by Hugh Walpole
She broke off — then laughed. “You think it silly in England to talk about such things. No English girl would, would she? In Russia we are silly if we like. But oh! how happy it is, after all these weeks, not to be afraid — not to wake up early and lie there and think — think and shudder. They used to say I was brave about the wounded, brave at S —— , brave at operations ... if they only knew! You only, Ivan Andreievitch, have seen me afraid, you only!...” She looked at me, her eyes searching my face: “Isn’t it strange that you who do not love me know 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 to women — I never cared for women. You and John for my friends — yes, I am indeed happy!”
She got up from the old sofa, walked a little about the room, looked at the remains of the meal, at the book, then turned round to me:
“Don’t ever tell any one, Ivan Andreievitch, that I have been afraid.... I’m never to be afraid again. And I’m not going to die. I know now that life is wonderful — at last all that when I was young I expected it to be.... Do you know, Ivan Andreievitch, I feel to-day as though I would live for ever!...”
Semyonov came in. He was in splendid spirits; I had never seen him so gay, so carelessly happy.
“Well,” he cried to me, “we’re to go now — at once ... and the next time at eight. We’ll leave you this time. We’ll be back by half-past six. We’ll do the Third and Fourth Roti now. The Eighth and Ninth afterwards. Can you wait for tea until we return? Good.... Half-past six, then!”
They departed. As she went out of the door she turned and gave me a little happy smile as though to bind me to an intimate enduring confidence. I smiled back at her and she was gone.
After they had left me I felt very lonely. The house was still and desolate, and I took a book that I had brought with me — the “Le Deuil des Primeveres” of François Jammes. I had learnt the habit during my first visit to the war of always taking a book in my pocket when engaged upon any business; there were so many long weary hours of waiting when the nerves were stretched, and a book — quiet and real and something apart from all wars and all rumours of wars — was a most serious necessity. What “Tristram Shandy” was to me once under fire near Nijnieff, and “Red-gauntlet” on an awful morning when our whole Otriad meditated on the possibility of imprisonment before the evening — with nothing to be done but sit and wait! I went into the garden with M. Jammes.
As I walked along the little paths through a tangle of wood and green that 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 bird or the sudden “ting” of a telegraph-wire. The Austrians were amusing themselves; sometimes a bullet would clip a tree in its passing or one would see a leaf, quite suddenly detached, hover for a moment idly in the air and then circle slowly to the ground. Except for this sound the garden was fast held in the warm peace of a summer afternoon. I found a most happy little neglected orchard with old gnarled apple-trees and thick waving grass. Here I lay on my back, watching the gold through the leaves, soaked in the apathy and somnolence of the day, sinking idly into sleep, rising, sinking again, as though rocked in a hammock. I was in England once more — at intervals there came a sharp click that exactly resembled the sound that one hears in an English village on a summer afternoon when they are playing cricket in the field near by — oneself at one’s ease in the garden, half sleeping, half building castles in the air, the crack of the ball on the bat, the cooing of some pigeons on the roof.... Once again that sharp pleasant sound, again the flight of the bird above one’s head, again the rustle of some leaves behind one’s head ... soon there will be tea, strawberries and cream, a demand that one shall play tennis, that saunter through the cool dark house, up old stairs, along narrow passages to one’s room where one will slowly, happily change into flannels — hearing still through the open window the crack of the bat upon the ball from the distant field....
But as I lay there I was unhappy, rebellious. The confidence and splendour of Marie Ivanovna and Semyonov had driven me into exile. I hated myself that afternoon. That pursuit — the excitement of the penetration into the dark forest — the thrill of the chase — those things were for the strong men, the brave women — not for the halt and maimed ... not love nor glory, neither hate nor fierce rebellion were for such men as I.... I cursed my fate, my life, because I loved, not for the first time, a woman who was glad that I did not love her and was so sure that I did not and could not, that she could proclaim her satisfaction openly to me!
I had an hour of bitterness — then, as I had so often done before, I laughed, drove the little devil into his cage, locked it, dropped the thick curtain in front of it.
I claimed the company of M. François Jammes.
He has a delightful poem about donkeys and as I read it I regained my tranquillity. It begins:
Lorsqu’il faudra aller vers Vous, ô mon Dieu, faites
Que ce soit par un jour ou la campagne en fete
Poudroiera. Je désire, ainsi que je fis ici-bas,
Choisir un chemin pour aller, comme il me plaira,
Au Paradis, où sont en plein jour les étoiles.
Je prendrai mon bâton et sur la grande route
J’irai et je dirai aux ânes, 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 bêtes chéries 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 mâts des vaisseaux qui s’embrouillent
Dans le ciel sont penchés comme des branches sèches
Au milieu de verdure, de raye, de rouille,
De harengs saurs, de peaux de moutons et de bouille.
Robinson Crusoë passa par Amsterdam
(Je crois du moins qu’il y passa) en revenant
De l’île ombreuse et verte aux noix de coco fraîches.
Quelle émotion il dut avoir quand il vit luire
Les portes énormes, aux lourds marteaux, de cette ville!...
Regardait-il curieusement les entresols
Ou les commis écrivent les livres de comptes?
Eut-il envie de pleurer en resongeant
A son cher perroquet, à son lourd parasol,
Qui l’abritait dans l’île attristée et clémente?...
I was asleep; my eyes closed; the book fell from my hand. Some one near me seemed to repeat in the air the words:
Robinson Crusoë passa par Amsterdam
(Je crois, du moins, qu’il y passa) en revenant
De l’île ombreuse....
“De l’île ombreuse” ... “Robinson Crusoë passa” ...
I was rocked in the hot golden air. I slept heavily, deeply, without dreams....
I was awakened by a cold fierce apprehension of terror. I sat up, stared slowly around me with the sure, certain conviction that some dreadful 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 bat breaking the evening air. My heart had simply ceased to beat. I remember that with a hand that trembled I picked up the book that was lying open on the grass and read, without understanding them, the words. I remember that I said, out aloud: “Something’s happened,” then turning saw Semyonov’s face.
I realised nothing save his face with its pale square beard and red lips, framed there by the shining green and blue. He stood there, without moving, staring at me, and the memory of his eyes even now as I write of it hurts me physically so that my own eyes close.
That was perhaps the worst moment of my life, th
at confrontation of Semyonov. He stood there as though carved in stone (his figure had always the stiff clear outline of stone or wood). I realised nothing of his body — I simply saw his eyes, that were staring straight in front of him, that were blazing with pain, and yet were blind. He looked 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 that was 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 question at all that Marie Ivanovna was dead.
When I had risen we stood for a moment facing one another, then without a word he turned towards the house. I followed him, leaving my book upon the grass. He walking slowly in front of me with his usual assured step, except that once he walked into a bush that was to his right; he afterwards came away from it, as a man walking in his sleep might do, without lowering his eyes to look at it. We entered by a side-door. I, myself, had no thoughts at all at this time. I felt only the cold, heavy oppression at my heart, and I had, I remember, no curiosity as to what had occurred. We passed through passages that were strangely dark, in a silence that was weighted and mysterious. We entered the room where we had been earlier in the afternoon; it seemed now to be full of people, I saw now quite clearly, although just before the whole world had seemed to be dark. I saw our two soldiers standing back by the door; a doctor, whose face I did not know, a very corpulent man, was on his knees on the floor — some sanitars were in a group by the window. In the middle of the room lay Marie Ivanovna on a stretcher. 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 the shake of the doctor’s head, a sanitar stepped forward and covered her with a cloth. But I shall see her face as it was until I die. Her eyes were 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 I am brief in my account.
The room was just as it had been earlier in the afternoon; I saw the sardine-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 crossed over to our soldiers and asked them how it had been. One of them told me that they had gone with the boiler to the trenches. Everything had been very quiet. They had taken their stand behind a small ruined house. Semyonov had just returned from telling the officers of the Rota that the tea was ready when, quite suddenly, the Austrians had begun to fire. Bullets had passed thickly overhead. Marie Ivanovna had seemed quite fearless, and laughing, had stepped, for a moment, from behind the shelter to see whether the soldiers were coming for their tea. She was struck instantly; she gave a sharp little cry and fell. They rushed to her side, but death had been instantaneous. She had been struck in the heart.... There was nothing to be done.... The soldiers seemed to feel it very deeply, and one of them, a little round fellow with a merry face whom I knew well, turned away from me and began to cry, with his hand to his eyes.
Semyonov was standing in the room with exactly that same dead burning expression 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, by a common instinct, without any spoken word between us, we all went from the room, leaving Semyonov alone there.
I remember very little of our return to Mittövo. We borrowed a cart upon which we laid the body. I sat in the trap with Semyonov. I was, I remember, afraid lest he should suddenly go off his head. It seemed quite a possible thing then, he was so quiet, so motionless, scarcely breathing. I concentrated all my thought upon this. I had my hand upon his arm and I remember that it relieved me in some way to feel it so thick and strong beneath his sleeve. He did not look at me once.
I do not know what my thoughts were, a confused incoherent medley of nonsense. I did not think of Marie Ivanovna at all. I repeated again and again to myself, in the silly, insane way that one does under the shock of some trouble, the words of the poem that I had read that afternoon:
Robinson Crusoë passa par Amsterdam
(Je crois du moins qu’il y passa) en revenant
De l’île ombreuse et verte — ombreuse et verte — ombreuse et verte....
It was dark, or at any rate, it seemed to me dark. The weather was still and close; every sound echoed abominably through the silence. When we arrived at Mittövo I suddenly thought of Trenchard. I had utterly forgotten him until that moment. I got out of the trap and when Semyonov climbed out he put his hand on my arm. I don’t know why but that touched me so deeply and sharply that I felt, suddenly, as though in another instant I should lose my self-control. It was so unlike him, so utterly unlike him, to do that. I trembled a little, then steadied myself, and we walked together into the house. They must all instantly have known what had occurred because I heard running steps and sharp anxious voices.
I felt desperately, as a man runs when he is afraid, that I must be alone. I slipped away into the passage that leads from the hall. This passage was quite dark and I was feeling my direction with my hands when some one, carrying a candle, turned the corner. It was Trenchard. 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 his hand, falling with a sharp clatter. There was a horrible pause, both of us standing there close to one another in the sudden blackness. I could hear his fast nervous breathing. I was myself unstrung I suppose, because I remember that I was dreadfully afraid lest Trenchard should do something to me, there, as we stood.
I felt his hand groping on my clothes. But he was only feeling his way. I heard his steps, creeping, stumbling down the passage. Once I thought that he had fallen.
Then there was silence, and at last I was alone.
CHAPTER III
THE FOREST
And now I am confronted with a very serious difficulty. There is nothing stranger in this whole business of the life and character of war than the fashion in which an atmosphere that has been of the intensest character can, by the mere advance or retreat of a pace or two, disappear, close in upon itself, present the blindest front to the soul that has, a moment before, penetrated it. It is as though one had visited a house for the first time. The interior is of the most absorbing and unique interest. There are revealed in it beauties, terrors, of so sharp a reality that one believes that one’s life is changed for ever by the sight of them. One passes the door, closes it behind one, steps into the outer world, looks back, and there is only before one’s view a thick cold wall — the windows are dead, there is no sound, only bland, dull, expressionless space. Moreover this dull wall, almost instantly, persuades one of the incredibility of what one has seen. There were no beauties, there were no terrors.... Ordinary life closes round one, trivial things reassume their old importance, one disbelieves in fantastic dreams.
I believe that every one who has had experience of war will admit the truth of this. I had myself already known something of the kind and had wondered at the fashion in which the crossing of a mere verst or two can bring the old life about one. I had known it during the battle of S —— , in the days that followed the battle, in moments of the Retreat, when for half an hour we would suddenly be laughing and careless as though we were in Petrograd.
And so when I look back to the weeks of whose history I wish now to give a truthful account, I am afraid of myself. I wish to give nothing more than the facts, and yet that something that is more than the facts is of the first, and indeed the only, importance. Moreover the last impression that I wish to convey is that war is a hysterical business. I believe that that succession of days in the forest of S —— , the experience of Nikitin, Semyonov, Andrey Vassilievitch, Trenchard and myself — might have occurred to any one, must have
occurred to many other persons, but from the cool safe foundation on which now I stand it cannot but seem exceptional, even exaggerated. Exaggerated, in very truth, I know that it is not. And yet this life — so ordered, so disciplined, so rational, and THAT life — where do they join?... I penetrated but a little way; my friends penetrated into the very heart ... and, because I was left outside, I remain the only possible recorder: but a recorder who can offer only signs, moments, glimpses through a closing door....
I am waiting now for the return of my opportunity.
On the night of the death of Marie Ivanovna I slept a heavy, dreamless sleep. I was wakened between six and seven the next morning by Nikitin, who told me that he, Trenchard, Andrey Vassilievitch and I were to return at once to the forest. I realised at once that indescribable quiver in the air of momentous events. The house was quite still, the summer morning very fresh and clear, but the air was weighted with some crisis. It was not only the death of Marie Ivanovna that was present with us, it was rather something that told us that now no individual life or death counted ... individualities, personalities, were swallowed up in the sweeping urgency of a great climax. Nikitin simply told me that a furious battle was raging some ten versts on the other side of the river, that we were to go at once to form a temporary hospital behind the lines in the Forest; that the nurses and the rest of the Otriad would remain in Mittövo to wait for the main tide of the wounded, but that we were to go forward to help the army doctors. He spoke very quietly. We said nothing of Marie Ivanovna.
I dressed quickly and on going out found the wagons waiting, some fifteen or twenty sanitars and Trenchard and Andrey Vassilievitch. The four of us climbed into one of the wagons and set off. I did not see Semyonov. Trenchard was pale, there were heavy black lines under his eyes — but he seemed calm, and he stared in front of him as though he were absorbed by some concentrated self-control. For the first time in my experience of him he seemed to me a strong independent character.