Bertram thought of the Countess Lydia and her sister, and of all the Russian émigrés in London and Paris, living in luxury, dancing, gambling. Not doing much on behalf of their own folk, except in support of counter-revolutions and invasions, plots and intrigues for the overthrow of the Bolshevik régime, which had only increased the ruin and agony of the Russian people, and intensified the Terror. He marvelled at this girl who had come back into the midst of that Terror when the others had all been escaping across the frontiers.
He looked at her now, as she heated the samovar, in a shabby frock, in boots that would have been slung over a garden wall by any English tramp, yet moving with elegance and a natural grace. She had taken off her fur cap and jacket. Her black hair, falling in a loop about her ears, framed her white face like a Helleu etching. She had very “liquid” eyes, with long dark lashes, and a broad forehead, like most Russian women, but with sharper cheekbones than the Slav type, and thin red lips. About twenty-five, he guessed, and delicate from what the Germans called unternährung—semi-starvation. She was aware of his eyes upon her, perhaps read the admiration in them, and a faint blush crept under her skin.
“How long did you remain a prisoner, sir?” asked Bertram.
The old man raised his hands.
“Two terrible years. I did not wash all that time or get a change of linen. It was worse than death. I used to smile when the Cheka examined me, and other prisoners wept before I left the cell, because they thought I was to be taken out and shot. ‘In the next world,’ I used to say, ‘I shall not need a change of linen.’ ”
“I think they pitied my husband,” said Princess Alexandra. “He had been a Liberal always, and very generous to the poor.”
“I was a friend of Tolstoy,” said the old man. “I corresponded with Kropotkin. I was even a little of a revolutionary, believing in the need of liberty in Russia. Alas, the Revolution has killed all the liberty we had, and the tyranny of Lenin is worse than that of Ivan the Terrible.”
He spoke the words in a whisper, leaning towards Bertram, with his hand to his mouth.
Nadia handed Bertram a cup of tea, and then sat on a stool by his side.
“My father has abandoned all hope for Russia,” she said. “That is natural, after so much suffering. But because I am young, I still believe that out of all this agony some good will come. Russia has been purged by fire. There was great corruption in the time of the Emperor. The Court was very vicious—you have said so many times, father!—and young people of the rich class were lazy and luxurious. Not one of them did any kind of work. From babyhood they were petted and spoilt. They thought of nothing but gaiety and sensuality. Now we younger people who stayed in Russia have learnt to work, and to weep. We have been hungry with the people. We have made our hands as coarse as theirs. We shall be all the better for it, perhaps, and help to build a New Russia on nobler lines, some day. Do you not think so, darling mother?”