‘We were all in the same danger,’ said Prince Napraxine, a little drily; ‘but the Princess alone had the beau rôle out of it.’
‘Who put the can there?’
‘Oh, how should I know. The police never traced it. I do not suppose it was any special design against us as individuals; only as items of a detested whole. And two of the Grand Dukes were coming to breakfast with us that day.’
‘What a fuss about an ugly little tin can!’ said his wife. ‘The really courageous person must have been the person who brought it there; misguided, perhaps, but certainly courageous. To drive through a city in a droschky embracing certain annihilation, in the form of a little tin pot held on your knee, is a combination of absolute awfulness and grotesque bathos, which must try all one’s nerves without any compensating sense of grandeur in it. A jolt of the wheel over a stone and away you fly into the air, a blurred nothing in a stream of blood and dust! No; I respect the Nihilists when I think of all they risk for a purely abstract idea without any sort of personal hope or triumph.’
‘They have hatred,’ said Lady Brancepeth; ‘I think you forget what an invigorating, self-sustaining, all-compensating sentiment that is. Its ecstasy is its own reward. You underrate, too, the immense fascination of the power to destroy; on se grise with that sense of holding the annihilation of a whole community in their hands. What made the Roman Emperors mad,—the unlimited power of destruction,—now intoxicates the mechanic or the clerk who has the task of planting a can of nitro-glycerine. When statesmen, and even philosophers, theorise about human nature and all its disorders, they never give weight enough to the tremendous attraction which pure destruction alone exercises over so many minds.’
‘But they have love, too; love of the poor and of a lofty ideal,’ said the Princess. ‘Myself, I forgive their little tin cans, though they are extremely unpleasant, when I think of their impersonal devotion. All I wish is, that their warfare was not conducted by tin cans; the thing has a ludicrous, comical, vulgar side; death dropped in a little box labelled "glass, with care"! There is no dignity in it, no grace. Pallida Mors should not crouch under a cab-cushion!’
‘How can you make a jest——’ began Prince Napraxine. She interrupted him:
‘I am not in the least jesting, I am entirely in earnest. I do not like being made war on by chemists; I do not like annihilation left in a paper parcel; it makes one feel absurd, fate seems trifling with one. A Jacquerie hewing at one with their scythes one would know what to do with, but who can extract any Sophoclean tragedy from a Thanatus that looks exactly like a box of sardines or a pot of foie gras? It is not the war that I object to, it is the form it takes; and our great, grim, ghostly Russia should evolve out of her soul of ice something much more in consonance with her. Beside the burning of Moscow, the little tin cans and the burrowing like moles underground are commonplace and a little vulgar. Russia is so awful in herself. One thinks of the frozen world of the Inferno, and Dante and Virgil walking in the spectral silence; and then, after all, in hard fact there is nothing but the police, and the drunken moujik, and the man who carries his nitro-glycerine as a baker’s boy carries his rolls of bread! It is bathos.’
‘One never knows what you mean, Nadine,’ murmured her husband. ‘If you talk so at Petersburg they will think you are a Nihilist at heart.’