Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/28

sional contributions to the papers were no more than tolerably good padding.

Still less successful was he in his other attempts to procure employment during his long leave of absence. He overcame in a few months the obstacle of the language. But it was impossible for him to serve two masters at once. His heart and soul were filled with Russian cares, Russian aspirations, and Russian recollections. He felt himself a passing guest at the meetings of foreign socialists, and his home-sickness grew worse and worse. He was about to write again, when a living message from his friends arrived in the person of Helen Zubova, his companion in the conquest of the letter. Having just escaped from Siberia, she had come to St Petersburg to offer her services to the League, which at once advised her to cross the frontier and live for a while abroad. She brought, together with many greetings from his friends, an injunction to keep quiet and be reasonable. For the time there was no need of either of them in Russia. Lena’s presence abroad was a material proof of this.

Nothing was left to Andrey but to make a virtue of necessity. Time had blunted the edge of his first disappointment. He had gradually made up his mind to the life of an exile, with its petty troubles and vexations, and its profound pleasures found in an unrestricted access to all the treasures of thought. Thus he passed three years of quiet uneventful existence, enlivened only by the feverish expectation of something new coming from Russia.

He did not wait in vain. After a brief pause the smouldering revolution burst out with redoubled energy, and Andrey was eager to seize the opportunity. He sent a new request, which he urged upon his friends with an energy and eloquence that unfortunately were never found in his more elaborate compositions. There were no longer any grounds for delay, and after a few more weeks of expectation, George’s letter was his answer.

“Yes, at last!” he repeated, as he slowly paced up and down his coffin-like room, thinking upon his journey.

In his voice there was no exultation, but a strange calmness that had a touch of melancholy in it. The arrest of Boris?—Yes, but this was not all. The idea of the return to his country had lost something of its charm. He was surprised, and somewhat disappointed, to feel quite in a placid mood. From his former longings, he had anticipated that the summons