He failed altogether to understand her youth, her inexperience, above all her coloured romantic fancy. Her romantic fancy had made him in her eyes for a brief hour something that he was not. After a month at the war I believe that she had grown into a woman. She had loved him for an instant as a young girl loves a hero of a novel. And although she was now a woman she must still keep her romantic fancy. He was no longer part of that—only a clumsy man at whom people laughed. She must, I think, have suffered at her own awakening, for she was honest, impetuous, pure, if ever woman was those things.
He did not see her as she was—he still clung to his confidence; but he began as the days advanced to be terribly afraid. His fears centred themselves round Semyonov. Semyonov must have seemed to him an awful figure, powerful, contemptuous, all-conquering. Any blunders that he committed were doubled by Semyonov’s presence. He could do nothing right if Semyonov were there. He was only too ready to believe that Semyonov knew the world and he did not, and if Semyonov thought him a fool—it was quite obvious what Semyonov thought him—then a fool he must be. He clung desperately to the hope that there would be a battle—a romantic dramatic battle—and that in it he would most gloriously distinguish himself. He believed that, for her sake, he would face all the terrors of hell. The battle came and there were no terrors of hell—only sick headache, noise, men desperately wounded, and, once again, his own clumsiness. Then, in that final picture of Marie Ivanovna and Semyonov he saw his own most miserable exclusion.
In the days that followed there was much work and he was forgotten. He assisted in the bandaging-room; in later days he was to prove most efficient and capable, but at first he was shy and nervous and Semyonov, who seemed always to be present, did not spare him.
Then, quite suddenly, Marie Ivanovna changed. She was kinder to him than she had ever been, yes, kinder than during those early days in Petrograd. We all noticed the change in her. When she was with him in the bandaging-room she whispered advice to him, helped him when she had a free moment, laughed with him, put him, of course, into a heaven of delight. How happy at once he was! His clumsiness instantly fell away from him, he only smiled when Semyonov sneered, his Russian improved in a remarkable manner. She was tender to him as though she were much older than he. He has told me that, in spite of his joy, that tenderness alarmed him. Also when he kissed her she drew back a little—and she did not reply when he spoke of their marriage.
But for four days he was happy! He used to sing to himself as he walked about the house in a high cracked voice—one song “I Did but See Her Passing By”—another “Early One Morning”—I can hear him now, his voice breaking always on the high notes.
“Early one morning
Just as the sun was rising
I heard a maid singing
In the valley below:
‘Ah! don’t deceive me! Pray never leave me,
How could you treat a poor maiden so!’ ”
His pockets were more full than ever of knives and string and buttons. His smile when he was happy lightened his face, changing the lines of it, making it if not handsome pleasant and friendly. He would talk to himself in English, ruffling his hands through his hair: “And then, at three o’clock I must go with Andrey Vassilievitch …” or “I wonder whether she’ll mind if I ask—” He had a large briar pipe at which he puffed furiously, but could not smoke without an endless procession of matches that afterwards littered the floor around him. “The tobacco’s damp,” he explained to us a hundred times. “It’s better damp. …”
Then, quite suddenly, the blow fell.
One evening, as they were standing alone together in the yard watching the yellow sky die into dusk, without any preparation, she spoke to him.
“John,” she said, “I can’t marry you.”
He heard her as though she had spoken to another man. It was as though he said: “Ah, that will be bad news for so-and-so.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, and instantly afterwards his heart began to beat like a raging beast and his knees trembled.
“I can’t marry you,” she told him, “because I don’t love you. Ah, I’ve known it a long time—ever since we left Petrograd. I’ve often, often wanted to tell you … I’ve been afraid.”
“You can’t marry me?” he repeated, “But you must. …” Then hurriedly: “No, I shouldn’t say that. You must forgive me … you have confused me.”
“I’m very unhappy … I’ve been unhappy a long time. It was a mistake in Petrograd. I don’t love you—but it isn’t only that. … You wouldn’t be happy with me. You think now … but it’s a mistake.”
He has told me that as the idea worked through to his brain his only thought was that he must keep her at all costs, under any conditions, keep her.
“You can’t—you mustn’t,” he whispered, staring as though he would hold her by her eyes. “Don’t you see that you mustn’t? What am I to do after all this? What are we both to do? It’s breaking everything. I shan’t believe in anything if you. … Ah! but no, you don’t really mean anything. …”
He saw that she was trembling and he bent forward, put his arm very gently round her as though he would protect her.
But she very strongly drew away from him, looked him in the face, then dropped her eyes, let her
