The Genius

by Margaret Horton Potter

Amazing though it may seem, and contrary to every rule of novelistic heroism, Ivan was determined to do a thing that he had been contemplating for a week: to bring the terrible, unknown, but accurately estimated power of his father's map of men to bear upon Colonel Brodsky of the Grenadier Guards; to return a sobered and battered leader to a regiment in want; and to rescue—for so Ivan put it to himself—a damsel in distress from the power of a brutal man, for whom she could not possibly have any real affection.

In the officers' mess of the Second Grenadiers, the head of the table was habitually occupied by the senior Major. From the first day of camp life, Colonel Brodsky had taken his meals in his tent—ostensibly alone. And, even when every officer and servant in the regiment could see Brodsky's orderly running back and forth from the mess-kitchen to his tent, carrying bottle after bottle of sparkling golden wine, the reason given was still the same: "The Colonel is too much occupied with regimental affairs to appear at mess."

Many a laugh had gone round the table at this excuse. But by now the joke was growing bitter; for every private in the camp spluttered in his kvass at the mere mention of the leader of that once gallant regiment. Within the month, the whole Second was suffering, keenly, under their disgrace. And for this reason the youngest lieutenant, when he entered the mess-room on the evening after his talk with de Windt, found himself the hero of the table. For Vladimir had taken pains, that day, to intimate pretty clearly to one or two comrades Ivan's expressed purpose. Throughout the meal the prospect was discussed, indirectly, or in whispers, between man and man; but even Ivan was a little startled when, supper ended, there came a sudden lifting of glasses to him, and a toast was drunk which, though silent, was unanimous. A moment or two later the young officer, with a visible straightening of his body, rose, bowed, and walked out of the tent. None followed him; for it was instinctively understood that he should return to report his failure or success, before retiring for the night.

The ranked order of the table was now broken up. The men pulled their chairs into informal groups, and sat together puffing at cigarettes, sipping tea, and talking, in a desultory fashion, while the underlying tension increased, and more than one man wondered a little at the weakness of his knees and the slight unsteadiness of the hand upholding glass or match. Vladimir de Windt, Ivan's acknowledged chum, was doubly concerned and doubly restless. He shuffled his chair from group to group, his eyes asking anxious and unanswerable questions of each comrade with whom he discussed the state of the weather. And, indeed, the great doubt in his mind was echoed in that of every man present: what would be the outcome of Ivan's audacity? If Brodsky took the remonstrance in bad part—and who doubted that he would?—what would be the fate of Gregoriev? Poor fellow! He had undertaken a quixotic task; and more than one of his fellow-officers regretted that they had not had the generosity to warn him of what he certainly should himself have realized—the strong possibility of disgrace.

In such wise there passed a quarter of an hour—twenty minutes—half an hour—finally, three-quarters. De Windt, now on his feet, was on the point of starting towards the Colonel's quarters, when—the suspense ended, and Ivan came quietly in. The young man's face was white and scowling as he seated himself at the table, poured himself a large drink of vodka and drank it off, amid the breathless attention of the whole mess. For three or four minutes they waited, patiently. But at last de Windt, who could restrain himself no longer, burst forth with:

"Ivan Mikhailovitch, for Heaven's sake tell us what has happened! What did he say to you? How did he answer your accusation?"

Ivan broke out into an unpleasant laugh. "He tried swearing me out of his presence," said he. "But that didn't quite do. My visit was—well, timely, or untimely, whichever way you regard it. It was a curious scene; but I'm afraid I can't explain it very fully. It was—well, too intimate. What good I've done, I can't tell, just yet. But, at least, Fóma Vassilyitch is fully aware of our feelings in regard to his—his recent mode of existence. Now I must go, gentlemen.—Vladimir, may I speak to you, for a few minutes, on a private matter?"

With a formal bow, Ivan ended his most unsatisfactory explanation, and left the tent again, followed eagerly by de Windt.

Outside, however, Ivan's behavior was unexpected. De Windt began, at once, with a flood of eager, anxious questions; but, when they were a few hundred feet away from the mess-tent, Gregoriev turned to him, saying, in a low tone: "Wait a little, Vladimir. The thing has more in it than you suspect—thank God!—You will be able to guess all that I can't explain; but you must wait, before I tell you anything, till I've read—this!" And Ivan drew, from the breast of his uniform, a bit of crumpled paper, which, smoothing out, he paused in the white twilight to read. The note, written in a half-formed, feminine hand, ran thus:

"Lieutenant Gregoriev:—You behold me in an unbearable and misleading position. I am the most unhappy woman in Petersburg; but, if you will, you can save my whole life for me. I shall get this to you in some way; and, if you have any pity, any charity, in your heart, for a woman helpless and friendless, wait up in your tent, alone, to-night. I know which it is, and I shall come there as soon as I can get away and walk through the camp, without observation. All I ask is a brief talk with you.