Then, again, it is not quite the circus of one’s English youth, because it has a very distinct Russian atmosphere of its own.  The point really is the enthusiasm of the audience, because it is an enthusiasm that in these sophisticated, twentieth-century days is simply not to be found in any other country in Europe.  I am an old-fashioned man and, quite frankly, I adore a circus; and when I can find one with the right sawdust smell, the right clown, and the right enthusiasm, I am happy.  The smart night is a Saturday, and then, if you go, you will see, in the little horse-boxes close to the arena, beautiful women in jewellery and powder, and young officers, and fat merchants in priceless Shubas.  But to-night was not a Saturday, and therefore the audience was very democratic, screaming cat-calls from the misty distances of the gallery, and showering sunflower seeds upon the heads of the bourgeoisie, who were, for the most part, of the smaller shopkeeper kind.

Nina, to-night, was looking very pretty and excited.  She was wearing a white silk dress with blue bows, and all her hair was piled on the top of her head in imitation of Vera—­but this only had the effect of making her seem incredibly young and naive, as though she had put her hair up just for the evening because there was to be a party.  It was explained that Markovitch was working but would be present at supper.  Vera was quiet, but looked happier, I thought, than I had seen her for a long time.  Bohun was looking after her, and Lawrence was with Nina.  I sat behind the four of them, in the back of the little box, like a presiding Benevolence.

Mostly I thought of how lovely Vera was to-night, and why it was, too, that more people did not care for her.  I knew that she was not popular, that she was considered proud and reserved and cold.  As she sat there now, motionless, her hands on her lap, her whole being seemed to me to radiate goodness and gentleness and a loving heart.  I knew that she could be impatient with stupid people, and irritated by sentimentality, and infuriated by meanness and cruelty, but the whole size and grandeur of her nobility seemed to me to shine all about her and set her apart from the rest of human beings.  She was not a woman whom I ever could have loved—­she had not the weaknesses and naiveties and appealing helplessness that drew love from one’s heart.  Nor could I have ever dared to face the depth and splendour of the passion that there was in her—­I was not built on that heroic scale.  God forgive me if, as I watched them, I felt a sudden glow of almost eager triumph at the thought of Lawrence as her lover!  I checked it.  My heart was suddenly heavy.

Such a development could only mean tragedy, and I knew it.  I had even sworn to Semyonov that I would prevent it.  I looked at them and felt my helpless weakness.  Who was I to prevent anything?  And who was there now, in the whole world, who would be guided by my opinion?  They might have me as a confidant because they trusted me, but after that... no, I had no illusions.  I was pushed off the edge of the world, hanging on still with one quivering hand—­soon my grip would loosen—­and, God help me, I did not want to go.