ould see the shining scales on its thick side and the
ribbed horn on the back of the neck. Beneath it the water stirred and
heaved. With dead glazed eyes it stared upon the world, then slowly, as
though it were drawn from below, it sank. The water rippled in narrowing
circles--then all was still....

The moon came out from behind filmy shadow. The world was intensely
light, and I saw that the ice of the canal had never been broken, and
that no pool of black water caught the moon's rays.

It was fiercely cold and I hurried home, pulling my Shuba more closely
about me.

PART II

LAWRENCE

LAWRENCE

I

Of some of the events that I am now about to relate it is obvious that I
could not have been an eye-witness--and yet, looking back from the
strange isolation that is now my world I find it incredibly difficult to
realise what I saw and what I did not. Was I with Nina and Vera on that
Tuesday night when they stood face to face with one another for the
first time? Was I with Markovitch during his walk through that
marvellous new world that he seemed himself to have created? I know that
I shared none of these things..., and yet it seems to me that I was at
the heart of them all. I may have been told many things by the actors in
those events--I may not. I cannot now in retrospect see any of it save
as my own personal experience, and as my own personal experience I must
relate it; but, as I have already said at the beginning of this book, no
one is compelled to believe either my tale or my interpretation. Every
man would, I suppose, like to tell his story in the manner of some other
man. I can conceive the events of this part of my narration being
interpreted in the spirit of the wildest farce, of the genteelest
comedy, of the most humorous satire--"Other men, Other gifts." I am a
dull and pompous fellow, as Semyonov often tells me; and I hope that I
never allowed him to see how deeply I felt the truth of his words.

Meanwhile I will begin with a small adventure of Henry Bohun's.
Apparently, one evening soon after Nina's party, he found himself about
half-past ten in the evening, lonely and unhappy, walking down the
Nevski. Gay and happy crowds wandered by him, brushing him aside,
refusing to look at him, showing in fact no kind of interest in his
existence. He was suddenly frightened, the distances seemed terrific and
the Nevski was so hard and bright and shining--that it had no use at all
for any lonely