Boris Akunin - All the World's a Stage

Eliza felt absolutely safe – even with just the two of them alone in an empty house, a gentleman like Erast Petrovich would not stoop to doing anything improper. There was only one thing she had failed to take into account: intelligent conversations with an intelligent man always had an arousing effect on her.

How did it all happen?

It began with an absolutely innocent thing. She started examining some prints and asked about an outlandish creature: a fox in a kimono, with a tall hairstyle.

‘That’s a kitsuné , a Japanese werewolf,’ Fandorin explained. ‘A supremely guileful creature.’ She said that the kitsuné looked terribly like Xanthippe Vulpinova, and indulged herself by passing several pejorative comments about that rather unpleasant individual.

‘You speak of M-Madam Vulpinova with bitterness,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Is she your enemy?’

‘But surely you can see? That malicious, petty creature simply hates me!’

And then he delivered one of those little speeches, of which she had heard so many in the last three days and to which, although she thought of them ironically to herself as ‘sermons’, she had already become accustomed. She had even come to like them. They were, perhaps, even the most charming thing about talking to the ‘traveller’.

‘Never make that mistake,’ Fandorin said with a very serious air. ‘Don’t denigrate your enemies, don’t call them offensive names, don’t describe them as paltry and contemptible. By doing that, you demean yourself. Who are you in that case, if you have such a despicable enemy? If you respect yourself, you will not be the enemy of those who are not worthy of respect. If a stray dog barks at you, you won’t go down on all fours and b-bark back at it. Furthermore, if an enemy knows that you regard him with respect, he will respond in kind. This does not s-signify reconciliation, but it helps in avoiding mean tricks in the course of the struggle, and it also makes it possible to conclude the war with a peace, instead of killing.’

He was remarkably handsome when he talked this charming nonsense.

‘You are a man of genuine culture,’ Eliza said with a smile. ‘At first I took you for an aristocrat, but you are a classic member of the intelligentsia.’

Fandorin immediately launched into a diatribe against the intelligentsia – he was unusually talkative today. It was probably her nearness that affected him in that way. Although there was another possible explanation (it occurred to Eliza later). As an intelligent man and connoisseur of psychology, Erast Petrovich might have noticed how powerfully his ‘sermons’ affected his listener and deployed this weapon to the full. Ah, she still hadn’t learned to understand him!

The oration in the course of which Eliza finally melted completely was this:

‘I do not regard that as a compliment!’ Fandorin exclaimed heatedly. ‘The “classic member of the intelligentsia” is a b-being who is harmful, even ruinous, for Russia! The estate of the intelligentsia might seem likeable enough, but it possesses a fatal flaw, which was noted so accurately and mocked by Chekhov. A member of that estate is capable of bearing hardships with dignity, he is capable of maintaining his nobility in defeat. But he is absolutely incapable of winning in a battle with a boor or a blackguard, who are so numerous and so powerful here. Until such time as the estate of the intelligentsia learns to f-fight for its ideals, there will never be anything decent and worthwhile in Russia! But when I say “fight”, I do not mean a fight according to the rules of the boor and the blackguard. Or else you will become exactly the same as they are. It has to be a fight according to your own rules, the rules of an honourable individual! It is customary to think that Evil is stronger than Good, because it places no limitations on its means – it ambushes slyly, strikes furtively and below the belt, it attacks with odds of ten against one. So it would seem that if you fight Evil according to the rules, it is impossible to win. But assertions like that result from stupidity and, b-begging your pardon, impotence. The intelligentsia is a thinking estate, and that is where its power lies. If it loses, that is because it has made poor use of its main weapon, the intellect. One need only apply the intellect for it to become clear that the noble man has an arsenal more powerful and armour far more impregnable than those of even the most adroit conspirators from the Okhrana or revolutionary leaders who send altruistic young boys to their deaths. You will ask what they consist of, this arsenal and the armour of the noble m-man, who does not stoop to base means of struggle…’

Eliza had no intention of asking about anything of the sort. Erast Petrovich’s excitement as he spoke and his tone of voice affected her more powerfully than any aphrodisiac. She finally gave up trying to resist the weakness flooding through her body, closed her eyes and laid her hand on his knee with a gentle sigh. Eliza never did find out what the arsenal and armour of the honourable individual consisted of. Fandorin stopped speaking in mid-phrase and, naturally, drew her towards himself.

After that, in the way that things happened with her in such cases, she remembered snatches and separate images – mostly touches and smells, rather than visual impressions. The world of love was magical. In that world she became a completely different being, she did unimaginable things and was not even slightly embarrassed. Time altered its pace. Reason blanked out benignly, ineffably beautiful music played and she felt like a classical goddess, soaring on a cloud.

But then there was a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder. Quite literally – a storm had blown up outside. Eliza raised her head, glanced towards the window and saw that it was completely black. Darkness had already fallen, and she hadn’t even noticed. But when the darkness was illuminated by a flash of sheet lightning, Eliza’s reason returned instantly, bringing with it its constant companion, the fear that she had completely forgotten about.

What have I done? Oh, egotist! Criminal! I’ll destroy him, if I haven’t already.

Pushing her beloved’s head, which glimmered silver in the faint light, off her shoulder, she jumped up, rummaged about on the floor and started getting dressed.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ he asked in astonishment.

Eliza shouted frantically, with tears in her eyes:

‘This must never, do you hear me, never happen again!’

He gaped at her open-mouthed. But Eliza ran out of the house, straight into the lashing downpour.

Oh, horror! Horror! Her very worst fears were confirmed: there under the awning of the gates was a dark, thickset figure. Someone had been lurking opposite the open window and spying…

‘Oh God, save him, save him!’ Eliza pleaded, running along the wet pavement with her heels clattering. Running with no idea of where she was going.

Afterwards, of course, she calmed down a bit. Probably a chance passer-by had simply been sheltering from the storm under the arch of the gates. Genghis Khan was a terrifying man, but not a ubiquitous devil.

But what if it really had been him? Should she not warn Erast about the danger?

She hesitated for a while before deciding not to. If she told Fandorin everything, as a man of honour, he would start watching over his beloved, and would refuse to leave her alone. And then Iskander would be certain to find out about their relationship. Eliza would never survive yet another loss, especially one like this.

She allowed herself one indulgence: she dreamed a bit about how everything could have worked out for them, if it weren’t for her bad karma (she had gleaned that croaking Japanese word from the play). Ah, what a couple they would have made! A famous actress and a dramatist who, though no longer young, was insanely talented. Like Olga Knipper and Chekhov, only they wouldn’t have parted, but lived together happily for a long, long time – until they were old. Eliza didn’t go on to dream about old age, though. Oh, bother that!