“Do not heed him!” said Katerin to Peter hastily, as she saw his eyes flame with sudden anger.
“I have come all the way from America to hear him,” said Peter. “Am I to be cheated——”
“America!” cried Katerin with fervor, clapping her hands together. “You, a Russian! Have come from America! And what are you to do with what America has given you?”
“And what has it given me?” he demanded in surprise.
“America has given you its trust—you, the poor son of an exile, by the coat you wear, are an officer—a gentleman! Ah, Peter Petrovitch, I had hoped that America had changed your heart as well as your coat—and taken something from you.”
“And what should it take?”
He scanned her face, seeking her purpose in holding his attention away from Michael. Her eyes held infinite sadness, and seemed to have lost any sense of terror. Her face had softened in final resignation, and he saw her for the first time in her own nature—the serene calmness which belongs to the Russian aristocrat, who is essentially a fatalist.
“I have heard much of America,” she said dreamily, her eyes on the window but her vision not extending beyond the glass. “I hoped that you, who are of my own race, should learn a new lesson in America—that the spirit of America should take from you that love of destruction, that love for vengeance which is so strong in our people. Countless millions have been willing to die, and have died for Holy Russia. When is the Slav to learn that he must live for Holy Russia?”
“Ah, those who have ruled Russia have just begun to learn how precious is life,” said Peter. “I learned the lesson out there in the Sofistkaya twenty years ago—it is you who are learning now—from me—and your Cossacks!”
“Yes, I know Shimilin has been here,” she said wearily. “We have come to the end. I cannot ask you to save us, even if you could or would. That is done.”