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He had his secret as all men have their secret, the key to their pursuit of their own immortality....But Markovitch's secret was a real one, something that he faced with real bravery, real pride, and real dignity, and when he saw what the issue of his conduct must be he would, I knew, face it without flinching.
They have few easy social graces, and they are inclined to abandon at once a situation if it is made difficult for them. If it needs an effort to make a guest happy they leave him alone and trust to a providence in whose powers, however, they entirely disbelieve. Bohun was led to his room, his bags being carried by old Sacha, the Markovitch's servant, and the Dvornik.
She let herself at once go to him and he half carried her to a chair near the table and exactly opposite Markovitch's window. They kissed "like people who had been starving all their lives." Markovitch was trembling so that he was afraid lest he should tumble or make some noise. The two figures in the chair were like statues in their immobile, relentless, unswerving embrace.
At this point Markovitch's face would become suddenly triumphantly malevolent, like the face of a schoolboy who remembers a trick that he played on a hated master. "Do you think I went on with them, Ivan Andreievitch? no, not I... but I kept the money." "That was wrong of you," I would say gravely. "Yes wrong of course. But hadn't he been wrong always? And after all, isn't everybody wrong?
He did not look up as I came in. The room was darker than usual; the green shade over the lamp was tilted wickedly as though it were cocking its eye at Markovitch's vain hopes, and there was the man himself, one cheek a ghastly green, his hair on end and his chair precariously balanced. I heard him say as though he repeated an incantation "Nu Vot... Nu Vot... Nu Vot."
"These fellers," he once said to me about some Russians, "are always letting their feelings overwhelm them like women. And they like it. Funny thing!" Well, funny or no, he realised it now; his true education, like Nina's, like Vera's, like Bohun's, like Markovitch's, perhaps like my own, was only now beginning.
It was as though a cold wind had suddenly burst through the windows, blown out all the candles upon the tree and plunged the place into darkness. Those who did not know him felt that, with his entrance, the gaiety was gone. Markovitch's face was pale, he was looking at Vera who, for an instant, had stood, quite silently, staring at her uncle, then, recovering herself, moved forward.
Bohun's hatred of Semyonov was so strong that he felt as though he would never be able to speak to him again; but it was not really of Semyonov that he was thinking. His thoughts were all centred round Markovitch. You must remember that for a long time now he had considered himself Markovitch's protector.
With all his faults, he left faithful friends in the Markovitch flat, and he, on his side, gave so enthusiastic an account of Mme. Markovitch's attempts to restrain and modify his impetuosities that the Embassy recommended her care and guidance to other young secretaries.
The Colonel was murdered, of course, although our friend the Retch doesn't put it quite so bluntly. The Novaya Jezn of course highly approves. Here's another...." This went on for some ten minutes, and the only sound beside Semyonov's voice was Markovitch's padding steps. "Ah! here's another bit!... Now what about that, my fine upholder of the Russian Revolution?
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