CHAPTER III
THE FOREST
And now I am confronted with a very serious difficulty. There isnothing stranger in this whole business of the life and character ofwar than the fashion in which an atmosphere that has been of theintensest character can, by the mere advance or retreat of a pace ortwo, disappear, close in upon itself, present the blindest front tothe soul that has, a moment before, penetrated it. It is as though onehad visited a house for the first time. The interior is of the mostabsorbing and unique interest. There are revealed in it beauties,terrors, of so sharp a reality that one believes that one's life ischanged for ever by the sight of them. One passes the door, closes itbehind one, steps into the outer world, looks back, and there is onlybefore one's view a thick cold wall--the windows are dead, there is nosound, only bland, dull, expressionless space. Moreover this dullwall, almost instantly, persuades one of the incredibility of what onehas seen. There were no beauties, there were no terrors.... Ordinarylife closes round one, trivial things reassume their old importance,one disbelieves in fantastic dreams.
I believe that every one who has had experience of war will admit thetruth of this. I had myself already known something of the kind andhad wondered at the fashion in which the crossing of a mere verst ortwo can bring the old life about one. I had known it during the battleof S----, in the days that followed the battle, in moments of theRetreat, when for half an hour we would suddenly be laughing andcareless as though we were in Petrograd.
And so when I look back to the weeks of whose history I wish now togive a truthful account, I am afraid of myself. I wish to give nothingmore than the facts, and yet that something that is _more_ than thefacts is of the first, and indeed the only, importance. Moreover thelast impression that I wish to convey is that war is a _hysterical_business. I believe that that succession of days in the forest ofS----, the experience of Nikitin, Semyonov, Andrey Vassilievitch,Trenchard and myself--might have occurred to any one, must haveoccurred to many other persons, but from the cool safe foundation onwhich now I stand it cannot but seem exceptional, even exaggerated.Exaggerated, in very truth, I know that it is not. And yet thislife--so ordered, so disciplined, so rational, and THAT life--where dothey join?... I penetrated but a little way; my friends penetratedinto the very heart ... and, because I was left outside, I remain theonly possible recorder: but a recorder who can offer only signs,moments, glimpses through a closing door....
I am waiting now for the return of my opportunity.
On the night of the death of Marie Ivanovna I slept a heavy, dreamlesssleep. I was wakened between six and seven the next morning byNikitin, who told me that he, Trenchard, Andrey Vassilievitch and Iwere to return at once to the forest. I realised at once thatindescribable quiver in the air of momentous events. The house wasquite still, the summer morning very fresh and clear, but the air wasweighted with some crisis. It was not only the death of Marie Ivanovnathat was present with us, it was rather something that told us thatnow no individual life or death counted ... individualities,personalities, were swallowed up in the sweeping urgency of a greatclimax. Nikitin simply told me that a furious battle was raging someten versts on the other side of the river, that we were to go at onceto form a temporary hospital behind the lines in the Forest; that thenurses and the rest of the Otriad would remain in Mittoevo to wait forthe main tide of the wounded, but that we were to go forward to helpthe army doctors. He spoke very quietly. We said nothing of MarieIvanovna.
I dressed quickly and on going out found the wagons waiting, somefifteen or twenty sanitars and Trenchard and Andrey Vassilievitch. Thefour of us climbed into one of the wagons and set off. I did not seeSemyonov. Trenchard was pale, there were heavy black lines under hiseyes--but he seemed calm, and he stared in front of him as though hewere absorbed by some concentrated self-control. For the first time inmy experience of him he seemed to me a strong independent character.
We did not speak at all. I could see that Andrey Vassilievitch wasnervous: his eyes were anxious and now and then he moistened his lipswith his tongue. When we had crossed the river and began to climb thehill I knew that I _hated_ the Forest. It was looking beautiful underthe early morning sun, its green so delicate and clear, its softshadows so cool, its birds singing so carelessly, the silver birches,lines of light against the dark spaces; but this was all to me now asthough it had been arranged by some ironic hand. It knew well enoughwho had died there yesterday and it was preparing now, behind itsblack recesses, a rich harvest for its malicious spirit. We passedthrough the cholera village and reached the white house of yesterdayat about ten o'clock. As we clattered up to the door I for a momentclosed my eyes. I felt as though I could not face the horrible place,then summoning my control I boldly challenged it, surveying its longbroken windows, its high doorway, its sunny, insulting garden. We weremet by the stout doctor, whom I had seen before. As he is of someimportance in the events that followed I will mention hisname--Konstantine Feodorovitch Krylov. He was large and stout, a trueRussian type, with a merry laughing face. He had the true Russianspirit of unconquerable irrational merriment. He laughed at everythingwith the gaiety of a man who finds life too preposterous for words. Hehad all the Russian untidyness, kindness of heart, gay, ironicalpessimism. "To-morrow" was a word unknown to him: nothing was sacredto him, and yet at times it seemed as though life were so holy, somysterious, that the only way to keep it from careless eyes was bylaughing at it. He had no principles, no plans, no prejudices, noreverences. If he wished to sleep for a week he would do so, if hewished to eat for a week he would do so. If he died to-morrow he didnot care ... it was all so absurd that it was not worth while to giveit any attention. He would grow very fat, he would die--he would lovewomen, play cards, drink, quarrel, give his life for a sentimentalmoment, pour every farthing of his possessions into the lap of afriend, incur debts which he would not pay, quarrel wildly with a manabout a rouble, remember things that you would expect him to forget,forget everything that he should remember--a pagan, a saint, ablackguard, a hero--anything you please so long as you do not take itseriously.
This morning he was dirty and looked as though he had slept for manynights without taking off his clothes--unshaven, his shirt openshowing his hairy chest, his eyes blinking in the light.
"That's good," he said, seeing us. "I've got to be off, leaving theplace to you.... Fearful time they're having over there," pointingacross the garden. "Yes, five versts away. Plenty of work in a minute.Brought food with you? Very little here." Then I heard him begin, ashe walked into the house with Nikitin, "Terrible thing, Doctor, aboutyour Sister yesterday.... Terrible.... I--"
I remember that my great desire was that I should not be left alonewith Trenchard. I clung to Andrey Vassilievitch, and a poor resourcehe was, watching with nervous eyes the building and the glimmeringforest, dusting his clothes and beginning sentences which he did notfinish, Trenchard was quite silent. We entered the horrible room ofyesterday. The dirty plate and the sardine-tin were still there withthe flies about them: the highly coloured German supplement watched usfrom its rakish position on the wall, the treatise on New Mexico waslying on the table. I picked up the book and it opened naturally at aplace where the last reader had turned down the corner of the page.The same page happens to be quoted exactly in Trenchard's diary on anoccasion about which afterwards I shall have to speak. There is anaccount of the year's work of some New Mexican school and it runs:
"Besides the regular class work there have been other features of special merit, programmes of which we append:
"Lectures: Rev. H. W. Ruffner, Titles and Degrees; Mr. Fred A. Bush, What the Community owes the Newspaper and what the Newspaper owes the Community; Dr. E. H. Woods, Tuberculosis; Rev. I. R. Glass, Fools; Mr. Eugene Warren, Blood of the Nation; Dr. L. M. Strong, Orthopedics; Hon. S. M. Ashenfelter, Freedom of Effort; Hon. W. T. Cessna, Don't Pay too dearly for the Whistle; Dr. O. S. Westlake, The Physician and the Laity; Prof. Wellington Putman, Rip Van Winkle;
Rev. E. S. Hanshaw, The Mind's Picture Gallery; Hon. R. M. Turner, Opportunities.
"_Othello._ For the first time the normal students presented for the class-day exercise a Shakespearian play, _Othello_. Cast of characters: Othello, E. F. Dunlavey; Iago, Douglas Giffard; Duke of Venice, Charles Harper; Brabantio, Eugene Cosgrove; Cassio, Arnold Rosenfeld; Roderigo, Erwin Moore; Montano, Wilson Portherfield; Lodovico, Henry Geitz; Gratiano, William Fleming; Desdemona, Carrie Whitehill; Emilia, Gussie Rodgers; Bianca, Florence Otter; senators, officers, messengers and attendants.
"_Graduating Programme._ Music: the Anglo-Saxon in History, Douglas Giffard; the Anglo-Saxon in Science, Florence Otter; the Anglo-Saxon in Literature, Gussie Rodgers; Music; annual address, Hon. R. M. Turner; Music; presentation of diplomas.
"Doubtless among the most interesting and most profitable events of the institution was the annual society contest between the two societies, the Literati and the Lyceum. The Silver City Commercial Club offered a costly cup to the winning society and it was won by the Lyceum. The contest was in oration, elocution, debate, parliamentary usage and athletics.
"The inside adornment of the hall has not been neglected. A number of portraits and a large number of carbon prints of celebrated paintings have been added, the class picture being the most important and costing in the neighbourhood of $100; this is the hunting scene of Ruysdael. Some of the others are 'The Parthenon,' 'The Immaculate Conception' by Murillo, and 'The Allegorie du Printemps' by Botticelli. Many valuable specimens have been added to the museum: among these are minerals, animals and vegetable products, and manufactured articles from abroad illustrative of the habits and customs of foreigners."
I give this page in full because it was afterwards to have importance,though at the time I glanced at it only carelessly. But I rememberthat I speculated on the lecture by the Rev. I. R. Glass about"Fools," that I admired a contest so widely extended as to embraceoration, parliamentary usage and athletics, that I liked very much the"class Ruysdael," "costing in the neighbourhood of $100," and the"manufactured articles from abroad, illustrative of the habits andcustoms of foreigners."
Nikitin came up to me. "Will you please set off at once with Mr. toVulatch?" he said. "Find there Colonel Maximoff and get direct ordersfrom him. Return as soon as possible. They say we're not likely tohave wounded until late this afternoon--a good thing as a lot wantsdoing to this place. Hasten, Ivan Andreievitch. No time to lose."
Vulatch was a little town situated ten versts to our right in theForest. I had heard of its strange position before, quite a town andyet lying in the very heart of the Forest, as though it had been thesettlement of some early colonists. It had running through it a goodhigh road, but otherwise was far removed from the outer world. It hadduring the war been twice bombarded and was now, I believed, ruinedand deserted. For the moment it was the headquarters of theSixty-Fifth Staff. I was frankly frightened of going alone withTrenchard--frightened both of myself and of him. I told him andwithout a word he went with me. When we started off in the wagon Ilooked at him. He was sitting on the straw, very quietly, his handsfolded, looking in front of him. He seemed older: the sentimentalnaivete that had been always in his face seemed now entirely to haveleft him. He had always looked before as though he wanted some one tohelp him out of a position that was too difficult for him; now he wasalone in a world where no one could reach him. During the whole driveto Vulatch we exchanged no word. The sound of the cannon was distantbut incessant, and strangely, as it seemed to me, we were alone. Onceand again soldiers passed us, sometimes wagons with kitchens orprovisions met us on the road, sometimes groups of men were waiting bythe roadside, once we saw them setting up telegraph wires, once adesolate band of Austrian prisoners crossed our path, twice wagonswith wounded rumbled along--but for the most part we were alone. Wewere out of the main track of the battle. It was as though the Foresthad arranged this that it might the more impress us. Our road,although it was the high road, was rough and uneven and we advancedslowly: with every step that the horses took I was the more consciousof a sinister and malign influence. I know how easily one's nerves canlend atmosphere to something that is in itself innocent and harmlessenough, but it must be remembered that (at this time), in spite ofwhat had happened yesterday, neither Trenchard's nerves nor mine werestrained. My sensation must, I think, have closely resembled thefeelings of a diver who, for the first time, descends below the water.I had never felt anything like this before and there was quitedefinitely about my eyes, my nose, my mouth, a feeling of suffocation.I can only say that it was exactly as though I were breathing in anatmosphere that was strange to me. This may have been partly theeffect of the sun that was beating down very strongly upon us, but itwas also, curiously enough, the result of some dimness that obscuredthe direct path of one's vision. On every side of our rough forestroad there were black cavernous spaces set here and there like cavesbetween sheets of burning sunlight. Into these caves one's gaze simplycould not penetrate, and the light and darkness shifted about one withexactly the effect of stirring, swaying water. Although the way wasquite clear and the road broad I felt as though at any moment ouradvance would be stopped by an impenetrable barrier, a barrier ofbristled thickets, of an iron wall, of a sudden, fathomless precipice.Of course to both Trenchard and myself there were, during this drive,thoughts of his dream. We both recognized, although at this time wedid not speak of it, that this was the very place that had now grownso vivid to us. "Ah, this is how it looks in sunlight!" I would thinkto myself, having seen it always in the early morning and cold. Behindme the long white house, the hunters, the dogs.... No, they were nothere in the burning suffocating sunlight, but they would come--theywould come!
The monotony of the place emphasised its vastness. It was not, Isuppose, a great Forest, but to-day it seemed as though we werewinding further and further, through labyrinth after labyrinth ofclouding obscurity, winding towards some destination from which wecould never again escape. "Pum--pum--pum," whispered the cannon;"Whirr--whirr--whirr," the shadowy trembling background echoed. Thenwith a sudden lifting of the curtain Vulatch was revealed to us.Ruined towns and villages were, by this time, no new sight to me, butthis place was different from anything that I had ever seen before.From the bend of the little hill we looked down upon it and the sightof it made me shudder. It was the deadest place, the _deadest_ placein the world--all white under the sun it lay there like the bleachedbones of some animal picked clean long ago by the birds.
Not a sound came from it, not a movement could be discerned in it. Icould see, standing out straight from the heart of it, what must havebeen once a fine church. It had had four green turrets perched likelittle green bubbles on white towers; three of these were still there,and between them stood the white husk of the place; from where wewatched we could see little fires of blue light sparkling like jewelsbetween the holes. Over it all was a strange metallic glitter asthough we were seeing through glass, glass shaded very faintly green.Under this green shadow, which seemed very gently to stain the air,the town was indeed like a lost city beneath the sea. Catching ourbreaths we plunged down into the fantastic depths....
As we descended the hill we were surprised by the silence--not a soulto be seen. We had expected to find the place filled with the soldiersof the Sixty-Fifth Division. Our driver on this day was the manNikolai whom I have mentioned before as attaching himself from thevery beginning to Trenchard's service. He had been Trenchard'sunofficial servant now for a long time, saying very little, alwayssucceeding, in some quiet fashion of his own, in accompanyingTrenchard on his expeditions. Nikolai was one of the quietest humanbeings I have ever known. His charming ugly face was in repose alittle gloomy, not thoughtful so much as expectant, dreamy perhaps butalso very practical and unidealistic. His smile changed all that; in amoment his face was merry, even good-humouredly malicious, suspicious,and a little ironical. He had the thick
stolid body of the Russianpeasant who is trained to any endurance, any misfortune that God mightchoose to send it. His attachment to Trenchard had been sounobtrusive that Molozov had officially permitted it withoutrealising that he had permitted anything. It was so unobtrusive that Imyself had not, during these last weeks, noticed it. To-day I sawNikolai glance many times at Trenchard. His eyes were anxious andinquiring; he looked at him rather as a dog may look at his master,although there was here no dumb submission, nor any sentimentalweakness.... I should rather say that Nikolai looked at Trenchard asone free man may look at another. "What is the matter with you?" hiseyes seemed to say. "But I know ... a terrible thing has happened toyou. At any rate I am here to be of any use that I can."
"Nikolai," I said, "why is there no one here?"
"_Ne mogoo znat_, your Honour."
"Well, the first soldier you see you must ask."
"_Tak totchno._"
"Who said you were to drive us?"
"Vladimir Stepanovitch, your Honour."
"Are you going to remain with us?"
"_Tak totchno._"
His eyes rested for a moment on Trenchard, then he turned to hishorses.
We were entering the town now and it did, indeed, present to us ascene of desperate desolation. The place had been originally built inrising tiers on the side of the valley, and the principal street hadleading out of it, up the hill, steps rising to balconied houses thatcommanded a view of the opposite hill. Almost every house in thisstreet was in ruins; sometimes the ruins were complete--only anisolated chimney of broken stone wall remaining, sometimes the shellwas standing, the windows boarded up with wood, sometimes almost thewhole building was there, a gaping space in the roof the only sign ofdesolation. And there remained the ironical signs of its earlierlife. Many of the buildings had their titles still upon them. In oneplace I saw the blackened and almost illegible plate of a lawyer, inanother a large still fresh-looking advertisement of a dentist, herethere was the large lettering "Tobacconist," there upon a tremblingwall the tattered remains of an announcement of a sale of furniture.Once, most ironical of all, a gaping and smoke-stained building showedthe half-torn remnant of a cinematograph picture, a fat gentleman in abowler hat entering with a lady on either arm a gaily paintedrestaurant. Over this, in big letters, the word "FARCE."
Although we saw no soldiers we were not entirely alone. In and out ofthe sunny caverns, appearing outlined against the darkness, vanishingin a sudden blaze of light, were shadows of the citizens of Vulatch.They seemed to me, without exception, to be Jews. From most of theGalician towns and villages the Jews had been expelled--here theyonly, apparently, had been left. Of women I saw scarcely any--old men,with long dirty black or grizzled beards, yellow skins, peaked blackcaps, and filthy black gowns clutched about their thin bodies. Theywatched us, silently, ominously, maliciously. They crept from door todoor, stole up the stone steps and vanished, appeared, as it seemed,right beneath our horses' feet and disappeared. If we caught them withour eyes they bowed with a loathsome, trembling subservience. Therewere many little Jewish children, with glittering eyes, naked feet,bare scrubby heads and white faces. Nikolai at length caught an oldman and asked him where the soldiers were. The old man replied in verytolerable Russian that all the soldiers had gone last night--not oneof them remained--but he believed that some more were shortly toarrive. They were always coming and going, he said.
We stayed where we were, under the blazing sun, and held council. Inevery doorway, in every shadow, there were eyes watching us. The wholetown was overweighted, overwhelmed by the brooding Forest. From wherewe stood I could see it rising on every side of us like a trembling,threatening green wave; in the furious heat of the sun the white ruinsseemed to jump and leap.
"Well," I said to Trenchard, "what's to be done?"
He pulled himself back from his thoughts.
He had been sitting in the cart, quite motionless, his face white andhidden, as though he slept. He raised his tired, heavy eyes to myface.
"Do?" he said.
"Yes," I answered impatiently. "Didn't you hear what Nikolai said?There are no soldiers here. We can't find Maximoff because he isn'there. We must go back, I suppose."
"Very well," he answered indifferently.
"I'm not going back," I said, "until I've had something to drink--teaor coffee. I wonder whether there's anything here--any place we couldgo to."
Nikolai inquired. Old Shylock pointed with his bony finger down thestreet.
"Very fine restaurant there," he said.
"Will you come and see?" I asked Trenchard.
"Very well," said Trenchard.
I told Nikolai to stay there and wait for us. I walked down thestreet, followed by Trenchard. I found on my left, at the top of alittle flight of steps, a house that was for the most part untouchedby the general havoc around and about it. The lower windows werecracked and the door open and gaping, but there stood, quite bravelywith new paint, the word "_Restoration_" on the lintel and there wereeven curtains about the upper windows. Passing through the door wefound a room decently clean, and behind the little bar a stoutred-faced Galician in white shirt and grey trousers, a citizen of thenormal world. We were just then his only customers. We asked him fortea and sat down at a little table in the corner of the room. He didnot talk to us but stood in his place humming cheerfully to himselfand cleaning glasses. He was a rogue, I thought, looking at his littleeyes, but at any rate a merry rogue; he certainly had kept off fromhim the general death and desolation that had overwhelmed hisneighbours. I sat opposite to Trenchard and wondered what to say tohim. His expression had never varied. As I looked at him I could notbut think of the strength of his eyes, of his mouth, the quietconcentration of his hands ... a different figure from the smilinguncertain man on the Petrograd station--how many years ago?
Our tea was brought to us. Then quite suddenly Trenchard said to me:
"Did she say anything before she died?"
"No," I answered quietly. "She died instantly, they told me."
"How exactly was she killed?"
His eyes watched my face without falter, clearly, gravely,steadfastly.
"She was killed by a bullet. Stepped out from behind her shelter andit happened at once. She can have suffered nothing."
"And Semyonov _let_ her?"
"He could not have prevented it. It might have happened to any one."
"I would have prevented it," he said, nodding his head gravely.
He was silent for a little; then with a sudden jerk he said:
"Where has she gone?"
"Gone?" I repeated stupidly after him.
"Yes--that's not death--to go like that. She must be somewherestill--somewhere in this beastly forest. What--afterwards--when yousaw her--what? ... her face?..."
"She looked very peaceful--quite happy."
"No restlessness in her face? No anxiety?"
"None."
"But all that life--that energy. It can't have stopped. Quitesuddenly. It _can't_. She can't have wanted _not_ to know all thosethings that she was so eager about before." He was suddenly voluble,excited, leaning forward, staring at me. "You know how she was. Youmust have seen it numbers of times--how she never looked at any of usreally, how we were none of us--no, not even Semyonov--anything to her_really_; always staring past us, wanting to know the answer toquestions that _we_ couldn't solve for her. She wouldn't give it allup simply for nothing, simply for a bullet ..." he broke off.
"Look here, Trenchard," I said, "try not to think of her just now morethan you can help, _just now_. We're in for a stiff time, I believe.This will be our last easy afternoon, I fancy, and even now we oughtto be back helping Nikitin. You've got to work all you know. One'snerves get wrong easily enough in a place like this--and after whathas happened I feel this damned Forest already. But we mustn't _let_our nerves go. We've simply got to work and think about nothing atall--_think about nothing at all_."
I don't believe that he heard me.
"Semyon
ov?" he said slowly. "What did he do?"
"He was very quiet," I answered. "He didn't say anything. He lookedawful."
"Yes. She snapped her fingers at _him_ anyway. _He_ couldn't keep herfor all his bullying."
"It pretty well killed him," I said rather fiercely. "Look here,Trenchard. Don't think of yourself--or of her. Every one's in it now.There isn't any personality about it. We've simply got to do our bestand not think about it. It's thinking that beats one if one lets it."
"Semyonov ... Semyonov," he repeated to himself, smiling. "No, _he_had not power over her." Then looking at me very calmly, he remarked:"This Death, you know, Durward.... It simply doesn't exist. It can'tstop _her_. It can't stop _any one_ if they're determined. I'll findher before Semyonov does, too."
Then, as though he had waked from sleep, he said to me, his voicetrembling a little: "Am I talking queerly, Durward? If I am, don'tthink anything of it. It's this heat--and this place. Let's get back."He only spoke once more. He said: "Do you remember that firstdrive--ages ago, when we saw the trenches and heard the frogs and Ithought there was some one there?"
"Yes," I said. "I remember."
"Well, it's rather like that now, isn't it?"
A pretty girl, twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, obviously thedaughter of the red-faced proprietor, came up to us and asked us if wewould like any more tea. She would be stout later on, her red cheekswere plump and her black hair arranged coquettishly in little shiningcurls. She smiled on us.
"No more tea?" she said.
"No more," I answered.
"You will not be staying here?"
"Not to-night."
"We have a nice room here."
"No, thank you."
"Perhaps one of you--"
"No. We are returning to-night,"
"Perhaps, for an hour or two." Then smiling at me and laughing alittle, "I have known many officers ... very many."
"No, thank you," I said sternly.
"I have a sister," she said. She turned, crying: "Marie, Marie!"
A little girl, who could not have been more than fourteen years ofage, appeared from the background. She also was red-cheeked and plump;her hair also was arranged in black, shining curls. She stood lookingat us, half smiling, half defiant, sucking her finger.
"She also has known officers," said the girl. "She would be very glad,if you cared--"
I heard their father behind the bar humming to himself.
"Come out of this!" I said to Trenchard. "Come away!"
He followed me quietly, bowing very politely to the staringsisters....
"Go on," I said to Nikolai. "Drive on. No time to waste. We've gotwork to do."
On our return we found that the press of work was not as yet severe.Half the building belonged to us, the remaining half being used by theofficers of the battery. Nikitin had arranged a large room, that mustI think have been a dining-room in happier days, with beds; to theright was the operating-room, overhead were our bedrooms and the roomwhere originally I had sat with Marie Ivanovna was a general meetingplace. The officers of the battery, two middle-aged and two very youngindeed, were extremely courteous and begged us to make use of them inany way possible. They were living in the raggedest fashion, a week'sgrowth of beard on their chins, their beds unmade, the floor litteredwith ends of cigarettes, pieces of paper, journals.
"Been here weeks," they apologetically explained to us. "Come in andhave a meal with us whenever you like." They resembled animals in acave. When they were not on duty they played _chemin-de-fer_ andslept. Meanwhile for three days and nights our work was slight. Thebattle drew further away into the Forest. Wagons with wounded came tous only at long intervals.
The result of these three days was a strange new intimacy between thefour of us. I have never in all my life seen anything more charmingthan the behaviour of Nikitin and Andrey Vassilievitch to Trenchard.There is something about Russian kindness that is both simpler andmore tactful than any other kindness in the world. Tact is too oftenanother name for insincerity, but Russian kindheartedness is the mosthonest impulse in the Russian soul, the quality that comes first,before anger, before injustice, before prejudice, before slander,before disloyalty, and overrides them all. They were, of course,conscious that Trenchard's case was worse than their own. MarieIvanovna's death had shocked them, but she had been outside theirlives and already she was fading from them. Trenchard was anothermatter. Nikitin seemed to me for the first time in my knowledge of himto come down from his idealistic dreaming. He cared for Trenchard likea child, but never obtrusively. Trenchard seemed to appreciate it, butthere was something about him that I did not like. His nerves weretensely strained, he did his work with his eyes fixed upon someimpossible distance, he often did not hear us when we spoke to him.
And so the three of us formed a kind of hedge about him to protecthim, a hedge of which he was perfectly unconscious. He was very silentand I would have given a great deal to hear again one of thoseGlebeshire stories that I had once found so tiresome. That some planor purpose was in his head one could not doubt.
We had, all of us, much in common in our characters. We liked thesentimental easy coloured view of life. We suddenly felt a strangefreedom here in this place. For myself, on the third day, I found thatMarie Ivanovna was most strangely present with me, and on theafternoon of that day, our wounded quiet on their beds, our wagonssent into the tent with no prospect of their return for several hours,we sat together, Nikitin, Andrey Vassilievitch and I, looking outthrough a break in the garden towards the Forest, and talked abouther. The weather was now very heavy--certainly a thunderstorm wascoming. I was also weighted down by an intense desire for sleep, atthe same time knowing that if I were to fling myself on my bed sleepwould not come to me. This is an experience that is not unusual at theFront, and officers have told me that in the middle of a battle whenthere comes a sudden lull, their longing for sleep has been sooverpowering that no imminent danger could lift it from their eyes.
We sat there then and talked in low voices of Marie Ivanovna. I wasaware of the buzzing of the flies, of the dull yellow light beyond thewindows, of the Forest crouching a little as it seemed to me like acreature who expects a blow. We were all half asleep perhaps, the roomdark behind us, and we talked of her as we might talk of a picture, abook, an experience ended and dismissed--something outside our presentaffairs. And yet I knew that for me at any rate she was not outsidethem. I felt as though at any moment she might enter the room. Wediscussed her aloofness, her sudden happiness and her sudden distress,her intimacies and withdrawals, Nikitin and Andrey Vassilievitchslowly elaborating her into a high romantic figure. Behind her, behindall our thoughts of her, there was the presence of Semyonov. Nothingwas stranger during our time here than the way that Semyonov hadalways kept us company.
Our consciousness of relief from him had begun it. We had been moreunder his influence than any of us had cared to confess and, in hispresence, had checked our natural impulses. I also was strongly awareof him through Trenchard. Trenchard seemed now to have a horror of himthat could be explained only by the fact that he held him responsiblefor Marie Ivanovna's death. "It's a good thing," I thought to myself,"that Semyonov's not here."
These hours of waiting, when there was nothing to do, was bad for allour nerves. Upon this afternoon I remember that after a time silencefell between us. We were all staring in front of us, seeing picturesof other places and other people. I was aware, as I always was, of theForest, seeing it shine with its sinister green haze, seeing the whitebleached town, the huddled villagers waiting for their food, butseeing yet more vividly the deep silences, the dark hollows, thesilent avenues of silver birch. Against this were the figures of thepeople who were dear to me. It is strange how war selects and bringsforward as one's eternal company the one or two souls who have been ofimportance in one's life. One knows then, in those long, longthreatening pauses, when the battle seems to gather itself togetherbefore it thunders its next smashing blow, those who are one's truecomp
anions. Certain English figures were now with me outlined againstthe Forest--and joined together with them Marie Ivanovna as I had lastseen her, turning round to me by the door and smiling upon me. I didtruthfully feel, as Trenchard had said to me, that she was not dead; Isat, staring before me, conjuring her to appear. The others also satthere, staring in front of them. Were they also summoning some figure?I knew, as though Andrey Vassilievitch had told me, that he wasthinking of his wife. And Nikitin?...
He sat there, lying back on the old sofa that Marie had used, hisblack beard, his long limbs, his dark eyes giving him the colour ofsome Eastern magician. He did indeed, with his intense, absorbed gaze,seem to be casting a spell As I looked Andrey Vassilievitch caught hisglance--they exchanged the strangest flash--something that wasintimate and yet foreign, something appealing and yet hostile. It wasas though Andrey Vassilievitch had said: "I know you are thinking ofher. Leave her to me," and Nikitin had replied: "My poor friend. Whatcan you do?... I do as I please."
I know at least that I saw Andrey Vassilievitch frown, make as thoughhe would get up and leave the room, then think better of it, and sinkback into his chair.
I remember that just at that moment Trenchard entered. He joined usand sat on the sofa near Nikitin without speaking, staring in front ofhim like the rest of us. His face was tired and old, his cheekshollow.
I waited and the silence began to get on my nerves. Then there came aninterruption. The door opened quite silently: we all turned our eyestowards it without moving our heads. In the doorway stood Semyonov.
We were startled as though by a ghost. I remember that AndreyVassilievitch jumped to his feet, crying. Trenchard never moved.Semyonov with his usual stolid self-possession came towards us,greeted us, then turning to me said:
"I've come to take your place, Ivan Andreievitch."
"My place?" I stammered.
"Yes. You're wanted there. You're to return at once in the_britchka_.... In half an hour, if you don't mind."
"And you'll stay?"
"And I'll stay."
No one else said anything. I remember that I had some half-intentionof protesting, of begging to be allowed to remain. But I was no matchfor Semyonov. I could fancy the futility of my saying: "But really,Alexei Petrovitch, we don't want you here. It's much better to leaveme. You'll upset them all. It's a nervous place, this." I saidnothing, except: "All right. I'll go." He watched me. He watched usall. I fancy that he smiled.
Outside I had a desperate absurd thought that I would return and askhim to be kind to Trenchard. As I turned away some one seemed towhisper in my ear:
"He's come, you know, to find Marie Ivanovna."