Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
The
DARK FOREST
by
HUGH WALPOLE
GROSSET & DUNLAP _Publishers_, _New York_ _by arrangement with_ GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
* * * * *
TO
KONSTANTINE SAMOFF
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR
* * * * *
CONTENTS
PART ONE
CHAPTER
I. SPRING IN THE TRAIN
II. THE SCHOOL-HOUSE
III. THE INVISIBLE BATTLE
IV. NIKITIN
V. FIRST MOVE TO THE ENEMY
VI. THE RETREAT
VII. ONE NIGHT
PART TWO
I. THE LOVERS
II. MARIE IVANOVNA
III. THE FOREST
IV. FOUR?
V. THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND THEM
* * * * *
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
SPRING IN THE TRAIN
His was the first figure to catch my eye that evening in Petrograd; hestood under the dusky lamp in the vast gloomy Warsaw station, withexactly the expression that I was afterwards to know so well,impressed not only upon his face but also upon the awkwardness of hisarms that hung stiffly at his side, upon the baggy looseness of histrousers at the knees, the unfastened straps of his long blackmilitary boots. His face, with its mild blue eyes, straggly fairmoustache, expressed anxiety and pride, timidity and happiness,apprehension and confidence. He was in that first moment of my sightof him as helpless, as unpractical, and as anxious to please as anylost dog in the world--and he was also as proud as Lucifer. I knew himat once for an Englishman; his Russian uniform only accented thecathedral-town, small public-school atmosphere of his appearance. Hewas exactly what I had expected. He was not, however, alone, and thatsurprised me. By his side stood a girl, obviously Russian, wearing herSister's uniform with excitement and eager anticipation, her eyesturning restlessly from one part of the platform to another, listeningwith an impatient smile to the remarks of her companion.
From where I stood I could hear his clumsy, hesitating Russian andher swift, preoccupied replies. I came up to them.
"Mr. Trenchard?" I asked.
He blushed, stammered, held out his hand, missed mine, blushed themore, laughed nervously.
"I'm glad ... I knew ... I hope...."
I could feel that the girl's eyes were upon me with all the excitedinterest of one who is expecting that every moment of her newwonderful experience will be of a stupendous, even immortal quality.
"I am Sister Marie Ivanovna, and you are, of course, Mr. Durward," shesaid. "They are all waiting for you--expecting you--you're late, youknow!" She laughed and moved forward as though she would accompany meto the group by the train. We went to the train together.
"I should tell you," she said quickly and suddenly with nervousness,"that we are engaged, Mr. Trenchard and I--only last night. We havebeen working at the same hospital.... I don't know any one," shecontinued in the same intimate, confiding whisper. "I would befrightened terribly if I were not so excited. Ah! there's AnnaMihailovna.... I know _her_, of course. It was through, her aunt--theone who's on Princess Soboleff's train--that I had the chance of goingwith you. Oh! I'm so happy that I had the chance--if I hadn't hadit...."
We were soon engulfed now. I drew a deep breath and surrenderedmyself. The tall, energetic figure of Anna Mihailovna, the lady towhose practical business gifts and unlimited capacity for compellingher friends to surrender their last bow and button in her service weowed the existence of our Red Cross unit, was to be seen like asplendid flag waving its followers on to glory and devotion. We _were_devoted, all of us. Even I, whose second departure to the war thiswas, had after the feeblest resistance surrendered myself to the dramaof the occasion. I should have been no gentleman had I done otherwise.
After the waters had closed above my head for, perhaps, five minutesof strangled, half-protesting, half-willing surrender I was suddenlycompelled, by what agency I know not, to struggle to the surface, tolook around me, and then quite instantly to forget my immersion. Thefigure of Trenchard, standing exactly as I had left him, his handsuneasily at his sides, a half-anxious, half-confident smile on hislips, his eyes staring straight in front of him, absolutely compelledmy attention. I had forgotten him, we had all forgotten him, his ownlady had forgotten him. I withdrew from the struggling, noisy groupand stepped back to his side. It was then that, as I now most clearlyremember, I was conscious of something else, was aware that there wasa strange faint blue light in the dark clumsy station, a faintthrobbing glow, that, like the reflection of blue water on a sunlitceiling, hovered and hung above the ugly shabbiness of the engines andtrucks, the rails with scattered pieces of paper here and there, theiron arms that supported the vast glass roof, the hideous funnel thathung with its gaping mouth above the water-tank. The faint blue lightwas the spring evening--the spring evening that, encouraged by Godknows what brave illusion, had penetrated even these desperatefastnesses. A little breeze accompanied it and the dirty pieces ofpaper blew to and fro; then suddenly a shaft of light quivered uponthe blackness, quivered and spread like a golden fan, then flooded thehuge cave with trembling ripples of light. There was even, I dareswear, at this safe distance, a smell of flowers in the air.
"It's a most lovely ..." Trenchard said, smiling at me, "spring here ... Ifind...."
I was compelled by some unexpected sense of fatherly duty to bepractical.
"You've got your things?" I said. "You've found your seat?"
"Well, I didn't know ..." he stammered.
"Where are they?" I asked him.
He was not quite sure where they were. He stood, waving his hands,whilst the golden sunlight rippled over his face. I was suddenlyirritated.
"But please," I said, "there isn't much time. Four of us men have acompartment together. Just show me where your things are and then I'llintroduce you." He seemed reluctant to move, as though the spot thathe had chosen was the only safe one in the whole station; but I forcedhim forward, found his bags, had them placed in their carriage, thenturned to introduce him to his companions.
Anna Mihailovna had said to me: "This detachment will be older thanthe last. Doctor Nikitin--he'll take that other doctor's place, theone who had typhus--and Andrey Vassilievitch--you've known him foryears. He talks a great deal but he's sympathetic and such a goodbusiness man. He'll be useful. Then there's an Englishman; I don'tknow much about him, except that he's been working for three months atthe English Hospital. He's not a correspondent, never written a linein his life. I only saw him for a moment, but he seemedsympathetic...."
Anna Mihailovna, as is well known to all of us, finds every onesympathetic simply because she has so much to do and so many people tosee that she has no time to go deeply into things. If you have no timefor judging character you must have some good common rule to go by. Ihad known little Andrey Vassilievitch for some years and had found himtiresome. Finally, I did not care about the possibility of anEnglishman. Perhaps I had wished (through pride) to remain the onlyEnglishman in our "Otriad." I had made friends with them all, I was athome with them. Another Englishman might transplant me in theiraffections. Russians transfer, with the greatest ease, their emotionsfrom one place to another; or he might be a failure and so da
mage mycountry's reputation. Some such vain and stupid prejudice I had. Iknow that I looked upon our new additions with disfavour.
There, at any rate, Dr. Nikitin and little Andrey Vassilievitch were,and a strange contrast they made. Nikitin's size would have compelledattention anywhere, even in Russia, which is, of course, a country ofbig men. It was not only that he was tall and broad; the carriage ofhis head, the deep blackness of his beard, his eyebrows, his eyes, thesure independence with which he held himself, as though he wereindifferent to the whole world (and that I know that he was), mustanywhere have made him remarked and remembered. He looked nowimmensely fine in his uniform, which admirably suited him. He stood,without his greatcoat, his hand on his sword, his eyes half-closed asthough he were almost asleep, and a faint half-smile on his face asthough he were amused at his thoughts. I remember that my firstimpression of him was that he was so completely beneath the dominationof some idea or remembrance that, at that moment, no human being couldtouch him. When I took Trenchard up to him I was so conscious of hisremoteness that I was embarrassed and apologetic.
And if I was aware of Nikitin's remoteness I was equally conscious ofAndrey Vassilievitch's proximity. He was a little man of a round plumpfigure; he wore a little imperial and sharp, inquisitive moustaches;his hair was light brown and he was immensely proud of it. InPetrograd he was always very smartly dressed. He bought his clothes inLondon and his plump hands had a movement familiar to all his friends,a flicker of his hands to his coat, his waistcoat, his trousers, tobrush off some imaginary speck of dust. It was obvious now that he hadgiven very much thought to his uniform. It fitted him perfectly, hisepaulettes glittered, his boots shone, his sword was magnificent, buthe looked, in spite of all his efforts, exactly what he was, a richsuccessful merchant; never was there any one less military. He haddressed up, one might suppose, for some fancy-dress ball.
I could see at once that he was ill at ease, anxious as ever to pleaseevery one, to like every one, to be liked in return, but unable,because of some thought that troubled him, to give his whole attentionto this business of pleasing.
He greeted me with a warmth that was really genuine although hebestowed it upon his merest acquaintances. His great dream in life wasa universal popularity--that every one should love him. At any rate atthat time I thought that to be his dream--I know now that there wassomething else.
"But Ivan Petrovitch!... This is delightful! Here we all are! Whatpleasure! Thank God, we're all here, no delays, nothing unfortunate.An Englishman?... Indeed, I am very glad! Your friend speaks Russian?Not very much, but enough?... You know Vladimir Stepanovitch? Dr.Nikitin ... my friend Meester Durward. Also Meester?... ah, I beg yourpardon, Tronsart. Two Englishmen in our Otriad ... the alliance, yes,delightful!"
Nikitin slowly opened his eyes, shook hands with me and withTrenchard, said that he was glad to see us and was silent again.Trenchard stammered and blushed, said something in very bad Russian,then glanced anxiously, with an eager light in his mild blue eyes, inthe direction of the excited crowd that chattered and stirred aboutthe train. There was something, in that look of his, that both touchedand irritated me. "What does he come for?" I thought to myself. "Withhis bad Russian and his English prejudices. Of course he'll be lonelyand then he'll be in every one's way."
I could remember, readily enough, some of the loneliness of thosefirst months of my own, when both war and the Russians had differed sofrom my expectations. This fellow looked just the figure for highromantic pictures. He had, doubtless, seen Russia in the colours ofthe pleasant superficial books of travel that have of late, inEngland, been so popular, books that see in the Russian a blessed sortof Idiot unable to read or write but vitally conscious of God, and inRussia a land of snow, ikons, mushrooms and pilgrims. Yes, he would bedisappointed, unhappy, and tiresome. Upon myself would fall the chiefburden of his trouble--I should have enough upon my shoulders withouthim.
The golden fan had vanished from the station walls. A dim pale glow,with sparkles as of gold dust shining here and there upon that grimyworld, faltered and trembled before the rattle and roar thatthreatened it. Nevertheless, Spring was with us at our departure. Asthe bells rang, as the ladies of our Committee screamed and laughed,as Anna Mihailovna showered directions and advice upon us, as wecrowded backwards into our compartment before the first jolt of thedeparting train, Spring was with us ... but of course we were all ofus too busy to be aware of it.
Nikitin, I remember, reduced us very quickly, for all practicalpurposes, to a company of three. He lowered one of the upper beds,climbed into it, stretched himself out and lay in silence staring atthe carriage-roof. His body was a shadow in the half-light, touchedonce and again by the gesture of the swinging lamp, that swept him outof darkness and back into it again. The remaining three of us did notduring either that evening or the next day make much progress. Attimes there would of course be tea, and then the two Sisters who werein a compartment close at hand joined us.
Marie Ivanovna, Trenchard's lady, was quieter than she had beenbefore. Her face, which now seemed younger than ever, wore a look ofimportant seriousness as though she were conscious of the indecency ofher earlier excitement. She spoke very little, but no one could be inher presence without feeling the force of her vitality like somehammer, silent but of immense power, beating relentlessly upon theatmosphere. Its effect was the stronger in that one realised howutterly at present she was unable to deal with it. Her veryhelplessness was half of her power--half of her danger too. She wasmost certainly not beautiful; her nose was too short, her mouth toolarge, her forehead, from which her black hair was brushed straightback, too high. Her complexion was pale and when she was confused,excited, or pleased, the colour came into her face in a faint flushthat ebbed and flowed but never reached its full glow. Her hands werethin and pale. It was her eyes that made her so young; they were solarge and round and credulous, scornful sometimes with the scorn ofthe very young for all the things in the world that they have notexperienced--but young especially in all their urgent capacity forlife, in their confidence of carrying through all the demands thatthe High Gods might make upon them. I knew as I looked at her that atpresent her eagerness for experience was stronger, by far, than hereagerness for any single human being. I wondered whether Trenchardknew that. He was, beyond discussion, most desperately in love; thelove of a shy man who has for so many years wondered and dreamed andfinds, when the reality comes to him, that it is more, far more, thanhe had expected. When she came in to us he sat very quietly by herside and talked, if he talked at all, to the other Sister, a stoutcomfortable woman with no illusions, no expectations, immense capacityand an intensely serious attitude to food and drink.
Trenchard let his eyes rest upon his lady's face whenever she wasunaware, but I could see that he was desperately anxious not to offendher. His attitude to all women, even to Anna Petrovna, the motherlySister, was that of a man who has always blundered in their company,who has been mocked, perhaps, for his mistakes. I could see, however,that his pride in his new possession, his pride and his happiness,carried with it an absolute assurance of his security. He had nodoubts at all. He seemed, in this, even younger than she.
Through all that long Spring day we wandered on--wandering it seemedas the train picked its way through the fields under a sky of bluethin and fine like glass; through a world so quiet and still thatbirds and children sang and called as though to reassure themselvesthat they were not alone. Nothing of the war in all this. At thestations there were officers eating "Ztchee" soup and veal anddrinking glasses of weak tea, there were endless mountains of hot meatpies; the ikons in the restaurants looked down with benignancy andindifference upon the food and the soldiers and beyond the station thelight green trees blowing in the little wind; the choruses of thesoldiers came from their trains as though it were the very voice ofSpring itself. It sounded in the distance like--
_Barinisha Barinisha--Pop. Barinisha--Pop. So--la, la--la ... Bar ... inisha la._
The bell
rang, officers with meat pies in their hands came runningacross the platform. We swung on again through the green golden day.
Andrey Vassilievitch of course chattered to us all. It was his way,and after a very brief experience of it one trained oneself to regardit as an inevitable background, like the jerking and smoke of thetrain, the dust, the shrill Russian voices in the next compartment,the blowing of paper to and fro in the corridor. I very quicklydiscovered that he was intensely conscious of Nikitin, who scarcelythroughout the day moved from his upper bunk. Andrey Vassilievitchhanded him his tea, brought his meat pies and sandwiches from thestation, and offered him newspapers. He did not, however, speak to himand I was aware that throughout that long day he was never onceunconscious of him. His chatter, which was always the mostirrepressible thing in the world, had, perhaps, to-day some directionbehind it. For the first time in my long acquaintance with AndreyVassilievitch he interested me. The little man was distressed by theheat and dirt; his fingers were always flickering about his clothes.He was intensely polite to every one, especially to Trenchard, payinghim many compliments about England and the English. The English werethe only "sportsmen" in the world. He had been once in London for aweek; it had rained very much, but one afternoon it had been fine,and then what clothes he had seen! But the City! He had been down intothe City and was lost in admiration; he had also been lost inpractical earnest and had appealed to one of the splendid policemen asto the way to Holborn Viaduct, a name that he was quite unable topronounce. This incident he told us several times. Meanwhile ... hehoped he might ask without offence ... what was our Navy doing? Whyweren't our submarines as active as the German submarines? And inFrance ... how many soldiers had we now? He did hope that he was notoffending.... He spoke rapidly and indistinctly and much of hisconversation Trenchard did not understand; he made some rather stupidreplies and Marie Ivanovna laughed.
She spoke English very well, with an accent that was charming. She hadhad, she said, an English nurse, and then an English governess.
Of course they asked me many questions about the future. Would we beclose to the Front? How many versts? Would there be plenty of work,and would we _really_ see things? We wanted to be useful, no use goingif we were not to be useful. How many Sisters were there then already?Were they "sympathetic"? Was Molozov, the head of the Otriad, anagreeable man? Was he kind, or would he be angry about simply nothing?Who would bandage and who would feed the villagers and who would bathethe soldiers? Were the officers of the Ninth Army pleasant to us?Where? Who? When? The day slipped away, the colours were drawn fromthe sky, the fields, the hills, the stars came out in their myriads,thickly clustered in ropes, and lakes and coils of light; the air wasscented with flowers. The second night passed.
The greater part of the next day was spent in H----, a snug town witha little park like a clean handkerchief, streets with coloured shops,neat and fresh-painted like toys from a toy-shop, little blue trains,statues of bewigged eighteenth-century kings and dukes, and arestaurant, painted Watteau-fashion with bright green groves, ladiesin hoops and powder, and long-legged sheep. Here we wandered, five ofus. Nikitin told us that he would meet us at the station that evening.He had his own business in the place. The little town was deliveredover to the Russian army but seemed happy enough in its deliverance. Ihave never realised in any place more completely the spirit of brightcheerfulness, and the soldiers who thronged the little streets were asfar from alarm and thunder as the painted sheep in the restaurant.Marie Ivanovna was as excited as though she had never been in a townbefore. She bought a number of things in the little expensiveshops--eau-de-Cologne, sweets, an electric lamp, a wrist-watch, andsome preserved fruit. Trenchard made her presents; she thanked himwith a gratitude that made him so happy that he stumbled over hissword more than ever, blushing and pushing his cap back from his head.There are some who might have laughed at him, carrying her parcels,his face flushed, his legs knocking against one another, but it washere, at H----, that, for the first time, I positively began to likehim. By the evening when we were assembled in the station again as Ilooked at him standing, waiting for directions, smiling, hot, untidyand awkward, I knew that I liked him very much indeed....
Our new train overflowed: with the greatest difficulty we secured asmall wooden compartment with seats sharp and narrow and a smell ofcabbage, bad tobacco, and dirty clothes. The floor was littered withsunflower seeds and the paper wrappings of cheap sweets. The air camein hot stale gusts down the corridor, met the yet closer air of ourcarriage, battled with it and retired defeated. We flung open thewindows and a cloud of dust rose gaily to meet us. The whole of theRussian army seemed to be surging upon the platform; orderlies weresearching for their masters, officers shouting for their orderlies,soldiers staggering along under bundles of clothes and rugs andpillows; here a group standing patiently, each man with hisblue-painted kettle and on his face that expression of happy,half-amused, half-inquisitive, wholly amiable tolerance which revealsthe Russian soldier's favourite attitude to the world. Two priestswith wide dirty black hats, long hair, and soiled grey gowns slowlyfound their way through the crowd. A bunch of Austrian prisoners intheir blue-grey uniform made a strange splash of colour in a corner ofthe platform, where, very contentedly, they were drinking their tea;some one in the invisible distance was playing the balalaika and everynow and then some church bell in the town rang clearly and sharplyabove the tumult. The thin films of dust, yellow in the evening sun,hovered like golden smoke under the station roof. At last with areluctant jerk and shiver the train was slowly persuaded to totterinto the evening air; the evening scents were again around us, thebalalaika, now upon the train, hummed behind us, as we pushed out uponher last night's journey.
The two Sisters had the seats by the windows; Nikitin curled up hisgreat length in another corner and Andrey Vassilievitch settledhimself with much grunting and many exclamations beside him. I andTrenchard sat stiffly on the other side.
I had, long ago, accustomed myself to sleep in any position on anyoccasion, however sudden it might be, and I fancied that I should now,in a moment, be asleep, although I had never, in my long travellingexperience, known greater discomfort. I looked at the dim lamp, at thesquare patch beyond the windows, at Nikitin's long body, which seemednevertheless so perfectly comfortable, and at Andrey Vassilievitch'sshort fat one, which was so obviously miserably uncomfortable; I smeltthe cabbage, the dust, the sunflower seeds; first one bone thenanother ached, in the centre of my back there was an intolerableirritation; above all, there was in my brain some strange insistentcompulsion, as though some one were forcing me to remember somethingthat I had forgotten, or as though again some one were fore-warning meof some peril or complication. I had, very distinctly, thatimpression, so familiar to all of us, of passing through someexperience already known: I had seen already the dim lamp, the squarepatch of evening sky, Nikitin, Andrey Vassilievitch.... I knew that ina moment Trenchard.... He did.... He touched my arm.
"Can you sleep?" he whispered.
"No," I answered.
"It's terribly hot, close--smell.... Are you going to sleep?"
"No," I whispered back again.
"Let us move into the corridor. It will be cooler there."
There seemed to me quite a new sound of determination and resolve inhis voice. His nervousness had left him with the daylight. He led theway out of the carriage, turned down the little seats in the corridor,provided cigarettes.
"It isn't much better here, but we'll have the window open. It'll getbetter. This is really war, isn't it, being so uncomfortable as this?I feel as though things were really beginning."
"Well, we shall be there to-morrow night," I answered him. "I hopeyou're not going to be disappointed."
"Disappointed in what?" His voice was quite sharp as he spoke to me,"You don't know what I want."
"I suppose you're like the rest of us. You want to see what war reallyis. You want to do some good if you can. You want to be seriouslyoccupied in it to prevent your thinking too much
about it. Then,because you're English, you want to see what the Russians are reallylike. You're curious and sympathetic, inquisitive and, perhaps, alittle sentimental about it.... Am I right?"
"No, not quite--there are other things. I'd like to tell you. Do youmind," he said suddenly looking up straight into my face with aconfiding smile that was especially his own, "if I talk, if I tell youwhy I've come? I've no right, I don't know you--but I'm so happyto-night that I _must_ talk--I'm so happy that I feel as though Ishall never get through the night alive."
Of our conversation after this, or rather of _his_ talk, excited,eager, intimate and shy, old and wise and very, very young, I remembernow, I think, every word with especial vividness. After events were tofix it all in my brain with peculiar accuracy, but his narration hadthat night of itself its own individual quality. His was no ordinarypersonality, or, at any rate, the especial circumstances of the timedrove it into no ordinary shape, and I believe that never before inall his days had he spoken freely and eagerly to any one. It wassimply to-night his exultation and happiness that impelled him,perhaps also some sense of high adventure that his romantic characterwould, most inevitably, extract from our expedition and its purposes.
At any rate, I listened, saying a word now and then, whilst the hourgrew dark, lit only by the stars, then trembled into a pale dawnoverladen with grey dense clouds, which again broke, rolled away,before another shining, glittering morning. I remember that it wasbroad daylight when we, at last, left the corridor.
"I'm thirty-three," he said. "I don't feel it, of course; I seem to benow only just beginning life. I'm a very unpractical person and inthat way, perhaps, I'm younger than my age."
I remember that I said something to him about his, most certainly,appearing younger.
"Most certainly I do. I'm just the same as when I went up to Cambridgeand I was then as when I first went to Rugby. Nothing seems to havehad any effect upon me--except, perhaps, these last two days. Do youknow Glebeshire?" he asked me abruptly.
I said that I had spent one summer there with a reading party.
"Ah," he answered, smiling, "I can tell, by the way you say that, thatyou don't really know it at all. To us Glebeshire people it'simpossible to speak of it so easily. There are Trenchards all overGlebeshire, you know, lots of them. In Polchester, our cathedral town,where I was born, there are at least four Trenchard families. Then inTruxe, at Garth, at Rasselas, at Clinton--but why should I bother youwith all this? It's only to tell you that the Trenchards are simplyGlebeshire for ever and ever. To a Trenchard, anywhere in the world,Glebeshire is hearth and home."
"I believe I've met," I said, "your Trenchards of Garth. GeorgeTrenchard.... She was a Faunder. They have a house in Westminster.There's a charming Miss Trenchard with whom I danced."
"Yes, those are the George Trenchards," he answered with eagerness anddelight, as though I had formed a new link with him. "Fancy yourknowing them! How small the world is! My father was a cousin, a firstcousin, of George Trenchard's. The girl--you must mean Millie--isdelightful. Katherine, the elder sister, is married now. She too ischarming, but in a different, graver way."
He spoke of them all with a serious lingering pleasure, as though hewere summoning them all into the dusty, stuffy corridor, carrying themwith him into these strange countries and perilous adventures.
"They always laughed at me--Millie especially; I've stayed sometimeswith them at Garth. But I didn't mean really to talk about _them_--Ionly wanted to show you how deeply Glebeshire matters to theTrenchards, and whatever happens, wherever a Trenchard goes, he alwaysreally takes Glebeshire with him. I was born in Polchester, as I said.My father had a little property there, but we always lived in a littleround bow-windowed house in the Cathedral Close. I was simply broughtup on the Cathedral. From my bedroom windows I looked on the whole ofit. In our drawing-room you could hear the booming of the organ. I wasalways watching the canons crossing the cathedral green, counting thestrokes of the cathedral bell, listening to the cawing of thecathedral rooks, smelling the cathedral smell of cold stone, wetumbrellas and dusty hassocks, looking up at the high tower andwondering whether anywhere in the world there was anything so grandand fine. My moral world, too, was built on the cathedral--on thecathedral 'don'ts' and 'musts,' on the cathedral hours and thecathedral prayers, and the cathedral ambitions and disappointments. Myfather's great passion was golf. He was not a religious man. But mymother believed in the cathedral with a passion that was almost adisease. She died looking at it. Her spirit is somewhere round it now,I do believe."
He paused, then went on:
"It was the cathedral that made me so unpractical, I suppose. I who aman only child--I believed implicitly in what I was told and it alwayswas my mother who told me everything."
He was, I thought, the very simplest person to whom I had everlistened. The irritation that I had already felt on several occasionsin his company again returned. "My father's great passion was golf"would surely in the mouth of another have had some tinge of irony.
In Trenchard's mild blue eyes irony was an incredible element. I couldfancy what he would have to say to the very gentlest of cynics; someof the sympathy I had felt for him during the afternoon had left me.
"He's very little short of an idiot," I thought. "He's going to bedreadfully in the way."
"I was the only child, you see," he continued. "Of course I was agreat deal to my mother and she to me. We were always together. Idon't think that even when I was very young I believed all that shetold me. She seemed to me always to take everything for granted.Heaven to me was so mysterious and she had such definite knowledge. Ialways liked things to be indefinite ... I do still." He laughed,paused for a moment, but was plainly now off on his fine white horse,charging the air, to be stopped by no mortal challenge. I had for amoment the thought that I would slip from my seat and leave him; Ididn't believe that he would have noticed my absence; but the thoughtof that small stuffy carriage held me.
But he _was_ conscious of me; like the Ancient Mariner he fixed uponmy arm his hand and stared into my eyes:
"There were other things that puzzled me. There was, for instance, thechief doctor in our town. He was a large, fat, jolly red-faced man,clean-shaven, with white hair. He was considered the best doctor inthe place--all the old maids went to him. He was immensely jolly, youcould hear his laugh from one end of the street to the other. He wasmarried, had a delightful little house, where his wife gave charmingdinners. He was stupid and self-satisfied. Even at his own work he wasstupid, reading nothing, careless and forgetful, thinking about golfand food only all his days. He was a snob too and would give up anyone for the people at the Castle. Even when I was a small boy Isomehow knew all this about him. My father thought the world of himand loved to play golf with him.... He was completely happy andsuccessful and popular. Then there was another man, an old canon whotaught me Latin before I went to Rugby, an old, untidy, dirty man,whose sermons were dull and his manners bad. He was a failure inlife--and he was a failure to himself; dissatisfied with what he usedto call his 'bundle of rotten twigs,' his life and habits andthoughts. But he thought that somewhere there was something he wouldfind that would save him--somewhere, sometime ... not Godmerely--'like a key that will open all the doors in the house.' To mehe was fascinating. He knew so much, he was so humble, so kind, soamusing. Nobody liked him, of course. They tried to turn him out ofthe place, gave him a little living at last, and he married his cook.Was she his key? She may have been ... I never saw him again. But Iused to wonder. Why was the doctor so happy and the little canon sounhappy, the doctor so successful, the canon so unsuccessful? Idecided that the great thing was to be satisfied with oneself. Idetermined that I would be satisfied with myself. Well, of course Inever was--never have been. Something wouldn't let me alone. The keyto the door, perhaps ... everything was shut up inside me, and atlast I began to wonder whether there was anything there at all. Whenat nineteen I went to Cambridge I was very unhappy. Whilst I was theremy mother died. I came back t
o the little bow-windowed house and livedwith my father. I was quite alone in the world."
In spite of myself I had a little movement of impatience.
"How self-centred the man is! As though his case were at all peculiar!Wants shaking up and knocking about."
He seemed to know my thought.
"You must think me self-centred! I was. For thirteen whole years Ithought of nothing but myself, my miserable self, all shut up in thatlittle town. I talked to no one. I did not even read--I used to sit inthe dark of the cathedral nave and listen to the organ. I'd walk inthe orchards and the woods. I would wonder, wonder, wonder aboutpeople and I grew more and more frightened of talking, of meetingpeople, of little local dinner-parties. It was as though I were on oneside of the river and they were all on the other. I would thinksometimes how splendid it would be if I could cross--but I couldn'tcross. Every year it became more impossible!"
"You wanted some one to take you out of yourself," I said, and thenshuddered at my own banality. But he took me very seriously.
"I did. Of course," he answered. "But who would bother? They allthought me impossible. The girls all laughed at me--my own cousins.Sometimes people tried to help me. They never went far enough. Theygave me up too soon."
"He evidently thinks he was worth a lot of trouble," I thoughtirritably. But suddenly he laughed.
"That same doctor one day spoke of me, not knowing that I was nearhim; or perhaps he knew and thought it would be good for me. 'Oh,Trenchard,' he said. 'He ought to be in a nunnery ... and he'd bequite safe, too. _He'd_ never cause a scandal!' They thought of me assomething not quite human. My father was very old now. Just before hedied, he said: 'I'd like to have had a son!' He never noticed me athis bedside when he died. I was a great disappointment to him."
"Well," I said at last to break a long pause that followed his lastwords, "what did you think about all that time you were alone?"
"I used to think always about two things," he said very solemnly. "Onewas love. I used to think how splendid it would be if only there wouldbe some one to whom I could dedicate my devotion. I didn't care if Igot much in return or no, but they must be willing to have it readyfor me to devote myself altogether. I used to watch the ladies in ourtown and select them, one after another. Of course they never knew andthey would only have laughed had they known. But I felt quitedesperate sometimes. I had so much in me to give to some one and theyears were all slipping by and it became, every day, more difficult.There _was_ a girl ... something seemed to begin between us. She wasthe daughter of one of the canons, dark-haired, and she used to wear alilac-coloured dress. She was very kind; once when we were walkingthrough the town I began to talk to her. I believe she understood,because she was very, very young--only about eighteen--and hadn'tbegun to laugh at me yet. She had a dimple in one cheek, verycharming--but some man from London came to stay at the Castle and shewas engaged to him. Then there were Katherine and Millie Trenchard, ofwhom we were talking. Katherine never laughed at me; she was seriousand helped her mother about all the household things and the villagewhere they lived. Afterwards she ran away with a young man and wasmarried in London--very strange because she was so serious. There wasa great deal of talk about it at the time. Millie too was charming.She laughed at me, of course, but she laughed at every one. At anyrate she was only cousinly to me; she would not have cared for mydevotion."
As he spoke I had a picture in my mind of poor Trenchard searching thecountryside for some one to whom he might be devoted, tongue-tied,clumsy, stumbling and stuttering, a village Don Quixote with a stammerand without a Dulcinea.
"They must have been difficult years," I said, and again cursed myselffor my banality.
"They were," he answered very gravely, "Very difficult."
"And your other thoughts?" I asked him.
"They were about death," he replied. "I had, from my very earliestyears, a great terror of death. You might think that my life was notso pleasant that I should mind, very greatly, leaving it. But I wasalways thinking--hoping that I should live to be very old, even thoughI lost all my limbs and faculties. I believed that there was life ofsome sort after death, but just as I would hesitate outside a house aquarter of an hour from terror of meeting new faces so I felt aboutanother life--I couldn't bear all the introductions and the clumsymistakes that I should be sure to make. But it was more personal thanthat. I had a horrible old uncle who died when I was a boy. He was avery ugly old man, bent and whitened and gnarled, a face and handstwisted with rheumatism. I used to call him Quilp to myself. He alwayswore, I remember, an old-fashioned dress. Velvet knee-breeches, awhite stock, black shoes with buckles. I remember that his hands weredamp and hair grew in bushes out of his ears. Well, I saw him once ortwice and he filled me with terror like a figure out of the tapestryup at the Castle. Then he died.
"Our house was small and badly shaped, full of dark corners, and afterhis death he seemed to me to haunt the place. He figured Death to meand until I was quite old, until I went to Rugby, I fancied that hewas sitting in a dark corner, on a chair, waiting, with his hands onhis lap, until the time came for him to take me. Sometimes I wouldfancy that I heard him moving from one room to another, bringing hischair with him. Then I began to have a dream, a dream that frequentlyrecurred all the time that I was growing up. It was a dream about ahuge dark house in a huge dark forest. It was early morning, the lightjust glimmering between the thick damp trees. A large party of peoplegathered together in a high empty room prepared for an expedition. Iwas one of them and I was filled with sharp agonising terror.Sometimes in my dream I drank to give myself courage and the glassclattered against my lips. Sometimes I talked with one of the company;the room was very dark and I could see no faces. Then we would starttrooping out into the bitterly cold morning air. There would be manyhorses and dogs. We would lead off into the forest and soon (it alwayshappened) I would find myself alone--alone with the dripping treeshigh around me and the light that seemed to grow no lighter and theintense cold. Then suddenly it would be that I was the hunted, not thehunter. It was Death whom we were hunting--Death, for me my uncle--andI would fancy him waiting in the darkness, watching me, smiling,hearing his hunters draw off the scent, knowing that they would notfind him, but that _he_ had found _me_. Then my knees would fail me, Iwould sink down in a sweat of terror, and--wake!... Brrr!... I can seeit now!"
He shook himself, turning round to me as though he were suddenlyashamed of himself, with a laugh half-shy, half-retrospective.
"We all have our dreams," he continued. "But this came toooften--again and again. The question of death became my constantpreoccupation as I grew to think I would never see it, nor hear menspeak of it, nor--"
"And you have come," I could not but interrupt him, "here, to the veryfortress--Why, man!--"
"I know," he answered, smiling at me. "It must seem to you ridiculous.But I am a different person now--very different. Now I am ready, eagerfor anything. Death can be nothing to me now, or if that is too bold,at least I may say that I am prepared to meet him--anywhere--at anytime. I want to meet him--I want to show--"
"We have all," I said, "in our hearts, perhaps, come like that--cometo prove that our secret picture of ourselves, that picture sodifferent from our friends' opinion of us, is really the true one. Wecan fancy them saying afterwards: 'Well, I never knew that so-and-sohad so much in him!' _We_ always knew."
"No, you see," Trenchard said eagerly, "there can be only one personnow about whose opinion I care. If _she_ thinks well of me--"
"You are very much in love," I said, and loosed, as I had expected,the torrents of his happiness upon me.
"I was in Polchester when the war broke out. The town received itrather as though a first-class company had come from London to act inthe Assembly Rooms for a fortnight. It was dramatic and picturesqueand pleasantly patriotic. They see it otherwise now, I fancy. I seemedat once to think of Russia. For one thing I wanted desperately tohelp, and I thought that in England they would only laugh at me asthey had alw
ays done. I am short-sighted. I knew that I should neverbe a soldier. I fancied that in Russia they would not say: 'Oh, JohnTrenchard of Polchester.... _He's_ no good!' before they'd seenwhether I could do anything. Then of course I had read about thecountry--Tolstoi and Turgeniev, and a little Dostoevsky and even Gorkiand Tchekov. I went quite suddenly, making up my mind one evening. Iseemed to begin to be a new man out of England. The journey delightedme.... I was in Moscow before I knew. I was there three months tryingto learn Russian. Then I came to Petrograd and through the EnglishEmbassy found a place in one of the hospitals, where I worked as asanitar for three months. I did not leave England until November, sothat I have been in Russia now just six months. It was in thishospital that I met Miss Krassovsky--Marie Ivanovna. From the firstmoment I loved her, of course. And she liked me. She was the firstwoman, since my mother, who had really liked me. She quickly saw mydevotion and she laughed a little, but she was always kind. I couldtalk to her and she liked to listen. She had--she has, great ideals,great hopes and ambitions. We worked together there and then,afterwards, in those beautiful spring evenings in Petrograd when thecanals shone all night and the houses were purple, we walked.... Thenight before last night I begged her to marry me ... and she accepted.She said that we would go together to the war, that I should be herknight and she my lady and that we would care for the wounds of thewhole world. Ah! what a night that was--shall I ever forget it? Aftershe had left me, I walked all night and sang.... I was mad.... I ammad now. That she should love _me_! She, so beautiful, so pure, sowonderful. I at whom women have always laughed. Ah! God forgive me, myheart will break--"
As he spoke the heavy grey clouds of the first dawn were parting and afaint very liquid blue, almost white and very cold, hovered above dimshapeless trees and fields. I flung open the corridor window and asound of running water and the first notes of some sleepy bird met me.
"And her family?" I said. "Who are they, and will they not mind hermarrying an Englishman?"
"She has only a mother," he answered. "I fancy that Marie has alwayshad her own way."
"Yes," I thought to myself. "I also fancy that that is so." A sense ofalmost fatherly protection had developed in myself towards him. Howcould he, who knew nothing at all of women, hope to manage thatself-willed, eager, independent girl? Why, why, why had she engagedherself to him? I fancied that very possibly there were qualities inhim--his very childishness and helplessness--which, if they onlyirritated an Englishman, would attract a Russian. Lame dogs find awarm home in Russia. But did she know anything about him? Would shenot, in a week, be irritated by his incapacity? And he--he--bless hisinnocence!--was so confident as though he had been married to her foryears!
"Look here!" I said, moved by a sudden impulse. "Will you mind if,sometimes, I tell you things? I've been to the war before. It's astrange life, unlike anything you've ever known--and Russians too arestrange--especially at first. You won't take it badly, if--"
He touched my arm with his hand while his whole face was lighted withhis smile. "Why, my dear fellow, I shall be proud. No one has everthought me worth the bother. I want to be--to be--at my best here.Practical, you know--like others. I don't want her to think me--"
"No, exactly," I said hurriedly, "I understand." Gold was creepinginto the sky. A lark rose, triumphant. A pool amongst the reeds blazedlike a brazen shield. The Spring day had flung back her doors. I sawthat suddenly fatigue had leapt upon my friend. He tottered on hislittle seat, then his face, grey in the light, fell forward. I caughthim in my arms, half carried, half led him into our little carriage,arranged him in the empty corner, and left him, fast, utterly fast,asleep.
The Dark Forest Page 1
