... My Isvostchick took his cab down a side street,
and then again met the strange sorrowful company. From this point I
could see several further bridges and streets, and over them all I saw
the same stream flowing, the same banners blowing--and all so still, so
dumb, so patient.
The delay was maddening. My thoughts were all now on Nina. I saw her
always before me as I had beheld her yesterday, walking slowly along,
her eyes fixed on space, the tears trickling down her face. "Life,"
Nikitin once said to me, "I sometimes think is like a dark room, the
door closed, the windows bolted and your enemy shut in with you. Whether
your enemy or yourself is the stronger who knows?... Nor does it matter,
as the issue is always decided outside.... Knowing that you can at least
afford to despise him."
I felt something of that impotence now. I cursed the Isvostchick, but
wherever he went this slow endless stream seemed to impede our way. Poor
Nina! Such a baby! What was it that had driven her to this? She did not
love the man, and she knew quite well that she did not. No, it was an
act of defiance. But defiance to whom--to Vera? to Lawrence?.
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