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I found Markovitch, his wife Vera Michailovna, his sister-in-law Nina Michailovna, his wife's uncle Ivan Petrovitch and a young man Boris Nicolaievitch Grogoff. Markovitch himself was a thin, loose, untidy man with pale yellow hair thinning on top, a ragged, pale beard, a nose with a tendency to redden at any sudden insult or unkind word and an expression perpetually anxious.
It had been agreed that it was to be absolutely a "family" party, and Uncle Ivan, Semyonov, and Boris Grogoff were the only additions to our number. Markovitch was there of course, and I saw at once that he was eager to be agreeable and to be the best possible host. As I had often noticed before, there was something pathetic about Markovitch when he wished to be agreeable.
The stove was unlighted and the room was very cold. My heart ached for Nina. A moment after Grogoff came in. He came forward to me very amiably, holding out his hand. "Nu, Ivan Andreievitch.... What can I do for you?" he asked, smiling. And how he had changed! He was positively swollen with self-satisfaction.
"He was officer?" "Yes." "In the British Army?" "Yes. He had fought for two years in France." "He had been lodging with Baron Wilderling?" "Yes. Ever since he came to Russia." The officer nodded his head. They knew about him, had full information. A friend of his, a Mr. Boris Grogoff, had spoken of him.
And on the other side who? The Rat, Boris Grogoff, Markovitch. Yes, the Baron had reason for his confidence.... I thought for a moment of that figure that I had seen on Christmas Eve by the river the strong grave bearded peasant whose gaze had seemed to go so far beyond the bounds of my own vision. But no! Russia's mystical peasant that was an old tale.
He was from Moscow his name Paul Leontievitch Rozanov and I met him on a later occasion of which I shall have to tell in its place. Then there were two young girls who giggled a great deal and whispered together. They hung around Nina and stroked her hair and admired her dress, and laughed at Boris Grogoff and any one else who was near them. Nina was immensely happy.
He jumped up on to his feet, fiercely excited, his eyes flaming. "It's nonsense that you are talking, sheer nonsense!" he cried. "Russia's lost the war, and all we who believed in her have our hearts broken. Russia won't be mended by a few vapouring idiots who talk and talk without taking action." "What do you call me?" screamed Grogoff.
The thing will be to get the labour that's the trouble nowadays but I'll find somebody one of these timber men...." So that was it, was it? I looked across at Semyonov, who was now seated on Vera's right hand just opposite Boris Grogoff. He was very quiet, very still, looking about him, his square pale beard a kind of symbol of the secret immobility of his soul.
For instance, she did not love Boris Grogoff in the least, but he was in some way connected with the idea of freedom. She was, I am afraid, beginning to love Lawrence desperately the first love of her life and he too was connected with the idea of freedom because he was English.
Then I was ill, aching in every limb and seeing everything, as I always did when I was unwell, mistily and with uncertainty. Then I had a very shrewd suspicion that there was considerable truth in what Semyonov had said, that I was interfering in what only remotely concerned me. At any rate, that was certainly the view that Grogoff would take, and Nina, perhaps also.
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