He always asked me this question, having apparently the firm conviction that an Englishman must know more about the war than a man of any other nationality. But he didn’t pause for an answer—“News—but of course there is none. What can you expect from this Russia of ours?—and the rest—it’s all too far away for any of us to know anything about it—only Germany’s close at hand. Yes. Remember that. You forget it sometimes in England. She’s very near indeed.... We’ve got a guest coming—from the English Embassy. His name’s Boon and a funny name too. You don’t know him, do you?”
No, I didn’t know him. I laughed. Why should he think that I always knew everybody, I who kept to myself so?
“The English always stick together. That’s more than can be said for us Russians. We’re a rotten lot. Well, I must go and wash.”
Then, whether by a sudden chance of light and shade, or if you like to have it, by a sudden revelation on the part of a beneficent Providence, he really did look malevolent, standing in the middle of the dirty little room, malevolent and pathetic too, like a cross, sick bird.
“Vera’s got a good dinner ready. That’s one thing, Ivan Andreievitch,” he said; “and vodka—a little bottle. We got it from a friend. But I don’t drink now, you know.”
He went off and I, going into the other room, found Vera Michailovna giving last touches to the table. I sat and watched with pleasure her calm assured movements. She really was splendid, I thought, with the fine carriage of her head, her large mild eyes, her firm strong hands.
“All ready for the guest, Vera Michailovna?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, smiling at me, “I hope so. He won’t be very particular, will he, because we aren’t princes?”
“I can’t answer for him,” I replied, smiling back at her. “But he can’t be more particular than the Hon. Charles—and he was a great success.”
The Hon. Charles was a standing legend in the family, and we always laughed when we mentioned him.