The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham (46 page)

“He has been a disappointment to me,” she said. “I never thought he was a clever man, but I thought he was an honest one. He’s going to have a baby.”

Mr Harrington who was about to put a piece of fish into his mouth, stopped, his fork in the air, and stared at Anastasia Alexandrovna with astonishment. In extenuation it must be explained that he had never read a Russian novel in his life. Ashenden, slightly perplexed too, gave her a questioning look.

“I’m not the mother,” she said with a laugh. “I am not interested in that sort of thing. The mother is a friend of mine and a well-known writer on Political Economy. I do not think her views are sound, but I should be the last to deny that they deserve consideration. She has a good brain, quite a good brain.” She turned to Mr Harrington. “Are you interested in Political Economy?”

For once in his life Mr Harrington was speechless. Anastasia Alexandrovna gave them her views on the subject and they began to speak on the situation in Russia. She seemed to be on intimate terms with the leaders of the various political parties and Ashenden made up his mind to sound her on the possibility of her working with him. His infatuation had not blinded him to the fact that she was an extremely intelligent woman. After dinner he told Mr Harrington that he wished to talk business with Anastasia Alexandrovna and took her to a retired corner of the lounge. He told her all he thought necessary and found her interested and anxious to help. She had a passion for intrigue and a desire for power. When he hinted that he had command of large sums of money she saw at once that through him she might acquire an influence in the affairs of Russia. It tickled her vanity. She was immensely patriotic, but like many patriots she had an impression that her own aggrandizement tended to the good of her country. When they parted they had come to a working agreement.

“That was a very remarkable woman,” said Mr Harrington next morning when they met at breakfast.

“Don’t fall in love with her,” smiled Ashenden.

This, however, was not a matter on which Mr Harrington was prepared to jest.

“I have never looked at a woman since I married Mrs Harrington,” he said. “That husband of hers must be a bad man.”

“I could do with a plate of scrambled eggs,” said Ashenden, irrelevantly, for their breakfast consisted of a cup of tea without milk and a little jam instead of sugar.

With Anastasia Alexandrovna to help him and Dr Orth in the background, Ashenden set to work. Things in Russia were going from bad to worse. Kerensky, the head of the Provisional Government, was devoured by vanity and dismissed any minister who gave evidence of a capacity that might endanger his own position. He made speeches. He made endless speeches. At one moment there was a possibility that the Germans would make a dash for Petrograd. Kerensky made speeches. The food shortage grew more serious, the winter was approaching and there was no fuel. Kerensky made speeches. In the background the Bolsheviks were active, Lenin was hiding in Petrograd, it was said that Kerensky knew where he was, but dared not arrest him. He made speeches.

It amused Ashenden to see the unconcern with which Mr Harrington wandered through this turmoil. History was in the making and Mr Harrington minded his own business. It was uphill work. He was made to pay bribes to secretaries and underlings under the pretence that the ear of great men would be granted to him. He was kept waiting for hours in antechambers and then sent away without ceremony. When at last he saw the great men he found they had nothing to give him but idle words. They made him promises and in a day or two he discovered that the promises meant nothing. Ashenden advised him to throw in his hand and return to America; but Mr Harrington would not hear of it; his firm had sent him to do a particular job, and by gum, he was going to do it or perish in the attempt. Then Anastasia Alexandrovna took him in hand. A singular friendship had arisen between the pair. Mr Harrington thought her a very remarkable and deeply wronged woman; he told her all about his wife and two sons, he told her all about the Constitution of the United States; she on her side told him all about Vladimir Semenovich, and she told him about Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Dostoyevsky. They had great times together. He said he couldn’t manage to call her Anastasia Alexandrovna, it was too much of a mouthful; so he called her Delilah. And now she placed her inexhaustible energy at his service and they went together to the persons who might be useful to him. But things were coming to a head. Riots broke out and the streets were growing dangerous. Now and then armoured cars filled with discontented reservists careered wildly along the Nevsky Prospekt and in order to show that they were not happy took pot-shots at the passers by. On one occasion when Mr Harrington and Anastasia Alexandrovna were in a tram together shots peppered the windows and they had to lie down on the floor for safety. Mr Harrington was highly indignant.

“An old fat woman was lying right on top of me and when I wriggled to get out Delilah caught me a clip on the side of the head and said: Stop still, you fool. I don’t like your Russian ways, Delilah.”

“Anyhow you stopped still,” she giggled.

“What you want in this country is a little less art and a little more civilization.”

“You are bourgeoisie, Mr Harrington, you are not a member of the intelligentsia.”

“You are the first person who’s ever said that, Delilah. If I’m not a member of the intelligentsia I don’t know who is,” retorted Mr Harrington with dignity.

Then one day when Ashenden was working in his room there was a knock at the door and Anastasia Alexandrovna stalked in, followed somewhat sheepishly by Mr Harrington. Ashenden saw that she was excited.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Unless this man goes back to America he’ll get killed. You really must talk to him. If I hadn’t been there something very unpleasant might have happened to him.”

“Not at all, Delilah,” said Mr Harrington, with asperity. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I wasn’t in the smallest danger.”

“What is it all about?” asked Ashenden.

“I’d taken Mr Harrington to the Lavra of Alexander Nevsky to see Dostoyevsky’s grave,” said Anastasia Alexandrovna, “and on our way back we saw a soldier being rather rough with an old woman.”

“Rather rough!” cried Mr Harrington. “There was an old woman walking along the pavement with a basket of provisions on her arm. Two soldiers came up behind her and one of them snatched the basket from her and walked off with it.

She burst out screaming and crying. I don’t know what she was saying, but I can guess, and the other soldier took his gun and with the butt-end of it hit her over the head. Isn’t that right, Delilah?”

“Yes,” she answered, unable to help smiling. “And before I could prevent it Mr Harrington jumped out of the cab and ran up to the soldier who had the basket, wrenched it from him and began to abuse the pair of them like pickpockets. At first they were so taken aback they didn’t know what to do and then they got in a rage. I ran after Mr Harrington and explained to them that he was a foreigner and drunk.”

“Drunk?” cried Mr Harrington.

“Yes, drunk. Of course a crowd collected. It looked as though it wasn’t going to be very nice.”

Mr Harrington smiled with those large, pale-blue eyes of his.

“It sounded to me as though you were giving them a piece of your mind, Delilah. It was as good as a play to watch you.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mr Harrington,” cried Anastasia, in a sudden fury, stamping her foot. “Don’t you know that those soldiers might very easily have killed you and me too, and not one of the bystanders would have raised a finger to help us?”

“Me? I’m an American citizen, Delilah. They wouldn’t dare touch a hair of my head.”

“They’d have difficulty in finding one,” said Anastasia Alexandrovna, who when she was in a temper had no manners. “But if you think Russian soldiers are going to hesitate to kill you because you’re an American citizen you’ll get a big surprise one of these days.”

“Well, what happened to the old woman?” asked Ashenden.

“The soldiers went off after a little and we went back to her.”

“Still with the basket?”

“Yes. Mr Harrington clung on to that like grim death. She was lying on the ground with the blood pouring from her head. We got her into the cab and when she could speak enough to tell us where she lived we drove her home. She was bleeding dreadfully and we had some difficulty in staunching the blood.”

Anastasia Alexandrovna gave Mr Harrington an odd look and to his surprise Ashenden saw him turn scarlet.

“What’s the matter now?”

“You see, we had nothing to bind her up with. Mr Harrington’s handkerchief was soaked. There was only one thing about me that I could get off quickly and so I took off my …”

But before she could finish Mr Harrington interrupted her.

“You need not tell Mr Ashenden what you took off. I’m a married man and I know ladies wear them, but I see no need to refer to them in general society.”

Anastasia Alexandrovna giggled.

“Then you must kiss me, Mr Harrington. If you don’t I shall say.”

Mr Harrington hesitated a moment, considering evidently the pros and cons of the matter, but saw that Anastasia Alexandrovna was determined.

“Go on then, you may kiss me, Delilah, though I’m bound to say I don’t see what pleasure it can be to you.”

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks, then without a word of warning burst into a flood of tears.

“You’re a brave little man, Mr Harrington. You’re absurd but magnificent,” she sobbed.

Mr Harrington was less surprised than Ashenden would have expected him to be. He looked at Anastasia with a thin, quizzical smile and gently patted her.

“Come, come, Delilah, pull yourself together. It gave you a nasty turn, didn’t it? You’re quite upset. I shall have terrible rheumatism in my shoulder if you go on weeping all over it.”

The scene was ridiculous and touching. Ashenden laughed, but he had the beginnings of a lump in his throat.

When Anastasia Alexandrovna had left them Mr Harrington sat in a brown study.

“They’re very queer, these Russians. Do you know what Delilah did?” he said, suddenly. “She stood up in the cab, in the middle of the street, with people passing on both sides, and took her pants off. She tore them in two and gave me one to hold while she made a bandage of the other. I was never so embarrassed in my life.”

“Tell me what gave you the idea of calling her Delilah?” smiled Ashenden.

Mr Harrington reddened a little.

“She’s a very fascinating woman, Mr Ashenden. She’s been deeply wronged by her husband and I naturally felt a great deal of sympathy for her. These Russians are very emotional people and I did not want her to mistake my sympathy for anything else. I told her I was very much attached to Mrs Harrington.”

“You’re not under the impression that Delilah was Potiphar’s wife?” asked Ashenden.

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Mr Ashenden,” replied Mr Harrington. “Mrs Harrington has always given me to understand that I’m very fascinating to women, and I thought if I called our little friend Delilah it would make my position quite clear.”

“I don’t think Russia’s any place for you, Mr Harrington,” said Ashenden smiling. “If I were you I’d get out of it as quick as I could.”

“I can’t go now. I’ve got them to agree to my terms at last and we’re going to sign next week. Then I shall pack my grip and go.”

“I wonder if your signatures will be worth the paper they’re written on,” said Ashenden.

He had at length devised a plan of campaign. It took him twenty-four hours’ hard work to code a telegram in which he put his scheme before the persons who had sent him to Petrograd. It was accepted and he was promised all the money he needed. Ashenden knew he could do nothing unless the Provisional Government remained in power for another three months; but winter was at hand and food was getting scarcer every day. The army was mutinous. The people clamoured for peace. Every evening at the Europe Ashenden drank a cup of chocolate with Professor Z. and discussed with him how best to make use of his devoted Czechs. Anastasia Alexandrovna had a flat in a retired spot and here he had meetings with all manner of persons. Plans were drawn up. Measures were taken. Ashenden argued, persuaded, promised. He had to overcome the vacillation of one and wrestle with the fatalism of another. He had to judge who was resolute and who was self-sufficient, who was honest and who was infirm of purpose. He had to curb his impatience with the Russian verbosity; he had to be good-tempered with people who were willing to talk of everything but the matter in hand; he had to listen sympathetically to ranting and rodomontade. He had to beware of treachery. He had to humour the vanity of fools and elude the greed of the ambitious. Time was pressing. The rumours grew hot and many of the activities of the Bolsheviks. Kerensky ran hither and thither like a frightened hen.

Then the blow fell. On the night of 7 November 1917 the Bolsheviks rose. Kerensky’s ministers were arrested, and the Winter Palace was sacked by the mob; the reins of power were seized by Lenin and Trotsky.

Anastasia Alexandrovna came to Ashenden’s room at the hotel early in the morning. Ashenden was coding a telegram. He had been up all night, first at the Smolny, and then at the Winter Palace. He was tired out. Her face was white and her shining brown eyes were tragic.