XII
Diary of Lopatin.—Six days have passed since the meeting between Bezsonow and Nadejda Nicolaievna, and she has not been. She merely wrote a few lines in which she begged me to excuse her, and mentioned something about some business.
I showed the note to Helfreich, and we both decided that she is ill. We must find her at all costs. If we knew her name, we could find her address at an Inquiry Bureau, but neither I nor he knew it. It was useless to ask Bezsonow. I was in despair, but Simon Ivanovich promised me to hunt her out “even if she were at the bottom of the sea.” Getting up early the next morning, he dressed with as much care and determination as if he was starting on some dangerous expedition, and disappeared for the whole day.
Left alone, I tried to work, but the work wouldn’t go. I took a book from a shelf, and began to read. The words and ideas passed through my brain without conveying any impression. I made every effort to devote my whole attention, and yet could not get beyond a few pages.
I shut the book—a clever and good book which a few days ago I had read, although with some difficulty, nevertheless with attraction and pleasure such as good reading always affords—and went out to stroll through the town.
A half-conscious, vague hope of meeting, if not Nadejda Nicolaievna herself, at least someone who could give me a hint about her, was present the whole time, and all the time I looked closely at the passersby, and several times crossed over to the other side of the street when I saw a woman at all reminding me of her in appearance. But I met no one except Captain Grum-Skjebitski about four o’clock (it was the end of December, and already dark), who was walking along the Nevsky Prospect with a stately air of importance. It was very warm for the time of the year. The Captain was walking along in quite a smart fur, unbuttoned and opened about the neck. A flowered-silk tie with a bright tiepin showed out from the fur. The Captain’s tall hat shone as if polished, and in his hand, encased in a fashionable yellow glove with broad black stripes, he carried a big ivory-headed cane.
Seeing me, he smiled pleasantly in a patronizing way, and, making a gracious movement of the hand, came up to me.
“Glad to see you. Monsieur Lopatin,” said he. “A very agreeable meeting.”
He pressed my hand, and, in reply to my question as to his health, continued:
“Quite well, I thank you. Are you merely out for a stroll or hurrying somewhere? If the former is the correct case, will you not walk a little with me? I would willingly turn and go with you, but habit. Monsieur Lopatin! I go for a walk daily, and take the Nevsky twice up and down. It is a law of mine.”
I wanted to return home, and so turned and went with the Captain. He carried on a dignified conversation.
“This is the second pleasant rencontre today,” said he. “I came across Mr. Bezsonow also on the Nevsky, and learnt that he is also a friend of yours.”
“Wonderful, Captain! So you know Bezsonow, too?”
“Ask me whom I do not know!” replied the Captain, shrugging his shoulders. “When Mr. Bezsonow was a student he resided at my hotel. We were excellent friends, upon my word of honour. Who has not lived with me, Monsieur Lopatin? Many now well-known engineers, jurists, and authors know the Captain—yes, very many famous people remember me.”
And with this the Captain politely bowed to someone who passed by rapidly with a preoccupied clever face. A look of perplexity was followed by a smile and a friendly nod of the head.
“He does not forget old friends, although he is now of high rank. That gentleman, Monsieur Lopatin, is the famous engineer, Petritseff. Also lived as student with me.”
“And Bezsonow?” I inquired.
“Bezsonow is a very nice gentleman. Has a certain weakness for les beaux yeux of the fair sex …” added the Captain, stooping towards my ear.
I felt my heart beat faster. It struck me that the Captain must know something also of Nadejda Nicolaievna.
The Captain again bowed to some acquaintance, and continued:
“Yes, if he had not been such a very nice young gentleman, we should have quarrelled, Monsieur Lopatin; but I remember my own youth; besides, an old soldier even now is not indifferent to les beaux yeux.”
He gave me a sidelong glance and winked, whilst his shrivelled-up little eyes became somewhat oily.
“Captain,” I began, “I—I am very glad that you know Bezsonow. … I, you understand, did not know this.”
“He only lived with me for a very short time.”
“Was he acquainted …”
I suddenly became ashamed of myself. Something held my tongue, ready to utter the name of Nadejda Nicolaievna. I looked at the Captain. His eyes, which had suddenly changed their expression, were fixed intently on me. At this moment he resembled a vulture.
“But you probably do not know. Forgive me,” I finished confusedly.
He looked at me, assumed a most unconcerned air, and flourished his stick.
“Yes, an old soldier has something to remember …” he continued, as if I had asked him nothing. “I am in my sixtieth,” he added, mournfully shaking his head. “I must confess that I envy you, Monsieur Lopatin, but only your youth.”
“Where did you serve. Captain?” I inquired, remembering Helfreich’s words.
The Captain once more became quite changed. His face became preternaturally serious. He glanced to the right and left, looked behind him, and, bending down so close that his moustache even brushed against my ear, whispered:
“Between ourselves, as gentlemen! You see before you, Monsieur Lopatin, a warrior of Miekoff and Opatoff.” And he stepped back a pace and looked at me in a manner which seemed to demand astonishment on my part. I made an effort to assume an expression suitable to the occasion.
“This is the secret which I confide only to my most intimate friends …” added the Captain, as again he bent down and again jumped back from me, regarding me with a triumphant look.
There was nothing left but to thank him for his confidence, and part as we had reached the “Police” bridge.
I was angry with myself. I had almost mentioned Nadejda Nicolaievna’s name to this man, whom I did not trust in the least.
When I arrived home, Alexeievna informed me that “our cat man” had not yet returned. She served dinner and stood at the door, her face expressing keenest sympathy at my lack of appetite.
“What has happened, Andrei Nicolaievich, that she does not come?” she asked.
“She must be ill, Alexeievna.”
She shook her head, and, sighing deeply, went off to the kitchen to bring me my tea. It was long since I had dined without Helfreich, and I was very lonely.