by Hugh Walpole
“You’re cold,” I said.
“No, I’m not cold,” she answered still in a whisper, although we were now some way from the wagons. “I’m frightened, Mr. Durward, that’s what’s the matter — desperately frightened.”
“Nonsense,” I answered her. “You! Frightened! Never!”
“But I am. I’ve been terribly fr-frightened all night; and that Sister Anna Petrovna, he (she sometimes confused her pronouns) sleeps like a log. How can he? I’ve never slept, not for a moment, and I’ve been so cold and every time the cannon sounded I wanted to run away.... Oh, Mr. Durward, I’m so ashamed!”
Then, suddenly, desperately clutching my hand:
“Mr. Durward, you’ll never tell any one, any one never.... Promise!”
“Never a soul,” I answered. “It’s only because you’re cold and hungry and sleepy that you think you’re frightened. You’re not frightened really. But wouldn’t you like me to wake Trenchard and get him to come to you.... He’d be so happy?...”
She started fiercely from me. “Never! Never! Why, what can you think! You must never tell, most of all you must never tell him.... He must never know — nothing—”
The cannon began again. She caught my arm and stood with her body trembling, pressed against mine. I could feel her draw a deep breath. As I looked at her, her face white in the dawn, her large eyes staring like a child’s, her body so young and slender, she seemed another creature, utterly, absolutely apart from the woman of this last fortnight.
“Look here!” I said to her sternly. “You mustn’t go on like this. You’ve got work to do to-day. You’ve simply got to hold yourself in, to tell yourself that nothing can touch you. Why to-night you’ll laugh at me if I remind you of this. You’ll....”
But there was better tonic than my words, Semyonov’s voice came to us— “Hullo, you there! It’s five o’clock — we’re moving.”
She drew herself sharply away from me. She raised her head, smiled at me, then said:
“Thank you, Mr. Durward. It’s all well now. There’s Dr. Semyonov — let us go back.”
She greeted him with a voice that had in it not the slightest tremor.
There comes now a difficult matter. During the later months when I was to reflect on the whole affair I saw quite clearly that that hour between our leaving the wooden house and arriving in the trenches bridged quite clearly for me the division in this business between imagination and reality: that is, I was never after this to speak of war as I would have spoken of it an hour before. I was never again to regard the paraphernalia of it with the curiosity of a stranger — I had become part of it. This hour then may be regarded as in some ways the most important of all my experiences. It is certainly the occasion to which if I were using my invention I should make the most. Here then is my difficulty.
I have nothing to say about it. There’s nothing at all to be made of it....
I may say at once that there was no atom of drama in it. At one moment I was standing with Marie Ivanovna under the sunrise, at another I was standing behind a trench in the heart of the forest with a battery to my left and a battery to my right, a cuckoo somewhere not very far away, and a dead man with his feet sticking out from under the cloth that covered him peacefully beneath a tree at my side. There had, of course, been that drive in the wagons, bumping over the uneven road whilst the sun rose gallantly in the heavens and the clanging of the iron door grew, with every roll of our wheels, louder and louder. But it was rather as though I had been lifted in a sheet from one life — a life of speculation, of viewing war from a superior and safe distance, of viewing indeed all catastrophe and reality from that same distance — into the other. I had been caught up, had hung for a moment in midair, had been “planted” in this new experience. For us all there must have been at this moment something of this passing from an old life into a new one, and yet I dare swear that not for any one of us was there any drama, any thrill, any excitement. We stood, a rather lonely little group, in the forest clearing whilst the soldiers in the trench flung us a careless glance, then turned back to their business of the day with an indifference that showed how ordinary and drab a thing custom had made it.
Yes, we made a desolate little group. Semyonov had gone to a house on the farther side of the road up which we had come, a house that flew the Red Cross flag. We had only the right to care for the wounded of certain Divisions and our presence had to be reported. We were left then, Marie Ivanovna, Anna Petrovna, Andrey Vassilievitch, Trenchard and I, all rather close together, uncomfortable, desolate and shy, as boys feel on their first day at school. The battery on our left was very near to us and we could see the sharp flash of its flame behind the trees. The noise that it made was terrific, a sharp, angry, clumsy noise, as though some huge giant clad in mail armour was flinging his body, in a violent rage, against an iron door that echoed through an empty house — my same iron door that I had heard all night. The rage of the giant spread beyond his immediate little circle of trees and one wondered at the men in the trenches because they were indifferent to his temper.
The noise of the more distant batteries was still, as it had been before, like the clanging of many iron doors very mild and gentle against the clamour of our own enraged fury. The Austrian reply seemed like the sleepy echo of this confusion, so sleepy and pleasant that one felt almost friendly to the enemy.
Our own battery was inconsistent in his raging. Had he only chosen to fling himself at his door every three minutes, say, or even every minute, we could have prepared ourselves, but he was moved by nothing, apparently, but his own irrational impulse. There would be a pause of two minutes, then three furious explosions, then a pause of five minutes, then another explosion.... I mastered quickly my impulse to leap into the air at every report, by a kind of prolonged extension in my mind of one report into another. Little Andrey Vassilievitch was not so successful. At each explosion his body jerked as though it had been worked by wires; then he glanced round to see whether any one had noticed his agitation, then drew himself up, brushed off imaginary dust from his uniform, coughed and frowned. Trenchard stood close to Marie Ivanovna and looked at her anxiously once or twice as though he would like to speak to her, but she, holding herself very stiffly, watched with sternness the whole world as though she personally had arranged the spectacle and was responsible for its success.
Soon Semyonov came back and said that he must go on to some further trenches to discover the best position for us. To my intense surprise Andrey Vassilievitch asked whether he might accompany him. I fancy that he felt that he would venture anything to escape our adjacency to the battery.
So they departed, leaving us more forlorn than before We sat down on the stretchers: Anna Petrovna, fat, heavy, phlegmatic, silent; Marie Ivanovna silent too but with a look now of expectation in her eyes as though she knew that something was coming for her very shortly; Trenchard near her, trying to be cheerful, but conscious of the dead soldier under the tree from whom he seemed unable to remove his eyes. There was, in the open space near us, a kipiatilnik, that is, a large boiler on wheels in which tea is made. To this the soldiers were crowding with their tin cans; the cuckoo, far away now, continued his cry....
At long intervals, out of the forest, a wounded soldier would appear. He seemed to be always the same figure, sometimes wounded in the head, sometimes in the leg, sometimes in the stomach, sometimes in the hand — but always the same, with a look in his eyes of mild protest because this had happened to him, also a look of dumb confidence that some one somewhere would make things right for him. He came either to us or to the Red Cross building across the road, according to his company. One soldier with a torn thumb cried bitterly, looking at his thumb and shaking his head at it, but he alone showed any emotion. The others suffered the sting of the iodine without a word, walking off when they were bandaged, or carried by our sanitars on the stretchers, still with that look of wonder and trust in their eyes.
And how glad we were when there was any work to
do! The sun rose high in the sky, the morning advanced, Semyonov and Andrey Vassilievitch did not return. For the greater part of the time we did not speak, nor move. I was conscious of an increasing rage against the battery. I felt that if it was to cease I might observe, be interested, feel excitement — as it was, it kept everything from me. It kept everything from me because it insistently demanded my attention, like a vulgar garrulous neighbour who persists in his tiresome story. Its perpetual hammering had soon its physical effect. A sick headache crept upon me, seized me, held me. I might look at the soldiers, sleeping now like dead men in the trench, I might look at the Red Cross flag lazily flapping in the breeze across the road, I might look at the corpse with the soiled marble feet under the tree, I might look at Trenchard and Marie Ivanovna silent and unhappy on the stretchers, on Anna Petrovna comfortably slumbering with an open mouth, I might listen to the distant batteries, to the sudden quick impatient chatter of the machine guns, to the rattling give-and-take of the musketry somewhere far away where the river was, I might watch the cool green hollows of the forest glades, the dark sleepy shadows, the bright patches of burning sky between the branches, I might say to myself that all these things together made the impression of my first battle ... and then would know, in my heart, that there was no impression at all, no thrill, no drama, no personality — only a sick throb in my head and a cold hand upon my chest and a desire to fling myself into any horror, any danger, if I could but escape this indigestible monotony....
Once Trenchard, treading very softly as though every one around him were asleep, came across and talked to me.
“You know,” he said in a whisper, “this isn’t at all what I expected.”
“You needn’t whisper,” I answered irritably, “that battery’s making such a noise that I can’t hear anything you say.”
“Yes, isn’t it!” he said with a little sigh. “It’s very unpleasant indeed. Do you think Semyonov’s forgotten us? We’ve been here a good many hours and we aren’t doing very much.”
“No,” I answered. “We’re doing nothing except get sick headaches.”
There was a pause, then he said:
“Where is everything?”
“Everything? — What?”
“Well, the battle, for instance!”
“Oh, that’s down the hill, I suppose. We’re trying to cross the river and they’re trying to prevent us.”
“Yes,” he answered. “But that isn’t exactly what I mean.... It’s hard to explain, but even if we were to see our soldiers trying to cross the river and the Austrians trying to prevent them that wouldn’t be — well, wouldn’t be exactly the real thing, would it? It would only be a kind of side-show, rather unimportant like that dead man there!”
But my headache prevented my interest in his speculations. I said nothing.
He added as though to himself:
“Perhaps each individual soldier sees the real thing for himself but can’t express what he sees....”
As I still made no answer, with another little sigh he got up and walked back, on tip-toe, to the side of Marie Ivanovna.
Then suddenly, in the early hours of the afternoon, to our intense relief, Semyonov and Andrey Vassilievitch appeared. Semyonov was, as ever, short, practical, and unemotional.
“Been a long time, I’m afraid. We found it difficult to see exactly where would be the best place. And, after all, we’ve got to separate.... One Sister’s wanted at the Red Cross over there. They’ve asked for our help. The other will come with me on to the Position until this evening. You three gentlemen, if you’ll be so good, will wait here until a wagon comes. Then it will take you down to the trenches at the bottom of the hill. Then, if you don’t mind, I would like you to wait until dusk when we shall go out to fetch the wounded.... Is that clear?”
We answered yes.
“Now which Sister will come with me? Marie Ivanovna, I think it would interest you. No danger, except a stray shrapnel or two. Will you come?”
There leapt upon us then, with an agitation that seemed to silence the very battery itself, Trenchard’s voice:
“No.... No ... Marie. No, it’s dangerous. Semyonov says so. Your first day....”
He spoke in English, his voice trembling. I turned to see his face white, his eyes wide open and at the same time blind; he passionately addressed himself to Marie Ivanovna and to her alone.
But she turned impatiently.
“Why, of course, Doctor. I’m ready at once.”
Trenchard put his hand on her arm.
“You are not to go — Marie, do you hear? I have a right ... I tell you, you are not to go!”
“Don’t be so stupid, John,” she shook off his arm. “Please, Doctor, I’m ready.”
Semyonov turned to Trenchard with a smile: “Mr. (they all called him Mr. now), it will be quite well ... I will look after her.”
“You ... you” (Trenchard could not control his voice), “you can’t prevent shrapnel — bullets. You don’t care, you....”
Semyonov’s voice was sharp: “I think it better that Sister Marie Ivanovna should come with me. You understand, the rest of you.... We shall meet at dusk.”
Trenchard only said “Marie ...” then turned away from us. Anna Petrovna, who had said nothing during this scene and had, indeed, seemed to be oblivious of it, plunged with her heavy clumsy walk across the road to the Red Cross house. The Doctor and Marie Ivanovna disappeared behind the trench. I was, as was always my case with Trenchard, both sympathetic and irritated. It was difficult for him, of course, but what did he expect the girl to do? Could he have supposed for a single moment that she would remain? Could it be possible that he knew her so little as that? And why make a scene now before Semyonov when he obviously could do nothing? I knew, moreover, with a certainty that was almost ironic in its clarity, that Marie Ivanovna did not love, did not, perhaps, even care for him. By what moment in Petrograd, a moment flaming with their high purposes and the purple shadows of a Russian “white night,” had she been entranced into some glorious vision of him? On the very day that followed, she had known, I was convinced, her mistake. At the station she had known it, and instead of the fine Sir Galahad “without reproach” of the previous night she saw some figure that, had she been English born, would have appeared to her as Alice’s White Knight perchance, or at best the warm-hearted Uncle Toby, or that most Christian of English heroes — Parson Adams. I could imagine that life had been so impulsive, so straightforward, so simple a thing to her that this sudden implication in an affair complicated and even dishonest caused her bitter disquiet. Looking back now I could trace again and again the sudden flashes, through her happiness, of this distress.
He perhaps should have perceived it, but I could understand that he could not believe that his treasure had at last after all these years been given to him for so brief a moment. He could not, he would not, believe it. Well, I knew that his eyes must very soon be opened to the truth....
As I turned to see him sitting on the stretcher with his back to me, his head hanging a little as though it were too heavy for his neck, his back bent, his long arms fallen loose at his sides, I thought that Alice’s White Knight he, in solemn truth, presented.
He had a talent for doing things to his uniform. His cap, instead of being raised in front, was flat, his jacket bulged out above his belt, and the straps on his boot had broken from their holdings. He filled the pockets of his trousers, in moments of absent-minded absorption, with articles that he fancied that he would need — sometimes food, black bread and sausage, sometimes a large pocket-knife, a folding drinking glass, a ball of string, a notebook. These things protruded, or gave his clothes a strange bulky look, fat in some places, thin in others. As I saw him his shoulder-blades seemed to pierce his coat: I could fancy with what agitation his hands were clenched.
We sat down, the three of us together, and again the battery leapt upon us. Now the sun was hot above the trees and the effect of the noise behind us was that we ourselves, ev
ery two or three minutes, were caught up, flung to the ground, recovered, breathless, exhausted, only to be hurled again!
How miserable we were, how lost, how desolate, Trenchard hearing in every sound the death of his lady, Audrey Vassilievitch dreaming, I fancy, that he had been caught in some cage out of which he would never again escape. I, sick, almost blind with headache, and yet exasperated, irritated by the emptiness of it all. If only we might run down that hill! There surely we should find....
At the very moment when the battery had finished as it seemed to me its work of smashing my head into pulp the wagon arrived.
“Now,” I thought to myself as I climbed on to the straw, “I shall begin to be excited!” We, all three of us, kneeling on the cart, peered forward into the dim blue afternoon. We were very silent — only once Trenchard said to me, “Perhaps we shall find her down here: where we’re going. What do you think, Durward?”
“I’m afraid not!” I answered. “But still she’ll be all right. Semyonov will look after her!”
“Oh! Semyonov!” he answered.
How joyful we were to leave our battery behind us. As the trees closed around it we could fancy its baffled rage. Other batteries now seemed to draw nearer to us and the whole forest was filled with childish quarrelling giants; but as we began to bump down the hill out of the forest stranger sounds attacked us. On either side of us were cornfields and out of the heart of those from under our very feet as it seemed there were explosions of a strange stinging metallic kind — not angry and human as the battery had been, but rather like some huge bottle cracking in the sun. These huge bottles — one could fancy them green and shining somewhere in the corn — cracked one after another; positively the sound intensified the heat of the sun upon one’s head. There were too now, for the first time in our experience, shrapnel. They were not over us, but ran somewhere on our right across the valley. Their sound was “fireworks” and nothing more — so that alarm at their gentle holiday temper was impossible. Brock’s Fireworks on a Thursday evening at the Crystal Palace, oneself a small boy sitting with both hands between one’s knees, one’s mouth open, a damp box of chocolates on one’s lap, the murmured “Ah ...” of the happy crowd as the little gentle “Pop!” showed green and red against the blue night sky. Ah! there was the little “Pop!” and after it a tiny curling cloud of smoke in the air, the whole affair so gentle, so kind even. There! sighing overhead they go! Five, six little curls of smoke, and then beneath our very horses’ feet again a huge green bottle cracking in the sun!