CHAPTER II
MARIE IVANOVNA
It was on July 23 that I first entered the Forest of S----. I did not,I remember, pay the event any especial attention. I went with AnnaPetrovna to the cholera village that is on the outskirts of theforest, and I recollect that we hastened back because that evening wewere to celebrate the conclusion of the first six months' work of ourOtriad. Of my entrance into the forest I remember absolutely nothing;it seemed, I suppose, an ordinary enough forest to me. Of thefestivities in the evening I have a very clear recollection. Iremember that it was the loveliest summer weather, not too hot, with alittle breeze coming up from the river, and the green glittering onevery side of us with the quiver of flashing water. In the littlegarden outside our house a table had been improvised and on this werea large gilt ikon, a vase of flowers in a hideous purple jar, and twotall candles whose flames looked unreal and thin in the sunlight.There was the priest, a fine stout man with a long black beard andhair falling below his shoulders, clothed in silk of gold and purple,waving a censer, monotoning the prayers in a high Russian tenor, withone eye on the choir of sanitars, one eye on the candles blown by thewind, the breeze meanwhile playing irreverent jests on his splendidskirts of gold. Then there was the congregation in three groups. Thefirst group--two generals, two colonels, four or five other officers,the Sisters (Sister K---- bowing and crossing herself incessantly,Anna Petrovna with her attention obviously on the dinner cookingbehind a tree in the garden, Marie Ivanovna looking lovely and happyand good), ourselves--Molozov official, Semyonov sarcastic, Nikitin ina dream, Andrey Vassilievitch busy with his smart uniform, Trenchard(forgotten his sword, his blue handkerchief protruding from hispocket) absorbed by the ceremony, myself thinking of Trenchard,Goga--and the rest. The second group--the singing sanitars, some tenof them, stout and healthy, singing as Russians do with completeself-forgetfulness and a rapturous happiness in front of them, a funnylittle man with spectacles and a sharp-pointed beard, once aschoolmaster, now a sanitar, conducting their music with a long bonyfinger--all of them chanting the responses with perfect precision andharmony. Third group, the other sanitars, the strangest collection offaces, wild, savage and eastern: Tartars, Lithuanians, Mongolian, mildand northern, cold and western, merry and human from Little Russia,gigantic and fierce from the Caucasus, small and frozen fromArchangel, one or two civilised and superior _and_ uninteresting fromPetrograd and Moscow.
Over the wall a long row of interested Galician peasants and soldierspassing in carts or on horseback. Seeing the ikon, the priest, theblowing candles, hearing the singing they would take off their hats,cross themselves, for a moment their eyes would go dreamy, mild,forgetful, then on their hats would go again, back they would turntheir horses, cursing them up the hill, chaffing the Galician women,down deep in the everyday life again.
The service ended. The priest turns to us, the gold Cross is raised,we advance one by one: the generals, the colonels, the lieutenants,the Sisters, Semyonov, Nikitin, Goga, then the choir, then thesanitars, even to hunch-backed Alesha, who is always given thedirtiest work to do and is only half a human being; one by one we kissthe Cross, the candles are blown out, the ikon folded up and put awayin a cardboard box, we are introduced to the generals, there isgeneral conversation, and the stars and the moon come out "blownstraight up, it seems, out of the bosom of the Nestor...."
It was a very happy and innocent evening. For extracting the utmosthappiness possible out of the simplest materials the Russians havesurely no rivals. How our generals and our colonels enjoyed thatevening! A wonderful dinner was cooked between two stones in thegarden--little pig, young chickens, _borshtsh_, that most luxurious ofsoups, and ices--yes, and ices. Then there were speeches, many, manyglasses of tea, strawberry and cherry jam, biscuits and cigarettes. Wewere all very, very happy....
It was arranged on the morning after the feast that I should go againto the cholera village with Marie Ivanovna and Semyonov. Under amorning of a blazing relentless heat, bars of light ruling the sky, westarted, the three of us, at about ten o'clock, in the little lowdogcart, followed by the kitchen and the boiler. Marie Ivanovna satnext to Semyonov, I facing them. Semyonov was happier than I had everseen him before. Happiness was not a quality with which I would everhave charged him; he had seemed to despise it as something too simpleand sentimental for any but sentimental fools--but now this morning (Ihad noticed something of the same thing in him the evening before) hewas quite _simply_ happy, looking younger by many years, the ironicalcurve of his lip gone, his eyes smiling, his attitude to the worldgentle and almost benevolent. Of course she, Marie Ivanovna, hadwrought this change in him. There was no doubt this morning that sheloved him. She had in her face and bearing all the pride and also allthe humility that a love, won, secured, ensured, brings with it. Shedid not look at him often nor take his hand. She spoke to me duringthe drive and only once and again smiled up at him; but her soul,shining through the thin covering of her body, laughed to me, crying:"I am happy because I have my desire. Of yesterday I remember nothing,of to-morrow I can know nothing, but to-day is mine!"
He was very quiet. When he looked at her his eyes took completepossession of her. I did not, that morning, count at all to either ofthem, but I too felt a kind of pride as though I were sharing in sometriumphal procession. She chattered on, and then at last was silent. Iremember that the great heat of the morning wrought in us all a kindof lethargy. We were lazily confident that day that nothing evil couldovertake us. We idly watched the sky, the river, the approachingforest, with a luxurious reliance on the power of man, and I caughtmuch of my assurance from Semyonov himself. He did really seem to me,that morning, a "tremendous" figure, as he sat there, so still, sotriumphant. He had never before, perhaps, been quite certain of MarieIvanovna, had been alarmed at her independence, or at his ownpassionate love for her. But this morning he _knew_. She loved him.She was his--no one could take her from him. She was the woman hewanted as he had never wanted a woman before, and _she was his--shewas his_!
I do not remember our entering the forest. I know that first you climba rough, rather narrow road up from the river, that the trees closeabout you very gradually, that there is a little church with a greenturret and a fine view of the Nestor, and that there a broad solemnavenue of silver birch leads you forward, gently and without anysinister omens. Then again the forest clears and there are fields ofcorn and, built amongst the thin scattering of trees, the village ofN----. It was here, on passing the first houses of the village, that Ifelt the heat to be almost unbearable; it seemed strange to me, Iremember, that they (whoever "they" were), having so many trees here,a forest that stretched many miles behind them, should have chosen topitch their village upon the only exposed and torrid bit of groundthat they could find. Behind us was the forest, in front of us alsothe forest, but here, how the sun blazed down on the roofs and littleblown patches of garden, how it glared in through the broken windows,and penetrated into the darkest corners of the desolate rooms!
Poor N----! In the second month of the war it had been shelled andmany of the houses destroyed. The buildings that remained seemed tohave given up the struggle and abandoned themselves to inevitabledegradation. Moreover, down the principal street, at every other doorthere hung the sinister black flag, a piece of dirty black clothfastened to a stick, and upon the filthy wall was scrawled in Russian"cholera." Dead, indeed, under the appalling heat of the morning thewhole place lay. No one was to be seen until we neared the ruins ofwhat had once been a little town-hall or meeting-place, a processionturned the corner--a procession of a peasant with a tall lightedcandle, another peasant with a tattered banner, a priest in soiledsilk, a coffin of white wood on a haycart, and four or fivewhite-faced and apathetic women. A doleful singing came from themiserable party. They did not look at us as we passed....
A rumble of cannon, once and again, sounded like the lazy snore ofsome sleeping beast.
Near the town-hall we found a company of fantastic creatures awaitingus. They were pressed
together in a dense crowd as though they wereafraid of some one attacking them. There were many old men, like theclowns in Shakespeare, dirty beyond belief in tattered garments,wide-brimmed hats, broad skirts and baggy trousers; old men with longtangled hair, bare bony breasts and slobbering chins. Many of thewomen seemed strong and young; their faces were on the wholecheerful--a brazen indifference to anything and everything was theirattitude. There were many children. Two gendarmes guarded them withrough friendly discipline. I thought that I had seen nothing moreterrible at the war than the eager pitiful docility with which theymoved to and fro in obedience to the gendarmes' orders. A dreadful,broken, creeping submission....
But it was their fantasy, their coloured incredible unreality thatoverwhelmed me. The building, black and twisted against the hard bluesky, raised its head behind us like a malicious monster. Before usthis crowd, all tattered faded pieces of scarlet and yellow and blue,men with huge noses, sunken eyes, sharp chins, long skinny hands,women with hard, bright, dead faces, little children with eyes thatwere afraid and indifferent, hungry and mad, all this crowd swayingbefore us, with the cannon muttering beyond the walls, and the thinmiserable thread of the funeral hymn trickling like water under ourfeet.... I looked from these to Semyonov and Marie Ivanovna, they intheir white overalls working at the meat kitchen and the hugebread-baskets, radiant in their love, their success, their struggle,confident, both of them, this morning that they had the fire of lifein their hands to do with it as they pleased.
I have not wished during the progress of this book, which is thehistory of the experiences of others rather than of myself, to lay anystress on my personal history, and here I would only say that any onewho is burdened with a physical disease or encumbrance that willremain to the end of life must know that there are certain momentswhen this hindrance leaps up at him like the grinning face of adevil--despairing hideous moments they are! I have said that duringour drive I had felt a confident happy participation in the joy ofthose others who were with me ... now as we stood there feeding thatcompany of scarecrows, a sudden horror of my own lameness, a suddenconsciousness that I belonged rather to that band of miserablediseased hungry fugitives than to the two triumphant figures on theother side of me, overwhelmed and defeated me. I bent my head; I felta shame, a degradation as though I should have crept into some shadowand hidden.... I would not mention this were it not that afterwards,in retrospect, the moment seemed to me an omen. After all, life is notalways to the victorious!...
Our scarecrows wanted, horribly, their food. It was dreadful to seethe anxiety with which they watched the portioning of the thick heavyhunks of black bread. They had to show Marie Ivanovna their dirtylittle scraps of paper which described the portions to which they wereentitled. How their bony fingers clutched the paper afterwards as theypressed it back into their skinny bosoms! Sometimes they could notwait to return home, but would squat down on the ground and lap theirsoup like dogs. The day grew hotter and hotter, the world smelt ofdisease and dirt, waste and desolation. Marie Ivanovna's face wassoft with tenderness as she watched them. Semyonov had always his eyeupon her, seeing that she did not touch them, sometimes calling outsharply: "Now! Marie! ... take care! Take care!" but this morning healso seemed kind and gentle to them, leading a small girl back to herhaggard bony old guardian, carrying her heavy can of soup for her, orjoking with some of the old men.... "Now, uncle ... you ought to be atthe war! What have they done, leaving you? So young and so vigorous!They'll take you yet!" and the old man, a toothless tremblingcreature, clutching his hunk of bread with shaking hands, would grinlike the head of Death himself! How close to death they all seemed!How alive were my friends, strong in the sun, compassionate but alsoperhaps a little despising this poor gathering of wastrels.
The work went on; then at last the final scraps of meat and bread hadbeen shared, the kitchen closed its oven, we took off our overalls,shook ourselves, and bade farewell to the scarecrows. The kitchen wasthen sent home and we moved forward with the tea boiler and twosanitars further into the forest. Our destination was a large emptyhouse behind the trenches. From here we were to take tea in the boilerto certain regiments, tea with wine in it as preventative againstcholera. It was the early afternoon now, and we moved very slowly. Theheat was intense and although the trees were thick on every side of usthere seemed to be no shade nor coolness, as though the leaves hadbeen made of paper.
"This is a strange forest," I said. "Although there are trees there'sno shade. It burns like a furnace."
No one replied. We passed as though in a dream, meeting no one,hearing no sound, the light dancing and flickering on our path. Inodded on my seat. I was half asleep when we arrived at ourdestination. This was the accustomed white deserted house standing ina desolate tangled garden. There was no one there on our arrival. Allthe doors were open, the sun blazing along the dusty passages. It wasinhabited, just then, I believe, by some artillery officers, but I sawnone of them. Semyonov went off to find the Colonel of the regiment towhom we were to give tea; Marie Ivanovna and I remained in one of theempty rooms, the only sound the buzzing flies. Every detail of thatroom will remain in my heart and brain until I die. Marie Ivanovna,looking very white and cool, with the happiness shining in her largeclear eyes, sat on an old worn sofa near the window. In the glass ofthe window there were bullet holes, and beyond the window a piece ofblazing golden garden. The room was very dirty, dust lay thick uponeverything. Some one had eaten a meal there, and there was a plate, aknife, also egg-shells, an empty sardine-tin, and a hunk of blackbread. There was a book which I picked up, attracted by the Englishlettering on the faded red cover. It was a "Report on the Condition ofNew Mexico in 1904"--a heavy fat volume with the usual photographs ofwater-falls, cornfields and enormous sheep. On the walls there wasonly one picture, a torn supplement from some German magazine showingfather returning to his family after a long absence--welcomed, ofcourse, by child (fat and ugly), wife (fatter and uglier), and dog (amongrel). There was the usual pile of fiction in Polish, translationsI suspect of Conan Doyle and Jerome; there was a desolate palm in acorner and a chipped blue washing stand. A hideous place: the sun didnot penetrate and it should have been cool, but for some reason theair was heavy and hot as though we were enclosed in a biscuit-tin.
I leaned against the table and looked at Marie Ivanovna.
"Isn't it strange?" I said, "we're only a verst or two from theAustrians and not a sound to be heard. But the gendarme told me thatwe must be careful here. A good many bullets flying about, I believe."
"Ah!" she said laughing. "I don't feel as though anything could touchme to-day. I never loved life before as I love it now. Is it right tobe so happy at such a time as this and in such a place?... And howstrange it is that through all the tragedy one can only truly seeone's own little affairs, and only feel one's own little troubles andjoys. That's bad ... one should be punished for that!"
I loved her at that moment; I felt bitterly, I remember, that I,because I was plain and a cripple, silent and uninteresting, wouldnever win the love of such women. I remembered little AndreyVassilievitch's words about his wife: "For me she cared as good womencare for the poor." In that way for me too women would care--when theycared at all. And always, all my life, it would be like that. Howunfair that everything should be given to the Semyonovs and theNikitins of this world, everything denied to such men as Trenchard,Andrey Vassilievitch and I!...
But my little grumble passed as I looked at her.
How honest and straight and true with her impulses, her enthusiasms,her rebellions and ignorances she was! Yes, I loved her and had alwaysloved her. That was why I had cared for Trenchard, why now I wasattracted by Semyonov, because, shadow of a man as I was, not manenough to be jealous, I could see with her eyes, stand beside her andshare her emotion.... But God! how that day I despised myself!
"You're tired!" she said, looking at me. "Is your leg hurting you?"
"Not much," I answered.
"Sit down here beside me." She made way for me on t
he sofa. "IvanAndreievitch, you will always be my friend?"
"Always," I answered.
"I believe you will. I'm a little afraid of you, but I think that Iwould rather have you as a friend than any one--except John. Howfortunate I am! Two Englishmen for my friends! You do not change asR-russians do! You will be angry with me when you think that I amwrong, but then I can believe you. I know that you will tell me thetruth."
"Perhaps," I said slowly, "Alexei Petrovitch will not wish that Ishould be your friend!"
"Alexei?" she said, laughing. "Oh, thank you very much, I shall choosemy own friends. That will always be my affair."
I had an uneasy suspicion that perhaps she knew as little aboutSemyonov as she had once known about Trenchard. It might be that allher life she might never learn wisdom. I do not know that I wished herto learn it.
"No," she continued. "But you forgive me now? Forgive me for all mymistakes, for thinking that I loved John when I did not and treatinghim so badly. Ah! but how unhappy I was! I wished to be honourable andhonest--I wished it passionately--and I seemed only to make mistakes.And then because I was ashamed of myself I was angry with everyone--at least it seemed that it was with every one, but it was reallywith myself."
"I did you injustice," I said. "And I did Alexei Petrovitch aninjustice also. I know now that he truly and deeply loves you.... Ibelieve that you will be very happy ... yes, it is better, muchbetter, than that you should have married Trenchard."
Her face flushed with happiness, that strange flush of colour behindher pale cheeks, coming and going with the beats of her heart.
She continued happily, confidently: "When I was growing up I wasalways restless. My mother allowed me to do as I pleased and I had noone in authority over me. I was restless because I knew nothing and noone could tell me anything that seemed to me true. I would have, likeother girls, sudden enthusiasms for some one who seemed strong andwonderful--and then they were never wonderful--only like every oneelse. I would be angry, impatient, miserable. Russian girls begin lifeso early.... After a time, mother began to treat me as though I wasgrown up. We went to Petrograd and I thought about clothes andtheatres. But I never forgot--I always waited for the man or the workor the friend that was to make life real. Then suddenly the war cameand I thought that I had found what I wanted. But there too there weredisappointments. John was not John, the war was not the war ... andit's only to-day now that I feel as though I were r-right inside. I'vebeen so stupid--I've made so many mistakes." She dropped her voice:"I've always been afraid, Ivan Andreievitch, that is the truth. Youremember that morning before S----?"
"Yes," I said. "I remember it."
"Well, it has been often, often like that. I've been afraid of myselfand--of something else--of dying. I found that I didn't want to die,that the thought of death was too horrible to me. That day of theRetreat how afraid I was! John could not protect me, no one could. AndI was ashamed of myself! How ashamed, how miserable. And I was afraidbecause I thought of myself more than of any one else--always. I hadfine ideals but--in practice--it was only that--that I always wasselfish. Now, for the first time ever, I care for some one more thanmyself and suddenly I am afraid of death no longer. It is true, IvanAndreievitch, I do not believe that death can separate Alexei from me;I have more reason now to wish to live than I have ever had, but now Iam not afraid. Wherever I am, Alexei will come--wherever he is, I willgo...."
She broke off--then laughed. "You think it silly in England to talkabout such things. No English girl would, would she? In Russia we aresilly if we like. But oh! how happy it is, after all these weeks, notto be afraid--not to wake up early and lie there and think--think andshudder. They used to say I was brave about the wounded, brave atS----, brave at operations ... if they only knew! You only, IvanAndreievitch, have seen me afraid, you only!..." She looked at me, hereyes searching my face: "Isn't it strange that you who do not love meknow me, perhaps, better than John--and yes, better than Alexei.That's why I tell you--I can talk to you. I never could talk towomen--I never cared for women. You and John for my friends--yes, I amindeed happy!"
She got up from the old sofa, walked a little about the room, lookedat the remains of the meal, at the book, then turned round to me:
"Don't ever tell any one, Ivan Andreievitch, that I have beenafraid.... I'm never to be afraid again. And I'm not going to die. Iknow now that life is wonderful--at last all that when I was young Iexpected it to be.... Do you know, Ivan Andreievitch, I feel to-day asthough I would live for ever!..."
Semyonov came in. He was in splendid spirits; I had never seen him sogay, so carelessly happy.
"Well," he cried to me, "we're to go now--at once ... and the nexttime at eight. We'll leave you this time. We'll be back by half-pastsix. We'll do the Third and Fourth Roti now. The Eighth and Ninthafterwards. Can you wait for tea until we return? Good.... Half-pastsix, then!"
They departed. As she went out of the door she turned and gave me alittle happy smile as though to bind me to an intimate enduringconfidence. I smiled back at her and she was gone.
After they had left me I felt very lonely. The house was still anddesolate, and I took a book that I had brought with me--the "Le Deuildes Primeveres" of Francois Jammes. I had learnt the habit during myfirst visit to the war of always taking a book in my pocket whenengaged upon any business; there were so many long weary hours ofwaiting when the nerves were stretched, and a book--quiet and real andsomething apart from all wars and all rumours of wars--was a mostserious necessity. What "Tristram Shandy" was to me once under firenear Nijnieff, and "Red-gauntlet" on an awful morning when our wholeOtriad meditated on the possibility of imprisonment before theevening--with nothing to be done but sit and wait! I went into thegarden with M. Jammes.
As I walked along the little paths through a tangle of wood and greenthat might very well have presented the garden of the Sleeping Beauty,I heard now and then a sound that resembled the swift flight of a birdor the sudden "ting" of a telegraph-wire. The Austrians were amusingthemselves; sometimes a bullet would clip a tree in its passing or onewould see a leaf, quite suddenly detached, hover for a moment idly inthe air and then circle slowly to the ground. Except for this soundthe garden was fast held in the warm peace of a summer afternoon. Ifound a most happy little neglected orchard with old gnarledapple-trees and thick waving grass. Here I lay on my back, watchingthe gold through the leaves, soaked in the apathy and somnolence ofthe day, sinking idly into sleep, rising, sinking again, as thoughrocked in a hammock. I was in England once more--at intervals therecame a sharp click that exactly resembled the sound that one hears inan English village on a summer afternoon when they are playing cricketin the field near by--oneself at one's ease in the garden, halfsleeping, half building castles in the air, the crack of the ball onthe bat, the cooing of some pigeons on the roof.... Once again thatsharp pleasant sound, again the flight of the bird above one's head,again the rustle of some leaves behind one's head ... soon there willbe tea, strawberries and cream, a demand that one shall play tennis,that saunter through the cool dark house, up old stairs, along narrowpassages to one's room where one will slowly, happily change intoflannels--hearing still through the open window the crack of the batupon the ball from the distant field....
But as I lay there I was unhappy, rebellious. The confidence andsplendour of Marie Ivanovna and Semyonov had driven me into exile. Ihated myself that afternoon. That pursuit--the excitement of thepenetration into the dark forest--the thrill of the chase--thosethings were for the strong men, the brave women--not for the halt andmaimed ... not love nor glory, neither hate nor fierce rebellion werefor such men as I.... I cursed my fate, my life, because I loved, notfor the first time, a woman who was glad that I did not love her andwas so sure that I did not and could not, that she could proclaim hersatisfaction openly to me!
I had an hour of bitterness--then, as I had so often done before, Ilaughed, drove the little devil into his cage, locked it, dropped thethick curtain in front of it.
I claimed t
he company of M. Francois Jammes.
He has a delightful poem about donkeys and as I read it I regained mytranquillity. It begins:
_Lorsqu'il faudra aller vers Vous, o mon Dieu, faites Que ce soit par un jour ou la campagne en fete Poudroiera. Je desire, ainsi que je fis ici-bas, Choisir un chemin pour aller, comme il me plaira, Au Paradis, ou sont en plein jour les etoiles. Je prendrai mon baton et sur la grande route J'irai et je dirai aux anes, mes amis: Je suis Francois Jammes et je vais au Paradis, Car il n'y a pas d'enfer au pays du Bon Dieu. Je leur dirai: Venez, doux amis du ciel bleu, Pauvres betes cheries qui d'un brusque mouvement d'oreilles, Chassez les mouches plates, les coups et les abeilles...._
That brought tranquillity back to me. I found another poem--his"Amsterdam."
_Les maisons pointues ont l'air de pencher. On dirait Qu'elles tombent. Les mats des vaisseaux qui s'embrouillent Dans le ciel sont penches comme des branches seches Au milieu de verdure, de raye, de rouille, De harengs saurs, de peaux de moutons et de bouille._
_Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam (Je crois du moins qu'il y passa) en revenant De l'ile ombreuse et verte aux noix de coco fraiches. Quelle emotion il dut avoir quand il vit luire Les portes enormes, aux lourds marteaux, de cette ville!..._
_Regardait-il curieusement les entresols Ou les commis ecrivent les livres de comptes? Eut-il envie de pleurer en resongeant A son cher perroquet, a son lourd parasol, Qui l'abritait dans l'ile attristee et clemente?..._
I was asleep; my eyes closed; the book fell from my hand. Some onenear me seemed to repeat in the air the words:
_Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam (Je crois, du moins, qu'il y passa) en revenant De l'ile ombreuse.... "De l'ile ombreuse" ... "Robinson Crusoe passa" ..._
I was rocked in the hot golden air. I slept heavily, deeply, withoutdreams....
I was awakened by a cold fierce apprehension of terror. I sat up,stared slowly around me with the sure, certain conviction that somedreadful thing had occurred. The orchard was as it had been--the sun,lower now, shone through the green branches. All was still and even,as I listened I heard the sharp crack of the ball upon the batbreaking the evening air. My heart had simply ceased to beat. Iremember that with a hand that trembled I picked up the book that waslying open on the grass and read, without understanding them, thewords. I remember that I said, out aloud: "Something's happened," thenturning saw Semyonov's face.
I realised nothing save his face with its pale square beard and redlips, framed there by the shining green and blue. He stood there,without moving, staring at me, and the memory of his eyes even now asI write of it hurts me physically so that my own eyes close.
That was perhaps the worst moment of my life, that confrontation ofSemyonov. He stood there as though carved in stone (his figure hadalways the stiff clear outline of stone or wood). I realised nothingof his body--I simply saw his eyes, that were staring straight infront of him, that were blazing with pain, and yet were blind. Helooked past me and, if one had not seen the live agony of his eyes,one would have thought that he was absorbed in watching something thatwas so distant that he must concentrate all his attention upon it.
I got upon my feet and as my eyes met his I knew without any questionat all that Marie Ivanovna was dead.
When I had risen we stood for a moment facing one another, thenwithout a word he turned towards the house. I followed him, leaving mybook upon the grass. He walking slowly in front of me with his usualassured step, except that once he walked into a bush that was to hisright; he afterwards came away from it, as a man walking in his sleepmight do, without lowering his eyes to look at it. We entered by aside-door. I, myself, had no thoughts at all at this time. I felt onlythe cold, heavy oppression at my heart, and I had, I remember, nocuriosity as to what had occurred. We passed through passages thatwere strangely dark, in a silence that was weighted and mysterious. Weentered the room where we had been earlier in the afternoon; it seemednow to be full of people, I saw now quite clearly, although justbefore the whole world had seemed to be dark. I saw our two soldiersstanding back by the door; a doctor, whose face I did not know, a verycorpulent man, was on his knees on the floor--some sanitars were in agroup by the window. In the middle of the room lay Marie Ivanovna on astretcher. Even as I entered the stout doctor rose, shaking his head.I had only that one glimpse of her face on my entry, because, at theshake of the doctor's head, a sanitar stepped forward and covered herwith a cloth. But I shall see her face as it was until I die. Her eyeswere closed, she seemed very peaceful.... But I cannot write of it,even now....
My business here is simply with facts, and I must be forgiven if now Iam brief in my account.
The room was just as it had been earlier in the afternoon; I saw thesardine-tin, the dirty plate that had a little cloud of flies upon it;the room seemed under the evening sun full of gold dust. I crossedover to our soldiers and asked them how it had been. One of them toldme that they had gone with the boiler to the trenches. Everything hadbeen very quiet. They had taken their stand behind a small ruinedhouse. Semyonov had just returned from telling the officers of theRota that the tea was ready when, quite suddenly, the Austrians hadbegun to fire. Bullets had passed thickly overhead. Marie Ivanovna hadseemed quite fearless, and laughing, had stepped, for a moment, frombehind the shelter to see whether the soldiers were coming for theirtea. She was struck instantly; she gave a sharp little cry and fell.They rushed to her side, but death had been instantaneous. She hadbeen struck in the heart.... There was nothing to be done.... Thesoldiers seemed to feel it very deeply, and one of them, a littleround fellow with a merry face whom I knew well, turned away from meand began to cry, with his hand to his eyes.
Semyonov was standing in the room with exactly that same dead burningexpression in his eyes. His mouth was set severely, his legs apart,his hands at his sides.
"A terrible misfortune," I heard the stout doctor say.
Semyonov looked at him gravely.
"Thank you very much for your kindness," he said courteously. Then, bya common instinct, without any spoken word between us, we all wentfrom the room, leaving Semyonov alone there.
I remember very little of our return to Mittoevo. We borrowed a cartupon which we laid the body. I sat in the trap with Semyonov. I was, Iremember, afraid lest he should suddenly go off his head. It seemedquite a possible thing then, he was so quiet, so motionless, scarcelybreathing. I concentrated all my thought upon this. I had my hand uponhis arm and I remember that it relieved me in some way to feel it sothick and strong beneath his sleeve. He did not look at me once.
I do not know what my thoughts were, a confused incoherent medley ofnonsense. I did not think of Marie Ivanovna at all. I repeated againand again to myself, in the silly, insane way that one does under theshock of some trouble, the words of the poem that I had read thatafternoon:
_Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam (Je crois du moins qu'il y passa) en revenant De l'ile ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte--ombreuse et verte...._
It was dark, or at any rate, it seemed to me dark. The weather wasstill and close; every sound echoed abominably through the silence.When we arrived at Mittoevo I suddenly thought of Trenchard. I hadutterly forgotten him until that moment. I got out of the trap andwhen Semyonov climbed out he put his hand on my arm. I don't know whybut that touched me so deeply and sharply that I felt, suddenly, asthough in another instant I should lose my self-control. It was sounlike him, so utterly unlike him, to do that. I trembled a little,then steadied myself, and we walked together into the house. They mustall instantly have known what had occurred because I heard runningsteps and sharp anxious voices.
I felt desperately, as a man runs when he is afraid, that I must bealone. I slipped away into the passage that leads from the hall. Thispassage was quite dark and I was feeling my direction with my handswhen some one, carrying a candle, turned the corner. It wasTrenchard. He raised the candle high to look at
me.
"Hallo, Durward," he cried. "You're back. What sort of a time?..."
I told him at once what had occurred. The candle dropped from hishand, falling with a sharp clatter. There was a horrible pause, bothof us standing there close to one another in the sudden blackness. Icould hear his fast nervous breathing. I was myself unstrung Isuppose, because I remember that I was dreadfully afraid lestTrenchard should do something to me, there, as we stood.
I felt his hand groping on my clothes. But he was only feeling hisway. I heard his steps, creeping, stumbling down the passage. Once Ithought that he had fallen.
Then there was silence, and at last I was alone.
The Dark Forest Page 9