The Dark Forest

The Dark Forest

By Hugh Walpole.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Epigraph
4. Dedication
5. The Dark Forest
   1. Part I
      1. I: Spring in the Train
      2. II: The Schoolhouse
      3. III: The Invisible Battle
      4. IV: Nikitin
      5. V: First Move to the Enemy
      6. VI: The Retreat
      7. VII: One Night
   2. Part II
      1. I: The Lovers
      2. II: Marie Ivanovna
      3. III: The Forest
      4. IV: Four?
      5. V: The Door Closes Behind Them
6. Endnotes
7. Colophon
8. Uncopyright

Imprint

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“But the fools, because they cared more deeply, were chosen⁠ ⁠…”

Spanish Nights, Henry Galleon

To
Konstantine Somoff
this book is dedicated
by his friend the author

The Dark Forest

Part I

I

Spring in the Train

His was the first figure to catch my eye that evening in Petrograd; he stood under the dusky lamp in the vast gloomy Warsaw station, with exactly the expression that I was afterwards to know so well, impressed not only upon his face but also upon the awkwardness of his arms that hung stiffly at his side, upon the baggy looseness of his trousers at the knees, the unfastened straps of his long black military boots. His face, with its mild blue eyes, straggly fair moustache, expressed anxiety and pride, timidity and happiness, apprehension and confidence. He was in that first moment of my sight of him as helpless, as unpractical, and as anxious to please as any lost dog in the world⁠—and he was also as proud as Lucifer. I knew him at once for an Englishman; his Russian uniform only accented the cathedral-town, small public-school atmosphere of his appearance. He was exactly what I had expected. He was not, however, alone, and that surprised me. By his side stood a girl, obviously Russian, wearing her Sister’s uniform with excitement and eager anticipation, her eyes turning restlessly from one part of the platform to another, listening with an impatient smile to the remarks of her companion.

From where I stood I could hear his clumsy, hesitating Russian and her swift, preoccupied replies. I came up to them.

“Mr. Trenchard?” I asked.

He blushed, stammered, held out his hand, missed mine, blushed the more, laughed nervously.

“I’m glad⁠ ⁠… I knew⁠ ⁠… I hope.⁠ ⁠…”

I could feel that the girl’s eyes were upon me with all the excited interest of one who is expecting that every moment of her new wonderful experience will be of a stupendous, even immortal quality.

“I am Sister Marie Ivanovna, and you are, of course, Mr. Durward,” she said. “They are all waiting for you⁠—expecting you⁠—you’re late, you know!” She laughed and moved forward as though she would accompany me to the group by the train. We went to the train together.

“I should tell you,” she said quickly and suddenly with nervousness, “that we are engaged, Mr. Trenchard and I⁠—only last night. We have been working at the same hospital.⁠ ⁠… I don’t know anyone,” she continued in the same intimate, confiding whisper. “I would be frightened terribly if I were not so excited. Ah! there’s Anna Mihailovna.⁠ ⁠… I know her, of course. It was through, her aunt⁠—the one who’s on Princess Soboleff’s train⁠—that I had the chance of going with you. Oh! I’m so happy that I had the chance⁠—if I hadn’t had it.⁠ ⁠…”

We were soon engulfed now. I drew a deep breath and surrendered myself. The tall, energetic figure of Anna Mihailovna, the lady to whose practical business gifts and unlimited capacity for compelling her friends to surrender their last bow and button in her service we owed the existence of our Red Cross unit, was to be seen like a splendid flag waving its followers on to glory and devotion. We were devoted, all of us. Even I, whose second departure to the war this was, had after the feeblest resistance surrendered myself to the drama of the occasion. I should have been no gentleman had I done otherwise.

After the waters had closed above my head for, perhaps, five minutes of strangled, half-protesting, half-willing surrender I was suddenly compelled, by what agency I know not, to struggle to the surface, to look around me, and then quite instantly to forget my immersion. The figure of Trenchard, standing exactly as I had left him, his hands uneasily at his sides, a half-anxious, half-confident smile on his lips, his eyes staring straight in front of him, absolutely compelled my attention. I had forgotten him, we had all forgotten him, his own lady had forgotten him. I withdrew from the struggling, noisy group and stepped back to his side. It was then that, as I now most clearly remember, I was conscious of something else, was aware that there was a strange faint