The Dark Forest

The Dark Forest Page 11

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  CHAPTER IV

  FOUR?

  Before I give the extracts from Trenchard's diary that follow I wouldlike to say that I do not believe that Trenchard had any thoughtwhatever, as he wrote, of publication. He says quite clearly that hewrote simply for his own satisfaction and later interest. At the sametime I am convinced that he would not now object to their publication.If he had been here he would, I know, have supported my intention. Thediary lies before me, here on my table, written in two yellow,stiff-covered manuscript books without lines. They are written veryunevenly and untidily, with very few erasures, but at timesincoherently and with gaps. In one place he has cut from the newspaperRupert Brooke's sonnet, beginning:

  "_Blow out, you Bugles, over the rich Dead!_"

  and pasted it on to the blank page.

  At times he sticks on to the other pages newspaper descriptions thathave pleased him. His own descriptions of the Forest seem to meinfluenced by my talks with him, and I remember that it was Nikitinwho spoke of the light like a glass ball and of the green-like water.For the most part he exhibits, from the beginning of the diary to theend, extreme practical common sense and he makes, I fancy, a verystrong effort to record quite simply and even naively the truth as hesees it. At other times he is quite frankly incoherent....

  I will give, on another page, my impression of him when I saw him onmy return to the Forest. I am, of course, in no way responsible forinconsistencies or irrelevances. He had kept a diary since his firstcoming to the war and I have already given some extracts from it. Theearlier diary, in one place only, namely his account of his adventureduring his night with Nikitin, is of the full descriptive order. Thatone occasion I have already quoted in its entirety. With thatexception the early diary is brief and concerned only with the dryestrecital of events. After the death of Marie Ivanovna, however, itscharacter entirely changes for reasons which he himself shows. I wouldhave expected perhaps a certain solemnity or even pomposity in thestyle of it; he had never a strong sense of humour. But I find itwritten in the very simplest fashion; words here and there aremisspelt and his handwriting is large and round like a schoolboy's.

  _Thursday, July 29th._ I intend to write this diary with great fulnessfor two reasons--in the first place because I can see that it is ofthe greatest importance, if one is to get through this businessproperly, to leave no hours empty. The trying thing in this affair ishaving nothing to do--nothing one can _possibly_ do. They all,officers, soldiers, from Nikolai Nikolaievitch to my Nikolai here,will tell you that. No empty hours for me if I can help it....Secondly, I really do wish to record exactly my experiences here. I amperfectly aware that when I'm out of it all, when it's even a day'smarch behind me, I shall regard it as frankly incredible--not thething itself but the way I felt about it. When I come out of it intothe world again I shall be overwhelmed with other people's impressionsof it, people far cleverer than I. There will be brilliantdescriptions of battles, of what it feels like to be under fire, ofmarches, victories, retreats, wounds, death--everything. I shallforget what my own little tiny piece of it was like--and I don't wantto forget. I want intensely to remember the truth _always_, becausethe truth is bound up with Marie, and Marie with the truth. Why need Ibe shy now about her? Why should I hesitate, under the fear of my ownlater timidity, of saying exactly now what I feel? God knows what I_do_ feel! I am confused, half-numb, half-dead, I believe, withmoments of fiery biting realisation. I'm neither sad, nor happy--onlybreathlessly expectant. The only adventure I have ever had in my lifeis not--no, it is not--yet ended. And I know that Marie could not haveleft me like that, without a word, unless she were returning or weregoing to send for me.

  Meanwhile to-day a beastly thing has happened, a thing that will makelife much harder for me here. All the morning there was work. Bandagedtwenty--had fifty in altogether--sent thirty-four on, kept the rest.Two died during the morning. This isn't really a good place to be,it's so hemmed in with trees. We ought to be somewhere more open. TheForest is unhealthy, too. There's been fighting in and out of italmost since the war began--it _can't_ be healthy. In this hot weatherthe place _smells_.... Then there are the Flies. I write them with acapital letter because I've got to keep my head about the Flies. Doesany one at home or away from this infernal strip of fighting realisewhat flies are? Of course one's read of the tropical sorts, all redand stinging, or white and bloated--what you like, evil and horrid,but these here are just the ordinary household kind. Quite ordinary,but sheets, walls of them. I came into the little larder place nearour sitting-room this morning. I thought they'd painted the wallsblack during the night. Then, at my taking the cover off some sugar,it was exactly as though the walls hovered and then fell inwardbreaking into black dust as they fell. They'll cluster over a drop ofwine on the table just like an evil black flower with grey petals.With one's body they can play tricks beyond belief. They _laugh_ atone, hovering at a distance, waiting. They watch one with their wickedlittle eyes ... yes, I shall have to be careful about flies.

  I've had a headache all day, but then in the afternoon there was athunderstorm hovering somewhere near and there was no work to do. Ifeel tired, too, and yet I can't sleep. Later in the afternoon we wereall sitting together, very quiet, not talking. I was thinking aboutSemyonov then. I wondered whether he felt her death. How had he takenit? Durward would tell me so little. I was so glad, all the same, thathe wasn't here. And yet, in the strangest way, I would like to havespoken to him, to have asked him, if I had dared, a little about her.He was the only man to whom she really gave herself. I don't grudgehim that--but there's so much that I want to know--and yet I'd dierather than ask him. Die! That's an old phrase now--death would tellme much more than Semyonov ever could. Just when we were sitting therehe came in. It was the most horrible shock. I don't want to put itmelodramatically but that was exactly what it was. I had been thinkingof him, thinking even of speaking to him, but I had known at the timethat he wasn't here, that he couldn't be here--then there he was inthe doorway--square and solid and grave and scornful. Now the horriblething is that the moment I realised him I felt afraid. I didn't feelanger or hatred or fine desires for revenge--anything likethat--simply a miserable contemptible fear. It seems that as soon asI climb out of one fear I tumble into another. They are not physicalnow, but _worse_!

  _Later._ The last bit seems rather silly. But I'll leave it.... As toSemyonov. Of course he was very quiet and scornful with all of us. Hetold Durward that he'd come to take his place and Durward went withouta word, Semyonov went off then with Nikitin, looking about, and makingsuggestions! He changed some things but not very much. We had beenpretty intimate, all of us, before he came. I had really felt thislast day that Vladimir Stepanovitch and Andrey Vassilievitch wereunderstood by me. Russians come and go so. At one moment they areclose to you, intimate, open-hearted, then suddenly they shut up, aremiles away, look at you with distrust and suspicion. So with thesetwo. On Semyonov's arrival they changed absolutely. _He_ shut them upof course. We were all as gloomy at supper as though we were deadlyenemies. But the worst thing was at night. Durward and I had slept inone little room, Vladimir Stepanovitch and Andrey Vassilievitch inanother. Of course Semyonov took Durward's bed. There was nowhere elsefor him to go. I don't know what he thought about it. Of course hesaid nothing. He talked a little about ordinary things and I answeredstupidly as I always do with him. I hated the solemn way he undressed.He was a long time cleaning his teeth, making noises in his mouth asthough he were laughing at me. Then he sat on his bed, naked exceptfor his shirt, combing his moustache and beard very carefully with apocket-comb. He was so thick and solid and scornful, not looking at meexactly, just staring in front of him. There was no sound except hiscomb scraping through his beard. The room was so small and he seemedabsolutely to fill it, so that I felt really _flattened_ against thewall. It was as though he were showing me deliberately how much finera man he was than I, how much stronger his body, that he could do_anything_ with me if he liked. He asked me, very politely, whetherI'd mind bl
owing out the candle and I did it at once. He watched me asI walked across the floor and I felt ashamed of my thinness and myugliness and _I know that he knew that I was ashamed_. After the lightwas blown out I heard him settle into his bed with a great heavy plop.I couldn't sleep for a long time, and at every movement that he made Ifelt as though he were laughing at me. And yet with all this I hadalso the strangest impulse to get up, there in the dark, to walkacross the room, to put my hand on his shoulder and to ask him abouther. What would he do? He'd refuse to speak, I suppose. I should onlyget insulted--and yet.... He must be thinking of her--all the timejust as I am. He must _want_ to talk of her and I know her better thanany one else did. And perhaps if I once broke down his pride ... andyet every time that his body moved and the bed creaked I felt that Ihated him, that I never wanted to speak to him again, that.... Oh! butI'm ashamed of myself. He is right to despise me....

  _Saturday, July 31st._ It is just midnight. I am on duty to-night.Everything is quiet and there are not likely I think to be any morewounded until the morning. I am sitting in the room where they broughtMarie. It's strange to think of that, and when you're sitting with acandle in a dark room you can imagine anything. It's odd in thisaffair how little things affect one. There's a book here, a "Report onNew Mexico." I looked at it idly the other day and now I'm for everpicking it up. It always opens at the same page and I find myselfthinking, speculating about it in a ridiculous manner. I shall throwthe thing away to-morrow, but I know the page by heart anyway. It'san account of the work of some school or other. Here are a few of thelectures that were given:

  Mr. Fred. A. Bush. What the Community owes the Newspaper and what theNewspaper owes the Community.--Rev. I. R. Glass. Fools.--Hon. W. T.Cessna. Don't Pay too dearly for the Whistle.--Prof. WellingtonPutman. Rip van Winkle.--Rev. R. S. Hanshaw. The Mind's PictureGallery.

  Then they acted _Othello_--The "Normal Students," whoever they may be.Othello, E. F. Dunlavey. Iago--Douglas Giffard. Desdemona--CarrieWhitehill. Emilia--Gussie Rodgers.... Afterwards I see that MissGussie Rodgers gave a lecture on the Anglo-Saxon in Literature. Shemust have been a clever young woman. Then I see that they decoratedone of their rooms with "a large number of carbon prints of celebratedpaintings," "the class picture being the most important and costing inthe neighbourhood of $100--this is the hunting scene of Ruysdael...."Also they added to their Museum "manufactured articles from abroadillustrative of the habits and customs of foreigners."

  Now isn't that _all_ incredible after the day that I've had? Where dothe things join? What's all _that_ got to do with the horrors I'vebeen through to-day, with the Forest, the cholera, Marie, Semyonov....With _all_ that's happening in Europe? With this mad earthquake of acatastrophe? And yet one thinks of such silly things. I can see themdoing _Othello_ with their cheap ermine, bad jewellery and impossiblewigs. I expect Othello's black came off as he got hotter and hotter;and the Rev. I. R. Glass on "Fools".... There'd be all the cheapmorality--"It's better, my young friends, to be good than to be bad.It pays better in the end"--and there'd be little stories, sentimentalsome of them and humorous some of them. There'd be a general titterof laughter at the humorous ones.... And the carbon prints, the"Ruysdael" always pointed out to visitors ... and after the war itwill all be going on again. At Polchester, too, they'll be havingcheap lectures in the Town-Hall and Shakespeare Readings andHigh-School Prize-givings.... _Where's_ the Connexion between That andThis? _Where's_ the permanent thing in us that goes on whatever lifemay do to us? Is life still beautiful and noble in spite of whateverman may do with it, or is Semyonov right and there is no meaning in mylove for Marie, nothing real and true except the things we see withour eyes, hear with our ears? Is Semyonov right, or are Nikitin,Andrey Vassilievitch and I?... And now let me stick to facts. I leftthis morning about six with twenty wagons to fetch wounded. _Such_ awonderful summer morning--the Forest quite incredibly beautiful, birdssinging in thousands, and that strange little stream that runs nearour house and can look so abominable when it pleases, was tremblingand lovely as though it didn't know what evil was. We got to the firstRed Cross place about eight. Here was Krylov. What a good fellow!Always cheerful, always kindhearted, nothing can dismay him. A Russiantype that's common enough in spite of all the "profound pessimism ofthe Russian heart" that we're always hearing of. There he was anyway,working like a butcher before a feast-day. Dirty looking barn theywere working in and it smelt like hell. Cannon pretty close too. Theysay the Austrians are fearfully strong just here and of course ourammunition is climbing down to less than nothing--looks as though wewere going to have a hot time soon. I turned in and helped Krylov allthe morning and somehow his fat, ugly face, his little exclamations,his explosive comical rages, his sudden rough kindnesses did one aworld of good. We filled the wagons and sent them back, then aboutmidday, under a blazing hot sun, we went on with the others. Is thereany place in the globe hot and suffocating quite as this Forest is?Even in the open spaces one can't breathe and there's never any propershade under the trees. At first we were at a loss, No one seemed quiteto know where the Vengrovsky Polk were. I had to go on alone andreconnoitre. I was right out in the open then and more alone than onecould believe. Cannon were blazing away and one battery seemed justbehind me--and yet I couldn't see it. I could see nothing--only greatridges of hills with the Forest like gigantic torrents of green waterunder the mist, and just at my feet cornfields _thick_ withcornflowers. Then I saw rather a wonderful thing. I came to the edgeof my hill and looked down into a cup of a valley, quite a littlevalley with the green waves towering on every side of it. Through themist there shimmered below me a blue lake. I was puzzled--there was nowater here that I knew, but by this time the Forest has so bewitchedmy senses that I'm ready to believe anything of it. There it was,anyway, a blue lake, shifting a little under gold haze. I climbed downthe hill a yard or two and then you can believe that I jumped! My bluelake was Austrian prisoners, nothing more nor less! Has any one quiteseen them like that before, I wonder, and isn't this Forest really theold witch's forest, able to do what it pleases with anything? Therethey were, hundreds of them, covering the whole floor of the littlevalley. I walked down into the middle of them, found an officer, askedhim about wounded, and got directed some two versts in front of me.Then I climbed up the hill back to my wagons and we started off. Wewent down the hill round by the road and came to the prisoners,crossed a stream and plunged into a shining dazzling nightmare._Where_ the cannon were I don't know--all a considerable distanceaway, I suppose, because the only sign of shell were the littlebreaking puffs of smoke in the blue sky with just a pin-flash of lightas they broke; but really amongst that welter of wooded hill thesounds were uncanny. They'd be under one's feet, over one's head, inone's ear, up against one's stomach, straight in the small of one'sback. Since my night with Nikitin physical fear really seems to haveleft me--the whole outward paraphernalia of the war has become anentirely commonplace thing, but it was the Forest that I felt--exactlyas though it were playing with me. Wasn't there an old mediaevaltorture when they shot arrows at their victim, always just missinghim, first on one side, then on another, until at last, tired of thegame, they fixed him through the head? Well, that's what the old beastwas trying to do to me, _anything_ to doubt what's real and what isnot, _anything_ to make me question my senses.... We tumbled quitesuddenly on to some men, a small Red Cross shelter and two or threehundred soldiers sitting under the trees by the road resting--most ofthem sleeping. The doctor in the Red Cross place--a small fussyman--was ill-tempered and overworked. There were at least thirty deadmen lying in a row outside the shelter, and the army sanitars werebringing in more wounded every minute. "Why weren't there more wagons?What was the use of coming with so few? Where was the other doctor,some one or other who ought to have relieved him?" There he was, likea little monkey on wires, dancing up and down in the blazing road, hisarms covered with blood, pincers in one hand and bandages in the otherand the inside of his shelter with such a green, filthy smell comingout of it that you'd think t
he roof would burst! I filled seven of mywagons, sent them back and went forward with the remaining three. Wewere climbing now, up through the Forest road, the shell, very close,making a terrific noise, and in between the scream of the shell thebirds singing like anything!

  The road turned the corner and then we _were_ in the middle of it! Now_here's_ the worst thing I've seen with my eyes since I came to thewar--worst thing I shall ever see perhaps. One looks back, you know,to one of those old average afternoons at Polchester, my father comingback from golf, I myself going into the old red-walled garden for tea,with some novel under my arm, the cathedral bell ringing for Evensongjust over the wall across the Green, then slowly dropping to itsclose, then the faint murmur of the organ. Some bird twittering in atree overhead, buttered toast in a neat pile placed carefully over hotwater to keep it warm; honey, heavy home-made cake, perhaps the localweekly paper with the "Do you know that ..." column demanding one'scritical attention. One's annoyed because to-morrow some tiresomefellow's coming to luncheon, because one wishes to buy some china thatone can't afford, because the wife of the Precentor said to the Dean'ssister that young Trenchard would be an old man in a year or two....One sips one's tea, the organ leads the chants, the sun sinks belowthe wall.... That! This! ... there's the Forest road hot like red-hotiron under the sun; it winds away into the Forest, but so far as theeye can see it is covered with things that have been left by flyingmen--_such_ articles! Swords, daggers, rifles, cartridge-cases, ofcourse, but also books, letters, a hair-brush, underclothes,newspapers, these tilings in thick, tangled profusion, rifles inheaps, cartridge-cases by the hundred! Under the sun up and down theroad there are dead and dying, Russians and Austrians together. TheForest is both above and below the road and from out of it there comesa continual screaming. There is every note in this babel of voices,mad notes, plaintive notes, angry notes, whimpering notes. One woundedman is very slowly trying to drag himself across the road, and hisfoot which is nearly severed from his leg waggles behind him. One paththat leads from the road to the Forest is piled with bodies and is astream of blood. Some of the dead are lying very quietly in the ditch,their heads pillowed on their arms--every now and then something thatyou had thought dead stirs.... And the screaming from the Forest isincessant so that you simply don't hear the shell (now very closeindeed)....

  There _is_, you know, that world somewhere with the Rev. Someonelecturing on Fools and "the class 'Ruysdael' costing in theneighbourhood of $100." At least, it's very important if I'm tocontinue to keep my head steady that I should _know_ that it is there!

  It seemed that we were the first Red Cross people to arrive. Oh! whatrewards would I have offered for another ten wagons! How lamentablyinsufficient our three carts appeared standing there in the road withthis screaming Forest on every side of one! As I waited there,overwhelmed by the blind indifference of the place, listening still tothe incredible birds, seeing in the businesslike attentions of mysanitars only a further incredible indifference, a great stream ofsoldiers came up the road, passing into the first line of trenches,only a little deeper in the Forest. They were very hot, theperspiration dripping down their faces, but they went through to theposition without a glance at the dead and wounded. No concern of_theirs_--that. Life had changed; they had changed with it....Meanwhile they did as they were told....

  We worked there, filling our wagons. The selection was a horribledifficulty. All the wounded were Austrians and how they begged not tobe left! It would be many hours, perhaps, before the next Red CrossDivision would appear. An awful business! One man dying in the woodtore at his stomach with an unceasing gesture and the air came throughhis mouth like gas screaming through an "escape" hole. One Austrian,quite an old man, died in my arms in the middle of the road. He wasnot conscious, but he fumbled for his prayer-book, which he gave me,muttering something. His name "Schneidher Gyorgy Pelmonoster" waswritten on the first page.

  We started for home at length. Our drive back was terrible. I findthat I cannot linger any longer over this affair. Our carts drove overrough stones and ruts and we were four hours on the journey. Ourwounded screamed all the way--one man died.... My candle is nearlyout. I must find another. In one of its frantic leaps just now Ifancied that I saw Marie standing near the door. She looked just asshe always did, very kind though smiling.... Of course it was only thecandle. I must be careful not to encourage these fancies. But God! howlonely I am to-night! I realise, I suppose, that there isn't onesingle living soul in the world who cares whether I die to-night ornot--not one. Durward will remember me, perhaps. No one else. AndMarie would have cared. Yes, even married to Semyonov she would havecared--and remembered. And I could always have cared for her, been herfriend, as she asked me. I'm pretty low to-night. If I could sleep....Boof!... There goes the candle!

  _Wednesday, August 4th_.... I am growing accustomed, I suppose, toSemyonov's company. After all, his contempt for me is an old thing,dating from the very first moment that he ever saw me. It has becomenow a commonplace to both of us. He is very silent now compared withthe old days. There has been much work yesterday and to-day, but stilllast night I could not sleep. I think that he also did not sleep andwe both lay there in the dark, thinking, I suppose, of the same thing.I thought even of myself, my sense of humour has never been verystrong, but I can at any rate see that I am no very fine figure inlife, and that whether such a man as I live or die can be of no greatimportance to any one or anything, but I do most truly desire not tomake more of the matter than is just. A man may have felt himself themost insignificant and useless of human creatures all his days, butface him with death and he becomes, by very force of the contrast,something of a figure.

  Here am I, deprived of the only thing in life that gave me joy orpride. I should, after that deprivation, have slipped back, I suppose,to my old life of hopeless uninterest and insignificance, but now herethe death of Marie Ivanovna has been no check at all. I half believenow that one can do with life or death what one will. If I had knownthat from the beginning what things I might have found! As it is, Imust simply make the best of it. Semyonov's contempt would once havefrightened the very life out of me, but after that night of hisarrival here it has been nothing compared with the excitement of ourrelationship--the things that are keeping us together in spite ofourselves and the strange changes, I do believe, that this situationhere is making in him. The loss of Marie Ivanovna would two months agoperhaps have finished me. What is it now beside the wonder as towhether I have lost her after all, the consciousness of pursuit, thelonging to _know_?...

  Durward and I have spoken sometimes of my dream of the Forest. Itmust seem to him now, as to myself, strangely fulfilled; but I believethat if I catch the beast it will only be to discover that there is afurther quest beyond, and then another maybe beyond that....

  At the same time there's the practical question of one's nerve. Ifthis strain of work continues, if the hot weather lasts, and if Idon't sleep, I shall have to take care. Three times during the lastthree days I have fancied that I have seen Marie Ivanovna, once inbroad daylight in the Forest, once sitting on the sofa in our room,once at night near my bed. Of course this is the merest illusion, butI have hours now when I am not quite sure of things. AndreyVassilievitch told me something of the same to-day--that he thoughtthat he saw his wife and that Nikitin told him the same yesterday. Theflies also are confusing and there's a hot dry smell that'sdisagreeable and prevents one from eating. I know that I must keep aclear head on these things. If only one could get away for an hour ortwo, right outside--but one is shut up in this Forest as though itwere a green oven.... I ought to be sleeping now instead of writingall this.... I must say that I had a curious illusion ten minutes agowhile I was writing this, that one of the wounded, in a bed near thedoor which is open, began to slip, bed and all, across the floortowards me. He did indeed come closer and closer to me, the bed movingin jerks as though it were pushed. This was, of course, simply becausemy eyes were tired. When I try to sleep they are hot and smarting....

&n
bsp; I interrupt Trenchard's diary to give a very brief account of theimpression that was made on me by my visit to the three of them withsome wagons four days after the date of the above entry. It must beremembered that I had not, of course, at this time read any ofTrenchard's diary, nor had I seen anything of him since the moment ofSemyonov's arrival. My chief impression during the interval had beenmy memory of Trenchard as I had last seen him, miserable, white-faced,unnerved. I had thought about him a good deal. Those days at theOtriad had been for the rest of us rather pleasantly tranquil. Therewas no question that we were relieved by the absence of Semyonov andTrenchard. Semyonov was no easy companion at any time and we had thevery natural desire to throw off from us the weight of MarieIvanovna's unexpected death. I will not speak of myself in thismatter, but for the others. She had not been very long in theircompany, she had been strange and unsettled in her behaviour, she hadbeen engaged to a man, jilted him, and engaged herself to another--allwithin a very short period of time. I, myself, was occupiedincessantly by my thoughts of her, but that was my own affair. Thepast week then with us had been tranquil and easy. On my arrival atthe "Point" in the Forest I was met at once by a new atmosphere. Forone thing the war here was on the very top of us. Only a few yardsaway, towards the end of the garden, they were digging trenches.Somewhere beyond the windows, in the Forest, a battery had establisheditself near a clearing at the edge of a hill, the guns disguised withleaves and branches. Soldiers were moving incessantly to and fro. Thehouse seemed full of wounded, wagons coming and going. They weredigging graves in the garden, and sheeted bodies were lying in theorchard.

  My friends greeted me, seemed glad to see me for a moment, and thenpursued their business. I was entirely outside their life. Only tendays before I had felt a closer intimacy with Trenchard, AndreyVassilievitch and Nikitin than I had ever had with any of them. Now Isimply did not exist for them. It was not the work that excluded me.The evening that passed then was an easy evening--very little to do.We spent most of the night in playing _chemin-de-fer_. No, it was notthe work. It was quite simply that something was happening to all ofthem in which I had no concern. They were all changed and about themall--yes, even, I believe, about Semyonov--there was an air ofsuppressed excitement, rather the excitement that schoolboys have,when they have prepared some secret forbidden defiance or adventure.Trenchard, whom I had left in the depths of a lethargic depression,was most curiously preoccupied. He looked at me first as though he didnot perfectly remember me. He, assuredly, was not well. His eyes werelined heavily, his white cheeks had a flush of red that burnt therefeverishly, and he seemed extraordinarily thin. He was restless, hiseyes were never still, and I saw him sometimes fix them, in a strangeway, upon some object as though he would assure himself that it wasthere. He was obviously under the influence of some deep excitement.He told me that he was sleeping badly, that his head ached, and thathis eyes hurt him, but he did not seem distressed by these things. Hewas too strongly absorbed by something to be depressed. He treated meand everything around him with impatience, as though he could not waitfor something that he was expecting.

  I have seen in this business of the war strange things that nerves cando with the human mind and body. I have seen many men who remain withtheir nerves as strong as steel from the first to the last, but thisis, I should say, the exception and only to be found with men of avery unimaginative character. As regards Trenchard one must take intoaccount his recent loss, the sudden stress of incessant exhaustingwork, the flaming weather and the constant companionship of the onehuman being of all others most calculated to disturb his tranquillity.But in varying degrees I think that every one in this place was atthis time working under a strain of something abnormal anduncalculated. The very knowledge that the attack was now being pressedseverely and that we had so little ammunition with which to reply, wasenough to strain the nerves of every one. Trenchard told me, in thecourse of the conversation, that I had with him during my second day'sstay, that his visit to the lines some days earlier (this is the visitof which he speaks in his diary) had greatly upset him. He had beendisturbed apparently by the fact that there were not sufficientwagons. The whole sense of the Forest, he told me, was a strain tohim, the feeling that he could not escape from it, the thought of itscolour and heat and at the same time its ugliness and horror, thecholera scarecrow in it, and the deserted town and all the horrors ofthe recent attacks. The dead Austrians and Russians.... But I repeat,most emphatically, that he was not depressed by this. It was ratherthat he wished to keep his energies fresh and clear for some purposeof his own, and was therefore disturbed by anything that threatenedhis health. He was not quite well, he told me--headaches, notsleeping--but that "he had it well in control."

  And here now is a strange thing. One of the chief purposes of my visithad been to persuade one of the four men to return with me to theOtriad. Molozov had asserted very emphatically that none of them shouldbe compelled against their will to return to Mittoevo, but he thoughtthat it would be well if, considering the strain of the work and thePosition, they were to take it in turns to have a day or two's rest andso relieve one another. I had had no doubt that this would be veryacceptable to them, but on my proposing it, was surprised to receivefrom each of them individually an abrupt refusal even to consider thematter. At the same time they assured me, severally, that the one or theother of them needed, very badly, a rest. After I had spoken, Nikitin,taking me aside, told me that he thought that Andrey Vassilievitch wouldbe better at Mittoevo. "He is a little in the way here," he said."Certainly he does his best, but this is not his place." Nikitin worethe same preoccupied air as the others.--"Whatever you do," he said,"don't let Andrey know that I spoke to you." Andrey Vassilievitch, onhis side with much nervousness and self-importance, told me that hethought that Nikitin was suffering from overwork and needed a completerest. "You know, Ivan Andreievitch, he is really not at all well; Isleep in the same room. He talks in his sleep, fancies that he seesthings ... very odd--although this hot weather ... I myself for thematter of that ..." and then he nervously broke off.

  But with all this they did not seem to quarrel with one another. It istrue that I discovered a kind of impatience, especially between AndreyVassilievitch and Nikitin, the kind of restlessness that you seesometimes between two horses which are harnessed together. Semyonov(he paid no attention to me at all during my visit) treated Trenchardquite decently, and I observed on several occasions his look ofpuzzled curiosity at the man--a look to which I have alluded before.He spoke to him always in the tone of contemptuous banter that he hadfrom the beginning used to him: "Well, Mr., I suppose that youcouldn't bring a big enough bandage however much you were asked to.But why choose the smallest possible...."

  Or, "That's where Mr. writes his poetry--being a nice romanticEnglishman. Isn't it, Mr.?"

  But I was greatly struck by Trenchard's manner of taking theseremarks. He behaved now as though he had secret reasons for knowingthat he was in every way as good a man as Semyonov--a better one,maybe. He laughed, or sometimes simply looked at his companion, or hewould reply in his bad halting Russian with some jest at Semyonov'sexpense.

  Finally, to end this business, if ever a man were affected to theheart by the loss of a friend or a lover, Semyonov was that man. Hewas a man too strong in himself and too contemptuous of weakness toshow to all the world his hurt. I myself might have seen nothing had Inot always before me the memory of that vision of his face between thetrees. But from that I had proceeded--

  It was, I suppose, the first time in his life that the fulfilment ofhis desire had been denied him. Had Marie Ivanovna lived, and had heattained with her his complete satisfaction, he would have tired ofher perhaps as he had tired of many others, and have remained only thestronger cynic. But she had eluded him, eluded him at the very momentof her freshness and happiness and triumph. What defeat to his proudspirit was working now in him? What longing? What fierce determinationto secure even now his ends? The change that I fancied in him wasperhaps no more than his bracing
of his strength and courage to facenew conditions. Death had robbed him of his possession--so much theworse then for Death!

  Upon this day of icy cold, as I write these words, I am afraid that myaccount may be taken as an extravagant and unjustified conceit. Butthat I do most honestly believe it not to be. I myself felt, during mytwo days' stay in that place, the strangest contact with newexperiences, new developments, new relationships. Normal life had beenleft utterly behind and there was nothing to remind one of it saveperhaps that "Report on New Mexico" still there on the dusty table.But there was the heat; there were the wheeling, circling clouds offlies, now in lines, now in squares, now broken like smoke, now dimlike vapour; there was that old familiar smell of dust and flesh,chemicals and blood; there were the men dying and broken, fightinglike giants, defeating fears and terrors that hung like grey shadowsabout the doors and windows of the house.... Every incident andexperience that we had had at the war, every incident and experiencethat I have related in these pages seemed to be gathered into thishouse.... As I look back upon it now it seems, without anyextravagance at all, the very heart of the fortress of the enemy. I donot mean in the least that life was solemn or pretentious or heavy. Itwas careless, casual, as liable to the ridiculous intervention ofunimportant things as ever it had been; but it was life pressed soclose to the fine presence of Fate that you could hear the verybeating of his heart. And _in_ this Fortress it seemed to me that I,who was watching, outside the lives of these others, an observer onlywhom, perhaps, this same Fate despised, asked of God a sign. I sawsuddenly here the connexion, for which I had been waiting, between thefour men: There they were, Nikitin and Andrey, Semyonov andTrenchard--Two Wise Men and Two Fools--surely the rivalry wasludicrous in its inequality ... and yet God does not judge as men do.Nikitin and Semyonov or Andrey and Trenchard? Who would be taken andwho left? I recalled Semyonov's jesting words: "Even though it's thewise men succeed in this world I don't doubt it's the fools have theirway in the next."

  I waited for my Sign....

  Last of all I can hear it objected that every one was surely too busyto attend to relationships or shades of relationships. But it was thisvery thing that contributed to the situation, namely, that, in thevery stress of the work, there were hours, many hours, when there wassimply nothing to be done. Then if one could not sleep times were badindeed. Moreover, even in the throng of work itself one would beconscious of that slipping off from one of all the trappings ofreality. One by one they would slip away and then, bewildered, onewould doubt the evidence of one's eyes, one's brain, one's ears, thefatigue hammering, hammering at one's consciousness.... I have knownwhat that kind of strain can be.

  I left on the second morning after my arrival and returned to Mittoevoalone.

  _Trenchard's Diary. Tuesday, August 10._ Durward has been here for twodays. He's a good fellow but I seem rather to have lost touch with himduring these last days. Then he's rather bloodless--a little morehumour would cheer him up wonderfully. We've all been in mad spiritsto-day as though we were drunk. The battery officers have got agramophone that we turned on. We danced a bit although it's hot ashell.... Then in the evening my spirits suddenly went; AndreyVassilievitch gets on one's nerves. His voice is tiresome and I'mtired of his wife. He tells me that he thinks he sees her at night."Do I think it likely?" Silly little ass--just the way to rot hisnerves. Funny thing to-night. We were playing _chemin-de-fer_.Suddenly Semyonov said:

  "Supposing Molozov says that only one of us is to stay on here." Therewas silence after that. We all four looked at one another. All I knewwas nothing was going to move me away from this place if I could helpit. Then Semyonov said:

  "Of course I would have to stay."

  We went for him then. You should have heard Nikitin! I didn't believethat he had it in him. Semyonov was quiet, of course, smiling thatbeastly smile of his.

  Then at last he said:

  "Suppose we play for it?"

  We agreed. The one who turned up the Ace of Hearts was to stay. Youcould have heard a pin drop after that. I have never before felt whatI felt then. If I had to return and leave Semyonov here! They say thatthe attack may develop in this direction at any moment. If Semyonovwere to be here and I not.... And yet what was it that I wanted? WhatI want is to be close to Marie again, to be there where Semyonovcannot reach us. I believe that she might always have cared for me ifhe had not been there. Whatever death may be, I must _know_.... Ifthere is nothing more, no matter. If there _is_ something more--thenthere is something for her as well as for me and I shall find her, andI must find her alone. There's nothing left in life now to me savethat. As I sat there looking at the cards I knew all this, knew quiteclearly that I must escape Semyonov. There's no madness in this.Whilst he is there I'm nothing--but without him, if I were with heragain--I was always beaten easily by anybody but in this at least Ican be strong. I don't hate him but I know that he will always befirst as long as we're together. And we seem to be tied now like dogsby their tails, tied by our thoughts of Marie....

  Well, anyway I turned up the Ace. My heart seemed to jump right upsidedown when I saw it. The others said nothing. Only Semyonov at last:

  "Well, Mr., if it comes to it we'll have to see that it's necessaryfor _two_ of us to be here. It will never do for you and me to beparted--"

  Meanwhile, the firing's very close to-night. They say the Austrianshave taken Vulatch. Shocking, our lack of ammunition.... God! Theheat!

  CHAPTER V

  THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND THEM

  _Trenchard's Diary. Saturday, August 14th...._

  Captain T---- died this afternoon at four-thirty. A considerable shockto me. He was so young, so strong. They all said that he had aremarkable future. He had dined with us several times at Mittoevo andhis vitality had always attracted me; vitality restrained and drilledtowards some definite purpose. He might have been a great man.... Hiswound in the stomach did not hurt him, I think. He was wonderfullycalm at the last. How strange it is that at home death is so horriblewith its long ceremonies, its crowd of relations, its gradualdecay--and here, in nine out of every ten deaths that I have seenthere has been peace or even happiness. This is the merest truth andwill be confirmed by any one who has worked here. Again and again Ihave seen that strange flash of surprised, almost startled interest,again and again I have been conscious--_behind_ not _in_ the eyes--ofthe expression of one who is startled by fresh conditions, a fineview, a sudden piece of news. This is no argument for religion, forany creed or dogma, I only say that here it is so, that Death seems tobe happiness and the beginning of something new and unexpected.... Ibelieve that even so hardy a cynic as Semyonov would support me inthis. I and Semyonov were alone with young Captain T---- when he died.Semyonov had liked the man and had done everything possible to savehim. But he was absorbed by his death--_absorbed_ as though he wouldtear the secret of it from the body that looked suddenly so empty, andso meaningless.

  "Well, I'm glad he was happy," he said to me. Then he stood, lookingat me curiously. I returned the look. We neither of us said anything.These are all commonplaces, I suppose, that I am discovering. The onlyimportance is that some ten million human beings are, in this war,making these discoveries for themselves, just as I am. Who can tellwhat that may mean? I have seen here no visions, nor have I met anyone who has seen them, but there are undoubted facts--not easy thingsto discount.

  _Sunday, August 15._ Things are pretty bad here. The Austrians havetaken Vulatch. Both on the right and on the left they have advanced.They may arrive here at any moment. The magnificence of the Russiansoldier is surely beyond all praise. I wonder whether people in Franceand England realise that for the last three months here he has beenfighting with one bullet as against ten. He stands in his trenchpractically unarmed against an enemy whose resources seem,endless--but nothing can turn him back. Whatever advances the Germansmay make I see Russia returning again and again. I do from the bottomof my soul, and, what is of more importance, from the sober witness ofmy eyes, here believe that nothing ca
n stop the impetus born of hernew spirit. This war is the beginning of a world history for her.

  Krylov this afternoon said that he thought that we should leave thisplace, get out our wagons and retire. But how can we? At this moment,how can we? We are just now at the most critical meeting of theways--the extra twelve versts back to Mittoevo may make the wholedifference to many of the cases, and the doctors of the Division,Krylov himself admits, have got their arms full. We simply can'tleave them.... There has been some confusion here. There doesn't seemany responsible person to give us orders. Colonel Maximoff hasforgotten us, I believe. In any case I think that we must stay on herefor another day and night. Perhaps we shall get away to-morrow....

  I had a queer experience this afternoon. I don't want to make too muchof it but here it is. I went up to my room this afternoon at five toget some sleep, as I'm on duty to-night. I lay down and shut my eyesand then, of course, as I always do, immediately saw Marie Ivanovna. Iknow quite clearly that this present relationship to her cannotcontinue for long or I shall be off my head. I can see myself quiteclearly as though I were outside myself, and I know that I'm maddernow than I was a week ago. For instance in this business of MarieIvanovna, I knew then that my seeing her was an illusion--now I am notquite sure. I knew a week ago that I saw her because she is so much inmy thoughts, because of the intolerable heat, because of the Flies andthe Forest, because of Semyonov. I am not sure now whether it is not_her_ wish that I should see her. She comes as she came on those lastdays before she left me--with all the kindness in her eyes that noother human being has ever given me before, nor will ever give meagain. To-day I looked and was not sure whether she were gone or no. Iwas not sure of several things in the room and as I lay there I saidto myself, "Is that really a looking-glass or no?" "If I tried could Itouch it or would it fade from under my hand?" The room wasintolerably close and there was a fly who persecuted me. As I laythere he came and settled on my hand. He waited, watching me with hiswicked sneering eyes, then he crept forward, and waited again, rubbinghis legs one against the other. Then very slyly, laughing to himself,he began to tickle me. I slashed with my hand at him, he flew into theair, sneering, then with a little "ping" settled on the back of myneck. I vowed that I would not mind him; I lay still. He began then tocrawl very slowly forward towards my chin, and it was as though hewere dragging spidery strands of nerves through my body, fitting themall on to stiff, tight wires. He reached my chin, and then again,sneering up into my eyes, he began to tickle. I thought once more thatI had him, but once again he was in the air. Then, after waiting untilI had almost sunk back into sleep, he did the worst thing that a flycan do, began, very slowly, to crawl down the inside of my pince-nez(I had been trying to read). He got between the glass and my eyelashand moved very faintly with his damnable legs. Then my patiencewent--I did what during these last days I have vowed not to do, lostmy control, jumped from my bed, and cursed with rage....

  Then with my head almost bursting with heat and my legs trembling Ihad an awful moment, I thought that I was really mad. I thought that Iwould get the looking-glass and smash it and that then I would jumpfrom the window. In another moment I thought that something wouldbreak in my head, the something with which I kept control overmyself--I seemed to hear myself praying aloud: "Oh God! let me keep myreason! Oh God! let me keep my reason!" and I could see the Forestlike a great green hot wave rising beyond the window to a toweringheight ready to leap down upon me.

  Then Semyonov came in. He stood in the doorway and looked at me. Hemust have thought me strange and I know that I waited, staring at him,feeling foolish as I always do with him. But he spoke to me kindly,with the sort of kindness that there is sometimes in his voice,patronising and reluctant of course.

  "You can't sleep, Mr.?" he said.

  "No," I answered, and said something about flies.

  "What have you been doing to the looking-glass?" he asked, laughing,for there the thing was on the floor, broken into pieces. I am surethat I never touched it.

  "That's unlucky," he said. "Never mind, Mr.," he said smiling at me,"twenty-two misfortunes, aren't you? Always dropping something," headded quite kindly. "More, perhaps, than the rest of us.... Wash yourface in cold water. It's this infernal heat that worries us all."

  I remember then that he poured the water into the blue tin basin forme and then, taking the tin mug himself, poured it in cupfuls over myhands and arms. I afterwards did the same for him. At that moment Ivery nearly spoke to him of Marie. I wished desperately to try; but Ilooked at his face, and his eyes, laughing at me as they always did,stopped me.

  When I had finished he thanked me, wiped his hands, then turning roundat the door he said: "Why don't you go back to Mittoevo, Mr. ----You're tired out."

  "You know why," I answered, without looking at him He seemed then asthough he would speak, but he stopped himself and went away. I laydown again and tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes the greenbeyond the window burnt through my eyelids--and then the fly (I amsure it was the same fly) returned....

  _Monday, August 16_.... Lord! but I am tired of this endlessbandaging, cleaning of filthy wounds, paring away of ragged ends offlesh, smelling, breathing, drinking blood and dust and dirt. The poorfellows! Their bravery is beyond any word of mine. They have comethese last few days with their eyes dazed and their ears deafened.Indeed the roaring of the cannon has been since yesterday afternoonincessant. They say that the Austrians are straining every nerve tobreak through to the river and cross. We are doing what we can toprevent them, but what can we do? There simply IS NOT AMMUNITION! Theofficers here are almost crying with despair, and the men know it andgo on, with their cheerfulness, their obedience, their mildkindliness--go into that green hell to be butchered, and come out ofit again, if they are lucky, with their bodies mangled and twisted,and horror in their eyes. It's nobody's fault, I suppose, thisbusiness. How easy to write in the daily papers that the Germansprepared for war and that we did not, and that after a month or twoall will be well.... After a month or two! tell that to us here stuckin this Forest and hear us how we laugh!...

  Meanwhile, for the good of my health, I'm figuring very clearly tomyself all the physical features of this place. It's a long whitehouse, two-storied. The front door has broken glass over it andthere's a litter of tumbled bricks on the top step. After you've gonethrough the front door you come into the hall where the wounded are asthick as flies. You go through the hall and turn to the left. There'sa pantry place on your right all full of flies and when you open thedoor they unsettle with a great buzz and shift into all sorts ofshapes and patterns. Next to them is our sitting-room, the horridplace always dirty and stifling. Then there's the operating-room, thenanother room for beds, then the kitchen. Outside to the right there'sthe garden, dry now with the heat, and the orchard smells of the menthey've buried in it. To the left, after a little clearing, there'sthe forest always green and glittering. The men are in the trenchesnow, the new ones that were made last week, so I suppose that weshall be in the thick of it very shortly. That battery at the edge ofthe hill has been banging away all the morning. What else is there?There's an old pump just outside the sitting-room window. There's alitter of dirty paper and refuse there, too, that the flies gatherround. There's an old barn away to the right where some horses are andtwo cows. I have to keep my mind on these things because I knowthey're real. You can touch them with your hands and they'll still bethere even if you go away--they won't walk with you as you move. So Imust fasten on to these things about which there can't be any doubt.In the same way I like to remember that book in the sitting-room--Mr.Glass who lectured on "Fools," the Ruysdael, and the Normal Pupils whoacted _Othello_. They're real enough and are probably somewhere nowquietly studying, or teaching, or sleeping--I envy them....

  A thing that happened this morning disturbed us all. Four soldierscame out of the Forest quite mad. They seemed rational enough at firstand said that they'd been sent out of the first line trenches withcontusion--one of them had a bleeding fi
nger, but the others wereuntouched. Then one of them, a middle-aged man with a black beard,began quite gravely to tell us that the Forest was moving. They hadseen it with their own eyes. They had watched all the trees marchslowly forward like columns of soldiers and soon the whole Forestwould move and would crush every one in it. It was all very wellfighting Austrians, but whole forests was more than any one couldexpect of them. Then suddenly one of them cried out, pointing with hisfinger: "See, Your Honour--there it comes!... Ah! let us run! let usrun!" One of them began to cry. It was very disagreeable. I saw AndreyVassilievitch who was present glance anxiously through the window atthe Forest and then gravely check himself and look at me nervously tosee whether I had noticed. The men afterwards fell into a strange kindof apathy. We sent them off to Mittoevo in the afternoon.

  I want now to remember as exactly as possible a strange conversation Ihad this evening with Semyonov. I came up when it was getting dusk tothe bedroom. One of the Austrian batteries was spitting away over thehill but we were not replying. Everything this afternoon has looked asthough they were preparing for a heavy attack. Our little window wasopen and the sky beyond was a sort of very pale green, and againstthis you could see a flush of colour rising and falling like theopening and shutting of a door. Everything quite silent except theAustrian cannon and a soldier, delirious, downstairs, singing.

  The Forest was deep black, but you could see the soldiers' firesgleaming here and there like beasts' eyes. Our room was almost darkand I was very startled to find Semyonov sitting on his bed andstaring in front of him. He looked like a wooden figure sitting there,and he didn't move as I came in. I'm glad that although I'm stillawkward and clumsy with him (as I am, and always will be, I suppose,with every one) I'm not afraid of him any more. The room was so darkthat he looked like a shadow. I had intended to fetch something and goaway, but instead of that I sat down on my bed, feeling suddenly verytired and lethargic.

  "Well, Mr.," he said in the ironical voice he always uses to me.

  (I would wish now to repeat if I can every word of our conversation.)

  "Krylov has been again," I said. "He told Nikitin that we ought to goto-night. Nikitin asked him whether the Division had plenty of wagonsand Krylov admitted that there weren't nearly enough. He agreed thatit would make a lot of difference if we could keep this place goinguntil to-morrow night--all the same he advised us to leave."

  "We'll stay until some one orders us to go," said Semyonov. "It willmake a difference to a hundred men or more probably. If they do startfiring on to this place we can get the men off in the wagons in time."

  "And what if the wagons have left for Mittoevo?"

  "We'll have to wait until they come back," he answered.

  We sat there listening to the cannon. Then Semyonov said very quietlyand not at all ironically, "I wish to ask you--I have wishedbefore--tell me. You blame me for her death?"

  I thought for a moment, then I replied:

  "I did so at first. Now I do not think that it had anything to do withyou or with me or with any one--except herself."

  "Except herself?" he said. "What do you mean?"

  "She wished it, I think."

  His irony returned. "You believe in the power of others, Mr., toomuch. You should believe more in your own."

  "I believe in her power. She was stronger than you," I answered.

  "I'm sure that you like to think so," he said laughing.

  "She is still stronger than you...."

  "So you are a mystic, Mr.," he said. "Of course, with your romanticmind that is only natural. You believe, I suppose, that she is with ushere in the room?"

  "It cannot be of interest to you," I answered quietly, "what Ibelieve."

  "Yes, it is of interest," he replied in a voice that was friendly andhumorously indulgent, as though he spoke to a child. "I find itstrange--I have found it strange for many weeks now--that I shouldthink so frequently of you. You are not a man who would naturally beinteresting to me. You are an Englishman and I am not interested inEnglishmen. You are sentimental, you have no idea of life as it is,you like dull things, dull safe things, you believe always in what youare told. You have no sense of humour.... You should be of no interestto me, and yet during these last weeks I have not been able to get ridof you."

  "That is not my fault," I said. "I have not been so anxious for yourcompany."

  "No," he said, speaking rather thoughtfully, as though he wereseriously thinking something out, "you regard me, of course, as a verybad character. I have no desire to defend myself to you. But the pointis that I have found myself often thinking of you, that I have eventaken trouble sometimes to be with you."

  He waited as though he expected me to say something, but I was silent.

  "It was perhaps that I saw that Marie Ivanovna cared for you. She gaveyou up to the end something that she never gave to me. That I supposewas tiresome to me."

  "You thought you knew her," I said, hoping to hurt him. "You did notknow her at all."

  "That may be," he answered. "I certainly did not understand her, butthat was attractive to me. And so, Mr., you thought that _you_understood her?"

  But I did not answer him. My head ached frantically, I was wretchedlyin want of sleep. I jumped to my feet, standing in front of him:

  "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" I cried. "Let us part. I am nothingto you--you despise me and laugh at me--you have from the first doneso. It was because you laughed at me that she began to laugh. If youhad not been there she might have continued to love me--she was veryinexperienced. And now that she is gone I am of no more importance toyou--let me be! For God's sake, let me be!"

  "You are free," he said. "You can return to Mittoevo in an hour's timewhen the wagons go."

  I did not speak.

  "No, you will not go," he went on, "because you think that she ishere. She died here--and you believe that she is not dead. I also willnot go--for my own reasons."

  Then he jumped off his bed, stood upright against me, his clothestouching mine. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  "No, Mr., we will remain together. I find you really rather charming.And you are changed, you know. You are not the silly fool you werewhen you first came to us!"

  I moved away from him. I could not bear the touch of his hand on myshoulder. I had, I repeat, no fear of him. He might laugh at me or noas he pleased, but I did not want his kindness.

  "My beliefs seem to you the beliefs of a child," I said, trying tospeak more calmly. "Well, then, leave me to them. They at least do youno harm. I love her now as I loved her when I first saw her. I cannotbelieve that I shall never be with her again. But that is my ownaffair and matters to no one but myself!"

  He answered me: "You have a simple fashion of looking at things whichI envy you. I assure you that I am not laughing at you. You believe,if I understand you, that after your death you will meet her again.You are afraid that if I die before you she will belong to me, butthat if you die first you will be with her again as you were 'at thebeginning'?... Is not that so?"

  I did not answer him.

  "I swear to you," he continued, "that I am not mocking you. What myown thoughts may be does not interest you, but I have not, in my life,found many things or persons that are worth one's devotion, and shewas worthy of being loved as you love her. Such days as these in sucha place as this must bring strange thoughts to any man. When we returnto Mittoevo to-morrow night I assure you that you will see everythingdifferently."

  He felt, I suppose, that he had been speaking too seriously becausethe ironic humour with which he always treated me returned.

  "Here, Mr., at any rate we are. I'm sorry for you--tiresome to be tiedto some one as uncongenial as myself--but be a little sorry for me,too. You're not, you know, the ideal companion I would have chosen."

  "Why did you come?" I asked him. "Durward was here--we were doing verywell--"

  "Without me"--he caught me up. "Yes, I suppose so. But yourfascination is so strong that--" He broke off laughing, then continuedalmost
sharply: "Here we are anyway. To-night and to-morrow we aregoing to be lively enough if I know anything about it. I'll do you thejustice, Mr., of saying you've worked admirably here. I wouldn't havebelieved it of you. Let us both of us drop our romantic fancies. We'veno time to spare." Then, turning at the door, he ended: "And youneedn't hate me so badly, you know. She cared for you in a way thatshe never gave _me_. Perhaps, after all, in the end, you will win--"

  He gave me one last word:

  "All the same I don't give her up to you," he said.

  When I came downstairs again it was to find confusion and noise. Inthe first place little Andrey Vassilievitch was quarrelling loudlywith Nikitin. He was speaking Russian very fast and I did not discoverhis complaint. There was something comic in the sight of his smallbody towering to a perfect tempest of rage, his plump handsgesticulating and always his eyes, anxious and self-important, doingtheir best to look after his dignity. Nikitin explained to me that hehad been urging Andrey Vassilievitch to return to Mittoevo with thewagons. "There's no need," he said, "for us all to stay. It's onlytaking unnecessary risks--and somebody should take charge of thewagons."

  "There's Feodor Constantinovitch," said Andrey, naming a feldscher andstammering in his rage. "He's re-responsible enough." Then, seeingthat he was creating something of a scene, he relapsed into a would-bedignified sulkiness, finally said he would not go, and strutted away.

  There were many other disturbances, men coming and going, one of thebattery officers appearing for a moment dirty and dishevelled, andalways the wounded drowsy or in delirium, watching with dull eyes theevening shadows, talking excitedly in their sleep. Semyonov called meto help in the operating room. Within the next two hours he hadcarried out two amputations with admirable cool composure. During thesecond one, when the man's arm tumbled off into the basin and laythere amongst the filthy rags with the dirty white fingers curved,their nails dead and grey, I suddenly felt violently sick.

  A sanitar took my place and I went out into the cool of the forest,where a silver pattern of stars swung now above the branches and afull moon, red and cold, was rising beyond the hill. After a time Ifelt better and, finding that I was not needed for a time, I wrotethis diary.

  _Tuesday, August 17th._ It is just six o'clock--a most lovely evening.Strangely enough everything is utterly quiet--not a sound anywhere.You might fancy yourself in the depths of England somewhere. However,considering what has happened to-day and what they expect will happennow at any moment, the strain on our nerves is pretty severe, and asusual at such times I will fill in my diary. This is probably the lasttime that I write it here as we move as soon as the wagons return,which should be in about two hours from now.

  All our things are packed and I shall slip this book into my bag assoon as I have written this entry; but I have probably two or threehours clear for writing, as everything is ready for departure.Meanwhile I am wonderfully tranquil and at peace, able, too, to thinkclearly and rationally for the first time since Marie's death. I wantto give an account of the events since my last entry minutely and astruthfully as my memory allows me.

  At about half-past eleven last night Semyonov and I went up to ourbedroom to sleep, Nikitin being on duty. There was not much noise, thecannon sounding a considerable distance away, but the flashlights androckets against the night-sky were wonderful, and when we had blownout the candle our dark little room leapt up and down or turned roundand round, the window flashing into vision and out again. Semyonov wasalmost immediately asleep, but I lay on my back and, of course, asusual, thought of Marie. My headache of the evening still ragedfuriously and I was in desperately low spirits. I had been able to eatnothing during the preceding day. I lay there half asleep, half awake,for, I suppose, a long time, hearing the window rattle sometimes whenthe cannon was noisy and feeling under the jerky reflections on thewall as though I were in an old shambling cab driving along a darkroad, I thought a good deal about that talk with Semyonov that I had.What a strange man! But then I do not understand him at all. I don'tthink I understand any Russian, such a mixture of hardness andsoftness as they are, kind and then indifferent, cruel and thensentimental. But I understand people very little, and in all my yearsat Polchester there was never one single person whom I knew. Semyonovis perfectly right, I suppose, from his point of view to think me afool. I lay there thinking of Semyonov. He was sleeping on his back,looking very big under the clothes, his beard square and stiff, lit upby the flashing light and then sinking into darkness again. I thoughtof him and of myself and of the strange contrast that we were, and howqueer it was that the same woman should have cared for both of us. AndI know that, although I did not hate him at all, I would give almostanything for him not to have been there, never to have been there.Whilst he was there I knew that I had no chance. Marie had not laughedat me during those days at Petrograd; she had believed in me then andI had been worth believing in. If people had believed in me more Imight be a very different man now.

  I was almost asleep, scarcely conscious of the room, when suddenly Iheard a voice cry, "Marie! Marie! Marie!" three times. It was a voicethat I had never heard before, strong but also tender, full of pain,with a note in it too of a struggling self-control that would break ina moment and overwhelm its possessor. As I look back at it I rememberthat I felt the passion and strength in it so violently that I seemedto shrink into myself, as though I were witnessing something that noman should see, and as though also I were conscious of my ownweakness and insignificance.

  It was Semyonov. The flashlight flashed into the room, shining for aninstant upon him. He was sitting up in bed, his shirt open and hischest bare. His eyes were fixed upon the window, but he was fastasleep. He seemed to me a new man. I had grown so accustomed to hissarcasm, his irony, that I had almost persuaded myself that he hadnever truly loved Marie, but had felt some sensual attraction for herthat would, by realisation, have been at once satisfied. This wasanother man. Here was a struggle, an agony that was not for such menas I.

  He cried again, "Marie! Marie!" then got up out of bed, walked on hisnaked feet in his shirt to the window, stood there and waited. Themoonlight had, by this, struck our room and flooded it. He turnedsuddenly and faced me. I could not believe that he did not see me, butI could not endure the unhappiness in his eyes and I turned, lookingdown. I did not look at him again but I heard his feet patter back tothe bed; then he stood there, his whole body strung to meet someovermastering crisis. He whispered her name as though she had come tohim since his first call. "Ah, Marie, my darling," he whispered.

  I could not bear that. I crept from my bed, slipped away, closed thedoor softly behind me and stole downstairs.

  I cannot write at length of what followed. It was the crisis ofeverything that has happened to me since I left Petrograd. Everyexperience that I had had was suddenly flung into this moment. I wasin our sitting-room now, pitch dark because shutters had been placedoutside the windows to guard against bullets. I stood there in myshirt and drawers: shuddering, shivering with hatred of myself,shivering with fear of Semyonov, shivering above all, with adesperate, agonising, torturing hunger for Marie. Semyonov's voice hadappalled me. I hadn't realised before how strongly I had relied on hisnot truly caring for her. Everything in the man had seemed to persuademe of this, and I had even flattered myself on my miserablesuperiority to him, that I was the true faithful lover and he thevulgar sensualist. How small now I seemed beside him!--and how Ifeared him! Then I was at sudden fierce grip with the beast!... Atgrips at last!

  I had once before, on another night, been tempted to kill myself, butthat had been nothing to this. Now sick and ill, faint for food, Iswayed there on the floor, hearing always in my ear--"Give way! Giveway!... You'll be in front of him, you'll have left him behind you, hecan do nothing ... a moment more and you can be with her--and hecannot reach you!"

  I do not know how long I fought there. I was not fighting with an evildevil, a fearful beast as in my dreams I had always imagined it--I wasfighting myself: every weakness in the past to
which I had eversurrendered, every little scrap of personal history, every slacknessand cowardice and lethargy was there on the floor against me.

  I don't know what it was that prevented me stealing back to my room,fetching my revolver and so ending it. I could see Marie close to me,to be reached by the stretching of a finger. I could see myself livingon, always conscious of Semyonov, his thick beastly confident bodyalways there between myself and her.

  I sank into the last depths of self-despair and degradation. No finething saved me, no help from noble principles, nothing fine. The wholewas as sordid as possible. I knew, even as I struggled, that I was asilly figure there, with my bony ugliness, in my shirt and drawers,my hair on end and my teeth chattering. But I responded, I suppose, tosome little pulse of manly obstinacy that beat somewhere in me. Iwould _not_ be beaten by the Creature. Even in the middle of it Irealised that this was the hardest tussle of my life and worthfighting. I know too that some thought of Nikitin came to me asthough, in some way, my failure would damage _him_. I remembered thatnight of the Retreat when he had helped me and, as though he wereappealing visibly to me there in the room, I responded; I seemed tofeel that he was fighting some battle of his own and that my victorywould fortify him. I stood with him beside me. So I fought it, foughtit with the sweat dripping down my nose and my tongue dry. "No!"something suddenly cried in me. "If she's his, she's his--I will nottake her this way!"--then in a snivelling, miserable fashion I beganto cry, simply from exhaustion and nerves and headache. I slipped downinto a chair. I sat there feeling utterly beaten and yet in some dimway, as one hears a trumpet sounding behind a range of hills, I wastriumphant. There with my head on the table and my nose, I believe, ina plate left from some one's last night's supper, I slept a heavy,dreamless sleep.

  I woke and heard a clock in the room strike three. I got up, stretchedmy arms, yawned and knew that my head was clear and my brain at peace.I can't describe my feelings better than by saying that it was asthough I had put my brain and my heart and all my fears and terrorsunder a good stiff pump of cold water. I felt a different man fromfour hours before, although still desperately tired and physicallyweak.

  I went softly upstairs. The light of a most lovely summer morningflooded the room. Semyonov was lying, sleeping like a child, his headpillowed on his arm. Very cautiously I dressed, then went downstairsagain. I did not understand now--the peace and happiness in my heart.All the time I was saying to myself: "Why am I so happy? Why am I sohappy?"...

  The world was marvellously fresh, with little white glittering cloudsabove the trees, the grass wet and shining, and the sky a high dome ofblue light, like the inside of a glass bell that has the sun behindit. Here and there on the outskirts of the Forest fires were stilldimly burning, pale and dim yellow shadows beneath the sun. Menwrapped in their coats were sleeping in little groups under the trees.Horses cropped at the grass; soldiers were moving with buckets ofwater. Two men, at the very edge of the Forest, stripped to the waist,were washing in a pool that was like a blue handkerchief in the greatforest of green. I found a little glade, very bright and fresh, undera group of silver birch, and there I lay down on my back, my handsbehind my head, looking up into the little dancing atoms of bluebetween the trees and the golden stars of sunlight that flashed andsparkled there.

  Happiness and peace wrapped me round. I cannot pretend to disentangleand produce in proper sequence all the thoughts and memories thatfloated into my vision and away again, but I know that whereas beforethoughts had attacked me as though they were foul animals biting at mybrain, now I seemed myself gently to invite my memories.

  Many scenes from my Polchester days that I had long forgotten cameback to me. I was indeed startled by the clearness with which I sawthat earlier figure--the very awkward, careless, ugly boy, listeninglazily to other people's plans, taking shelter from life under a vaguelove of beauty and an idle imagination; the man, awkward and ugly,sensitive because of his own self-consciousness, wasting his hoursthrough his own self-contempt which paralysed all effort, stilltrusting to his idle love of beauty to pull him through to somesuperior standard, complaining of life, but never trying to get thebetter of it; then the man who came to Russia at the beginning of thewar, still self-centred, always given up to timid self-analysis, butresponding now a little to the new scenes, the new temperament, thenew chances. Then this man, feeling that at last he was rid of all thetiresome encumbrances of the earlier years, lets himself go, falls inlove, worships, dreams for a few days a wonderful dream--then for thefirst time in his life, begins to fight.

  I saw all the steps so clearly and I saw every little thought, everylittle action, every little opportunity missed or taken, accumulatinguntil the moment of climax four hours before. I seemed to have broughtPolchester on my back to the war, and I could see quite clearly howeach of us--Marie, Semyonov, Nikitin, Durward, every one of us--hadbrought _their_ private histories and scenes with _them_. War is madeup, I believe, not of shells and bullets, not of German defeats andvictories, Russian triumphs or surrenders, English and French battlesby sea and land, not of smoke and wounds and blood, but of a millionmillion past thoughts, past scenes, streets of little country towns,lonely hills, dark sheltered valleys, the wide space of the sea, thecrowded traffic of New York, London, Berlin, yes, and of smallerthings than that, of little quarrels, of dances at Christmas time, ofwalks at night, of dressing for dinner, of waking in the morning, ofmeeting old friends, of sicknesses, theatres, church services,prostitutes, slums, cricket-matches, children, rides on a tram, bathson a hot morning, sudden unpleasant truth from a friend, momentaryconsciousness of God....

  Death too.... How clear now it was to me! During these weeks I hadwondered, pursued the thought of Death. Was it this? Was it that? Wasit pain? Was it terror? I had feared it, as for instance when I hadseen the dead bodies in the Forest, or stood under the rain atNijnieff. I had laughed at it as when I had gone with the sanitars. Ihad cursed it as when Marie Ivanovna had died. I had sought it as Ihad done last night--and always, as I drew closer and closer to it,fancied it some fine allegorical figure, something terrible,appalling, devastating.... How, when I was, as I believed, at lastface to face with it, I saw that one was simply face to face withoneself.

  Four hours I have been writing, and no sign of the wagons.... I amwriting everything down as I remember it, because these things are soclear to me now and yet I know that afterwards they will be changed,twisted.

  I was drowsy. I saw Polchester High Street, Garth in Roselands,Clinton, Truxe, best of all Rafiel. I went down the high white hill,deep into the valley, then along the road beside the stream where thehouses begin, the hideous Wesleyan Chapel on my right, "EbenezerVilla" on my left, then the cottages with the gardens, then the littlestreet, the post-office, the butcher's, the turn of the road and,suddenly, the bay with the fishing boats riding at anchor and beyondthe sea.... England and Russia! to their strong and confident union Ithought that I would give every drop of my blood, every beat of myheart, and as I lay there I seemed to see on one side the deep greenlanes at Rafiel and on the other the shining canals, the little woodenhouses, the cobbler and the tufted trees of Petrograd, the sea coastbeyond Truxe and the wide snow-covered plains beyond Moscow, thecathedral at Polchester and the Kremlin, breeding their children, tothe hundredth generation, for the same hopes, the same beliefs, thesame desires.

  I slept in the sun and had happy dreams.

  I have re-read these last pages and I find some very fine stuffabout--"giving every drop of blood," etc., etc. Of course I am notthat kind of man. Men, like Durward and myself--he resembles me inmany ways, although he is stronger than I am, and doesn't care whatpeople think of him--are too analytical and self-critical to give muchof their blood to anybody or to make their blood of very much value ifthey did.

  I only meant that I would do my best.

  Later in the morning the firing began again pretty close. AndreyVassilievitch came to me and wanted to talk to me. I was rather shortwith him because I was busy. He wante
d to tell me that he hoped Ihadn't misunderstood his quarrel with Nikitin last night. It had beennothing at all. His nerves had been rather out of order. He was verymuch better to-day, felt quite another man. He _looked_ another manand I said so. He said that I did.... Strange, but I felt as I lookedat him that he was sickening for some bad illness. One feels thatsometimes about people without being able to name a cause.

  I have an affection for the little man--but he's an awful fool. Well,so am I. But fools never respect fools.... Strange to see Semyonov. Ihad expected him for some reason to be different to-day. Just thesame, of course, very sarcastic to me. I had a hole in one of mypockets and was always forgetting and putting money and things intoit. This seemed to annoy him. But to-day nothing matters. Even theflies do not worry me. All the morning Marie has seemed so close tome. I have a strange excitement, the feeling that one has when one isin a train that approaches the place where some one whom one loves iswaiting.... I feel exactly as though I were going on a journey....

  Since three o'clock we've had a lively time. The attack began aboutfive minutes to three, by a shell splashing into the Forest near ourbattery. No one killed, fortunately. They've simply stormed away sincethen. I don't seem to be able to realise it and have been sitting inmy room writing as though they were a hundred miles away. One so usedto the noise. Everything is ready. We've got all the wounded prepared.If only the wagons would come.... Hallo! a shell in thegarden--cracked one of these windows. I must go down to see whetherany one's touched.... I put this in my bag. To-morrow ... and I am sohappy that...

  * * * * *

  The end of Trenchard's diary.

  These are the last words in Trenchard's journal. It fills about halfthe second exercise book. The last pages are written in a hand verymuch clearer and steadier than the earlier ones.

  I would like now to make my account as brief as possible.

  Upon the afternoon of August 16 we were all at Mittoevo, extremelyanxious about our friends. Molozov was in a great state of alarm. Thesanitars with the wagons that arrived at about four o'clock in theafternoon told us that a violent attack in the intermediateneighbourhood of our white house was expected at any moment. Thewagons were to return as quickly as possible, and bring every oneaway. They left about five o'clock in charge of Molozov and Goga, whowere bursting with excitement. I knew that they could not be with usagain until at any rate nine o'clock, but I was so nervous that atabout seven I walked out to the cross and watched.

  It was a very dark night, but the sky was simply on fire withsearchlights and rockets, very fine behind the Forest and reflected inthe river. The cannonade was incessant but one could not tell howclose it was. At last, at about half-past eight, I could endure myignorance no longer and I went down the hill towards the bridge. I hadnot been there more than ten minutes and had just seen a shell burstwith a magnificent spurt of fire high in the wood opposite, when ourwagons suddenly clattered up out of the darkness. I saw at once thatsomething was wrong. The horses were being driven furiously althoughthere was now no need, as I thought, for haste. I could just seeSemyonov in the half light and he shouted something to me. I caughtone of the wagons as it passed and nearly crushed Goga.

  We were making so much noise that I had to shout to him.

  "Well?" I cried.

  Then I saw that he was crying, his arms folded about his face, sobbinglike a little boy.

  "What is it?" I shouted.

  "Mr...." he said, "Andrey Vassilievitch...." I looked round. One ofthe sanitars nodded.

  Then there followed a nightmare of which I can remember very little.It seems that at about four in the afternoon the Austrians made afurious attack. At about seven our men retreated and broke. They weregradually beaten back towards the river. Then, out of Mittoevo, the"Moskovsky Polk" made a magnificent counter-attack, rallied the otherDivision and finally drove the Austrians right back to their originaltrenches. From nine o'clock until twelve we were in the thick of it.After midnight all was quiet again. I will not give you details ofour experiences as they are not all to my present purpose.

  At about half-past one in the morning I found Nikitin standing in thegarden, looking in front of him across the river, over which a veryfaint light was beginning to break....

  I touched him on the arm and he started, as though he had been veryfar away.

  "How did Trenchard die?"

  He answered at once, very readily: "About three o'clock the shellswere close. The wagons arrived a little before seven so we had fullyfour anxious hours. We had had everything ready all the afternoon and,of course, just then we couldn't go out to fetch the wounded and Ithink that the army sanitars were working in another direction, sothat we had nothing to do--which was pretty trying. I didn't see Mr.until just before seven. He had been busy upstairs about something andthen at the sound of the wagons he came out. I had noticed that allday he had seemed very much quieter and more cheerful. He had been ina wretched condition on the earlier days, nervous and over-strained,and I was very glad to see him so much better. We were all workingthen, moving the wounded from the house to the wagons. We couldn'thear one another speak, the noise was so terrific. Andrey and Mr. weredirecting the sanitars near the house. Semyonov and I were near thewagons. I had looked up and shouted something to Andrey when suddenlyI heard a shell that seemed as though it would break right over me. Ibraced myself, as one does, to meet it. For a moment I heard nothingbut the noise; my nostrils were choked with the smell and my eyesblinded with dust. But I knew that I had not been hit, and I stoodthere, rather stupidly, wondering. Then cleared. I saw that all theright corner of the house was gone, and that Semyonov had run forwardand was kneeling on the ground. With all the shouting and firing itwas very difficult to realise anything. I ran to Semyonov. Andrey ...but I won't ... I can't ... he must have been right under the thingand was blown to pieces. Mr., strangely enough, lying there with hisarms spread out, seemed to have been scarcely touched. But I saw atonce when I came to him that he had only a few moments to live, He hada terrible stomach wound but was suffering no pain, I think. Semyonovwas kneeling, with his arm behind his head, looking straight into hiseyes.

  "'Mr., Mr.,' he said several times, as though he wanted to rouse himto consciousness. Then, quite suddenly, Mr. seemed to realise. Helooked at Semyonov and smiled, one of those rather timid, shy smilesthat were so customary with him. His eyes though were not timid. Theywere filled with the strangest look of triumph and expectation.

  "The two men looked at one another and I, seeing that nothing was tobe done, waited. Semyonov then, speaking as though he and Mr. werealone in all this world of noise and confusion, said:

  "'You've won, Mr.... You've won!' He repeated this several times asthough it was of the utmost importance that Mr. should realise hiswords.

  "Mr., smiling, looked at Semyonov, gave a little sigh, and died.

  "I can hear now the tones of Semyonov's voice. There was something sostrange in its mixture of irony, bitterness and kindness--just thatrather contemptible, patronising kindness that is so especially his.

  "We had no time to wait after that. We got the wagons out by amiracle without losing a man. Semyonov was marvellous in hisself-control and coolness...."

  We were both silent for a long time. Nikitin only once again."Andrey!... My God, how I will miss him!" he said--and I, who knew howoften he had cursed the little man and been impatient with hisimportunities, understood. "I have lost more--far more--than Andrey,"he said. "I talked to you once, Ivan Andreievitch. You will understandthat I have no one now who can bring her to me. I think that she willnever come to me alone. I never needed her as he did, No moredreams...."

  We were interrupted by Semyonov, who, carrying a lantern, passed us.He saw us and turned back.

  "We must be ready by seven," he said sharply. "A general retirement.Ivan Andreievitch, do you know whether Mr. had friends or relations towhom we can write?"

  "I heard of nobody," I answered.

  "Nobody?"
/>   "Nobody."

  Just before he turned my eyes met his. He appeared to me as a man who,with all his self-control, was compelling himself to meet the onset ofan immeasurable devastating loss.

  He gave us a careless nod and vanished into the darkness.

  * * * * *

 

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