Of course nothing occurred. It may be safely said that, in Russian
affairs, no crisis occurs, either in the place or at the time, or in the
manner in which it is expected. Time with us here refuses to be caught
by the throat. That is the revenge that it takes on the scorn with
which, in Russia, it is always covered.
On the 20th of February I received an invitation to Nina's birthday
party. She would be eighteen on the 28th. She scribbed at the bottom of
Vera's note:
Dear Durdles--If you don't come I will never forgive you.--Your loving
Nina.
The immediate problem was a present. I knew that Nina adored presents,
but Petrograd was now no easy place for purchases, and I wished, I
suppose as a kind of tribute to her youth and freshness and colour, to
give her something for which she would really care. I sallied out on a
wonderful afternoon when the town was a blaze of colour, the walls dark
red, dark brown, violet, pink, and the snow a dazzling glitter of
crystal. The bells were ringing for some festival, echoing as do no
other bells in the world from wall to wall, roof to roof, canal to
canal.
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