Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Yeh Bogu! Ivan Andreievitch!... Imagine my position! There was General Polinoff and the whole Staff.... What to do? Only three versts from the position too and already six o’clock....”

  Or there was another serious gentleman, whose mind was continually occupied with Russia: “It may be difficult for you, Ivan Andreievitch, to see with our eyes, but for those of us who have Russia in our hearts ... what rest or peace can there be? I can assure you....”

  He wore pince-nez and with his long pear-shaped head, shaven to the skin, his white cheeks, protruding chin and long heavy white hands he resembled nothing so much as a large fish hanging on a nail at a fishmonger’s. He worked always in a kind of cold desperate despair, his pince-nez slipping off his shiny nose, his mouth set grimly. “What is the use?” he seemed to say, “of helping these poor wounded soldiers when Russia is in such a desperate condition? Tell me that!”

  Or there was a wild rough fellow from some town in Little Russia, a boy of the most primitive character, no manners at all and a heart of shining gold. Of life he had the very wildest notions. He loved women and would sing Southern Russian songs about them. He had a strain of fantasy that continually surprised one. He liked fairy tales. He would say to me: “There’s a tale? Ivan Andreievitch, about a princess who lived on a lake of glass. There was a forest, you know, round the lake and all the trees were of gold. The pond was guarded by three dwarfs. I myself, Ivan Andreievitch, have seen a dwarf in Kiev no higher than your leg, and in our town they say there was once a whole family of dwarfs who lived in a house in the chief street in our town and sold potatoes.... I don’t know.... People tell one such things. But for the rest of that tale, do you remember how it goes?”

  He could ride any horse, carry any man, was never tired nor out of heart. He had the vaguest ideas about the war. “I knew a German once in our town,” he told me. “I always hated him.... He was going to Petrograd to make his fortune. I hope he’s dead.” This fellow was called Petrov.

  My chief interest during this fortnight was to watch the fortunes of Marie Ivanovna and Trenchard with their new companions. It was instantly apparent that Marie Ivanovna was a success. On the second day after our arrival at the school-house there were continual exclamations: “But how charming the new Sister! How sympathetic!... Have you talked to the new Sister?”

  Even Sister K —— , so serious and religious, approved. It was evident at once that Marie Ivanovna was, on her side, delighted with every one. I could see that at present she was assured that what she wanted from life would be granted to her. She gave herself, with complete confidence, to any one and every one, and, with that triumphing vitality that one felt in her from the first moment of meeting her, she carried all before her. In the hospital at Petrograd they had been, I gathered, “all serious and old,” had treated her I fancy with some sternness. Here, at any rate, “serious and old” she would not find us. We welcomed, with joy, her youth, her enthusiasm, her happiness.

  Semyonov, who never disguised nor restrained his feelings, was, from the first instant, strangely attracted to her. She, I could see, liked him very much, felt in him his strength and capacity and scorn of others. Molozov also yielded her his instant admiration. He always avoided any close personal relationship with any of us but I could see that he was delighted with her vitality and energy. She pleased the older Sisters by her frank and quite honest desire to be told things and the younger Sisters by her equally honest admiration of their gifts and qualities. She was honest and sincere, I do believe, in every word and thought and action. She had, in many ways, the naive purity, the unconsidered faith and confidence of a child still in the nursery. She amazed me sometimes by her ignorance; she delighted me frequently by her refreshing truth and straightforwardness. She felt a little, I think, that I did not yield her quite the extravagant admiration of the others. I was Trenchard’s friend....

  Yes, I was now Trenchard’s friend. What had occurred since that night in the train, when I had felt, during the greater part of the time, nothing but irritation? Frankly, I do not know. It may be, partly, that he was given to me by the rest of the Otriad. He was spoken of now as “my” Englishman. And then, poor Trenchard!... How, during this fortnight, he was unhappy! It had begun with him as I had foreseen. In the first place he had been dismayed and silenced by the garrulity of his new companions. It had seemed to him that he had understood nothing of their conversation, that he was in the way, that finally he was more lonely than he had ever been in his life before. Then, however strongly he might to himself deny it, he had arrived in Russia with what Nikitin called “his romantic notions.” He had read his Dostoevski and Turgenev; he had looked at those books of Russian impressions that deal in nothing but snow, ikons, and the sublime simplicity of the Russian peasant. He was a man whose circumstances had led him to believe profoundly in his own incapacity, unpopularity, ignorance. For a moment his love had given him a new confidence but now how was that same love deserting him? He had foreseen a glorious campaign, his lady and himself side by side, death and terror flying before him. He found himself leading a country life of perfect quiet and comfort, even as he might have led it in England, with a crowd of people, strangely unfamiliar to him, driving him, as he had been driven in the old days, into a host of awkwardnesses, confusions and foolishnesses. I could not forgive Marie Ivanovna for her disappointment in him, and yet I could understand how different he must have appeared to her during those last days in Petrograd, when alone with her and on fire with love, he had shown his true and bravest self to her. She was impatient, she had hoped that the others would see him as she had seen him. She watched them as they expressed their surprise that he was not the practical, fearless and unimaginative Englishman who was their typical figure. Whilst he found them far from the Karamazovs, the Raskolnikoffs, of his imagination, they in their turn could not create the “sportsman” and “man of affairs” whom they had expected.

  To all of this Semyonov added, beyond question, his personal weight. He had from the first declared Trenchard “a ridiculous figure.” Whilst the others were unfailingly kind, hospitable and even indulgent to Trenchard, Semyonov was openly satirical, making no attempt to hide his sarcastic irony. I do not know how much Trenchard’s engagement to Marie Ivanovna had to do with this, but I know that “my Englishman” could not to his misfortune have had a more practical, more efficient figure against whom to be contrasted than Semyonov.

  During these weeks I think that I hated Semyonov. There was, however, one silent observer of all this business upon whose personal interference I had not reckoned. This was Nikitin, who, at the end of our first week at the school-house, broke his silence in a conversation with me.

  Nikitin, although he spoke as little as possible to any one, had already had his effect upon the Otriad. They felt behind his silence a personality that might indeed be equal to Semyonov’s own. By little Andrey Vassilievitch they were always being assured: “Nikitin! A most remarkable man! You may believe me. I have known him for many years. A great friend of my poor wife’s and mine....”

  They did not appear to be great friends. Nikitin quite obviously avoided the little man whenever it was possible. But then he avoided us all.

  Upon a lovely afternoon Nikitin and I were alone in the wild little garden, he lying full length on the grass, I reading a very ancient English newspaper, with my back against a tree.

  He looked up at me with a swift penetrating glance, as though he were seeing me for the first time and would wish at once to weigh my character and abilities.

  “Your Englishman,” he said. “He’s not happy, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” I said, feeling the surprise of his question — it had become almost a tradition with me that he never spoke unless he were first spoken to. “He feels strange and a little lonely, perhaps ... it’s natural enough!”

  “Yes,” repeated Nikitin, “it’s natural enough. What did he come for?”

  “Oh, he’ll be all right,” I said hastily, “in a d
ay or two.”

  Nikitin lay on his back looking at the green, layer upon layer, light and dark, with golden fragments of broken light leaping in the breeze from branch to branch. “Why did he come? What did he expect to see? I know what he expected to see — romantic Russia, romantic war. He expected to find us, our hearts exploding with love, God’s smile on our simple faces, God’s simple faith in our souls.... He has been told by his cleverest writers that Russia is the last stronghold of God. And war? He thought that he would be plunged into a scene of smoke and flame, shrapnel, horror upon horror, danger upon danger. He finds instead a country house, meals long and large, no sounds of cannon, not even an aeroplane. Are we kind to him? Not at all.... We are not unkind but we simply have other things to think about, and because we are primitive people we do what we want to do, feel what we want to feel, and show quite frankly our feelings. He is not what we expected, so that we prefer to fill our minds with things that do not give us trouble. Later, like all Englishmen, he will dismiss us as savages, or, if he is of the intellectual kind, he will talk about our confusing subtleties and contradictions. But we are neither savages nor confusing. We have simply a skin less than you.... We are a very young people, a real and genuine Democracy, and we care for quite simple things, women, food, sleep, money, quite simply and without restraint. We show our eagerness, our disgust, our disappointment, our amusement simply as the mood moves us. In Moscow they eat all day and are not ashamed. Why should they be? In Kiev they think always about women and do not pretend otherwise ... and so on. We have, of course, no sense of time, nor method, nor system. If we were to think of these things we would be compelled to use restraint and that would bother us. We may lose the most important treasure in the world by not keeping an appointment ... on the other hand we have kept our freedom. We care for ideas for which you care nothing in England but we have a sure suspicion of all conclusions. We are pessimists, one and all. Life cannot be good. We ironically survey those who think that it can.... We give way always to life but when things are at their worst then we are relieved and even happy. Here at any rate we are on safe ground. We have much sentiment, but it may, at any moment, give way to some other emotion. We are therefore never to be relied upon, as friends, as enemies, as anything you please. Except this — that in the heart of every Russian there is a passionate love of goodness. We are tolerant to all evil, to all weakness because we ourselves are weak. We confess our weakness to any one because that permits us to indulge in it — but when we see in another goodness, strength, virtue, we worship it. You may bind us to you with bands of iron by your virtues — never, as all foreigners think, by your vices. In this, too, we are sentimentalists. We may not believe in God but we have an intense curiosity about Him — a curiosity that with many of us never leaves us alone, compels us to fill our lives, to fill our lives.... We love Russia.... But that is another thing.... Never forget too that behind every Russian’s simplicity there is always his Ideal — his secret Ideal, perhaps, that he keeps like an ikon sacred in his heart. Yes, of every Russian, even of the worst of us, that is true. And it complicates our lives, delivers us to our enemies, defeats all our worldly aims, renders us helpless at the moment when we should be most strong. But it is good, before God, that it should be so....”

  He suddenly sprang up and stood before me. “To-morrow I shall think otherwise — and yet this is part of the truth that I have told you.... And your Englishman? I like him ... I like him. That girl will treat him badly, of course. How can she do otherwise? He sees her like Turgenev’s Liza. Well, she is not that. No girl in Russia to-day is like Turgenev’s Liza. And it’s a good thing.” He smiled — that strange, happy, confident mysterious smile that I had seen first on the Petrograd platform. Then he turned and walked slowly towards the house.

  What Nikitin had said about Trenchard’s expectation of “romantic war” was perhaps true, in different degrees, of all of us. Even I, in spite of my earlier experience, felt some irritation at this delay, and to those of us who had arrived flaming with energy, bravery, resolution to make their name before Europe, this feasting in a country garden seemed a deliberate insult. Was this “romantic war?” These long meals under the trees, deep sleeps in the afternoon when the pigeons cooed round the little red bell-tower and the pump creaked in the cobbled courtyard and the bees hummed in the garden? Bees, cold water shining deep in the well, and the samovar chuckling behind the flower-beds, and fifteen versts away the Austrians challenging the Russian nation!... “You know,” Andrey Vassilievitch said to me, “it’s very disheartening.”

  Marie Ivanovna at the end of the first week spoke her mind. I found her one evening before supper leaning over the fence, gazing across the long flat field, pale gold in the dusk with the hills like grey clouds beyond it.

  “They tell me,” she said, turning to me, “that we may be another fortnight like this.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s quite possible, or even longer. We can’t provide wounded and battles for you if there aren’t any.”

  “But there are!” she cried. “Isn’t the whole of Europe fighting and isn’t it simply disgusting of us to be sitting down here, eating and sleeping, just as though we were in a dacha in the country? At least in the hospital in Petrograd I was working ... here....”

  “We’ve got to stick to our Division,” I answered. “They can’t have it in reserve very long. When it goes, we’ll go. The whole secret of leading this life out here is taking exactly what comes as completely as you can take it. If it’s a time for sleeping and eating, sleep and eat — there’ll be days enough when you’ll get nothing of either.”

  She laughed then, swinging round to me, with the dusk round her white nurse’s cap and her eyes dark with her desires and hopes and disappointments.

  “Oh, I’ve no right to be discontented.... Every one is so good to me. I love them all — even you, Mr. Durward. But I want to begin, to begin, to begin! I want to see what it’s like, to find what there is there that frightens them, or makes them happy. We had a young officer in our hospital who died. He was too ill ... he could tell us nothing, but he was so excited by something ... something he was in the middle of.... Who was it? What was it? I must be there, hunt it out, find that I’m strong enough not to be afraid of anything.” She suddenly dropped her voice, changing with sharp abruptness. “And John? He’s not happy here, is he?”

  “You should know,” I answered, “better than any of us.”

  “Why should I know?” she replied, flaming out at me. “You always blame me about him, but you are unfair. I want him to be happy — I would make him so if I could. But he’s so strange, so different from his time at the hospital. He will scarcely speak to me or to any one. Why can’t he be agreeable to every one? I want them to like him but how can they when he won’t talk to them and runs away if they come near him? He’s disappointed perhaps at its being so quiet here. It isn’t what he expected to find it, but then isn’t that the same for all of us? And we don’t sulk all day. He’s disappointed with me perhaps but he won’t tell me what he wants. If I ask him he only says ‘Oh, it’s all r-right — it’s all r-right’ — I hate that ‘all r-right’ of your language — so stupid! What a purpose not to say if he wants something?”

  I said nothing. My silence urged her to a warmer defence.

  “And then he makes such mistakes — always everything wrong that he’s asked to do. Doctor Semyonov laughs at him — but of course! He’s like a little boy, a man as old as he is. And Englishmen are always so practical, capable. Oh! speak to him, Mr. Durward; you can, please. If I say anything he’s at once so miserable.... I don’t understand, I don’t understand!” she cried, raising her hands with a little despairing gesture. “How can he have been like that in Petrograd, and now like this!”

  “Give him time, Marie Ivanovna,” I answered her. “This is all new to him, confusing, alarming. He’s led a very quiet life. He’s very sensitive. He cares for you so deeply that the slightest thing wounds him. He would hide
that if he could — it’s his tragedy that he can’t.”

  She would have answered had not supper arrived and with it our whole company. Shall I ever know a more beautiful night? As we sat there the moon came up, red-gold and full; the stars were clustered so thickly between the trees that their light lay heavy like smoke upon the air. The little garden seemed to be never still as our candlelight blew in the breeze; so it hovered and trembled about us, the trees bending beneath their precious load of stars, shuddering in their happiness at so good an evening.

  We sat there as though we had known that it was to be our last night of peace.... Many times the glasses of tea were filled, many times the little blue tin boxes of sweets were pushed up and down the table, many times the china teapot on the top of the samovar was fed with fresh tea, many times spoons were dipped into the strawberry jam and then plunged into the glasses of tea, such being the Russian pleasure.

  There occurred then an unfortunate incident. Some one had said something about England: there had been a joke then about “sportsmen,” some allusion was made to some old story connected with myself, and I had laughingly taken up the challenge. Suddenly Semyonov leaned across the table and spoke to Trenchard. Trenchard, who had been silent throughout the meal, misunderstood the Russian, thought that Semyonov was trying to insult him, and sat there colouring, flaming at last, silent. We all of us felt the awkwardness of it. There was a general pause — Semyonov himself drew back with a little laugh.

  Suddenly Marie Ivanovna, across the table, in English said softly but with a strange eager hostility: