“Well,” said Molozov, “and what of your Englishman?”
“Oh, I like him,” I said rather hurriedly. “He’ll do.”
“I’m glad you think so—very glad. I was not sure last night. … He doesn’t speak Russian very well, does he? He was tired last night. I’m very glad that he should come, of course, but it’s unpleasant … this engagement … the Sister told me. It’s a little difficult for all of us.”
“They were engaged the evening before they left.”
“I know … nothing to do about it, but it would have been better otherwise. And Andrey Vassilievitch! Whatever put it into Anna Mihailovna’s head to send him! He’s a tiresome little man—I’ve known him earlier in Petrograd! He’s on my nerves already with his chatter. No, it’s too bad. What can he do with us?”
“He has a very good business head,” I said. “And he’s not really a bad little man. And he’s very anxious to do everything.”
“Ah, I know those people who are ‘anxious to do everything.’ … Don’t I know? Don’t you remember Sister Anna Maria? anxious to do everything, anything—and then, when it came to it, not even the simplest bandage. … Nikitin’s a good man,” he added, “one of the best doctors in Petrograd. We’ve no doctors of our own now, you know—except of course Alexei Petrovitch. The others are all from the Division—”
“Ah, Semyonov!” I said. “How is he?”
At that moment he rode up to us. Seen on horseback Alexei Petrovitch Semyonov appeared a large man; he was, in reality, of middle height but his back was broad, his whole figure thickly-set and muscular. He wore a thick square-cut beard of so fair a shade that it was almost white! His whole colour was pale and yet, in some way, expressive of immense health and vitality. His lips showed through his beard and moustache red and very thick. His every movement showed great self-possession and confidence. He had, indeed, far more personality than any other member of our Otriad.
Although he was an extremely capable doctor his main business in life seemed to be self-indulgence. He apparently did not know the meaning of the word “restraint.” The serious questions in life to him were food, drink, women.
He believed in no woman’s virtue and no man’s sincerity. He hailed anyone as a friend but if he considered someone a fool he said so immediately. He concealed his opinions from no one.
When he was at work his indulgence seemed for the moment to leave him. He was a surgeon of the first order and loved his profession. He was a man now of fifty, but had never married, preferring a long succession of mistresses—women who had loved him, at whom he had always laughed, to whom he had been kind in a careless fashion. … He always declared that no woman had ever touched his heart.
He had come to the war voluntarily, forsaking a very lucrative practice. This was always a puzzle to me. He had no romantic notions about the war, no altruistic compulsions, no high conceptions of his duty … no one had worked more magnificently in the war than he. He could not be said to be popular amongst us; we were all of us perhaps a little afraid of him. He cared, so obviously, for none of us. But we admired his vitality, his courage, his independence. I myself was assured that he allowed us to see him only with the most casual superficiality.
As he rode up to me I wondered how he and Nikitin would fare. These were two personalities worthy of attention. Also, what would he think of Trenchard? His opinion of anyone had great weight amongst us.
I had not seen him last night and he leant over his horse now and shook hands with me with a warm friendliness that surprised me. He laughed, joked, was evidently in excellent spirits. He rode on a little, then came back to us.
“I like your new Sister,” he said. “She’s charming.”
“She’s engaged,” I answered, “to the new Englishman.”
“Ah! the new Englishman!” He laughed. “Apologies, Ivan Andreievitch (myself), to your country … but really … what’s he going to do with us?”
“He’ll work,” I said, surprised at the heat that I felt in Trenchard’s defence. “He’s a splendid fellow.”
“I have no doubt”—again Semyonov laughed. “We all know your enthusiasms, Ivan Andreievitch, … but an Englishman! Ye Bogu! …”
“Engaged to that girl!” I heard him repeat to himself as again he rode forward. Trenchard, little Andrey Vassilievitch, Semyonov, Nikitin … yes, there was promise of much development here.
We had dropped down into the valley and, at a sudden turn, saw the schoolhouse in front of us. It is before me now as I write with its long low whitewashed two-storied front, its dormer-windows, its roof faintly pink with a dark red bell-tower perched on the top. Behind it is a long green field stretching to where hills, faintly blue in the morning light, rose, with very gradual slopes against the sky. To the right I could see there was a garden hidden now by trees, on the left a fine old barn, its thatched roof deep brown, the props supporting it black with age. In front of the pillared porch there was a little square of white cobblestones and in the middle of these an old grey sundial. The whole place was bathed in the absolute peace of the spring morning.
As we drove up a little old lady with two tiny children clinging to her skirts came to the porch. I could see, as we came up to her, that she was trembling with terror; she put up her hand to her white hair, clutched again desperately the two children, found at last her voice and hoped that we would be “indulgent.”
Molozov assured her that she would suffer in no kind of way, that we must use her school for a week or so and that any loss or damage that she incurred would of course be made up to her.
