UNDER WESTERN EYES. Джозеф Конрад

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СКАЧАТЬ Suppose I admitted that. Are antagonistic ideas then to be reconciled more easily—can they be cemented with blood and violence into that concord which you proclaim to be so near?"

      She looked at me searchingly with her clear grey eyes, without answering my reasonable question—my obvious, my unanswerable question.

      "It is inconceivable," I added, with something like annoyance.

      "Everything is inconceivable," she said. "The whole world is inconceivable to the strict logic of ideas. And yet the world exists to our senses, and we exist in it. There must be a necessity superior to our conceptions. It is a very miserable and a very false thing to belong to the majority. We Russians shall find some better form of national freedom than an artificial conflict of parties—which is wrong because it is a conflict and contemptible because it is artificial. It is left for us Russians to discover a better way."

      Mrs. Haldin had been looking out of the window. She turned upon me the almost lifeless beauty of her face, and the living benign glance of her big dark eyes.

      "That's what my children think," she declared.

      "I suppose," I addressed Miss Haldin, "that you will be shocked if I tell you that I haven't understood—I won't say a single word; I've understood all the words.... But what can be this era of disembodied concord you are looking forward to. Life is a thing of form. It has its plastic shape and a definite intellectual aspect. The most idealistic conceptions of love and forbearance must be clothed in flesh as it were before they can be made understandable."

      I took my leave of Mrs. Haldin, whose beautiful lips never stirred. She smiled with her eyes only. Nathalie Haldin went with me as far as the door, very amiable.

      "Mother imagines that I am the slavish echo of my brother Victor. It is not so. He understands me better than I can understand him. When he joins us and you come to know him you will see what an exceptional soul it is." She paused. "He is not a strong man in the conventional sense, you know," she added. "But his character is without a flaw."

      "I believe that it will not be difficult for me to make friends with your brother Victor."

      "Don't expect to understand him quite," she said, a little maliciously. "He is not at all—at all—western at bottom."

      And on this unnecessary warning I left the room with another bow in the doorway to Mrs. Haldin in her armchair by the window. The shadow of autocracy all unperceived by me had already fallen upon the Boulevard des Philosophes, in the free, independent and democratic city of Geneva, where there is a quarter called "La Petite Russie." Whenever two Russians come together, the shadow of autocracy is with them, tinging their thoughts, their views, their most intimate feelings, their private life, their public utterances—haunting the secret of their silences.

      What struck me next in the course of a week or so was the silence of these ladies. I used to meet them walking in the public garden near the University. They greeted me with their usual friendliness, but I could not help noticing their taciturnity. By that time it was generally known that the assassin of M. de P—- had been caught, judged, and executed. So much had been declared officially to the news agencies. But for the world at large he remained anonymous. The official secrecy had withheld his name from the public. I really cannot imagine for what reason.

      One day I saw Miss Haldin walking alone in the main valley of the Bastions under the naked trees.

      "Mother is not very well," she explained.

      As Mrs. Haldin had, it seemed, never had a day's illness in her life, this indisposition was disquieting. It was nothing definite, too.

      "I think she is fretting because we have not heard from my brother for rather a long time."

      "No news—good news," I said cheerfully, and we began to walk slowly side by side.

      "Not in Russia," she breathed out so low that I only just caught the words. I looked at her with more attention.

      "You too are anxious?"

      She admitted after a moment of hesitation that she was.

      "It is really such a long time since we heard...."

      And before I could offer the usual banal suggestions she confided in me.

      "Oh! But it is much worse than that. I wrote to a family we know in Petersburg. They had not seen him for more than a month. They thought he was already with us. They were even offended a little that he should have left Petersburg without calling on them. The husband of the lady went at once to his lodgings. Victor had left there and they did not know his address."

      I remember her catching her breath rather pitifully. Her brother had not been seen at lectures for a very long time either. He only turned up now and then at the University gate to ask the porter for his letters. And the gentleman friend was told that the student Haldin did not come to claim the last two letters for him. But the police came to inquire if the student Haldin ever received any correspondence at the University and took them away.

      "My two last letters," she said.

      We faced each other. A few snow-flakes fluttered under the naked boughs. The sky was dark.

      "What do you think could have happened?" I asked.

      Her shoulders moved slightly.

      "One can never tell—in Russia."

      I saw then the shadow of autocracy lying upon Russian lives in their submission or their revolt. I saw it touch her handsome open face nestled in a fur collar and darken her clear eyes that shone upon me brilliantly grey in the murky light of a beclouded, inclement afternoon.

      "Let us move on," she said. "It is cold standing—to-day."

      She shuddered a little and stamped her little feet. We moved briskly to the end of the alley and back to the great gates of the garden.

      "Have you told your mother?" I ventured to ask.

      "No. Not yet. I came out to walk off the impression of this letter."

      I heard a rustle of paper somewhere. It came from her muff. She had the letter with her in there.

      "What is it that you are afraid of?" I asked.

      To us Europeans of the West, all ideas of political plots and conspiracies seem childish, crude inventions for the theatre or a novel. I did not like to be more definite in my inquiry.

      "For us—for my mother specially, what I am afraid of is incertitude. People do disappear. Yes, they do disappear. I leave you to imagine what it is—the cruelty of the dumb weeks—months—years! This friend of ours has abandoned his inquiries when he heard of the police getting hold of the letters. I suppose he was afraid of compromising himself. He has a wife and children—and why should he, after all.... Moreover, he is without influential connections and not rich. What could he do?... Yes, I am afraid of silence—for my poor mother. She won't be able to bear it. For my brother I am afraid of..." she became almost indistinct, "of anything."

      We were now near the gate opposite the theatre. She raised her voice.

      "But lost people do turn up even in Russia. Do you know what my last hope is? Perhaps the next thing we know, we shall see him walking into our rooms."

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