. I was afraid of Vera and Nina,
perhaps, because I loved them, but of Semyonov, thank God, I was not
afraid.

"Well, now, that's very kind of you," I said, "to take so much interest
in my movements. I didn't know that it mattered to you so much where I
was. Why must I go?"

"Because you are doing no good here. You are interfering in things of
which you have no knowledge. When we met before you interfered, and you
must honestly admit that you did not improve things. Now it is even more
serious. I must ask you to leave my family alone, Ivan Andreievitch."

"Your family!" I retorted, laughing. "Upon my word, you do them great
honour. I wonder whether they'd be very proud and pleased if they knew
of your adoption of them. I haven't noticed on their side any very great
signs of devotion."

He laughed. "No, you haven't noticed, Ivan Andreievitch. But there, you
don't really notice very much. You think you see the devil of a lot and
are a mighty clever fellow; but we're Russians, you know, and it takes
more than sentimental mysticism to understand us. But even if you did
understand us--which you don't--the real point is that we don't want
you, any of you, patronising, patting us on the shoulder, explaining us
to ourselves, talking about our souls, our unpunctuality, and our
capacity for drink. However, that's merely in a general way. In a
personal, direct, and individual way, I beg you not to visit my family
again. Stick to your own countrymen."

Although he spoke obstinately, and with a show of assurance, I realised,
behind his words, his own uncertainty.

"See here, Semyonov," I said. "It's just my own Englishmen that I am
going to stick to. What about Lawrence? And what about Bohun? Will you
prevent me from continuing my friendship with them?"

"Lawrence... Lawrence," he said slowly, in a voice quite other than his
earlier one, and as though he were talking aloud to himself. "Now,
that's strange... there's a funny thing. A heavy, dull, silent
Englishman, as ugly as only an Englishman can be, and the two of them
are mad about him--nothing in him--nothing--and yet there it is. It's
the fidelity in the man, that's what it is, Durward...." He suddenly
called out the word aloud, as though he'd made a discovery. "Fidelity...
fidelity... that's what we Russians admire, and there's a man with
not enough imagination to make him unfaithful. Fidelity!--lack of
imagination, lack of freedom--that's all fidelity is.... But I'm