. “But I know you like it.”

She refused to sit, but stood with her thighs pressed against the back of an armchair. Father McCullity tried to rise, then thought better of it and slumped back in his chair.

“I was afraid of this,” he said. “I fought myself not to come. But male vanity… I had to be assured.”

“Of what?”

“Of your deception. You were very convincing this afternoon.”

“And what were you convinced of?”

“Your ease with me – was it entirely unfeigned? Because you’re not at ease now,” said the priest, his eyelids twitching.

“I find things a little – awkward,” she confessed.

“Because I have flung myself at your feet,” sighed the priest. “Which is easy neither on my age nor my position.”

“Because I’m not sure what we have to say to each other.”

“I don’t have much time,” he fretted. “If there’s nothing for me here, please – tell me.”

A long pause followed. Lady Richmond sat and swished a foot back and forth, staring at it. “I’m not sure there is,” she said finally.

Father McCullity lowered his head, his brow running with sweat.

“I was – hoping – that wouldn’t be your answer,” he said.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Entire? Complete?” he asked, raising his eyes.

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“But last summer – was the best of my entire life.”

“Not enough to leave it.”

“You know that would have been impossible.”

“‘Impossible’ is a word men use instead of ‘difficult’,” commented Lady Richmond. “Besides, this is all talk. I never offered anything but the moment.”

“For you, a casual affair,” muttered Father McCullity. “For me, a mortal sin.”

“Guilt is your job. Not mine.”

“What I sacrificed for you – it means nothing? Peace of mind, my vows, happiness – nothing?”

“Of course it meant – something,” she sighed.

“An incentive, I suppose,” he scowled. “Another statue to topple. I thought hell would wait, but I’m there now, as we speak.” He raised his eyes. “Is there – nothing you can do for me?”

“I can’t grant absolution,” said Lady Richmond. “We enjoyed ourselves. Heaven in the flesh. That must do.”

“I’ve lived for you these past months. Your letters, so correct – I stayed up trying to read between the lines, but then I thought no, she’s too intelligent for that. But I thought… when you said you were returning… and then you had the house done so beautifully… it seemed…” He stopped, unable to raise his eyes. “I don’t know what it seemed…”

“And you, bringing that grubby little merchant along!” she snapped. “How did that seem to me?”

His eyes lit up. “Then you thought…”

“I thought nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s inconsequential.”

“He’s an old friend, a companion of Mr. Herzen’s. I didn’t think it would be so wrong to combine the two affairs, so to speak.”

“I shouldn’t judge him for your sake,” sighed Lady Richmond.

“He was recently robbed of his life’s savings. He’s really an excellent man. Very practical.”

“And if I advanced him a sum, would that be enough?”

“He’d be eternally grateful, and repay it triple – I promise you.”

“I didn’t mean him.”

Father McCullity sighed. “I know. I don’t want to press on your time, Nora. You are a competent woman, you know your own heart. I should be grateful for your refusal to lead me deeper into sin. And I am. But I’m not.”

“Well, at least your doubts have been resolved,” she said with a scant smile.

“You never know God until you know sin. That was my battle tonight. But as always, morality resides in women.”

“You should go,” she said softly.

He nodded, but remained sitting.

“There are so many things I want to say to you,” he murmured, his hands wandering. “But now, not having the right…”

“What is really troubling you, John? Is it just me?”

“No.” He looked up. “It is and it isn’t. If I were giving you advice… People love me then. Because they don’t have to know me.” He laughed. “It’s funny – give enough advice, and you don’t even know yourself. You spend so much time making others happy that you forget what it means. So you start making them comfortable. The question is: have you added any good to the world? Have I stopped the Mr. Plodsworth’s and the Sarah’s and the whole modern age? I wanted to be a priest for – let’s be honest – for power, for respect. But that’s nothing – it’s all other people. So last summer – and this is where you come in – I finally took something for myself, and it was the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted. And since then my life has been without comfort, without peace, because I know there’s a great hunger in me that cannot be satisfied, cannot be filled up with God or benevolence or good advice. Because what is in all that for me? But then I feel like a banker, giving only to receive. But there’s so little that’s returned. My comfort is waning, Nora. But it can’t be because of you, if that was even sin, because my hunger was awakened, not created.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I hate being a priest, Nora, and that is God’s honest truth. I loathe it!”

“But – what else do you want out of life?” asked Lady Richmond.

“To start again,” he said. “Ilyavich – he was robbed, but at least he had. What do I have? The keys to heaven.” He laughed, his voice trembling. “But if He wants from me there what He wants from me here, I think I’d rather not…”

“You’re doubting again,” she said. “It’s natural. Do you think there’s a soul alive who doesn’t doubt? And if it was sin, you must ask forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for pleasure!” he cried. “I love…d you!”

“Shh, John. Keep your voice down.”

“God made Sarah, He allowed our wedding, and He’s given me thirty years of misery!”

“Why blame Him?”

“But I can’t divorce… What would happen to me?”

“You’d be an outcast, rejected by society, stripped of your parish.”

“One idea,” said Father McCullity through gritted teeth. “One simple idea. But I never considered the implications. Damn it – why don’t we ever consider the implications?”

“How could we?”

“You think there’d be something – reason, originality – something!”

“But there isn’t. So like the rest of the world, we have to endure what we thought we wanted…”

“I have faith in what we had,” he said. “That was real.”

“You have lived your life for the unreal,” said Lady Richmond. “You have no right to damn the consequences.”

“Such a waste… Such an unutterably stupid waste.”

“Have you talked about this with anyone?” she asked.

“Of course – Bishop Cyme, the congregation, the newspapers – my wife,” he spat. “Everyone.”

“What about Robert?”

Father McCullity shrugged. “His religion is politics. It would be useless.”

Lady Richmond sighed. “But what are you going to do? I can’t help you.”

He looked at her for a long time, deep in her eyes, and she saw such depths of misery in him that she almost flinched. In his gray eyes lurked a deadly hopelessness, a resignation bitter in its knowledge, a scathing backward vision that was almost inhuman.

“I’m going to get back on my horse and ride home to my wife, that’s what I’m going to do,” he said slowly. “And on Sunday I’m going to preach about the evils of adultery. So I’ll be quite blameless.”

“Yes,” she said, averting her eyes.

He sat, irresolute, swaying between two empty hearths, casting his eyes about the room of clocks and preserved skins, his gaze finding no purchase. Then he stood, stuffed his hands into his pockets and shuffled out into the darkness.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE: A Temptation from the Last Corner of the Earth

Perhaps it was inevitable. The past we flee awaits us in the future, yellowing even our newest leaves. The yellow leaf that caught Nachaev’s eye the next morning was small, insignificant, something that could easily have been obscured by a stray teacup or a dab of spilled jam. He was passing through the verandah to take an early morning walk, his sense of injustice having hag-ridden him through the pale dawn. His eyes were wandering, trying to relieve their ache, when they lit on a small yellow square on the breakfast table, peering up from between a crumb-spattered plate and a marmalade jar. He moved the plate aside, and saw the previous morning’s “Times” underneath, open to the obituaries page. Prompted by either a grim sense of humour or a dismal sense of organization, the copysetter had printed a small article underneath the notices of death, an article that folded over Nachaev’s heart like a hand from the grave:

“Civil unrest reached new heights last night in St. Petersburg when a band of protesters fought with police, leaving one officer dead and three others wounded. A door-to-door search is being mounted for Evgeny Bukarov, the leader of the revolt, but the search is hampered by civil unrest and spontaneous demonstrations.

In a related item, the reward for the capture of Sergei Nachaev doubled again this morning to a thousand rubles. His disappearance is thought to be one reason behind the latest wave of protests; fears of his death have accelerated the radicalization of the students in St. Petersburg. Their demands now include…”

A bland British analysis followed, but Nachaev’s eyes had already torn themselves from the page and were racing around, landing on this teapot and that tree, skidding crazily, as if attempting to dodge the mood he felt swooping up from his dark and covetous soul. The paper dropped and his hand crashed down on the table, sending a plate spinning to the floor.

Robert paused at the door, a teacup almost raised to his freshly-shaven face.

“I say, old man,” he said carefully. “Save it for the best china.”

“I have to go back,” snarled Nachaev, then shook his head. “What am I saying? I can’t go back!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Robert, with the air of someone who’s seen an accident and is late for work.

“The matter is,” replied the young man, “that life has a revolting habit of demanding practice from theory.”

“Oh,” said Robert. “Is there – anything I can do?”

“Yes,” said Nachaev. “Sit down.”

He sat, hoping for the house to rouse.

“Here’s my problem,” said Nachaev, pacing the small length of the verandah, his eyes burning.

“I have this new set of beliefs that I arrived at accidentally,” he said, “to do with freedom and change and individualism. The revolution is right, the fight is right, but the reasons are all wrong. Destruction is not the answer, but neither is love, for love without understanding is also destruction. My former friends, Evgeny and the rest, have taken my disappearance as a call to action.” He stopped pacing and turned. “Russia is my heart, Robert,” he said. “I love it body and soul, and they’re going to destroy it. Or try to. Some of them will be killed, the rest imprisoned or banished. The Tsar will crack down – maybe there will never be another chance. I mustn’t go, but to stay is… Ach, I want liberty for Russia, a chance for everyone to live life for themselves – not for a bunch of vicious misfits to dictate their every move. If I stay here, that is what will happen – the worst scenario, anyway. If I go back, what chance do I have to change their minds? If I stay, can I live with myself? That’s my problem, Robert. Whether you can help is up to you.”

Robert frowned, pushing an empty teacup away. “This is not something I’ve had much experience in,” he said.

“Of course not,” said Nachaev. “You are comfortable.”

“Really?” snapped Robert. “You try falling in love with a Russian woman. And not being some rabid Russian man.”

“That’s me, isn’t it?” said Nachaev. “I can tell.”

“Do you want my advice or not?”

He sat. “Please.”

“All right,” said Robert, taking a deep breath. “You want to do two things. One is for yourself, the other is for your country. One is to stay here and build your own life, the other is to run to Russia and try to force your ideas down other people’s throats. But why is Russia more important than England? Or yourself?”

“Because it’s what I value!”

“You can’t value a country – that’s stupid,” said Robert, amazed that Nachaev was actually listening. “There may be ideas held by some Russians that you value, but that’s not the country itself. The country itself is land and air and people, of which this world has plenty of – even outside Russia. So you want to run around trying to save ideas you already have. Do you see the futility? It’s in you, if it’s anywhere.”

“Well argued,” said Nachaev. “You should be a priest. But like most priests, you have forgotten the central issue.”

“And what is that?”

“That ideas are not something to be discussed. They are recipes for action. Not for heaven, or socialism, but for now. If I refuse the call of the good, I deny myself the right to think. Thoughts that result in talk alone are the worst kind of masturbation.”

“Why is it, then,” demanded Robert, “that action always has to be for other people? Or are you such a perfect man that only others can be improved?”

“If ideas don’t change the world, what are they?”

“Personal. And that is the world, according to you.”

“Read this article,” said Nachaev, stabbing his finger at the paper. “It’s like my personal invitation to a bloody ball.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“Are you still a socialist?” asked Nachaev.

“I’m… in a state of pause.”

“Why?”

“Because both you and my father have been planting seeds in my mind that have left me very confused.”

“How are you going to resolve it?”

“By making a decision. In time.”

“Arbitrarily?”

“I don’t know,” said Robert doggedly.

“What is your criteria for making a decision? What? Feeling? Whim? A coin?”

“Reason, I should hope.”

“What would that mean?”

“Socialism is supposed to be rational. I am a rational man. You have pointed out inconsistencies in the theory. But I can’t replace my theory except with a better one. So – I am thinking.”

“And the result?”

“To ask for her hand.”

Nachaev blinked. “What?”

“You see, my thoughts have been more of the heart than the state.”

“Then you have decided. You are not a socialist.”

“Is that a given?”

“You are living for yourself, not for the world. Rational self-interest, not altruistic self-sacrifice. Don’t you see? That’s the point of why we’re here, Robert,” said Nachaev, standing and pacing again. “To put it all together. Not to live for the heart or the soul or the mind, but all as one. One rule for all. If you choose to love, you cannot choose to hate. If you choose yourself as the standard of value, you cannot choose others. And choosing yourself means choosing reason, individualism, not socialism and the ordering of others. No country, no God, no common good. Yourself alone, selfish and uncorrupted.” Nachaev sighed slowly. “Thank you. I feel better.”

“So – what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Russia.”

“But – you said – no country!” cried Robert, pounding his fist on the table. “How on earth could you still want to go?”

“Why?” said Nachaev. “Because I want to.”

“Tell me your reasons!”

“I value change, conflict, progress. I won’t stand idly by because I – have other things to consider.”

“You’re hopeless,” scowled Robert, rising. “All your talk is justification. You’ll do what you want no matter what you say. So please don’t bother me any more with requests for advice,” he said, turning and going inside.

Nachaev stood, feeling the bitter impression of Robert’s words. His will, striving for its ownership, painted visions of himself striding over the huddled masses, ordering, controlling. Healthy selfishness slid into the muck of self-obsession. Why desire except to achieve? he thought, deriding the term and thumping his hand on the table. Morality is a joy after all!

CHAPTER FIFTY: Two Vampires Taste Blood and Forsake It

“My advantage,” said Alex, squinting his eyes into the sun towards Natasha. She stood at the other end of the court, grim and impassive, holding her racket before her like a sword pulled from a recently-deceased foe.

“I know the score,” she said, scowling at him. “Serve.”

They had been playing the same point for almost an hour. At first it had been a joke, then a curiosity, then an irritation, then it had moved from metaphor to all out war in a twinkling. Alex was serving, but his arm had tired ages ago, and as often as not his second serve barely dribbled over the net. Natasha’s returns were equally feeble; in fact, the game had grown from sport to survival in no time at all, for both players had minds that piled insult onto every point. More importantly, they had the fearful determination not to lose but lacked the necessary spirit for winning. Alex felt dizzy with heat, but he knew a test when he saw one. All his distaste of life had coagulated into a hard lump in his heart, into one single sentence: damned if I will. Will… what? he thought once, but didn’t allow himself to follow the idea. For him, Natasha had grown from woman to women to life, and that was enough. The net was a trench, Natasha the implacable enemy always suspected, finally faced. Like Sisyphus, they rolled their balls to each other, dogged in their despair.

“Want a drink?” called Alex raggedly.

Natasha shook her head. “No drink. Serve.”

Alex sighed and heaved the ball into the air, dragging his racquet round. There was a pathetic “mok” and the ball arced lazily towards the net. It fell on the white, and Alex felt his stomach drop – it was his second serve. The ball hung for a moment, impossibly, then fell with a pitiful thwop onto Natasha’s side of the court. He expected her to lunge forward, but she stood there stupidly, staring at it, her hair hanging in her face. He saw her shoulders tense, knitting themselves together like a silent handclasp, her chest heaving. Suddenly he saw her in her too-large borrowed dress, her chubby knees shaking. Her hands dropped her racquet and it clattered to the clay. The ball rolled towards it and stopped. Alex felt his arm muscles jumping, and he began walking to the net.

“Enough for today, don’t you think?” he said, hoping she would move. But she stood there, her hands rising to her face. Her shoulders heaved.

“Hey – what is it?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

“Oh – shut up!” sobbed Natasha.

Alex forced his legs over the net. “You’re just tired – let’s go inside. It’s too hot.”

She took a short step backwards, away from him, but stepped on a loose lace and fell back on her rump, her lungs emptying in a whoosh. She took a shuddering breath, and a savage wail rose from deep within her, jerking her head back. Alex caught a glimpse of her eyes, tight with pain and streaming with tears.

“Natasha!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t look at me,” she growled, scrabbling backwards like a crab, averting her head. “Just stay away!”

“It’s only a game,” he said helplessly.

“Stupid!” she gasped. “Stupid man!”

Stung, he retorted: “Hate to lose to a man? Get up, for heaven’s sake!”

She did get up, springing to her feet and leaping at him, her hands distended into claws. He leapt back instinctively.

“My father…” she panted. “My father is dead and you’re talking about a game?”

“What?”

“You’re talking about a game?” she repeated, striding towards him. Senselessly, he held up his racquet.

“Go on – hit me,” she cried, wiping her hair away. “Hit me!”

“Are you crazy?” he asked. “I lost a mother, you know. What right does that give you?”

“Oh, you – Englishman!” she spat.

“That’s enough. I’m going inside,” he snapped, turning to go. He was almost out of the court when he heard the whisper.

“Please…”

He stopped, more in amazement at what the tone had cost her than the word itself. Turning, he saw Natasha on her knees, hugging herself.

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes lowered.

That bane of conflict, a direct appeal, arrowed into him. His anger evaporated, and he strode forward, catching her in his arms and pressing his face into her neck, her sweat, feeling her artery against his eyelid. Her body twisted in pain, her wracking sobs almost jarring him from his feet. He held her tenderly, knees trembling slightly, rocking her back and forth. Her hand twisted itself into his hair, wrenching painfully. The sun beat down on his head, and he turned and, carrying her, strode into the clubhouse.

Thankfully, no-one was there. He lowered her onto a rickety bench, then sat beside her, amazed at the passions jarring her frame. Natasha the walled fortress, he thought, murmuring softly into her ear. Natasha with a loose brick at last.

Their relationship had been growing in fitful starts, in directions impossible to predict. He had found her slightly susceptible to his charm, and had worked at the cracks like a stonemason, trying to split her taut resistance. At times he had asked himself why, of all the women he knew, why he should take such trouble. Certainly there was no shortage of women – even in the strict web of English society, there were flies enough to be caught, fleeing crazily from their mothers or seeking destruction at the hands of abandon. His conquests had been easy enough to breed contempt for the sex at large, and Alex had been fully prepared to live his life foraging the rubbish-heap of propriety – but there comes a time in most men’s lives when the only challenge left is the exception to the exception, and Natasha’s hatred of men had grown from the only thing they had in common to the only challenge he enjoyed. He had learned early that sympathy for her mission bred contempt for his, but his scorn for women bred a grudging respect. At first he had been amazed that a woman should so hate her sex, but soon he understood that she viewed the battle of the sexes from the position of a spectator, which is that all men are women, and all women stupid. She had grudgingly accepted him as a fellow watcher, and in their outpouring of universal mockery a certain prestige grew between them, like aloof vampires watching a food fight. It was an odd relationship – too inhuman to join, too human to part – and, like the friendships of early adolescence, what they valued most was the similarity of loneliness. Walks had ensued (since neither felt less lonely when together), country walks full of silence, walks with opposite lanes taken without comment, rejoined without recognition. By silent consent, they rarely spoke to each other while in the house. Robert had tried speaking to Alex about it, but Alex had felt that as he drew – closer? – to Natasha, the rest of the world had diminished, dissolved, and his wry distance soon ended any attempt at conversation. He could not say what drove him on; he simply knew that with Natasha there was an absence of all demand, a slow abandonment of contempt for indifference.

But this afternoon, with her sobbing – now gently – in his arms, he felt an easing pain, and only now began to realize what pressure he had put himself under to be with her. When a train ceases its huffing and begins to roll back downhill, its carriages quickly take the lead, and Alex felt his own eyes suddenly sting with tears. He breathed long and slow, knowing that to show his pain would rouse her contempt.

But even his rocking could not cover his emotion, and he felt her suddenly stiffen in his arms. He tightened his grip, but she moved away and sat up.

“What – what is it?” she asked, her voice thick and trembling.

“I… was moved,” he said with effort, straining to control himself. “Sorry.”

“Well, thank you,” said Natasha suddenly, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

“It’s all right.”

“Don’t you cry now,” she said.

“No, no. I’m fine,” he said, closing his eyes. “I was just thinking about my mother. When you – mentioned your father.”

“But she died a long time ago, didn’t she?” asked Natasha. “Surely you’re over that now. We’re different, but not that different. We have to eat, we have to mourn. Shameful but true.”

Her old tone had crept into her voice, and he wished he knew the words to stop it.

“Natasha,” he said falteringly. “Was that so bad?”

“What – my waterworks? A reflex.” She shrugged. “I was tired. And that was a very cheap shot you won with.”

“I didn’t win – it was only the first game.”

“I think I’ve had enough of tennis,” she said. “If it was tennis.”

“Do you feel better?”

She shook her head. “Different. I suppose that’s better. You mustn’t take it as some kind of sign, Alex.”

He swallowed. “I sometimes think that – who we are – is nothing more than a kind of fear.”

Natasha blinked “Fear? Of course it is. Fear of ending up like everyone else.”

“What I mean is – and I’m afraid I’m being serious for the first time – is that we see them, and we see us, and sometimes I wonder if that’s all there is.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been through all this before – even the crying part. Of course I want something else. Of course it’s fear. But there’s me and the world, and if they don’t fit, then to hell with both.”

“What about – to hell with the world? Just that?”

“I’m afraid you’ve grown on me, Mr. Alex, sad to say. I’ve even thought of marrying you – not that I think you’re proposing or anything. But then we’d have to buy our groceries and our clothing and perhaps even see a play or two. Everywhere there’d be people. People like my sister, people like Helena, people like your good old Father McCullity. We’d get trapped into conversations, accidentally get invited to dinner, have to reciprocate, and next thing you know, bam!, we’d be just like everyone else. That’s not so bad, perhaps, except I don’t like myself when I’m like everyone else. I’m too mean.”

“Because you hate them?”

“I just call it them. Alone, I have all the company I need.”

Alex shook his head slowly. “It’s not real.”

“What is then?”

“The last ten minutes.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That was real.”

He stood, running his fingers through his hair. “I’d like something new in my life,” he said. “I’ve tried everything else – all that’s left is what’s real. You have – what’s it called, this new women’s thing – suffragettism or whatever. It makes sense, I can see that. But what goes beyond the logic serves a deeper need. Maybe causes it, I don’t know. But it has no – integrity. You can’t live your life by it. There’s got to be something more.”

“Like what?” asked Natasha, standing. “Half-measures still measure up.”

“Not against…” He screwed up his eyes, trying to think. “You cried for your father. Why? Because you loved him.”

“Please don’t tell me that love is the answer,” said Natasha, massaging her arm. “Don’t strain my already-scant respect.”

“No – let me finish,” persisted Alex. “You can’t love everyone like your father, because not everyone is so – what? Noble? Kind? But you can’t wake up every morning saying ‘I must be noble and kind’ – you’d drive yourself mad. Come on – help me why don’t you! Why did you love your father?”

“Because he was a good man,” said Natasha.

“Right, all right, fine,” said Alex. “But you still can’t wake up and say – I must be a good man. Or woman. What is it that made him good?”

“You said it already,” murmured Natasha.

“What? Kind?”

“No – integrity.”

“But integrity to what?”

“To his beliefs. To his family. He loved knowledge and generosity and progress. He didn’t say ‘I will today but not tomorrow’. He did it everyday. But you see,” said Natasha, smiling crookedly, “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m talking to you. The oppressor.”

“But that’s stupid – I never understood that. Please explain it. Men were slaves too, weren’t they?”

“You’re never supposed to ask that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have nothing else to live your life by,” said Natasha. “You believe in God?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“So?”

“So,” said Alex, “we don’t have the answers given to us – which is just as well, given the state of the world. And socialism – Christ, I’m no socialist. I play tennis! So?”

“So I say to hell with it all – you can have integrity there!”

“Unless your father dies.”

Natasha flinched.

“Sorry,” said Alex.

“It’s all right. I’d be more frightened if I didn’t care.”

“Let’s get married,” said Alex suddenly. “Will you marry me?”

“You? You’re all sweaty,” said Natasha, turning her head.

“I mean it,” said Alex, his eyes dark.

“Why? Tell me why,” she said softly.

“Integrity,” he replied.

She understood then, in a sudden flash like the roof of a cave bursting open in summer. And, like any cave animal, her first impulse was natural.

“We’ll be like everyone else,” she said, backing away.

“Was your father?”

She shook her head. “No-one I know is happy.”

“Has that made you happy?”

“Married couples hate each other.”

“Only if they’re like everyone else.”

“What if you don’t love me?”

“What if?”

“What if I don’t love you?”

“You – but that’s your choice.”

She stood, her back pressed against a locker, the flaking paint like camouflage behind her lank hair. He could see it in her eyes: the resistance, the strangled choice, the hatreds – and deep beneath, the forlorn acrobatic hope that peeked through the cracks. She held his gaze steadily, unafraid of exposure.

“Then…?” he said, marveling at his calm.

The hope wormed, wriggled, clawed at its confinement – then suddenly tore free in a silent roar. Alex watched in shock, tears springing to his eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered, turning away, hardly able to bear the sound of her voice.

He leaned forward.

“Then let’s go get your racquet,” he murmured discreetly, amazed at his bursting shred of happiness. “You forgot it outside, didn’t you?”

Of all our terrors, redemption can be the worst. Nachaev’s head pounded with that as he lashed his horses’ rein to a lonely tree stump. A child of mine, he thought once more, hoping that through repetition the idea would somehow take root. Heedless, it skidded off his mind. Some things are too monstrous, too ill-defined; they stagger into our comfortably furnished rooms like stilted beggars looking for chairs we do not have. A child of mine. Nachaev pulled up his trousers, trying to remember the boy’s face. Russia, my Russia – or a child. The choice grew in proportions, blurring his mind’s eye. Responsibility or desire. Duty or whim. Logically, the choice seems clear – but she is provided for. But then…

“Sergei.”

The voice came from behind; poised, pregnant. Turning, he saw Sasha standing beside the house. She dresses so simply, this mother, he thought, her hair is tied back, one could never imagine it as it once was, spread over an old pillow with the rain against the window.

“Hello, Sasha.”

“I’m glad you came,” said Sasha. She walked forward and sat on the tree stump, her hand reaching up to pat his horse’s flank. The beast snorted, craning its head, mist rising from its nostrils. Nachaev stood, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets.

“So,” he said finally. “We have this – thing.”

“Yes, we do,” she said, looking round at him.

“This thing,” he repeated helplessly.

“Where did you get the horse?” asked Sasha.

“I – borrowed it. I only learned to ride a few months ago.” He laughed. “A few months!”

“Do you enjoy riding?”

“They still make me nervous, but I’m gaining headway. I think the trick is to understand that they’re just supposed to get you from A to B. Anything else is just imagination.”

“What else?”

“Just – thinking that they’re going to bolt off a cliff or flip over or something. They generally don’t. They’re quite responsible animals. And not hard to get along with, once you understand what they do.” He smiled. “I suppose there are two ways to look at a horse – as magnificent creatures with minds of their own, or as beasts of burden that do what they’re told. If I were a horse, I’d think I was magnificent, but since I’m not, I think they’re beasts. It’s not better, but it does make them easier to ride.”

“My father was a farmer,” said Sasha, looking at the animal. “You could tell from the way he saw the horses – you know, how much can this one pull, how sturdy are its legs? All I saw was that some horses were beautiful, and some were ugly. I always wanted the ones that would never fit in front of a plough. My father said: Sasha, you’ll never have a horse just to ride, so you’ll have to be satisfied with a strong one.” She smiled. “It was a very sad day for me.”

A bird twittered in a silent tree. Nachaev took his hands out of his pockets and regarded them.

“Sasha,” he said simply, “I don’t know what to do.”

She was silent.

“I want to do the right thing,” he continued. “For you, for me and the child. I don’t know what to do but speak my mind. What I love, whether I love – I don’t know. What I want to do with my life, it’s not clear. What will make me happy, what will make you happy, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

He looked down and saw her eyes closed, her brow knitted. His heart suddenly lurched in his chest with a violence that shocked him.

“And I will never know,” he said, the words spilling out, “not by thinking about it. I never knew how much I loved Russia until I came to England. I have been in love with another woman, Sasha, or thought I was, because she was the daughter of a man I admired. But there are things that aren’t so easy – I don’t know what they are, I’m afraid to talk about them, but I feel them in my heart, and they are more real than anything I have read, anything I have said. And when I look at you I know you feel them too, but somehow they don’t terrify you as they terrify me.” He grimaced. “And always in my life I’ve felt that my next thought would be my last one, that there would be an end. But there’s never an end, it’s like jumping rocks to a shore that doesn’t exist and each time the rocks get further and further under the water. I’m drowning there, Sasha: I’m drowning in talk and thought. But what I feel now is the only truth. And what I feel is that I have lived too long in this world I have made, in this world that has been made for me, and I hate it, Sasha. I hate that it’s not what I want it to be. I hate that no-one understands how it could be. And I don’t want any more of it. I don’t want anything except you and our child. A cottage in the woods, fire in the grate and mud on the walls, sitting on the floor and being satisfied with the world. Because it cannot be changed. I can’t live with it. Let’s find a way out, Sasha. Together.”

Nachaev stood, his arms rigid by his side. Sasha looked up, her face a trembling mirror, her lake seething from the rocks it had swallowed. “How long will this last?” she asked.

“I have tried all I know. This is the end.”

“I have a child. Is this the truth?”

“The only truth I know,” said Nachaev. “The only truth I have. I wooed the world when I wanted you. I’m sorry.”

“Is it me you want?”

“Don’t ask me these things!” cried Nachaev. “Not when I’m so certain! Of course it is!”

“It has nothing to do with Charles – that he is your child?”

He strode forward, lifting her off the stump and pressing her form to his chest. He felt an awful gulf between them, a savage stiffness in her muscles, then she relaxed – he felt the effort of will in her – and she softened in his arms. He held her for a time, stroking her hair, his fingertips suddenly alive.

“There’s nothing else to do,” she whispered.

“It will be all right, Sasha,” he said. “I’ll get a job – I don’t care what – and we’ll live apart from it all. Together, contented. Alone.”

“Yes, Sergei.”

“You’ll be happy. I can make you happy.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Will you marry me, Sasha?” he asked, holding her at arms length.

Her eyes wavered, rose, fell, then fixed on his eyes. Something fled into their gray depths.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE: Dank Confessions Before a Dry Altar

“John?” asked Sarah, hours after the lamp had been extinguished. Her husband sat hunched up against the headboard of their bed, his knees raised, his head propped on his hands. Her eyes, bright with dreaming, slowly adjusted to his staring eyes, his gray hair drooping from under his nightcap. His face was heavy with the stillness of the hour, the hour in which Christ was born, the time when old crimes rise unbidden and one’s soul cries for the distractions of dawn.

“What’s the matter,” she asked.

“Can’t sleep,” he murmured, his eyes unmoving. “Can’t sleep.”

“Do you want anything? Warm milk?”

“No.”

Sarah shrugged, unwilling to sacrifice her sleep for someone so incommunicative. “Goodnight then,” she said, turning to face the wall. Soon her breathing shifted to an dreamier climate.

Father McCullity felt a heavy loneliness descend on him, draping his senses in thick gauze. A year, he thought. For a year he had acted despite his shame, thinking that his pious wrappings could cover the oil of one major sin. But the guilt had festered, buried beneath deeper and weaker shrouds. Lines which had blurred with age and habit had suddenly sharpened, commandments spoken became swords received, stabbing at the heart of his carefully-reasoned existence. And worst of all, his life with Sarah, the vows which bound them, had by their breach been exposed as lies. To love, honour and obey. She never obeys, I am dishonourable and we don’t love each other; the thoughts ran in maddening circles around his brain like dogs on the scent on their own severed tails, cutting holes in his comfort, spilling remorse like falling coins. And above it all, the image of his Master, no longer a friend but a distant judge, a thundering slammer of dusty books, stern, remorseless, closed to appeal. The grim God of the helpless sinner, the court beyond the reach of feeling, turned His back in disgust, and Father McCullity felt true fear for the first time in years – because in his soul he could not ask for forgiveness. In his soul he was shallow, proud. He still loved Lady Richmond and, like a man returning to the house of his abused youth, he walked through wounds eerie in their nearness.

His terror grew bright and powerful in the darkness. He threw the covers aside and stood up dizzily, almost fearing to strike his head on the ceiling. He had to talk – but to whom? He cast a gaze at Sarah’s sleeping form. Bishop Cyme was his superior; Father McCullity had not seen him for over a year, yet his savage need for comfort summoned the Bishop’s face now, and he began dressing quickly.

Bishop Cyme lived alone in a tightly-made high-walled house about ten miles north of the village. He had lived alone all his life, as ascetic in his demands of himself as he was in his rejection of others. He was a true scholar, a man whose mind saw the rigidities of assumptions as axioms to be fortified, and he spent his days in libraries sifting old books for confirmation, muttering over the few passages that met his fastidious standards. When he preached, he spun beautifully arid webs that proved to his scant congregations that truth was indeed a wonderful thing, but so outside their power to understand that sat like hungry dogs at the feet of a man reciting Shakespeare. Bishop Cyme called this “stalwart virtue”, and his acolytes were distinguished by their dogged addiction to inaction, certain that in the face of an incomprehensible and absolute truth, the best one could do was as little as possible.

He had risen to his present rank through a savage determination to never be out-argued. When others eyes were drooping, he was still going strong; in the pale dawn of theological debate his sole virtue was endurance. Those who accused him of error soon found themselves cornered in their studies and barraged by endless facts, yellowed opinions and quotes from unknown men, their heads pressed against the leather of their chairs, their protestations evoking more streams of endless proof until, shaken and desperate for sleep, they won release by conceding to think things over. Bishop Cyme’s detractors soon found more profitable labours, leaving him lovingly picturing their silence as confirmation of his prowess.

He had never married, preferring to argue with those unable to oppose being understood out of context. He was in his late sixties, a man who had aged early and stayed there. He was nearly bald, and his face had grown sharp almost to the point of shrewishness, his eyes darting endlessly in their quest for conflict. Sadly, as his debates grew more and more infrequent, his desire for knowledge became somewhat unfocused, leaving him like an overstretched emperor with thinning troops, dabbling in arcane fields far beyond his calling. His studies turned towards paganism, mysticism, Platonism, all those wondrous realms where truth has devolved from argument to art – and soon there grew within him the nagging doubt common to all mappers of invisible continents – that, as he penetrated further into the realm of metaphors-made-real, he began to doubt the existence of what the metaphors described. Christ died on a cross – was not his blood a cave-shadow, an illusion? Was not the cross, or the hill? Could his eyes trust the words he read in the Scriptures? Were they not also shadows? Bishop Cyme’s unholy desire for consistency could not help extending his mind to the lands of ghosts, where thought itself becomes deception and reason is rejected as unfit baggage for those wading the cold rivers of invented reflection. Doubting reflection, doubting sight, he began doubting what it was that saw; the distorted mirror became internal, and all perspective was lost.

Sleep became progressively confused with waking, and so lost all its power to restore; Bishop Cyme slept now only regretfully, as an experiment forced by the sad limitations of earthly matter. The less he slept, the more vivid his dreams became, and began appearing in his waking life with the uneasy air of hasty travelers boarding an unknown train; a development he observed with a bland amusement, regarding his visions as yet more proof that all that was real was imagined.

Still, when his housekeeper entered his study in the pre-dawn hours to announce a visitor, Bishop Cyme allowed himself the naïveté to believe it had really happened, and asked him to be shown in. He sat behind his desk, his mind ranging back to the last discussion he and Father McCullity had had over a year ago and, with the timelessness of the abstract addict, imagined that the younger priest had returned for another round. He grinned sharply, arranging his pens and papers neatly on his desk.

“Good to see you, Father,” he said loudly, rising to shake Father McCullity’s hand, surprised at its coldness.

“Good morning, Bishop,” said the priest, bowing his head. “I hope I have not disturbed you.”

“No no,” said the old man merrily, waving his hand. “Come and sit down. Night has no cloak for the hounds of truth; we always face the sun.” Father McCullity made no reply, but sank heavily into a chair. The Bishop sat back and spread his hands behind his head. “I know this,” he said, “because even though I approach the darkest night, the sun of insomnia still glares. Have you ever had trouble sleeping, Father? No, of course not – you sleep well knowing you will never die in doubt.” Bishop Cyme sighed. “Not for me, alas! Too many books, too many ideas… The mind is a curse, you know. It is not built for faith. But for deception, we’d be lost in perception. But we spoke of this before. Have you thought of it since? No – you are here in the wee hours, when questions never assail such minds as yours. Well? Speak, my man. My time is valuable. What is it?”

Father McCullity raised his eyes, his jaw working mechanically. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered.

Bishop Cyme’s eyes gleamed. “Sinned! Ah yes. Oh dear. So commonplace. Well?”

“I have – slept with a woman outside marriage.”

The Bishop’s eyes bit down on themselves, curiosity glaring from between the cracks. “Well!” he exclaimed, cradling his bony knee. “A crime of the flesh! Most dire! How did this come about? Come on, old man – you can tell me. Can’t pardon the unknown, can I? If I can, that is. Pardon, that is.” He beamed. “Tell!”

Father McCullity passed a hand in front of his eyes. “I can’t divulge her name.”

“Pff!” snorted Bishop Cyme. “Names, labels… The sin is the circumstances and the intention. Tell me of the circumstances, then I’ll ask of the intention. But you’d better be very, very clear. I am an unmarried man, you know. Thankfully. Never agreed with these new ideas.” (For Bishop Cyme, it should be noted, “new” meant anything that contradicted St. Augustine.)

“I know,” said the priest, hesitating.

“Well – go on then,” said Bishop Cyme, wetting his lips.

Father McCullity sighed. “I met her a year ago…”

“What?” snapped Bishop Cyme. “A year did you say? A year? Heavens, the unenlightened horde. You have kept this from me for a year?”

“I was weak.”

“Peril of the flesh, yes. Go on.”

“My wife was – ill at the time, and I was feeling my age…”

“No excuses!”

“These are the circumstances,” said Father McCullity heavily. “This woman came to stay near me, and I paid her a courtesy call.”

“Ah yes – a member of our secular betters?”

“I cannot say. We enjoyed each other; she told me of her life, I told her of mine. I spent more and more time with her. She was… she made me forget my age.”

“And your vows too, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Father McCullity slowly. “All of them.”

“Tsk: sensuality, the oldest lie. And then?”

“Then one day I poured my heart out to her, told her things I had never told anyone, even my wife. I professed… my love for her. I think I did. I was just – speaking of myself, of what I wanted from life.”

“And where was God at this time?” demanded the Bishop. “Where were the Divine Mysteries? Where was the Holy Ghost? The Virgin Mary? Where was Christ?”

“Absent,” the priest faltered. “I know. I chose – falsely.”

“But of course. And to what extent did this – interaction stretch?”

“Carnally, Bishop Cyme.”

“Excuse me?”

“I knew her carnally.”

“How?”

“Excuse me?”

“How did this come about?” he cried, rapping his desk with his knuckles. “How?”

“I talked the whole night. I was – very emotional. I rejected everything but what I wanted. She smiled at the end of it and nodded her head. That was all.”

“And was it worth it?”

Father McCullity paused, looking away. “No.”

“But you must have thought so at the time, eh? Tell me: was it worth it at the time?”

“It seemed so, yes.”

“Completely?”

“Completely.”

“Then you are a lucky man,” said Bishop Cyme with a twisted smile.

Father McCullity blinked. “What? Why?”

“Good God, man! Because you have been tested, that’s why!” The old man smacked his palm on the desk and sucked his fingers. “Because God has seen it fit to allow you to be tested! You have no idea how hard it is to go through life without being tested. Look at me – I’m in an unholy state because nothing has tested me, ever! I am as free from sin as I am from certainty! You have a chance to overcome doubt – what a blessing!” He frowned. “But you must overcome it, of course. Do you repudiate your desire?”

Father McCullity shook his head. “That is my sin, Father. I saw her again this afternoon and blasphemed horribly. And so,” he said, raising his hands, “I have come to do the only honourable thing left to me. I have come to resign my shame. I cannot continue as a priest.”

“Don’t touch that collar, young man!” cried the Bishop, sitting up hurriedly. He drummed his fingertips together and frowned, his queruelousness dissolving into something far graver, far more serious. “This is serious, John,” he said finally. “And I can see it stems from an erroneous assumption.”

The old priest sighed. “What?”

The Bishop laughed. “John, John – it is not just your own soul that is at stake. There are other issues!”

“Like what?”

“What are we?” asked the old man. “We are priests. Guardians of the unseen. We lead the ignorant masses to truth. But due to their ignorance, we cannot always lead them with integrity. And why should we? They don’t even know what it means! Tell me: does it matter one whit to your congregation what happened last year? Do they still fill your church?”

“Somewhat.”

Bishop Cyme smiled and extended his hands, palms upward. “Then you are doing your job. If you are an adulterer and do not repent, perhaps I could strip you of your office – and perhaps that would be following a certain letter. But we are not men of letters, John: we are men of spirit. Think what would happen to your congregation. A man they had placed their trust in would be proven false, worthless. Despair, John – I’m talking about despair. From experience. And not just your congregation – think of the newspapers! Think of the pleasure the materialists, the atheists and the sensualists would get if they got their grubby little hands on you! They’d expose us all, sinner and thinker alike!” He paused for a moment, frowning. “People are turning away from God, John. This is not supposed to go out to the rank and file – but we are fighting for our lives. The salvation of England is at stake! Would God be pleased if you struck despair into the heart of his flock?”

“But – I have sinned!”

“Exactly! And to avoid further sin, you must take up your duties – with or without remorse – and present a brave front to your flock.”

“But if I still believe, I damn myself.”

“What do they know of belief?” snorted Bishop Cyme. “They live like apes in caves – eating and drinking and rutting. Of the higher mysteries, the eternal sublime – they know nothing! They are as ignorant as flies! But we must be patient with them, mustn’t we? We must show them that above their squalor lies a greater ideal. We cannot convince them of it, we know; we are beyond their language. But they must obey us, for whatever reason. Fear of hell, fear of the God of pain – that’s all they understand. Can’t convince them in this life? Hell! – threaten them with the next one! If they were reasonable, of course, we wouldn’t have to. But they‘re animals, they’re corrupt, they’re false, they’re Adam and Eve and Satan, each and every last one of them! Any excuse to escape us – a false priest being the best. If he can’t do it, they’ll say, how can I? And so they go on destroying themselves for the sake of rank pleasure. Do you want to be responsible for that? Do you want to be responsible for that kind of corruption?”

“No,” said Father McCullity. He sank further into his chair, staring at his hands. “But if we abandon our integrity…” he said emptily.

“Purpose, John,” said Bishop Cyme, jabbing a finger at him. “Purpose. Oh, I’m not talking about now. In a thousand years, or ten thousand, perhaps every man shall be his own priest, and the rule of God shall be complete. Then the Church shall wither away – and good riddance perhaps. But until then we must live with the times, we must bully them into being good. For their own sake. You don’t doubt God, do you?”

“No,” whispered the priest.

“Then what is right is unavoidable. Logically. For their own good, John. Real truth is beyond them: appearance is the only road that serves.”

“But – what will happen to me?”

Bishop Cyme waved his hands. “You have devoted all but a year of your life to God. Even if you sin for all of your remaining days, you are on the whole a good priest. As long as you hang onto your congregation. Hang onto them, John.”

“But the Bible says…”

“The Bible is a noble document,” snapped the Bishop. “None need doubt it. But we are the vanguard, John. We are in the trenches. We have taken the souls of the many upon ourselves. We must be prepared to sacrifice even our own souls if we can save others. You are too concerned with yourself, John. Have you spared a thought to others? Have you thought of the consequences? Or have you been concerned only with your own difficulties?”

“You are asking me to live a lie,” cried Father McCullity, rousing himself to futile resistance.

“Ends, John. Means and ends. Don’t you see that resigning in disgrace will cause despair in your flock?”

“Yes – it could.”

“It will. No question. They’ll turn away. Not to mention the rest when the word gets out. A strong front, John. That’s all they understand. They won’t see the integrity of what you’re doing. Just your failure – and from that failure, they’ll make their own. That is a far greater sin than one sordid little affair. Not that I’m forgiving you for that, of course: you must never do it again.”

“I can’t. That’s why I won’t. She – won’t have me.”

“Then you must accept that, just as you were exposed to temptation, so you are rescued from it. God moves her to reject you. He is merciful – do not doubt it. He knows how much we can take.”

“But I still want her!”

“Yes,” mused Bishop Cyme. “That is a failure. Something to think about… But still – the greater failure is exposing it. Others, John – think of others. Live your life, atone if you can – but do not for a moment forget others. The greatest love you can show your congregation is to continue to lead them to God. To us. That is your sacred charge, your duty. It towers above all else. You must be prepared to sacrifice all you love for others. God is just. He will recognize the sacrifice, and you will be rewarded. But you cannot put down your torch, John. It is our only beacon for benighted man.”

Bishop Cyme paused. Duty, sacrifice, others; they all sank into Father McCullity’s single hide like drops of acid, corroding his resistance. His head lowered, as if seeking water.

“I can see,” he murmured, “I can see – what you’re saying. It makes sense – but some part of me doesn’t know. I have done wrong. I am wrong. I am going to live a lie…”

“For the sake of truth, John,” urged the Bishop. “Don’t be afraid of contradictions – rise above them! Focus on your purpose! The purpose you have chosen!”

“I will…” said the priest slowly. “But for the sake of that feeling…” He raised his eyes. “I believe in God. I believe in love for my fellow man. But I was happy then. I felt alive. I have pledged my life to others: I owe them my whole self. If I could find the pleasure in that that I felt with her, I wouldn’t doubt. But God help me, I can’t. I can’t!” A single tear rolled down his cheek, dropping into his dark robe. “And so I doubt. And I will forever doubt.”

“But don’t you see?” murmured Bishop Cyme. “Doubt is acceptable. Perhaps even mandatory. As long as we obey.”

Father McCullity’s head rose, resisting gravity, resisting height, his eyes straining upwards. He gazed at Bishop Cyme’s face, at his shiny head and liver spots. And for an eternal moment, he saw the Bishop’s eyes echo with that one word, the last word, the word of an organized world, and felt himself slowly sink into place, as if in a dream, beyond the need for self, beyond the demands of desire, beyond everything but the sweet relief of ordained habit.

“I will,” he said softly, and the angels fled.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO: Gregory’s First Act of Courage

He awoke and thought: I am near to greatness. It was a thought unformed, unfocused, and totally denied by his senses, which revealed nothing to him but a grimy third-class railway compartment, yet it was as certain in his breast as a lover’s cry. The sounds of a great machine arose from outside the window, a machine oiled and pumped by human sweat, a dark landscape of smoke and spires, a jumble of smells and sounds whirling in a mad jig of horses and whips, pedestrians and animals, a land of bricks and statues, opera and penny-organs, a single canvas splashed with the image of man, a towering edifice leaping at the sky, a star-burst of shining possibilities, a madhouse, a frenzied ball, a heavenly smile in the snarl of history…

In short, London.

Gregory felt a thrumming in his ears as he grabbed his little bag. He had ten shillings tuppence, the clothes he wore, a pencil, a notepad, a cap someone had left on the train – and a mission. He felt young beyond years.

He stepped from the train with the harried throng, shuffling among the gray coats like a card lost in a huckster’s hand, gazing at the huge expanse of Victoria Station. He went where the crowd led him, aimless, absorbing, through the gates and out into the street.

After the passengers dispersed, it was surprisingly quiet. The evening hung suspended between the sensible hours of the industrious and the practical hours of the idle. The hurrying and the eager of both parties wound their way through the street, passing comments with the lamplighters and lamenting the hour on either side.

But the buildings! Gregory’s nose trembled skyward. Accustomed to nature to the point of indifference, he felt the magnificent power of the structures looming high in the darkness, motion manifested in depth. How unlike the Russian churches, with their bulbous bodies and onion heads! The structures here seemed built on the graves of gods, scorning the sky in their enormity. He was reaching for his pencil to write of what he felt, but someone shoved against him all of a sudden, and his thoughts scattered in indignation.

“Can’t you watch where you’re going?” he snapped at the figure, who turned and raised his head to him.

“Oi!” shouted Gregory. He was sent flying backwards as the figure shoved him and bounded down the stairs.

“Stop that man!” he shouted, effectively dispersing the few people lounging on the steps. He struggled to his feet, his heart pounding, and watched in helpless rage as the man dodged between two buildings and disappeared from view.

Dead end, thought Mr. Plodsworth, facing the brick wall. He cursed silently and turned around. Creeping to the corner of the building, he peered out from the darkness, spying Gregory on the steps of the train station, lost in thought.

There is a little time before Mr. Plodsworth decides what to do; time enough for just a little of his history.

First of all, his name was Ralph, and that was an accident. When he was born, his mother almost died, and his father was not too happy that Ralph did not. When he was forced to give the child’s name to the clerk, he vomited, and the clerk, blinking in the acrid fumes generated thereby, simply wrote the closest word that came to mind.

Ralph’s mother survived the birth (a fact for which she did not always give thanks), and life within the Plodsworth household quickly returned to normal, which meant a state of chronic dread and stoic uncertainty. Ralph’s father was a crippled dreamer, a bitter brew of ambition and sloth, drawn to gambling tables, all-night card parties and investments in quasi-legal activity. Like most with a taste for effect before cause, he viewed honest labour as an opiate reserved for the unimaginative. He tried smuggling, but being too lazy to get up at the wee hours (and having a pathological dread of water), he turned to gambling, reasoning that random theft is better than none at all. In this endeavour he had the luck of the devil and the sense of a beast; like a man who loved riding but not horses, he usually drove his good fortune until it expired, leaving him lucky to get home with the shirt still on his back. Finally, he found his salvation in drink; one evening he won a good deal of money at dice and passed out before he had a chance to lose it again. This was a turning point, and from then on he made it a standing policy to drink savagely while gambling. From the age of seven, Ralph had been charged by his mother with protecting his father, and the boy would silently pick up the scattered money and go home, only to face the wrath of his father the next day for “taking from him his only chance to win proper”. He escaped fatal beatings only because the blows made his father dizzy.

Ralph’s father avoided work with such feverish energy that he made idleness look exhausting; he was a shirkaholic. This odd combination of energy and dissipation had a slow but sure effect on Ralph. At first he despised his father and yet, through slow and constant repetition, his twisted ethic of hope wormed its way into his heart. “It’s hopeless, lad,” the man would mutter, stalking and smoking as the rest of the family silently ate, “The world is too small for us. A man with brains h’aint got a chance ‘cept his wits, an’ his wits say to work for a penny a day leaves you in th’groun’ without even a coffin.” The fulcrum between poverty and happiness is hope – weigh one end with work and you are saved; weigh the other with resentment and you are damned. The turbulent dreams of his father poisoned Ralph’s mind and so, one night when his father fell and never got up, Ralph took up his winnings and simply carried on. Invisible worlds as real as any painting quickly infested his eyes and, with the panic of any man who defies labour and sustenance he plunged into the netherworld of frustration and defiance, alternately cursing and riding the bitch-hag of luck.

Succumbing to the fantasy that desire alone will breed change, Ralph’s sweetheart, Rebecca, became his wife before too long. Ralph stuck with the straight and narrow as long as he could and then, secure with children and free from want, began disappearing at night once more. Rebecca fought hard and dumbly, then gave up in a whoosh and accepted her post as the Minister of Doom and Gloom from the kingdom of Woe Is Me.

The day that Natalie had wandered upon him at the fair, Ralph was tottering on his last legs, his senses peeled for a final solution. Her casualness with money and the bulge under her dress swept the last echoes of restraint from him, and he staked his whole soul on one last throw. When he had lifted Ilyavich’s fat packet from her still form, a drunken joy had filled his heart; he saw the size of her purse as the sanction of some pagan god. He stole from the village without a thought to his wife, making for London with all the dismal pride of sneaking self-triumph.

Yet his happiness proved short-lived. The precariousness of sudden wealth left him increasingly unhinged. His mind, long used to worshipping hidden laws, began inventing them. What if they trace the money? he thought – and so spent even more frugally than normal. They’ll know I’m a thief by my accent, he thought, and so had spoken barely ten words since coming to London. A week after arriving, he was suddenly attacked by dizzying waves of sentiment, and began to feverishly plan (in the long term, of course) for a reunion with his wife, imagining that he could abate hatred through luxury. The fact that he had been right, that he had managed it, was a gift that needed to be appreciated, and his wife was the only one who could. But how to get to her? He had walked to London (a thought that made him shiver now); to return on foot and risk being robbed in turn was out of the question. He began loitering around Victoria Station, hoping he could find out how safe the trains were without asking. He slept little, terrified of theft – what if he fell asleep on the train and some other passenger..? – but better not to think of that! Such is the terror of dreams made real. He had made his throne in an outcast country; he could not leave it now without leaving his crown.

He had spent the day lurking in and around the train station before running into Gregory. He had no idea who the boy was, all he knew was that he had somehow been recognized. The terror of being found out was intolerable, yet the deprivations of his holiday were telling on him – even now, crouching in the alley, he felt more alive than he had in days.

Mr. Plodsworth’s eyes narrowed; he had decided what to do. Gregory still sat on the steps, occasionally wringing his hands and slapping his forehead. As he watched the boy, Mr. Plodsworth’s mind hatched a plan that was breathless in its complexity.

Clothing is the key (he thought); I must look poor – but not too poor. Take the train as I am, and next thing you know someone’s going through my pockets thinking, well, you know, he looks just a little too poor to be really poor… Can’t buy working clothes – working men don’t have pound notes, someone’s sure to notice. Can’t buy rich clothes – dressed like this? Insane! What I need, then, is what you have, you little almost-familiar man. And when you get out of the light, don’t you know I’m going to get it. Don’t you just know it, yes indeed! he thought, rubbing his hands in silent glee.

Gregory, for his part, was plumbing the depths of his despair. His mind threw pangs and arrows at him incessantly, blindly, damning his stupidity, slowness, weakness, indecision, unpreparedness… Unhinged, he mournfully wrecked his own foundations, casting acid on his artistic ability, value as a son, worth as a man, reason for being born etc. etc. etc. It was a circle without an exit, yet it appeased the demand for action nicely, so he stayed in it, deriving some purpose from self-abuse.

It wasn’t until some brusque Scottish porter ordered him to get lost that he stirred and shuffled down the steps into the street. The bustle and magic of London at night, far from elevating his sentiments, cast them down to the level of an insect beneath the scurrying feet. He gazed longingly at the wheels of the carriages and hooves of horses, restrained from throwing himself beneath only through a certain aesthetic squeamishness.

His thoughts collided and wandered and, lost in his misery, he suddenly thought against hope that perhaps Mr. Plodsworth had dropped the money in the alley he had run into. For want of a better plan, he dragged himself into the darkness, casting agonized eyes this way and that.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE: An Unpleasant Picture

The cycle of a city requires diversity to reverse itself; in the early evening the straggling workers brushed shoulders with the most eager revelers; in the early morning the most dissolute revelers, fleeing the sun, wove between the heavy strides of the most industrious labourers, the men and women to whom sunrise was an hour’s work away. Like a tide, the night had gathered the worst and now mixed them with the best in a gratuitous kaleidoscope of principles.

Most on their busy way had little time to spare for those asleep or drunk in alleys, but one tall man, out on an early campaign for temperance, took pity on the prostrate figures slumped against a wall between two buildings, and went over to wake them up. The man was no stranger to vice, yet surprise can unman even the most stalwart. Turning one of the bodies over, the mottled throat, protruding tongue and bulging eyes caused him to cry out sharply, and he quickly backed out of the alley and shouted for a policeman. Finding none, he ran up the steps into the train station.

Helena stood at the entrance to the station, blinking in the sunlight, watching a man run past her. As if catching the echo of her brother’s thoughts, she stood in almost the same spot and wondered just how she was going to accomplish what she came for. The odd perspective derived from sleeping on a train seemed to fog her mind, and she felt slightly nauseous as the gritty buildings began to respond to the wan sunlight.

The doors opened behind her and a man ran straight into her. She turned around, angry, but he shook his head quickly.

“Sorry, miss, but there’s – some bodies!” cried the man and, followed narrowly by two huge policemen, ran down the stairs and across the street.

So this is London, thought Helena. Lovely. I want to go home.

Somehow the idea came to her, with such force that it squeezed her eyes and, try as she might, could not dispel it. Perhaps it arose from the knowledge of her brother’s nature, or from the unlikeliness of such an occurrence, but suddenly Helena felt a dread certainty in her soul.

She crossed the street. As she neared the milling crowd, and began absently counting their backs, she suddenly remembered something. When she was seven, and Gregory three, he had suddenly yelled – out of nowhere – I want to write! Of course you do, she had said, all children should learn to write. No, Gregory had said, I want to write as pretty as a pit-chur. As pretty as a pit-chur!

Thinking of it now, Helena paled, her heart thumping heavily. She pushed forward and, peering between two heads, saw her brother lying on the cold cobblestone next to a grubby body, barred between a policemen’s legs, his cold eyes shining in the pale morning light.

As pretty as a picture.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR: A Terrible Price

Father McCullity rose at noon, his eyes scalded and crusted with darkness. He had swallowed a bitter fruit overnight; it hung in his innards like a cluster of overripe grapes. He dressed quickly and went downstairs. He found Ilyavich in the kitchen, sitting at a table by the window, staring contemplatively into a cup of coffee, a thick dirty envelope by his side.

“Any more?” he asked.

Ilyavich gestured to a pot on the stove. Father McCullity poured himself a cup and stirred it.

“You’ll have to leave,” he said, adding milk and watching the swirling drain of white.

“You’re telling me,” said Ilyavich.

“You sound – less than surprised.”

Ilyavich swiveled in his chair. “John,” he said slowly, “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not built for this. I appreciate what you did with Lady Richmond. But I can’t work like that. I want to make money, that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. I can sell myself. But I can’t sell anything else. I don’t want any favours. If she can’t see that, I don’t want to have anything to do with her. Or anyone. Our world is closing, John,” said Ilyavich, staring at the envelope, turning it over and over in his hands. “We thought we were fighting each other, striving to win the world, but there’s another force out there… I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t even notice our struggles. It doesn’t want God or money. It doesn’t want anything, just to suck the life from the corpses it makes!” Ilyavich’s voice thickened. “We fought on everything, John – except that what was right was worth fighting over. But they don’t want anything of it. No God, no money, no morality at all.”

Father McCullity saw his friend was on the verge of tears. “Do you mean – Lady Richmond?” he asked.

Ilyavich clenched his fist. “No – she stands for some kind of order. The old world, with all its glories and terrors. They built cathedrals on blood, didn’t they? But what of those who build blood on blood?”

“Who – what do you mean?” stammered Father McCullity.

“I don’t know. I’m just talking. Doesn’t the world frighten you as it is?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” whispered the priest.

“We’ve lost it all,” said Ilyavich, eyes narrowing. “God, freedom, conscience, all our ideals, down the same drain. Who – what – will take its place? What orders the world when ideals have died? Tell me: what?”

“Love,” said Father McCullity softly, hopelessly. “Love.”

“Love – of what?”

“I still believe in God.”

“Not enough – I can hear it in your voice. You’re not strong enough to enforce it any more. We’ve let the tigers loose, John. We lost God in science, and science in cowardice. No faith, no reason. Just – blood.”

“What blood? Did you sleep badly?”

Ilyavich shook his head. “Not at all.”

“That – what is it, Ivan?”

“My son, John,” said Ilyavich, his face contorting. “My son is dead.”

Father McCullity sat down heavily. “What?”

“Cut down in the street,” whispered Ivan, “cut down in stupidity!”

“What happened?”

“He found my money. He found my money, this little package, he fought for it, he killed a man for it, and then he died in a poor-ward like a slashed animal. Helena found him. She held him while he died. While I was out – talking to Lady Richmond.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, thank…” Ilyavich’s hands tightened around the package. “Thank – what? Tell me, Father – who is it I should thank? What is it I should curse?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” said Ilyavich slowly. “Myself.”

“That’s not so!”

“If I’d been able to pry some money loose, he’d be sitting somewhere in a café, writing some stupid poem!”

“You don’t know what might have happened,” said Father McCullity.

“He was never enough for me. But when he was alive – he was alive, and that was never enough!”

“You did what you thought best…”

“I didn’t think at all – how could I? I don’t even know what is right!”

“You had standards…”

“What? Make money?”

“You didn’t want him to be a parasite…”

“Parasites live!” cried Ilyavich. “Meagerly, pitifully, but they live! Oh, Christ, nothing is enough till it’s gone! Why? What did he do that was so wrong? Try to please me? But I’m a father, I cannot be pleased. I killed my son when I laughed at his drawings. I killed him because I wanted to gulp port with Herzen rather than read his writing. I killed him by sealing him off in the country. I killed him by making him want to live like me. He wasn’t like me – he was – he was like his mother. And what I did to her I don’t even want to think about!”

“You have another child, Ivan,” said Father McCullity urgently, sitting down.

“Who hates me,” said Ilyavich, shaking his head. “Because I never thought of what was right. Only what was mine.”

“Ivan,” said Father McCullity, holding Ilyavich’s arm tightly, “Ivan, listen to me. We started in the swamps. We’ve been reaching upwards ever since. And we’ve made mistakes – we’re making them now, and we’ll make many more. We’re all caught in the same machine, the machine we made to get through it all. We don’t know how to work it yet. Someday we will. Someday we’ll wake up in the morning and know what is right. And do it. But we don’t know how to get there yet. But if we’re ever going to get there, we cannot give up hoping.” His hands tightened, his eyes burned. “There are no tigers out there, Ivan. They’re in here, in our hearts and minds. In despair. Despair is the only tiger. You have been dealt the worst blow that can ever befall a man. But you have a second chance. Talk to Helena. Make her understand. Even if you don’t know what is right, at least admit what was wrong. Admit your mistakes. But never give up hope, Ivan. You must never give up hope!”

“I am a Russian,” said the old man, raising his head. “Ideals or despair, that’s all we have. This money was my ideal. And my son paid for it in blood. His whole life long. There is nothing else.”

“There is God.”

“You have no God,” smiled Ilyavich. “You are obsolete.”

Father McCullity paled. “I cannot hear that any more!”

“It’s true.”

“I cannot allow myself to doubt any more,” said Father McCullity, shaking his head.

Ilyavich nodded, giving his friend’s hand a squeeze. “I know. We took our tunnels, we never asked where they led. The answers were at the forks, not now… I know. It’s over.” He stood.

“Ivan?” said the old priest.

Ilyavich turned in the doorway. “Yes?”

“You are wrong. There are no dead ends.”

The old man smiled. “Job was a story, John. It was all fiction.”

As he gazed into Ilyavich’s eyes, Father McCullity felt an awful gulf open up beneath his soul. An old man stood before him, robbed of life and land, son and daughter, shivering on the brink of life, and the priest found his mouth utterly blocked of comfort.

“You know, Ivan,” he said suddenly, “I am terribly unhappy.”

The words hung, caught in the broken machine of the world, self-evident, pointless. Ilyavich nodded slowly, and then turned and walked away.

A feeling, thought Father McCullity, dropping his hands from his cup and staring out the window. That’s what I said when they asked if God spoke to me. I said: I got a feeling.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE: From the Edge of a Quarry to a Blessed Fall

Father McCullity’s garden wound down from the house in an odd manner – since he had never found the energy to mount a proper defense, various property disputes stemming from old and inaccurate copyhold maps had been long since settled out of court. There seemed something faintly sacrilegious to him about such disputes, and he had avoided contention as aptly as he was able. As a result, the garden had a certain strangeness about it. Its rampant flowerbeds snaked like the banks of an old river, and various trees bisected by the intrusive fences were pruned almost bald on one side (where a retired civil servant, having learned the value of individual attention to inconsequential things, took pride in pointing out his neater half), while Father McCullity’s side remained heavily lush, almost intimidating in its luxury.

Gardening had never interested him much. It was regarded as no small matter by some of his congregation that he had let his garden run to seed, but he had no energy for it; the ground was wet and wormy and the results did not match his expectations. Father McCullity was not a romantic.

Even so, there were times when his garden displayed true beauty, when the moon rose and the stars shivered beyond its passing face, when cold breath blew the constellations into bright clouds and the sense of the earth as a ship-among-stars grew strong. Then the garden’s disorder became its asset, and it seemed untamed beneath a sky unchanged for millennia, a path leading towards… but that is for the romantics to tell us.

Nachaev could not stand to be in his room any longer; he ran out onto the back porch, letting the door slam behind him, hoping that Natalie would hear and respond. With a bitter gaze he stared at her window, sure she was pretending not to have heard.

He muttered something, turned and swung off the porch, then picked his way down the uneven path into the garden. Everywhere the undergrowth loomed, and his feet kept stumbling over the jagged rocks. Without reason, the thought of Russia entered his heart, and he felt sudden tears sting his eyes. English trees, English sky, English rocks, he thought, and the pain of distance hit him almost physically. Yet not just the distance; also the distinction. It seemed unimaginable to return. Alexander was dead, Gregory was dead, Natalie was dead to him, and the future stretched ahead, silently reproaching his lack of preparation. His surest certainty, that he was destined for greatness, had lately struck him with the eternal sneer of ambitious inaction: what are you doing about it?

Nachaev picked up a stone and flung it into the darkness. A sense of his own weakening followed his thoughts like a shark behind a vessel dumping stowaways over the rail. Chomp, certainty, chomp, illusion, chomp, love – what was left when the feasting was over? Bitter rage, desperation, a terrible sense of loss, of futility. But beneath all that…

A hundred years before, an old man walking through the woods had noticed a streak of rust lying in the ground where the trees thinned out. The quarry that resulted was ferocious in its attack on the earth, so ferocious that the earth had yielded little from its wounds, and the workers had quickly moved on to richer climes, swept away in the flood of industry. The quarry had been in a deserted area when it was carved, but even sleepy towns stretch sometimes, and in time a few houses had crept almost to its lip. Sarah’s father, the old village priest, had moved here because he felt that the view from the foot of his garden matched the rocklike expression of his face; he had set up a picnic table by the wooden fence and would spend hours on Sunday afternoons staring out at the bare bowl of rock, thinking unimaginably stony thoughts. The fence he had built slowly decayed after Robert reached the age of reason; only Sarah liked the view enough to risk walking through the garden. Her father had kept it exceedingly tidy and she often found herself becoming quite irritated as she pushed her way through the tangled bushes. Soon even that was given up, and the bottom of the garden became one of the world’s recesses, untouched by man and only alluded to during particularly nasty marital comparisons between John and Sarah’s late father.

During daylight, the quarry came into view quickly enough; at night it was hard to see, even with a moon. Nachaev was blindly pushing his way through the bushes in search of a clearing when his foot suddenly lost purchase and he heard the skittering of pebbles as they bounded their way downward. His heart almost stopped when he opened his eyes and saw the faint moonlight on the chasm below. What surprised him was not his narrow escape, but his reaction to it.

Nachaev stood very still, his heart drumming in his ears, gazing down into the black depths of the quarry. He warred with himself, but try as he might he could not stem his desire to fling himself forward. His arms reached out and took the nearest branch, gripping it tightly.

He was so absorbed that he did not see the figure rise, some feet away. When he heard the voice he almost fainted in distress.

“What are you doing here?”

Nachaev drew a sharp breath and turned. He saw the silver hair, lowered head and gently sloping shoulders.

“Ilyavich?” he whispered.

“You look quite stupid,” said the old man in Russian, peering at him. “What are you doing?”

“I – came for a walk.”

“Off a cliff? I see.”

“And you – what are you doing here?”

The old man didn’t answer. He smiled faintly, then turned and waved at the quarry.

“Ah, you see,” he murmured. “You see.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Nachaev.

“No, no,” said Ilyavich. “Drunk tonight? Don’t be – stupid.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t ever be stupid!” said the old man. “Don’t break anyone’s heart.”

Nachaev stood silently.

“Don’t break anyone’s heart, don’t be stupid, and don’t – don’t lie,” said Ilyavich, his voice catching. “Don’t pretend you’ll last forever. You see?” he said, turning to Nachaev, “I – never let him – get away. He was never supposed to be away. Now he’s away.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “And I have been a bad father.”

Nachaev’s tongue seemed stuck.

“Ah,” said Ilyavich, sitting down again. “But what do you know? You don’t even know your father. Do you?”

Nachaev shook his head.

The old man laughed. “Good for you. Good.”

A tug of wind shifted the leaves above them. The stars moved slightly.

“Let me tell you something,” said Ilyavich. “You won’t – probably use it, because you’re stupid, but you might.”

“What?”

“Don’t wait,” said Ilyavich.

“For what?”

“For what? For anything,” he replied.

“Why are you waiting?” asked Nachaev.

Ilyavich looked away and shrugged. Nachaev looked down between his feet and it suddenly seemed as if the quarry was turning of its own accord, rising up to swallow him. He gripped the grass tightly.

“This is ridiculous,” he gasped.

“Whatever it is,” said Ilyavich softly, “don’t wait.”

“This is ridiculous!” hissed Nachaev suddenly, his hands ripping the grass from the earth. He stood suddenly and flung the stalks over the cliff. He felt his hand touch a branch; he turned and grabbed it, tearing it from the tree. More branches touched his face, his hair, and he tore at them all savagely, panting, wanting nothing more than space and air. His hands scattered blood as he groped and ripped, biting leaves and tearing at the wood in his ferocity. He let loose an animal cry, his throat thick with passion. He fell to his knees and ground his face into the dirt, pulling at his hair, then sprang up again, wrenching more branches from the trees…

Finally he lay panting, his muscles twitching, his hair wet and sweaty on his face. He watched his hand, lying among shreds of leaves, then drummed it softly, making a light crackling sound. He drummed it again, then turned and looked at the night sky for a long time as his breathing eased.

“It’s time,” he murmured finally, once and for all. He lay still for a moment longer, then rolled over and got up. “Come on,” he said to Ilyavich (who had not moved during his explosion), holding out his hand.

“You go in,” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t be long.”

“No no,” said Nachaev, “It’s too much of a temptation. Come on.”

“Yes,” said Ilyavich, staring down into the rocky depths. “Yes.” He blinked, then stood up slowly.

“What would Helena think?” asked Nachaev. “She’d think you didn’t want to spend time alone with her.”

“I don’t,” said Ilyavich.

Nachaev smiled. “That’s better.”

Together, they disappeared into the bushes, leaving the quarry in the solitude it was intended for.

Nachaev knocked on her door, and heard a quick scurrying, a rustle of papers. He pushed it open, and saw Natalie rising quickly from her desk, pushing her hair back and staring at him, eyes wide.

“Oh, hello!” she said quickly. “I was just coming, I had to tidy my desk, because…” She trailed off, ducking her head and smiling.

Nachaev looked at her room. It felt an age since he had seen her last – she had taken her meals in here, hadn’t left it since her father’s death. She was thin, sleepless.

“You’ve been… writing?” asked Nachaev.

“Oh, just odds and ends, thoughts, trying to sort out…” she faltered. “Nothing really.”

He came in and sat on the bed.

“You look terrible,” she said, pressing her legs against the desk.

“I know.”

“Not that I’m one to speak,” she added, laughing quickly.

“I’m getting married, Natalie,” he said.

“You’re… Oh!” She gestured at her papers, gray with tiny writing. “I had thought what might happen to all of us, tried to work it out, as I said, but that – I never guessed that. Well!”

“What about yourself?”

“Oh, I thought that when I finished it would all become clear, but now I see I shall have to – revise my estimates, because I never guessed, you know, that you would…”

“To Sasha.”

“Sasha.” She stared at him blankly. “She’s with that woman, that lady, I heard Father McCullity mention it yesterday. Good. Yes – how is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Good,” repeated Natalie. “She was always a kind person. I’m sure you’ll do well by her. I’m happy for you. It’s good to see someone, you know, taking life by the horns and working for their future. It’s very inspiring. Not as easy for the rest of us, of course, but… You see,” she said rapidly, “I’ve been thinking about what I can do to make my life happier since, you know, we didn’t find it together, and what I’ve thought is that it takes a kind of endurance I just don’t – seem to have. There’s a lot of misery in the world, things seem to happen without rhyme or reason, I’m sure you’ve noticed, but there are people who can live with that, and find a certain… peace? Contentment. I was brought up, my father taught me that the world was wrong because it was disordered, that in England, say, there was a system that made it possible to be happy, but lately I’ve been thinking that the chaos is not in the world or in the Tsar or church or anything like that, but in ourselves, in that we’ve lost our direction and don’t know where we are. And you, what did you do, you – you killed and robbed for what you believed in, but it turned out you didn’t believe in much because now you are free and there’s nothing to fight and you don’t know what to do. I fought for nothing and believed in nothing but my father and now you and I are in pretty much the same boat, aren’t we? A boat in dry-dock that isn’t even a boat, just a kind of coffin.” Natalie smiled, out of breath. “I think of Father McCullity, and he seems happier than us because even if there is no God, even if that’s all a lie, he knows where he is and even being wrong is better than being nothing. And my father, even if he was wrong and the disorder is not in the world but in ourselves, he knew where he was and when he – died – he knew he had traveled from A to B, while we just go from O to O, round and round, and at the end of it all we’ll just be able to say that we didn’t really know and couldn’t find out and that will be the end of us.” Natalie laughed and nodded. “And there’s where I can’t find consolation. Or acceptance. Or happiness.”

Nachaev stared at her.

“Anyway, that’s – that’s what I’ve been thinking,” she said quickly, shrugging. “It doesn’t mean much, but there it is.”

“I have a son,” said Nachaev. “That’s why I’m marrying her.”

Natalie was silent for a moment. “That’s quite a convention,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

“So you’re going to live with – Lady Richmond?”

“Probably for a time.”

“Deep in the heart of it. You.”

“You left me little choice, didn’t you?” demanded Nachaev.

“Could I have done otherwise?” she said. “Did you leave me any other choice?”

“Yes, well you stupidly thought the choice was in me, when really it was in you.”

“To be swallowed up by you – because you are a sort of cannibal – was not a choice.”

“Cannibal!” cried Nachaev. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you frightened me, and for a time I thought you were different, when we were leaving home, but here you started again, and I had to realize that you only act when you can act badly, and I couldn’t lock myself to a falling star.”

“Falling star!” he snarled. “What nonsense you talk!”

“Yes, it probably is nonsense, but there it is.”

Nachaev scowled and turned to go.

“You see?” said Natalie. “You are angry because I am speaking my mind! Now I am not saying you are a terrible, dangerous man, far before his time and able to change the world. You came across me in a garden, a pleasant garden, and like a tiger in the trees you fascinated me, but there comes a time when that fascination… When we’re afraid of tigers we put them in cages, and that’s where you are. You see: all you had was fear.”

“And you think I’m no longer fearful?” asked Nachaev.

“You’re choosing a pretty cage, aren’t you, by marrying her.”

“Perhaps,” he said, leaning against the wall and touching his fingertips together. “But perhaps not. What’s wrong with a little comfort? I’m getting a little tired of everyone running down comfort like it’s some kind of slow death. What’s so wrong with trying to find peace of mind?” he continued, his voice rising. “What is so wrong with just looking at the world and saying: to hell with it! It’s not worth changing, not a bit! What have you seen? A nice pretty garden, a fat rich daddy, and even that wasn’t enough to get you through school!” He took a step forward. “You’re telling me about cages? Someone who can’t even stand up to a woman? To her own sister? I don’t want your analysis, your pity or your petty explanations. You don’t know what the world is, Natalie, and you know what? You never will know, because when you see it properly it sends you scurrying to your room to scribble stupid notes to yourself! Wake up, Natalie!” he shouted. “There’s another world out here, a world which doesn’t bring you coffee in the morning and ask you if you slept well, but a world that kicks you in the teeth to wake you up and keeps right on kicking you until you pass out at night! That’s the world, Natalie, like it or not. And it’s not going to be saved by talking about tigers and gardens!”

Natalie looked at Nachaev calmly – and suddenly he felt afraid. Her eyes were clear and gentle, terrible in their certainty.

“No,” she said, very quietly. “That’s not the world, Nachaev. That’s you.”

The words fell into him like a waterfall of knives, and strange visions erupted from his wounds – he saw himself as if from a distance, as if he sailed over a vast desert; he saw himself as a man half-buried in sand with no oasis in sight who cursed at the sun while flecks of foam fell from his lips like snowflakes. And when the night came he screamed even more because the darkness turned his eyes inwards and he saw…

Beneath his reactions, beneath his memories, a man played cards, his face hidden beneath a green visor and a three-day beard. Beside him were two stacks of cards, one green and bright and one dark and vicious. And mechanically his hands passed over the bright cards and turned over the dark cards, placing them on the top, on the bottom, shuffling, never dropping, never discarding, never touching the brighter pile, which sat within an arm’s length of his endlessly restless hands. The main raised his eyes, and it was his father…

Nachaev saw this, as vivid as daylight, as strangled as a night on a sinking ship. He looked up at Natalie, at her gentle face, and suddenly he felt as if he were falling down a well, an endless well, while she sailed up to merry cocktail parties, laughingly saying “Oh, Sergei, I knew him once – he was such a funny man!”, while he lay broken in the darkness, miles beneath a pinprick of light, her voice echoing tinny around his ears forever…

He felt terror. The terror of night on a square yard hanging in space where sleep is death. The terror of skin, clothing, bones being torn away and a crying baby being raised to the light, freed from the controls of its oversized body, dropping its stilts and its trumpets, free, defenseless, its former knives like strange shadows looming in air.

“You see, Nachaev,” said Natalie slowly. “I know.”

“Help me!” he gasped, pressing his hands to his temples, his breath coming short, visions crowding his mind, thundering over his tenuous links like a freight train. The sight of a world backwards from a swing, sickening, every swing a man comes closer, reaching, his pale face…

And then, worst of all, falling from the swing into a train, into his trembling hands, into the grimy compartment, into the swaying walls, into the gasping, bloody face of the young policeman…

“My God Natalie,” whimpered Nachaev, his eyes wide, “He had a wedding ring! And his children..!”

Nachaev’s face worked grotesquely; Natalie caught a glimpse of his internal ghastliness, yet managed to keep staring at him, at his terrible wandering eyes. She felt anger and pity rise in her; she saw the endless span of his overworked days and sleepless nights, forever hunting for solace, forever striking at that which consoled him.

“Sergei,” she said softly, supplicatingly, and her tone seemed to wrench him forward and throw him to his knees.

“Dear God!” he cried in mortal agony, with the horror of a child’s discovery of sin. He could not stop himself – he flung himself forward, down into her arms, across a line which admitted no return.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX: A Mirror Broken

“All right,” said Lady Richmond, sitting at her writing desk. “Everything in order?”

Sasha nodded, sitting stiffly on the sofa. Lady Richmond licked and sealed the envelope in her hands and placed it on the desk. She paused for a moment, looking up at her father’s picture, then turned to Sasha.

“What did he say to you,” she asked, “when you told him?”

“He knew… the right thing to do. Given his knowledge.”

“Good, good,” said Lady Richmond, rubbing her hands. “You won’t have to leave. I want to be with him. God, what a civilized world! But things are as they are, and we are both stuck with it.” She shook her head. “But, more to the point, what sort of marriage would you prefer?”

“Excuse me?”

“What sort of marriage? I can contribute a little, of course. Not too much, though – just enough for people to ascribe it to aristocratic sentimentality.”

Sasha shrugged. “I don’t want anything much.”

“I can get Father McCullity’s church, of course.”

“I don’t think a church would be the right thing, miss.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because church is for truth.”

“Pah!” exclaimed Lady Richmond. “Surely not his church! You’re being oversensitive. Listen,” she said, sitting down beside the maid, “I understand your feelings, but there are two ways to look at this. Either we are transgressing the rules of God and man, and shall be damned forevermore, or – and I think this much more sensible – we are simply doing the practical thing in the most correct manner possible.” Her hand reached up to stroke Sasha’s hair. “If we tell the truth, we shall live as outcasts – yes, you too, since you are involved. If we do the practical thing, we can atone in our conscience and put on a brave face. But the important thing is to think of the child. Either he grows up cut off from the world, a living disgrace, or we make the best of things and give him a chance – and you can have your own children in comfort, peace and security. But if you don’t go along with this – properly – I cannot have you in my house. That’s not a threat, of course, but the reality of the situation.”

“I understand all that, miss,” said Sasha, “and I’ve never felt anything but gratitude, but I could never sleep easy if I married him in a church. Not only because it’s a church, but because he doesn’t believe.” She shrugged. “I can only lie so much.”

“But if we start on the lie,” said Lady Richmond, “as we have, we cannot stop halfway. Otherwise we might as well publish it in the papers and have done with it.”

Sasha turned to reply, but her reply was cut off by a commotion in the hall.

“Where is she?” they heard over the protestations of the butler, “I will see her!”

The door was flung wide, and Nachaev stood in the doorway, dripping with sweat, soaked with rain, his cheeks flushed in anger.

“I’ve brought him, Sasha,” he said. “We will be married now. Tonight.”

“Sergei…” said Sasha, rising. Nachaev strode into the room. Father McCullity appeared behind him, out of breath.

“Please excuse this interruption, Nora,” he panted, “but he was quite emphatic that we come.”

“This is entirely out of place!” cried Lady Richmond. “You must leave!”

“No,” said Nachaev. “Tonight. Now.”

They stood tensely, four points in a triangle only one of them perceived.

“Sit down, Mr. Nachaev,” commanded Lady Richmond. He sat. “All right, let’s take a deep breath and try to believe that we’re not all young and stupid. If you marry tonight, you will destroy any chance your child will have for a normal life.”

Nachaev blinked. “Why?”

“Because he will be the bastard son of a maid and a tramp, you idiot! I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the way it is.”

“Who will know?”

“I will know. And I have been known to be indiscreet.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Nachaev softly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will also know, and if you expect me to keep Sasha and expose myself to the consequences if anyone – anyone – finds out, then you have a lot to learn about the world. I won’t be a prisoner of conscience. Or blackmail. You should recognize my generosity, Mr. Nachaev – women have been dismissed without references for far less. This will have to be done correctly.”

“I don’t understand how this concerns you – so deeply,” said Nachaev.

“Because you don’t believe an aristocrat can be caring – but that is your problem,” replied Lady Richmond shortly. “The choice presented is clear.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Nora,” said Father McCullity, clearing his throat. “I can’t have an atheist married in my church.”

“You will have whoever I choose married in your church!” she said. “And no questions asked!”

“It is not so one-sided,” replied Father McCullity.

“Not so. I am young and lovely – you are old and fading. I have the power of mobility – you do not. I have the power of wealth as well as position. You have only position. As such, you will do as I command.”

“Nora,” said Father McCullity softly, “We both know that you would be damaged more. Bishop Cyme would never stand for it – his position is tenuous enough as it is. I would have the full power of the Church behind me.”

“So – you have taken your stand,” smiled Lady Richmond. “How quick.”

“And pledged my allegiance,” he replied. “There will be no more wavering.”

“Then I simply go to another church,” she said. “What can you do to stop me?”

“Wait a moment,” said Nachaev, rising. “Why so many threats?”

“None of your concern,” said Lady Richmond and Father McCullity together.

“Yet we are all aware of the deception involved in this marriage,” said Nachaev. “What is it that you are afraid to say to us?”

“It has nothing to do with you. Keep out of it. We shall marry you in London.”

“Now this is getting a bit much!” cried Nachaev. “What lengths are you willing to go to?”

“Mr. Nachaev,” said Lady Richmond. “It may come as a great surprise, but I do care for Sasha – far more than you appear to. I also have a great distaste for all this deception, but we have little choice in the matter if we are to save the boy.”

“Care for her!” said Nachaev, “But you have not consulted her once while determining her future! Or even looked at her. Sasha,” he said, turning to her. “What are your views in all this?”

“I would consider it a great honour to be married wherever Lady Richmond chooses,” she said, looking away.

“Spoken like a true equal,” he said. “What a friendship is here! A woman travels to Russia, picks up a maid, and suddenly is so concerned with her illegitimate child that she is willing to threaten a priest to marry her correctly. Now – isn’t that just a little bit odd?”

“To the cynical, perhaps,” said Lady Richmond.

Nachaev paused for a moment, then laughed. “And the boy’s name is, what – Charles? Tell me, Lady Richmond,” he said. “What was your father’s name?”

“What has that got to do with anything?” she cried, whitening.

“Never mind,” he said, striding over to the portrait hanging on the wall. “Charles Thomas Ernest Richmond,” he read. “Now isn’t that funny? Or is it?”

“She wanted a good British name for the boy,” snapped Lady Richmond, “and I supplied one. What of it? And stay away from my desk!”

“You know,” he said suddenly, reaching and picking up a sealed envelope, “after we left Russia, Alexander showed me his will. I couldn’t read English then; he said he had gone a notary, who said it’s better to have your will made up in the manner of the country you’re going to. When Alexander’s will was complete, he gave it to me in an envelope that looked almost exactly like this one.” Nachaev turned the envelope in his hands and lifted his eyes to Lady Richmond. “Would this be your will, then, miss?”

“You leave my personal documents alone!” she cried, her cheeks white.

“No, no,” said Nachaev. “Let’s think about this, shall we?” He walked to the window. “I knew a woman – a long time ago – we loved, in our way. I meet her again, years later, at Herzen’s. We spend the night, we part again… Months later I meet her unexpectedly in England. Suddenly – presto! There is a child. And an obligation. What has changed? Nothing, really, except that she is now the maid of a rich and distinguished woman – a woman with a great deal to lose – and there is a child on the premises everyone tries to convince me is mine. Yet I have no evidence save the word of a woman I once loved. A woman who swore never to lie to me. A religious woman.”

“Sergei…” said Sasha.

“A woman I once loved,” persisted Nachaev, walking towards her, “and who once loved me. Can it be now that in the face of God she will tell me a lie?”

“Have some mercy, Sergei… even here,” she murmured, looking down.

“If I had a soul,” he continued, “I would bet it that the main beneficiary of this will is the young boy we speak of. But I don’t want to live as a cynic, so if this woman I loved tells me the child is mine, I will convert, I will marry in a church, at her convenience, and never look at the will of her mistress or ask my question again. And so, Sasha,” he said, leaning down, “What is the answer to my question?”

She looked into his eyes for a long time, feeling the room transfixed around her. Her face had the serenity of a trapped animal who does not fight for freedom, the seductive face of bravery in the face of fatalism.

“I refuse,” she whispered finally, looking down.

“I see,” said Nachaev softly. “Thank-you, Sasha.” His brows wrinkled, and his head lowered, his hair falling over his eyes. Lady Richmond and Father McCullity stood staring at him, then the priest started and turned to stare at her, his eyes wide.

“Please!” cried Lady Richmond, recoiling from his gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Are you sure?” asked Father McCullity.

“Of course I’m sure!”

“How old is the child?”

“I will not tolerate such ridiculous questions!” she snapped. “The child is mine. He was a French officer, eighteen months ago. Came out of nowhere, went right back. No fuss. End of story.”

“Then why return here?” asked the priest.

“What was I supposed to do – change my schedule? I come here every summer. The least slip breeds suspicion, you know that. And I had thought you might help me.”

The suspicion hung heavy on his face, but unlike Nachaev he had neither the motives nor the ethics to press the issue. “All right,” he whispered. “I believe you.”

She exhaled slowly. “Good. Now, since the cat is entirely out, what are we going to do?”

“Give me passage home,” said Sasha.

“Passage home!” cried Nachaev, turning to Lady Richmond. “What nonsense! You’ve put this woman through a lot of pain. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Or else what?” she demanded.

“Or else I’ll go straight to the papers.”

“Who would believe you?”

“Probably no-one,” he admitted, “but all it would take would be one ambitious reporter with an idle afternoon to start the ball rolling. And who knows where that might lead? Or is this child your only misdemeanour?”

“He’s right,” said Father McCullity, his eyes pleading. “I tried to confess; it wasn’t allowed. But to be exposed – that would be disaster.”

“If you only had the courage of your lusts…” snarled Lady Richmond, then took a deep breath and turned to Nachaev. “All right, how much?” she said.

“A thousand pounds.”

Her jaw fell. “A thousand pounds! Are you mad?”

“No marriage,” said Nachaev evenly. “No suitors. No children. No adoptions. Everything back to the state. End of the line.”

Lady Richmond glared at him. “How do I know you won’t expose me anyway?”

“Because,” he said, “I seem to be the only one here who hasn’t lied yet. And I give you my word.”

“All right,” she said with a bitter wave of her hand. “One thousand pounds. God!”

“In gold.”

“In – gold.”

“Aiii heaven,” wheezed Father McCullity, flopping back in an easy chair, almost-hysterical relief flooding his bones. His hands shook as he patted his hair. He glanced at Lady Richmond, then at Nachaev, trying to gauge their moods. She looked at him with undisguised contempt, which evoked a strange relief within him, but Nachaev was looking at him speculatively, and in order to cut that mind off from whatever infernal direction it was now taking he hauled himself up hurriedly, made some hasty concluding remarks, and took himself off from the premises as soon as humanly possible.

Nachaev let himself laugh after the old priest had left. It surprised them both – especially Sasha. She found it hard to reconcile his new vitality with the dull introspection that had been his habit of late.

“Oh dear,” he said, wiping his eyes. “What an idiot I’ve been!”

“Just – get out of my house,” said Lady Richmond.

He looked at her. “Surely you’re not angry at me?”

This seemed too obvious for a reply; she just stared at him. “Put my will down and leave, Mr. Nachaev,” she said.

“Why? There’s no reason to be upset,” he said.

Sasha saw the flush of temper rise in her lady’s cheeks.

“No reason?” asked Nora quietly.

“Of course not! I mean, yes there is in a certain sense, but overall – I think you’ve come out on top.”

“On top! The child is already eight months old! How old can he become before this deception becomes pointless? Charles is my only child! How on earth have I come out on top?”

Nachaev paused, thinking. “I’m not at a loss for an answer,” he said, “just unsure of how to phrase it.” He squinted, knitting his brows, then nodded. “You were living a lie.”

“All right – sit down,” she commanded. Nachaev sat, looking at her.

“Have you had enough do-goodery?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean…”

“What I mean is, have you done enough good to give it a rest for one evening?”

He cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“Or, more accurately, have you destroyed enough people’s lives to consider yourself virtuous yet?”

“That is…”

“Not ridiculous!” shouted Lady Richmond, her eyes narrowing. “Not ridiculous at all, you stupid, stupid boy! What harm is this revelation doing to you? Not only are you a man, not only are you a boy, but you are easily the blindest, most stupid human being I have ever come across! I don’t quibble that you have ideals about truth – I wish we all did. What I quibble with – no, what I revile is that you find it fit to inflict your ideals on the most helpless members of society! Members made helpless by the very sex you seek to protect by exposing us to such harm!”

“What? I’m trying to protect men?” he asked.

“No, not really! So tell me: how many more women are going to be brave enough to have illegitimate children after the world is through with me? How many are going to die from basement abortions because you chose to make me an example? How many men get cast out of society for fathering bastards? You’re not defending men? Then just who the hell are you defending?”

“That’s enough!” shouted Nachaev, pointing at her. “You are in no position to cast blame! I was your victim! I was supposed to raise the child you made – and don’t try to tell me it was rape, because that would be another lie. You made your choice, Miss Richmond, and you tried to shift the blame on me!”

“What else was I supposed to do?” cried Lady Richmond. “I thought he was too old to be fertile! Or that I was sterile. It’s not like we’re taught a lot about these things as children!”

“Then why didn’t you get an abortion?”

“Because it was my child! My only child!”

“Oh no,” he said, smiling and shaking his head, “Don’t you try that! You talk about Father McCullity having the courage of his lusts…” Nachaev broke off in mid-sentence. His eyes widened as it suddenly hit him with the deathly clarity of certainty.

“You were going to make me raise the child of a priest?” he whispered.

There was a dull pause. “What else to do?” said Lady Richmond, sitting down.

Nachaev walked over, grabbed the front of her dress and hauled her bodily off the couch.

“Nachaev, leave her alone!” cried Sasha.

“Shut-up,” he muttered, glaring at Nora, who glared just as fiercely back.

“You can say anything you like,” growled Nachaev, “you can place the blame on man, society and the world in general. But either you play by the rules or you work to break them. You don’t – ever – cheat!” he said, shaking her tightly.

“Sergei!” Sasha’s voice rang out commandingly – surprising her mistress. The maid reached out and grabbed Nachaev’s rigid shoulder. “Sergei, leave her alone! It’s not her fault!”

“Don’t,” he said.

“I love you,” said Sasha.

Nachaev frowned and stepped back. Lady Richmond removed herself from his grasp.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said I love you,” said Sasha. “And I won’t say it again.”

He blinked. “We have one affair what, three years ago? And a night together at Herzen’s? And now, when the game is over, you love me?”

“Why else would I let on the truth about the child, Sergei?” asked Sasha. “I may be noble, but I’m not stupid. I can’t lie to you.”

“But you did.”

Sasha sighed. “You really are an idiot. What else was I supposed to do? Nora was going to hire a governess and pull the same switch, but when I saw you riding up the driveway I begged her to let me do it. Come on, Sergei – think! When was the only time in your whole life when for the space of six months you were actually happy?”

“But – I had no purpose then!” he said.

“You enjoyed yourself, Sergei,” said Sasha slowly, as if to a child. “You want to be angry, be angry. You want to change the world, change the world. But be a good man first. Be a happy man. Be in love.”

“Your love?”

“Yes!”

“But you lied to me!”

“And you are a murderer,” said Sasha simply. “I can accept that.”

“But I never lied about that. Why should I want you? There is only one person who never lied to me.” He walked away from the couch, then turned. “Look – I understand what it’s like to be a woman.” They both snorted. “I didn’t come from a privileged background either, you know!” he continued, “But I made a pledge to myself that there was to be no shame. No shame. I have done things – yes, I have killed. And I’m only beginning to realize – what that means,” he said with effort. “And I am ashamed of what I did. But I am not ashamed of what I said – because I have never lied. You cry about how hard it is to be truthful, how it is much easier for a man to be good – then why aren’t all men moral? They have their reasons too. Every human being has a thousand reasons why they did wrong, and we can all nod in sympathy and sigh about how hard the world is – or we can believe that wrong has still been done – and that that is the only thing that matters!”

“God, Sergei!” cried Sasha. “You are an awful lecturer!”

“It’s just lecturing to you? It’s all just talk?” he demanded, enraged. “When have I ever demanded anything I haven’t been prepared to give? I believed in the revolution – wrongly, all right – but I never lied about my intentions. Alexander proved me wrong, and I about-faced without a second thought. I face temptation every waking moment, but I no longer kill. I no longer rob. I learn to love. I change, Sasha – I accept responsibility and consequences. What do you do? Either of you? Try to manipulate yourself out of difficulty – a difficulty you created in the first place! Of course the world is a hard place – of course it’s dismal and evil and self-destructive. But we have to do good before we can expect good. And the first step to virtue is always the same: never lie! Never!”

“Always the same,” said Sasha, rising. “And always from a man.”

“It’s the same for everyone,” said Nachaev softly. “Everywhere.”

“Go – go to this woman who has never lied to you, Sergei,” she snapped. “And pray that you discover the truth!”

With that she walked out.

Nachaev stared after her, doubting for a moment. But the truth is still the truth, he thought, and until someone shows me better, it will have to do.

“Now,” he said, shaking off his mood and turning to Lady Richmond, “I think it’s time we had a few words about your Father McCullity.”

“Isn’t your voice tired out yet?”

“You don’t realize the possibilities of your position,” said Nachaev, sitting beside her. “You’re in the position every woman envies!”

“Please – just leave.”

“Come on – think of it! The Church would never stand by him – that would require a full investigation, which would expose more than they could survive. Nora – if you have ever thought that a woman is equal to a man, that she can stand the same punishment, then take this chance. Make this known. Expose him.”

Lady Richmond stared at him, then laughed. “Why should I? I still have time to find that governess – he’s not about to say anything. Why should I expose him at cost to myself?”

“Because,” said Nachaev, “and I will never change my mind about this; because it’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing!” she cried. “For which sex?”

“No?” he asked. “Then, Miss Richmond, answer me this: when Charles grows up and you have to teach him how to live – as every parent has to – what will you say? Will you tell him your truth and say: Charles, my son, don’t make waves, don’t try to be good, good is what you get away with. And when he tells his first lie, how will you tell him not to lie? When you have lied to him about his own beginning?”

“That’s idealism,” said Lady Richmond. “Every parent has these problems. Mine certainly did.”

“And look how the world’s turned out,” said Nachaev. “And think as well – you’d be striking a blow against the church, and if you want to find the greatest source of the scorn for women, you need look no further.”

“I am not a saint. Never pretended to be.”

“Would a thousand pounds change your mind?”

“What? Oh, that.”

“It’s yours – if you do good.”

“I have plenty.”

“Look, Nora,” he said suddenly. “Either we live in fear, compromising what is right for the sake of what is comfortable – or we take a stand, proclaim the truth and damn the cost. Because every time we let a liar get away, we make lies comfortable and so produce more. And, sure as night follows day, a child fed on lies will prove a liar. And that will be your legacy.”

“Mr. Nachaev,” she said slowly, “Eloquent though you may be – you are wasting your breath.”

“The points are clear, the choice is clear,” said Nachaev. “The only question is – what will you choose?”

Lady Richmond stared at her hands, turning them, flexing them. The delicate tendons rose and fell; her veins moved at cross-purposes. Suddenly she laughed.

“If you were a woman, Mr. Nachaev, I might listen to you. Or an aristocrat. Or sterile. But you have no idea what you’re talking about. I will never expose him. And that is my final word. The world must wait for its saints.”

Nachaev glared down at her, but he saw it was useless. And so he turned to go, committing one of his few major misjudgments – but the only one he was never to regret.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN: Sorrow Comes Home

It was a pleasant railway station, only a few years old. The paint was fresh, the colours bright, the afternoon clear and cheery. There was nothing in it that was not picturesque, yet one could still see that the dismal quality peculiar to railway stations was already beginning to show, the transient underside of mobility. It was like a bright postcard which, when turned over, revealed a desperate cry for help. Feet had shuffled heavy on the creaky wooden floor – young men forced to leave the countryside to find work, fathers shuffling off to collect their sons after the machines had been at them, furtive daughters off to scrabble for respectability through a quick marriage or a quicker abortion, old men tired of their burden (or sent by those tired of being burdened), young children sent to distant relatives from empty houses, all the sad spectrum, all those fleeing conformity, duty, misery, all passed through, giving the train station the look of a house of sourness in a land of sunlight. The walls themselves seemed squared pages of a book rendered blank from mistrust and, from the platform, the view of the tracks was like an illusion of family; those bound to each other but never touching, as ignorant of each other as they were of their destinations.

Ilyavich was in a frame of mind to appreciate such melancholy, but his spirits had so fled that he was barely able to raise his eyes from the floor beneath the bench he sat on. His whole being was in a profound state of shock – no, not shock really, but an astonishment so deep that it’s only manifestation was immobility. Hung on every atom of his soul was a mirror held to his existence with the huge word “WHY?” scrawled over its surface – and that “WHY?” disturbed him more than he could know. Progress was his major faith, his central tenet; from the principles of efficiency and pleasure he had defined creation as the world that is, leaving him naked in the face of destruction.

Yet like most good businessmen, Ilyavich was also a pragmatist. That was a strange label – he would have had a hard time explaining what that meant, since its main effect was snorting scornfully at the idea that philosophy was anything more than a parlour-game. Progress in the material – bigger, better, faster – was his yardstick and, although tempting, it would be unwise to snort in turn at such a simplistic formula, for while it has failed to solve some of the world’s deeper problems, it hasn’t burnt many people at the stake either. The world has a great deal more to fear from false wisdom than it does from applied intelligence.

Yet that was precisely Ilyavich’s problem – intelligence. The most monstrous of man’s muscles is also his most delicate; he had placed his considerable intellect behind the grinding wheel of the world, scorning (to some degree) the matters of heart and soul. The fact that he was utterly unable to comprehend, let alone accept, the reality of his son’s death is easier to understand when one realizes that had he been able to comprehend it, he would have valued Gregory’s desire to write more. But he was a victim of that strange and terrible line drawn through man between thought and passion; because he valued material success, he scorned the flutterings of emotion, becoming a friend to the world and a stranger to the heart.

Ilyavich’s wife had left him a good ten years before Gregory died, but he had been able to accept that because she was older than him – his tenet of progress was not contradicted by the absence of contemporaries. But the death of one’s own son, that was impossible to… to reconcile. Ilyavich shook his head slowly. The fantasy of suffering, the Learesque wailing and gnashing of teeth, must belong to the world of pagans alone, because to most people it comes at first as a dull shock. Ilyavich, being an agnostic (a thousand times less consoling than true atheism), had grounds for neither comfort nor anger and, like a man suddenly blinded, he kept closing his eyes and opening them again in a mindless repetition of hope. How can it be, he thought numbly, that a father can outlive his only son? One is born, has children and dies secure of one’s stamp. Youth gone, old age becomes worse than failure. I will get old and I will die, and there will be nothing and no-one to replace me – and how strange and pointless it will all have been…

Lest any think that this train of thought would be more appropriate to a man stripped of all his children, let them be reminded that Ilyavich had put precious little effort into his daughter. Such are the perils of the man of business; the conclusion of contract, the movement of goods – these are things one does not often sigh and drape oneself over the couch for. (This, of course, was far from the essence of Helena, but materialism demands that one divide the world into things and imagination, and imagination is an illusion.) Every man has the sighing creature inside him, the beast that pines for things lost but, by dividing himself so brutally, Ilyavich was forced to categorize the world, and the business world-that-was had precious few businesswomen. They don’t trade, ergo they sigh. Some of Helena’s aggressiveness doubtless sprang from her understanding of this chasm in her father but, having being once pegged, she could have sprouted forests of chest hair and a voice of thunder and Ilyavich would probably have still told her to stop sighing and sit up straight. She was lucky that the death of her brother had alerted her to that fact else, like so many other unfortunates, she would have scurried through life wanting to prove herself to those beyond the reach of evidence.

A few miles south-easterly, Helena sat in the train from London, fortunate to have found her own compartment so that the winds of emotion could fill the sails of her face without impediment.

While Ilyavich’s numbness stemmed mostly from a hideous sense of guilt, Helena’s feelings had the nimbleness of anger, coupled with the desire to rewrite history common to those who feel that the lack of attention they receive stems from some inner fault. The energy expended to conform reality to insecurity always overshadows any event – which is why superstition, neurosis and insecurity tend to go hand in hand. Helena was not superstitious – at least not in the external ‘fall-of-a-sparrow’ sense – but she did reserve a vast pantheon of archetypes in her imagination to whom she could ascribe the movements of the world. Like the budding psychologist who pegs each sniffle as psychosomatic, Helena’s conception of cause and effect borrowed a great deal from mythology, religion and, to some degree, physics.

So when father met daughter, he reduced Gregory to a symbol of matriarchy-as-failure, she reduced him to a symbol of femininity-as-victim. The growing malevolence women had begun to feel towards men, the first fusion of femininity with humanity, had awakened a great anger, and Helena was no exception. In fact, she was in the best position to express it, since there could be no doubt that her father was partly to blame for her brother’s death; the unfortunate thing was that the intensity of her anger required an elevation of Gregory’s memory. His irritating habits, his undefined illnesses, his constant complaining, all these were whitewashed into Helena’s vision of fragile sensitivity ground beneath the wheels of blind patriarchy. How could she be expected to resist, when the locks of anger flooded deep within her, when her fists gripped her hated dress as long-suppressed memories began rising towards the light. It would be pointless to describe them – all families are tinged with such bitterness, but in a world shorn of expression they fester and multiply, and the secret hope of men – that women will be distracted with houses and children and so never know their loss – was rapidly being extinguished in the breast of Helena, who felt the stored rage of her full humanity shorten her breath and crumple her face into distorted masks.

Yet when she saw him, when the train shuddered into the station and he passed by her window, the complexity of her feelings mounted to an almost unbearable pitch. She had inherited her sense of order from her father; he could not accept the death of his son, and she could not accept the idea of comforting him. She pulled her suitcase from the rack and walked up the corridor, dreading that he would burst into tears, at what that would make her feel. At the door of her carriage the steam rose, obscuring her view. Ilyavich appeared suddenly through the cloud, his hand raised mutely to take her bag. Helena passed it to him and stepped down.

“Did you – have a good trip?” asked Ilyavich, then shook his head. “I’m sorry – that was stupid.”

“Been waiting long?”

“No, no – an hour. Half an hour.”

“Good. I’m sorry, the train, it was…”

“Late. That’s all right. Where do you want to go?”

“Surely we..?”

“Well, – but we can talk about that later. How was…” London, he was going to say, then caught himself and stood standing stupidly. Helena reached down and took his wrist – he found that odd, that she would take his wrist – and led him through the waiting room and out into the street. They looked blankly at the passing people, insulated in their suffering. It was as if the stream of life was parting around them, leaving them adrift and helpless in its wake. The strange aloneness of unspoken grief, the feeling that no-one could suffer as they did, left them as sterile as self-blinded spectators.

“Do you have any change for a carriage?” asked Helena.

Ilyavich looked away. “I didn’t have… but Father McCullity – was kind enough to give me a little…” he mumbled, feeling absently in his pockets and breaking her heart clean in two.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT: Terror Over Tea

“I wouldn’t call that one of your best, dear” said Sarah as they left the church after the service. To her husband it sounded like a gentle prod, but his sense of impending doom left him with a sullen desire not to be drawn out.

“The children didn’t notice it much,” he scowled. “Poking and jabbing at each other. Disgusting brats!”

Sarah’s bonnet flapped over her eyes as she glanced at him. His face was set obstinately, his mouth sealed like a statue.

“You know,” she said, “You’re beginning to look very fierce. Perhaps you frighten them.”

He grunted. They walked on.

“So Ilyavich is going to leave,” she said finally.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, letting such a godless man into my house. I shudder to think what would have happened if word had got around.”

“I did warn you.”

“I know.”

“It was my duty.”

“Yes – thank you!”

They stopped in front of a small tea shop, the only place open on Sundays. A waiter was taking the summer chairs inside, struggling with the gusty door. Inside, the outlines of the room shrank from the brightness, making them blink.

Her voice came before he had time to understand it. He started, his heart lurching in his chest.

“John! Hello? Over here!”

Lady Richmond sat with Sasha and the – baby – at a table near a darkening window, waving them over.

“Join us for lunch?”

He froze. Sarah jogged his arm.

“Come on – one of your friends, isn’t she?” she smiled. “Be hospitable.”

He nodded slowly and they made their way over. As they sat down, Sasha wiped the child’s mouth and stood.

“No, no, Sasha,” admonished Lady Richmond, “Sit and be still with our guests.” She’s in high spirits, thought Father McCullity, feeling a prickle of sweat in his armpits.

“If the child should disturb…” mumbled the maid.

“What? Disturb Father McCullity? What a silly notion! Let me see,” she said, “Sarah, isn’t it? I’ve heard about you from the Father here. But you’ve lost weight from his last description – have you been eating properly?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sarah, “Autumn is the best time for food in the country.”

“Then it’s a wonderful time for a wedding, don’t you think?” Her cup paused. “So many weddings this time of year…”

“Yes,” nodded Sarah. “It’s wonderful. All marriages are wonderful.”

“You think so?” asked Lady Richmond. “I’m so glad. The only thing more pleasant than marriage is marrying off someone else, which a barren woman can do only by pairing off her maids. Sad old me.”

“I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you think? Waiter!” called Father McCullity, twisting in his chair.

“I talked with Sergei for a long time last night,” declared Lady Richmond, popping a piece of bread into her mouth. “Some wine? No? Sasha had fallen asleep, poor thing – I’m sure even the good Father here remembers how tiring it is to raise a baby – but then it’s been so long, hasn’t it, for you? Sergei wanted to leave,” she continued, “but I ordered him to stay and talk to me. And he obeyed. How could he refuse, seeing as we are to be such good friends?”

“A stupid man to talk to,” scowled Father McCullity.

“Oh no,” said Lady Richmond softly, leaning forward. “I must say I entirely disagree. In hindsight, of course. He knows what is wrong.”

“What ‘wrong’? There’s nothing wrong!” snapped the priest.

“What do you think is the worst thing in the world, Sarah?” she said suddenly, turning to his wife. “What is the one thing – the one thing – that you could never forgive?”

“Oh I don’t know,” she faltered, laughing. “What a question!”

“Indulge me.”

“Oh dear,” said Sarah. “Well, lying? Losing your faith? – not being faithful. To God or man. Breaking a vow – breaking trust. Yes. Something like that. Fairly commonplace, I dare say.”

“And you’d never forgive that? Even if the man – confessed?”

Father McCullity looked at his wife. She smiled, utterly charmed at being taken seriously.

“You mean,” she said, “if someone I trusted broke that trust and said ‘I did this’, would they have broken my trust? No, I suppose not. Because if they never told me, I wouldn’t know if they even cared about my trust.”

“Hm,” said Lady Richmond. “Now tell me this: do you have any secrets from your husband?”

“Well! This is most extraordinary!”

“Do you?”

“Just girly things, I suppose,” smiled Sarah. “Where the Easter eggs are hidden, what I do with my pin money.”

“Whether you buy things on sale?”

“Material things are – unimportant to me… English woman have so few secrets.” She smiled brightly. “We have children instead.”

Lady Richmond smiled. “There is a look to English children, I think. Even in the crib. Boys especially. They should get boarding school uniforms instead of swaddling clothes.”

“No doubt!”

Lady Richmond turned and lifted the baby from Sasha, who looked away. “This little handsome fellow – would you like to hold him?”

“Of – course.” Sarah took Charles and settled him on her lap. “He’s such a dear.”

“Tell me,” asked Lady Richmond. “What nationality does he look like to you?”

“Nationality?” Sarah frowned. “What is his name?”

“That would be too easy.”

“Names are so difficult. We give up ours in the hopes of naming our baby’s. My father, John’s father. I won that one, but it was a difficult time.”

Lady Richmond turned to Father McCullity. “What did you want to name your son?”

“Oh, after his father, of course. Charles Winchester McCullity.”

“So – what do you think his nationality is?”

“British, of course,” said Sarah, smoothing the infant’s hair expertly. “It takes a long time for English men to practice that petulant look; they have to start at birth, don’t you, sweetums?”

The baby looked up at Sarah’s face. The priest stared at the tableau, his eyes blank.

“And you, John?” asked Lady Richmond. “What are your views on the subject?”

“What – subject?”

“Betrayal. Confession.”

“I would put great stress on that, yes. Too,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

“Then you agree?”

“May I hold him?”

Sarah was staring at the baby intently. Father McCullity almost tore the child from her.

“John! Gently!”

He turned the child around and rested its chest on his shoulder, patting its back, afraid to wipe the sweat from his upper lip.

“You are a happy couple,” said Lady Richmond merrily, raising her glass. “I toast you, most rarest of creatures. Because you love each other, and because you will always confess your sins.”

“But you see,” said Sarah laughing uncomfortably, “none of that matters here. The worst thing anyone does around here is come home late for dinner. Which John, for one, never does.”

“But that’s the secret,” said Lady Richmond. “It can happen anywhere – especially where it’s least expected. It happened to me once.”

It was just a glance that Sarah cast on the baby, but all of them saw it, they saw the idea cross her mind, and that most terrible of lives, the life lived in a lie of civilized agony, took its awful toll. But almost before her cheeks reddened, her eyes narrowed and she shook her head rapidly.

“How did we end up talking about this?” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I only came in for tea!”

“Would you confess a crime, Sarah?” asked Father McCullity softly.

“Now that’s enough!” she cried with a quick laugh. “I simply demand my tea. John – do pass me that darling child and Sasha – be a dear and see if you can find us a waiter.”

Her hands extended and closed over the child’s back, and she drew him to her. As she cooed and gurgled at its solemn face, Lady Richmond looked at Father McCullity serenely, immune to appeal. His fear mounted, and he watched her mouth in sick fascination, at the destruction it held, as if by opening a crack it would suck him into darkness forever. But her closed mouth belied her eyes and, as he stared at her, it began to dawn on him that she was as trapped as he was, that she was able to hint and gouge, but the final act, the absolute truth, the reality – was beyond her. And as his certainty grew, he felt a syrupy glee arise inside, a dizzy sureness that all was right in the world, that Church, God and Man had done their duty and all who lived were fallible. He looked around the bright tea shop, his soul stretching through the dusty air, content in the company of his brethren.

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE: One Last Goodbye

Robert was sitting on the steps when the carriage drove up; the house behind him had a somber, defeated look, like a horse rented for the last time. He had decided to be normal, but being a conscious decision it soon proved impossible. He helped Ilyavich with Helena’s luggage, offered them both some tea, but their sparse conversation was a clear indication of his usefulness, and he quickly found himself staring helplessly at their closed doors, having little choice but to pace the landing for a few minutes to let them know he cared, before going downstairs to rather aimlessly beat out some cushions.

After a few minutes, he heard Helena’s voice behind him.

“I was wondering,” she said, “if you’d seen a little hat I brought with me. A cap. Woolen. I can’t – find it.”

Robert’s heart broke at the senselessness of her tone. He turned around. “No,” he said.

“Oh.” A pause. “Thanks anyway.” She turned away.

“Helena,” he said suddenly, with nothing more to say, but wanting to register some kind of protest.

“What?”

“I’m sorry you have to leave. It seems sort of – pointless. It’s not like we had enough of a chance to get to know each other for me to say – that I’ll miss you…”

She frowned. “No; that is a shame. But you’ll do fine, Robert.”

“I did – like Gregory,” he said, desperately.

She stared at him, and he had a sudden desire to knock on her forehead and ask if anyone was home.

“Helena,” he stammered, “I do like you – very much – and it might not be my place, but I think it would be a real shame if you just – left – without paying any attention to the people around you. People who care for you. It’s a stupid time to say any of this, I know, but I’d – hate to be just someone you just passed some hours with one summer.”

“Of course,” she nodded automatically, turning to go. “But I have to pack.”

“Helena!” he shouted, then thought: why am I shouting?

“Please, Robert,” she said, backing away. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

“For heaven’s sake!” he cried. “What does that mean?”

She shook her head. “I won’t lie to you. Yes: you are the best memory I have here. But you see – I have a little too much on my plate to be wooed just now.”

“And that’s the only interest any man could ever have in you, isn’t it?” demanded Robert.

“Don’t start!” said Helena, tightening her hand on the banister.

“Isn’t it?” said Robert, walking towards her. “Who could have any interest in your soul? In your happiness? Because you’re just an object, aren’t you?”

“Would you be so concerned if I wasn’t a young woman you consider attractive?” asked Helena, her cheeks reddening. “Or a pleasantly exotic foreigner? That night I stayed up with Herzen – you came and chatted with me like an old school chum? Forgive me if I can’t believe that.”

“I like you – but that doesn’t mean I only like one thing.” said Robert, his heart pounding. “It’s true: I talked to you because I found you attractive. But that was just the… the hook. It was what was beyond that that fascinated me.”

“Fascinated,” repeated Helena. “That’s so degrading. I’m not an exhibit.”

“Than what are you, Helena?” asked Robert.

She started to say something. Her eyebrows shrugged closer together. Her hand, he noticed, was white on the ball of the banister. In the path of desire lay a closed wall. He faltered, questioning his relevance. But from deep within him – from a depth he had never suspected – came a certainty that she was somehow wrong, in some essential sense. He had no idea what it was, but he was frightened at the power of his certainty.

“Christ, Helena!” he cried. “What are you doing?”

“What does that mean?” she asked blankly.

“What are we doing?”

“I’m packing. What are you doing?”

He laughed suddenly, relaxing his hands. “Then there’s no use to it. Go upstairs and pack.” She stood, staring at him, her face a mute challenge. “You don’t want anything to do with this,” he said, his voice seeming to echo through the house, “Nothing to do with men or romance or wooing. But look at your hand, for Christ’s sake! Look at it! Some part of you is saying: that’s wrong. That’s not a solution. Helena – you can’t live your life saying no to everything. You can say no to a thousand things, but you have to say yes to something.”

“If it wasn’t for your vanity,” whispered Helena, “you’d realize that I’m not saying no to everything. Just to you.”

“Then tell me one thing you’ve said yes to! Just one thing, and I’ll leave you alone!”

“I haven’t found it yet!”

“How old are you? Twenty five?”

“Four.”

“When do you expect it to happen? On your deathbed? You’re not getting any younger, Helena.”

“Oh yes!” she cried. “God forbid I waste my child-bearing years, right?”

“Is that all that crosses your mind? That I want to impregnate you? Don’t you think there might be just a little more to it than that?”

“Robert – I think you like me, and not just for – that. But you have to admit: that’s where it leads.”

“And all life leads to death – so what are you going to do?”

“You don’t have to embrace it.”

“So don’t. But don’t reject everything because you might not like the consequences, because you don’t know what they are! You don’t, Helena,” he said quickly to cut off her answer. “You don’t know that love and marriage and children would be the end of the world. You don’t know that hating men will buy you freedom.”

“I don’t hate men.”

“What do you hate then?”

“Are you so stupid? My circumstances! That if I choose a man it can never be a choice! It always and must forever be just this: survival.”

“And before your father was robbed, when you were independent – what was it like then? Were you free?”

“No – because I was dependent on him!”

“But that is the way of the world, Helena!” cried Robert. “Most people’s circumstances are miserable! Should their protest be to make themselves miserable? Look at your brother – look at what happened to him.”

“He tried to free himself!” said Helena, blinking violently. “That’s why he…”

“No – he did it for your father. And you know what? I think you are doing this for your father. You worship the ground he walks on, don’t you? And no man had better try replacing him – or else!”

“That’s – ridiculous! I barely speak to him!”

“Or any other man. Isn’t that so? Don’t you see? You can’t hope for him forever!”

“And what do you know of it?” demanded Helena, pounding the banister. “He’s lost his wife, his home, his son. I’m all he has left!”

“And you despise him for that, don’t you?” asked Robert.

“No!” cried Helena angrily, her eyes filling with tears. “Do you have any idea what he sacrificed for us? He never did anything but work! He sent me to school. My mother loved him for it, that he made a life out of nothing. And he never once complained, not when mother left him, not when I left school, nothing! What would you have me do?”

Robert, staring past her face, saw her father appear at the top of the stairs. Instantly he saw how much the old man had heard; saw the struggle in his eyes. No man is strong enough to make such decisions instantly; Ilyavich felt a tearing in his breast at the idea of losing two children all at once. Helena saw Robert’s eyes go past her and she turned, her gaze mounting the steps to her father. Light from a window streamed over him in almost-solid beams, lighting his white hair, cutting across his aged face, and Helena at once felt the full power of her feelings towards him.

Ilyavich smiled sadly, the sadness of an anchor cut loose in the depths. “You’re a very stupid girl,” he murmured. “You’re almost twenty five. Your mother was five years married by then.”

Robert took a step up, standing level with Helena, who stood staring at her father, her body shaking with emotion.

“It’s a lie,” she whispered.

“Grow up – for heaven’s sake!” snapped Ilyavich. He held her gaze for a full minute, while all the unknown things passed between them, then turned deliberately and disappeared from the landing. Helena took a step up, her legs jerking convulsively, but at the same time Robert grabbed her hand, pulled her round and buried her in his embrace. Helpless to resist, taking blind comfort in his warmth, Helena surrendered to the wracking sobs coursing through her body, her hands gripping the back of his shirt, her back twisting in agony.

Staring up at the empty landing, Robert felt an admiration for Ilyavich bordering on awe, and while he murmured in Helena’s ear, he wondered whether he too would be as brave when his own time came to abandon himself to his memories.

PART THREE: HOME

CHAPTER SIXTY: The End of the First Revolution

It was the last beautiful day of autumn – beautiful far beyond the expectations of those who had survived the spring. Mother Nature, partly to celebrate lessons learned and partly to apologize for their harshness, had drawn forth from her endless dress one of her most perfect days; a day where even the birds sensed her generosity, and muted their songs to counterpoint her lavish sunshine.

The perfection of the day had been noted but perfunctorily by those within Father McCullity’s house, where preparations which had been timed to climax the day before had inevitably spilled over into the present, and everyone had been thrown into a state of mad but happy confusion.

The bridal gowns had been hastily stitched by competently chatty groups of matriarchs. That the joy of a double marriage should occur to such richly-endowed fathers was cause for more than feminine celebration; the town’s merchants also found the bounty flowing from the McCullity household much to their liking. The resulting outpouring of fresh suckling-pigs, aromatic pies and suggestively-shaped breads turned the children from generally honest troublemakers to pilferers of the first order (a service for the long-term health of the village which, they commented with sticky mouths, went entirely unappreciated).

Ilyavich had taken over the financial arrangements, and the strain on his habitually-frugal heart was almost too much to bear. But none remained uninvited. This was to be the day of abandoned grudges, and neighbours who had not spoken for years were expected to at least respond to an enemy’s request for more wine.

The church had been turned into a kaleidoscope of near-pagan abandon. Bushels of wheat staggered against the wall like drunken sailors, baskets of apples lay like pie-stuffed children against the pews, and a few sheaves of corn even leaned casually against the altar. Father McCullity had frowned a little while examining the bounty (the corn was especially galling), but he could only shake his head in wonder and make sure his wife would not be admitted into the church until the social clamour of the day could submerge her indignation into grudging acceptance.

Natalie and Helena, of course, were faced with the age-old tensions of brides – they wished for the day to be endless, and only slightly less for it to be consummated. The morning of the weddings, they stood before a large mirror with their helpers buzzing around them like perfectionist bees.

“It’s so tight I can barely breathe,” gasped Natalie, astounded at the miracles that can be generated by dedicated professionals.

“All the more pleasure to remove it then!” grinned Gwen, a grandmother of more children than the rudimentary accounting methods of the village could calculate. She had appointed herself “mistress of the marriages”, a claim which her obvious fertility made virtually unassailable. The fact that her husband of fifty years could still barely keep his hands off her was the clinching argument. Gwen had had an explicitly helpful chat with the two brides-to-be the previous evening, which had widened even Helena’s eyes, who had never imagined that such intimate secrets could be still remembered – let alone nightly employed – by someone so seasoned. Wherein, the old woman had replied with a smile, lay the secret of achieving such venerability. The final result of her thrilling advice was that Natalie and Helena faced the prospect of their wedding-nights with the enthusiasm of children before Christmas who knew what their presents were, what they were for, and were now dying for the excitement of tearing them from their boxes and actually taking them for a spin.

Had Nachaev and Robert been aware of the surprising pleasures in store, they likely would have eloped right then and there and whisked their brides off to their respective haystacks.

Alex had been selected as best man for both weddings; Robert was the only one who knew his friend well enough to appreciate the change that had come over him since meeting Natasha – and so found himself oddly aligned with Natalie, who cherished the change in her sister no less. She had originally confessed her engagement to Natasha with the air of admitting a guilty secret, half-expecting to be regaled with theories and statistics on the efficacy of marriage as a means of male domination, but her sister had merely sighed, as if recognizing the inevitability of her own perceived demise in the face of the Enemy, and had given Natalie faint and regretful blessings.

It had been a short engagement – ten weeks and three days by Natalie’s reckoning. Nachaev had proposed soon after Herzen’s death. Robert, having no such psychic upheavals to propel him, had courted Helena for a somewhat-redundant extra week before committing what Alex still referred to as a mortal sin. At first, Robert had his own hesitations about the match; he was not fool enough to imagine that Helena’s outburst had cleared their paths of all obstacles, but he soon realized that, having fought hard to understand who and what he loved, there was no point in continuing the battle in the face of partial comprehension.

Father McCullity had been mightily relieved by the ensuing onslaught of feminine planning; it had distracted his wife from any reflections she might have had about that terrible day in the café with Lady Richmond. The good Lady, for her part, had left the county the following day. Hearing about the weddings from somewhere or other, she had written to Father McCullity that she would do her best to attend, adding in postscript that she wished Nachaev success in all he desired and leaving her address in London for him. The priest had hastily burned the letter and resolutely turned his full attention back to the events at hand which, since they so often threatened to get out of hand, provided a welcome distraction.

Bishop Cyme had surprised him by accepting his perfunctory invitation with an odd eagerness, promising to be there early to help with any last-minute details. Father McCullity had spent the night before the weddings in odd anticipation; unsure of what an insomniac’s definition of “early” actually was, he half-expected to see the old Bishop tapping on his bedroom window at three in the morning, waving a bottle of communal wine and a sheaf of biblical instructions for the newly-weds.

But now it was half-past ten, and the Bishop was nowhere to be seen. Father McCullity sat in the carriage and glared at his house with the impatience of a man who still cannot understand the need for the immeasurable details of feminine entrances. Ilyavich sat beside him, a frenzy of fidgets.

“Damn it,” muttered the old Russian. “One of the reasons I went into business for myself was so I wouldn’t have to wear this abominable clothing!”

“It’s almost over,” reminded Father McCullity. “Soon you can retreat to retirement.”

Ilyavich was silent for a moment. “No,” he said. “Not since Gregory’s death. I’m being brave for Helena’s sake – perhaps she’s being brave for mine too – but after this is over I go back to work. This painting idea was quite ridiculous. There’s no reason why I should try to change careers this late in life. We’re only granted one real talent – the rest is for hobbies.”

“So what will you do with your savings?”

“Pff! The precious little left after today will go to Natalie and Helena. I wasn’t a very good father or uncle, but at least I can furnish them with the profits of my negligence. Besides, there’s this hundred million pounds going toward railways in India. I’ve traded with Indians before – I’m sure I can wrestle a contract or two my way. I’m off to London next week.”

“Oh,” said Father McCullity. “I’ll miss you.”

“So come with me,” said Ilyavich with a smile. “You hate being a priest.”

“I think that’s my only talent.”

“Think about it. The offer stands ’till next week.”

“I will. For heaven’s sake, where are they?” demanded the priest suddenly, craning his head out of the carriage and rapping his cane on the footboard. “Come on, you layabouts! Everyone’s waiting!”

The front door disgorged a gaggle of women, who parted like startled swans to reveal the emerging brides. Natalie waved, conscious of her radiance but unconscious of its effect. Helena scowled a little at the sunlight, looking so uncomfortable in her dress that a chivalrous man’s first instinct would have been to help her out of it. Father McCullity blinked, surprised at his train of thought.

An old woman stood behind the brides, her brows knitted. Suddenly she slapped her forehead, leant forward and whispered into their ears. Natalie laughed, her cheeks reddening.

“Oh no!” she cried. “I couldn’t do that!”

“I could,” grinned Helena, jogging her arm. “Come on!”

The priest frowned when they rounded the final bend to his church. The building was crammed to capacity for the first time in living (or, come to think of it, dead) memory, and he could not help thinking that if these people paid as much attention to God as to procreation… But with that thought another image – altogether more fervent – came to mind, and he shook his head.

Bishop Cyme was waiting for him at the alter when Father McCullity entered the church. He gave his superior a broad smile.

“You said you would be early,” he chided.

“Early for the end, young man,” replied the Bishop, nodding mysteriously. “Time is relative.”

“Ah.”

“Your son – Robert? A most – promising youth. You must be very proud.”

“Yes, I am. But you…”

“Oh, yes, he shall supplant our wildest dreams. He is our obsolescence. But the other man – this Nachaev – he is an atheist?”

Father McCullity smiled nervously. “Not today.”

“Ah, don’t be so sure. They also have their Eden. I never married, you know – you knew that?”

“Yes.”

“Never married anyone else, either. An oddity, but well worth observing. Still, I shall take my place, at peace with the world. You must come and visit again.”

Father McCullity repressed a shudder, remembering that awful dawn. “Yes – I must.”

Bishop Cyme nodded. “Now – about your business. Don’t let me interfere. Capital!” he smiled oddly, taking a seat in the first pew. “It won’t make you nervous?”

“How will you know if I do it wrong?” replied the old priest, forcing a smile.

“Ahh, true, true,” grinned Bishop Cyme. “But you can do no wrong. You are here. Enjoy your day.”

Robert seized Alex’s arm just before they went in.

“I say, old man – have you got the ring!”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“The one for your finger, or the one I picked up in the Orient for your…”

“Never mind! You know, you’re still quite disgusting.”

“Quite? Well, that’s an improvement.”

“And you can scowl as much as you like, but I still say you only have six months left to enjoy your pathetic idea of freedom.”

“Yes – well we may live together in time, but this sort of ceremonial head-ducking will never be to our tastes. Besides, Natasha wants to go back to Russia.”

“And you’ll follow? No kow-towing there, obviously.”

“I go where my heart leads me,” grinned Alex. “For want of a better word… You want some real pleasure, tell Helena to put on some weight. There’s nothing like it.”

“Your crap is now only mitigated by its obvious fixation,” commented Robert.

Nachaev frowned, turning his head. “If you’re quite done with your manly banter,” he said, “I would like a moment or two to prepare myself.”

“Prepare yourself!” cried Alex. “The revolutionary fears a church?”

“The revolutionary fears this,” he replied. “No revolution, but no stagnation either. I don’t know what will happen in there.”

“A rather blasé and ancient ceremony,” said Alex. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Robert shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say that. Word has got around that Gwen has had a little chat with our brides-to-be. Frankly, I’m a little apprehensive.”

“Is that all?” asked Alex. “Well, all you have to do is lick their neck and blow…”

“Oh shut up!” cried the two grooms simultaneously.

Ilyavich came in through the open church door.

“Are you ready?” he asked, mopping the sweat from his brow. “Please say yes, so I can look forward to changing.”

“Yes, we’re…” Nachaev said, then stopped, staring out the closing door. “Give me a moment,” he said, his face pale. He leapt out the door a moment before it closed.

“Poor Natalie,” said Ilyavich, shaking his head.

Robert opened the door and squinted out. “Hello – who’s that?”

Ilyavich looked over his shoulder. An elegant carriage had pulled up in front of the church; Nachaev and a darkly-dressed woman stood before it in deep conversation. “That’s – a friend of Father McCullity’s,” said Ilyavich with a sudden smile, patting Robert on the shoulder. “Just the person I need to talk to!” He stepped outside, and was quite surprised at the expression on Nachaev’s face.

“Get back inside!” hissed the young man.

“But I’m…”

“Get inside! We’ll be there in a moment!”

Ilyavich frowned, backing into the church.

“You can’t be serious!” said Nachaev, turning back to the woman.

“You seemed quite serious when you gave your advice,” said Lady Richmond. “Not that it seemed so at the time, but in reflection I have decided that you, of all people, were right.”

“But – it’s my wedding day!” cried Nachaev.

“How quickly you have become domesticated,” she smiled. “I took your wilder side at face value, and will now act accordingly. What you said – that I would have to face my son – was right. He has told his first lie.”

“It still is right!” cried Nachaev. “But to expose Father McCullity – today of all days – will be futile beyond words!”

“Why? Because it disturbs your little ritual?”

Nachaev shook his head. “No! Because – because this ritual is important, and because the world will not be changed by you upsetting the throne of one little village priest.”

“Expose him, you said,” replied Lady Richmond. “Use the power that all women envy, you said. I listened to you, remembered what you told me, and now you – a man whose tranquillity is threatened – you turn on me and tell me to do otherwise! Well, I am very sorry, Mr. Nachaev, but I will not spend my whole life being told what to do by men! You don’t like the bed, you shouldn’t have made it!”

“Don’t listen to men, then,” cried Nachaev. “Listen to – to reason! You want to beat a dead horse – does this make sense? You want to punish Father McCullity for a match he made in his youth, when he made a pact to reduce his marital happiness to something that could be written on the back of a postage stamp! Maybe even – maybe even when he decided to become a priest because he wanted security and comfort.” Nachaev’s words spilled from his mouth in confusion, the confusion of straining to convince without violence. “You want morality? Then don’t waste it on the old! Teach your child! Sometimes – sometimes it is enough for all parties to know the truth and act on it. Trust me, Nora. I know.” He took a deep breath. “I know this: vengeance is not the first step to goodness. You don’t want to know where that leads…”

Lady Richmond blinked. “Are you telling me that I shouldn’t expose him now? Are you telling me that you were wrong?”

“Yes! Yes – I was wrong. Don’t you see – there’s no point telling him without telling anyone else, because he already knows! But to go in there and use social damnation as a means of punishment would be to hide behind the weapons of others! It’s nothing but cowardice and – destruction for the sake of destruction. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but it’s as clear as I can be,” he said, watching her intently.

“All these arguments,” she said with a slow smile. “All this rationality – is entirely misplaced. You would have been far better off to simply say: Nora, I was wrong, and as a man I apologize for planting the seeds that dragged you halfway across England for nothing more than the banality of a middle-class wedding.”

“So now?”

“As of now, Mr. Nachaev, the ball is in your court.”

Nachaev exhaled slowly. “Then: I apologize. For everything.”

Lady Richmond sighed. “Obsequiousness is out of order. I can get that from my servants. But I shall draw my specific colour from your whitewash, and call myself satisfied.”

“You are a good woman.”

“Better than any man,” she retorted. “Especially one who calls manic self-interest enlightened ethics.”

Nachaev frowned. “Are the two that far apart?”

“Later, my rabid Russian. At the reception you can regale me at will.”

“You’ll be there?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course,” she smiled. “I won’t make it hard for him, but on the other hand – why make it easy?”

The church doors were suddenly thrown to their full width. Ilyavich stood there, his face dark.

“Sergei! This is inexcusable! Your bride is waiting!”

Whether Father McCullity ever knew the debt he owed Sergei Nachaev, or whether he even had an inkling of his most narrow escape is a question which, unfortunately, falls utterly outside the scope of our story. It’s a shame, really, for it’s quite possible that he spent several excruciating hours at the reception watching Lady Richmond chatting with his wife and nodding her head at Ilyavich’s incomprehensible enthusiasm for Indian railways. At the end of it all, Father McCullity may have been prompted to confess to his wife, but that final reckoning is beyond need of reporting. Those who outgrew the stunted habits of their histories now faced a future that was free of fate, and so their tale can no longer be told. For now, they tell it themselves.

EPILOGUE: A Final Confession

At the end of their longest journey, Nachaev and Natalie lay panting in the warmth of their bed.

“My God – what a day,” she sighed, leaning into his arm.

He shifted to accommodate her. “And it’s not over yet.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sergei! No more! For now.”

Nachaev shook his head slowly. “Not that. I’m afraid I have one last confession to make.”

“Oh. Can it wait?”

“Are you tired?”

“No, but… Is it something I want to know right now?” she asked nervously.

“I think it’s important. For a clean slate.”

“Well – then go ahead.”

“You won’t get angry?”

“I don’t think so. How can I know?”

“It’s not very complimentary – to either of us.”

“Sergei – don’t play with me.”

He shifted away from her and smiled.

“You remember that time when you washed me?” he asked.

Her eyes widened.