Only--here
was the reality that caused the sense of shock--the expression on
his altered features was genuine. _That_ was not assumed. There was
something new and alien in him, something cold and difficult to human
life, something alert and swift and cruel, of another element than
earth. A strange, rapacious grandeur had leaped upon the struggling
features. The face looked hawk-like. And he came forward suddenly and sharply toward Vera, whose fixed,
staring eyes had never once ceased watching him with a kind of
anxious and devouring pain in them. She was both drawn and beaten
back. Binovitch advanced on tiptoe. No doubt he still was acting,
still pretending this mad nonsense that he worshipped Horus, the
falcon-headed deity of forgotten days, and that Horus had failed him in
his hour of need; but somehow there was just a hint of too much reality
in the way he moved and looked. The girl, a little creature, with
fluffy golden hair, opened her lips; her cigarette fell to the floor;
she shrank back; she looked for a moment like some smaller, coloured
bird trying to escape from a great pursuing hawk; she screamed. Binovitch, his arms wide, his bird-like face thrust forward, had
swooped upon her. He leaped. Almost he caught her. No one could say exactly what happened. Play, become suddenly and
unexpectedly too real, confuses the emotions. The change of key was
swift. From fun to terror is a dislocating jolt upon the mind. Some
one--it was Khilkoff, the brother--upset a chair; everybody spoke at
once; everybody stood up. An unaccountable feeling of disaster was in
the air, as with those drinkers' quarrels that blaze out from nothing,
and end in a pistol-shot and death, no one able to explain clearly how
it came about. It was the silent, watching figure in the doorway who
saved the situation. Before any one had noticed his approach, there he
was among the group, laughing, talking, applauding--between Binovitch
and Vera. He was vigorously patting his patient on the back, and his
voice rose easily above the general clamour. He was a strong, quiet
personality; even in his laughter there was authority. And his laughter
now was the only sound in the room, as though by his mere presence
peace and harmony were restored. Confidence came with him. The noise
subsided; Vera was in her chair again. Khilkoff poured out a glass of
wine for the great man. "The Czar!" said Plitzinger, sipping his champagne, while all stood
up, delighted with his compliment and tact. "And to your opening
night with the Russian ballet," he added quickly a second toast, "or
to your first performance at the Moscow Théâtre des Arts!" Smiling
significantly, he glanced at Binovitch; he clinked glasses with him. Their arms were already linked, but it was Palazov who noticed that
the doctor's fingers seemed rather tight upon the creased black coat. All drank, looking with laughter, yet with a touch of respect, toward
Binovitch, who stood there dwarfed beside the stalwart Austrian, and
suddenly as meek and subdued as any mole. Apparently the abrupt change
of key had taken his mind successfully off something else. "Of course--'The Fire-Bird,'" exclaimed the little man, mentioning the
famous Russian ballet. "The very thing!" he exclaimed. "For _us_," he
added, looking with devouring eyes at Vera. He was greatly pleased. He began talking vociferously about dancing and the rationale of
dancing. They told him he was an undiscovered master. He was delighted. He winked at Vera and touched her glass again with his. "We'll make
our début together," he cried. "We'll begin at Covent Garden, in
London. I'll design the dresses and the posters 'The Hawk and the
Dove!' _Magnifique!_ I in dark grey, and you in blue and gold! Ah,
dancing, you know, is sacred. The little self is lost, absorbed. It is
ecstasy, it is divine. And dancing in air--the passion of the birds
and stars--ah! they are the movements of the gods. You know deity that
way--by living it." He went on and on. His entire being had shifted with a leap upon this
new subject. The idea of realising divinity by dancing it absorbed
him. The party discussed it with him as though nothing else existed
in the world, all sitting now and talking eagerly together. Vera
took the cigarette he offered her, lighting it from his own; their
fingers touched; he was as harmless and normal as a retired diplomat
in a drawing-room. But it was Plitzinger whose subtle manoeuvring
had accomplished the change so cleverly, and it was Plitzinger who
presently suggested a game of billiards, and led him off, full now of
a fresh enthusiasm for cannons, balls, and pockets, into another room. They departed arm in arm, laughing and talking together. Their departure, it seemed, made no great difference at first. Vera's
eyes watched him out of sight, then turned to listen to Baron Minski,
who was describing with gusto how he caught wolves alive for coursing
purposes. The speed and power of the wolf, he said, was impossible to
realise; the force of their awful leap, the strength of their teeth,
which could bite through metal stirrup-fastenings. He showed a scar on
his arm and another on his lip. He was telling truth, and everybody
listened with deep interest. The narrative lasted perhaps ten minutes
or more, when Minski abruptly stopped. He had come to an end; he looked
about him; he saw his glass, and emptied it. There was a general pause. Another subject did not at once present itself. Sighs were heard;
several fidgeted; fresh cigarettes were lighted. But there was no sign
of boredom, for where one or two Russians are gathered together there
is always life. They produce gaiety and enthusiasm as wind produces
waves. Like great children, they plunge whole-heartedly into whatever
interest presents itself at the moment. There is a kind of uncouth
gambolling in their way of taking life. It seems as if they are always
fighting that deep, underlying, national sadness which creeps into
their very blood. "Midnight!" then exclaimed Palazov, abruptly, looking at his watch;
and the others fell instantly to talking about that watch, admiring
it and asking questions. For the moment that very ordinary timepiece
became the centre of observation. Palazov mentioned the price. "It
never stops," he said proudly, "not even under water." He looked up at
everybody, challenging admiration. And he told how, at a country house,
he made a bet that he would swim to a certain island in the lake, and
won the bet. He and a girl were the winners, but as it was a horse they
had bet, he got nothing out of it for himself, giving the horse to her. It was a genuine grievance in him. One felt he could have cried as he
spoke of it. "But the watch went all the time," he said delightedly,
holding the gun-metal object in his hand to show, "and I was twelve
minutes in the water with my clothes on." Yet this fragmentary talk was nothing but pretence. The sound of
clicking billiard-balls was audible from the room at the end of the
corridor.