II
It was still early when he arrived, about ten o’clock; but the great white hall with its gilded chairs and mirrors was ready for the reception of guests, and all the fires were lighted. The pianist was sitting beside the piano, a dapper young man in a black frock coat—for it was an expensive house. He was smoking, carefully flicking the ash of his cigarette so as not to soil the carpet, and glancing over the music. In the corner near the darkened dining room there sat all arow, on three chairs, three girls whispering to one another.
As he entered with the manageress, two of the girls rose, but the third remained sitting; the two who rose were very décolletée, the third wore a deep black frock. The two looked at him straight, with a look of invitation, half indifferent, half weary; but the third turned aside. Her profile was calm and simple, like that of any proper young maiden—a thoughtful face. Apparently she had been telling a story to the others, and the others had been listening, and now she was continuing the train of thought, telling the rest in silence.
And just because she was silent and reflective and did not look at him, because she had the appearance of a proper woman, he chose her. Never before having been to a brothel he did not know that in every well equipped house of this sort there are one or two such women, dressed in black like nuns or young widows, with pale faces, unrouged, even stern, their task being to provide an illusion of propriety to those who seek it—but when they go with a man to their room, drinking and becoming like the rest, or even worse—brawling and breaking the china, dancing about, undressing and dancing into the hall naked, and even killing men who are too importunate. Such are the women with whom drunken students fall in love, whom they persuade to begin new, honourable lives.
But of all this he knew nothing. And when she rose reluctantly, and looked at him with displeased and averted eyes, glancing at him sharply out of her pale and colourless face, he thought once again, “How very proper she is!”—and felt some relief. But, keeping up the dissimulation, constant, unavoidable, which caused him to have two lives and made his life a stage, he balanced himself elegantly on his feet from his heels to his toes, snapped his fingers, and said to the girl with the careless air of a habitual debauchee:—
“Well, what about it, my dear? Shall we pay you a visit, now, eh? Where is your little nest?”
“Now—at once?” the girl asked, surprised, and raised her eyebrows. He smiled gaily, disclosing even rows of strong straight teeth, blushed deeply, and replied:
“Certainly. Why lose valuable time?”
“There will be some music soon. We can dance.”
“Dance, my fair charmer? Silly twiddles—catching oneself by the tail. As to the music, it can be heard from up there?”
She looked at him and smiled.
“Fairly well.”
She was beginning to like him. He had prominent cheek bones and was clean shaven; his cheeks and the lower part of the mouth, under the clean-cut lips, were slightly blue, as when dark-bearded men shave. He had fine dark eyes, although in expression a little too unswerving; and they moved slowly and heavily, as though every movement were a great distance to be traversed. But despite his shaven face and easy manner, she reasoned, he did not resemble an actor, but rather an acclimatized foreigner.
“You are not a German?” she asked.
“Nnno. Not quite. I mean, I am an Englishman. Do you like Englishmen?”
“But what good Russian you speak! I should never have guessed!”
He recollected his British passport and the affected accent he had been using lately, and he blushed again at the thought of having forgotten to keep up the pretence as he ought to have done. Then with a slight frown, and assuming a businesslike dryness of tone in which a certain amount of weariness was perceptible, he took the girl by the elbow and led her along swiftly.
“No, I am a Russian, Russian. Now, where are we to go? Show me! This way?”
The large mirror showed the full-length figures of the pair sharply and clearly—she in black, pale, and at that distance very pretty; he also in black, and just as pale.
Under the glare of the electric lights hanging from the ceiling his wide forehead and the hard mass of his prominent cheeks were peculiarly pale; and both in his face and the girl’s, where the eyes should have been, there were mysterious, fascinating hollows. And so strange was the picture of such a black stern couple against the white walls, reflected in the broad gilded mirror, that he was startled, and stopped short by the thought: “Like a bride and bridegroom.” And, as his imagination was dulled by want of sleep, and his thoughts brusque and inconsequent, the next moment, looking at the stern pair in mourning black, he thought: “As at a funeral.” And both notions were equally unpleasant.
Apparently his feelings were shared by the girl. She silently, wonderingly glanced at herself and him, him and herself; she tried to wink—but the mirror would not respond to so slight a movement, and in the same dull and obstinate manner persisted in picturing this black shamefast couple. And perhaps this pleased the girl, or recalled something of herself, something sad, for she smiled gently, and lightly pressed his clenched hand.
“What a couple!” she said reflectively, and for some reason or other the dark bow of her eyelashes, with the fine curve of their droop, became more noticeable.
This he did not observe, but resolutely dragged the girl along with him, she tapping her way on high French heels on the parquet flooring.
There was a corridor, as there always is, and narrow dark little rooms with open doors. At one of them inscribed above in irregular handwriting, “Liuba,” they entered.
“And now, Liuba,” he said, looking round and unconsciously rubbing his hands one over the other, as though carefully washing them in cold water, “don’t we want wine and something else? Or some fruit?”
“Fruit is expensive here.”
“That doesn’t matter. Do you drink wine?”
He had forgotten himself and was addressing her as you; he noticed it, but did not correct himself, for there had been something in that touch of her hand which made him unwilling to use the familiar pronoun, or play the lover and act a part. This feeling, too, passed on to her; she stared at him fixedly, and answered deliberately, with some uncertainty in her voice, though none in the language she used.
“Thank you. I do drink. Wait a moment. I will return at once. I will tell them to bring only two pears and two apples. Will that be enough?”
It was now she who was using the pronoun of politeness, and through the tone of voice in which she spoke the word there could be heard the same irresolution, a slight hesitation and interrogation.
But he paid no attention to this. When he was alone, he went swiftly to work surveying the room from all sides. He tested the closing of the door—it closed splendidly, on the latch and on the key; went to the window, opened both casements—it was high up on the second floor and looked out on the courtyard. He frowned and shook his head. Then he experimented on the lights; there were two of them; when the one on the ceiling was switched off, the other by the bed lit up under a little red hood—just as in the best hotels.
But the bed!
He grinned and raised his shoulders, as though laughing silently, distorting his face as people must who are stealthy and for some reason secretive, even when they are alone.
But the bed!
He walked round it, handled the wadded counterpane, and then with a sudden longing to be gay and saucy in his joy at the sleep he was going to have, he twisted his head like a boy, stuck out his lips, made round eyes—all to express his highest degree of amazement. But at once he became serious again, sat down, and wearily waited for Liuba.
He wanted to think of Thursday, that he was now in a brothel—that he was already there—but the thought rebelled and stubbornly resisted him. Outraged sleep was taking its revenge. There on the street, sleep had been so gentle; now it no longer caressed his face, as with a soft downy hand, but made his own hands and feet writhe, and racked his body as though it would rend him asunder.
Suddenly he began yawning, even to the point of tears. He took out his Browning and three full clips of cartridges, and savagely blew down the barrel, as into a key. It was all in order … and he longed insufferably for sleep.
When the wine and fruit were brought in, and Liuba came in after them, he shut the door, only on the latch, and said:
“Well … all right … please help yourself, Liuba. Please do.”
“And you … ?” The girl, surprised, looked at him askance.
“I will … later on. For two nights, you see, I have been having a gay time of it and have had no sleep, and now. …” He yawned frightfully, straining his jaws.
“Well … ?”
“I will … later. Just an hour. I will … soon. And you, please drink and don’t spare. And eat the fruit. Why did you get so little?”
“But may I go into the hall? There will be some music.”
This was inconvenient. They might begin talking about him, the strange guest who had gone to sleep, and might start guessing … and that might be awkward. So, lightly restraining a yawn which was already riving his jaws, he said sedately and earnestly:
“No, Liuba. I shall ask you to stay here. You see, I don’t much like sleeping alone in a room. It’s a mere whim, but you will excuse me. …”
“Certainly. You have paid your money and. …”
“Yes, yes,” and he blushed for the third time, “quite true, but that isn’t what I mean. … And, if you like … you can lie down too. I will leave room for you. Only please lie next the wall. You don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t want to sleep. I will just sit here.”
“Will you read?”
“There are no books here.”
“Would you like today’s paper? I have it here. There is something interesting in it.”
“No, thank you.”
“As you like. You know best. But … with your permission. …”
He shut and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, without noticing the strange look with which the girl followed his movements. This courteous and decent conversation, such a curious conversation in this home of misery where the very air was thick with the vapours of drunken brawls, seemed to him perfectly natural and quite convincing. With the same polite air, as though he were in the company of young ladies, he touched the edge of his frock-coat and asked:
“Do you mind if I take off my coat?”
The girl scowled slightly.
“Certainly. Of course. …”
“And my waistcoat? It’s so tight.”
The girl did not answer, but merely shrugged her shoulders.
“Here is my pocketbook … and money. Will you be so good as to take care of them for me?”
“You had better leave them at the office. We always deposit such things there.”
“Why?” He looked at the girl, and turned aside in confusion. “Oh, of course … but that’s silly!”
“But do you know how much you have on you? Some people don’t know, and then afterwards. …”
“I understand. Quite. You desire. …”
He lay down, politely leaving room for her by the wall. And enchanting sleep, spaciously smiling, came and nestled with its downy cheek against his, gently fondled him, stroking his knees, and mercifully settling to rest with its soft, velvety head on his shoulder. He smiled.
“What makes you smile?” The girl smiled involuntarily.
“Because I am comfortable. … How soft your pillows are! Now we can talk awhile. Why don’t you drink something?”
“I think I shall take off my things … if you don’t mind? I shall have to sit still so long.”
Her voice had a touch of mockery. But at the sight of his unsuspecting glance, and hearing his simple. … “Certainly, please do” … she explained quite simply and seriously: “My corset is so tight. I shall take it off, too … if I may.”
“Certainly, you may.”
He turned away, blushing. But, either because insomnia had so addled his thoughts, or because all his life he had been so innocent, his “you may” sounded quite natural to him … in a house where all things were allowed and nobody ever thought of asking anybody’s leave about anything.
He heard a rustling of silk and the unbuttoning of a dress—then a question:
“You are not an author?”
“What … an author? No, I am not an author. Er … do you like authors?”
“No, I do not.”
“Why? They are men. …” He yawned—a long satisfying yawn.
“And what is your name?”
Silence … and then:
“My name is … N—no! Peter.”
“And what are you? What do you do?”
The girl questioned him gently, but watchfully, and in a firm tone. The impression conveyed by her voice might have been that she was moving towards the bed. But he by now had ceased to hear her; he was already sleeping. For one moment an expiring thought had flickered in a single picture, in which time and space melted into a motley of shadows, gloom and light, motion and repose, a single picture of crowds and endless streets and a ceaseless turning of wheels depicted the whole of those two days and nights of frenzied chase. And in an instant all of this was stilled, dimmed, and had passed away—and then in the soft half-light, in the deep shadow, he had an image of one of the picture galleries where, the day before, for two hours, he had eluded his pursuers. He seemed to be sitting on a red velvet divan, which was extraordinarily soft, and staring fixedly at a huge black picture; and such a restfulness proceeded from that old black cracked canvas, his eyes were so much rested, his thoughts reposing so gently, that for some moments, even in his sleep, he began fighting sleep, confusedly afraid of it, as though of an unknown disquietude.
But the music in the hall played on, the frequent little notes with bare heads hairless jostled up and down, and the thought came: “Now I can sleep.” And all at once he fell into a deep slumber. Triumphantly, eagerly, gentle glossy sleep soothed and embraced him—and in profound silence masking their breathing they went their way into a pellucid melting sea.
Thus he slept on—one hour and then another—on his back in the polite posture he had assumed awake, his right hand in his pocket holding the key and his revolver; the girl, neck and arms bare sitting opposite, smoking, sipping cognac, gazing on him. Now and then, to get a better view, she craned her rather thin, flexible neck, and, when she moved, her lips curled with two deep creases of constraint. She had not thought to turn out the hanging lamp, and under the strong light he was neither young nor old nor strange nor intimate, but some unknown being—the cheeks unknown, the nose ending in a bird’s beak of shape unknown, the breathing, so even and powerful and strong, unknown. His thick hair was cut short in military fashion, and she noticed on the left temple, near the eye, a little whitened scar from some former wound. There was no cross strung round his neck.
The music in the hall died down or started afresh—piano and violin and songs and the pit-a-pat of dancing feet; but she sat on, smoking cigarettes and observing the sleeper. She stretched her neck inquisitively to look at his left hand which was lying on his breast—a very broad palm and strong restful fingers; it seemed to weigh heavily on him, to hurt, so with a careful movement she lifted it and let it down gently at the side of the big body on the bed. Then rose swiftly and noisily, and, as though she wanted to smash the switch, roughly turned out the upper lamp, lighting the lower one under the red hood.
But even then he did not stir. His face in the pink light remained as unknown, as terrifying as before, in its immobility and repose.
She turned aside, clasped her knees with her arms, now softly reddening, threw her head back and stared motionless at the ceiling from the dusky hollows of her unblinking eyes. And in her teeth, tightly pressed, there hung a cigarette, half smoked, cold, dead.