“Isn’t it strange?” I said, “we’re only a verst or two from the Austrians and not a sound to be heard. But the gendarme told me that we must be careful here. A good many bullets flying about, I believe.”
“Ah!” she said laughing. “I don’t feel as though anything could touch me today. I never loved life before as I love it now. Is it right to be so happy at such a time as this and in such a place? … And how strange it is that through all the tragedy one can only truly see one’s own little affairs, and only feel one’s own little troubles and joys. That’s bad … one should be punished for that!”
I loved her at that moment; I felt bitterly, I remember, that I, because I was plain and a cripple, silent and uninteresting, would never win the love of such women. I remembered little Andrey Vassilievitch’s words about his wife: “For me she cared as good women care for the poor.” In that way for me too women would care—when they cared at all. And always, all my life, it would be like that. How unfair that everything should be given to the Semyonovs and the Nikitins of this world, everything denied to such men as Trenchard, Andrey Vassilievitch and I! …
But my little grumble passed as I looked at her.
How honest and straight and true with her impulses, her enthusiasms, her rebellions and ignorances she was! Yes, I loved her and had always loved her. That was why I had cared for Trenchard, why now I was attracted by Semyonov, because, shadow of a man as I was, not man enough to be jealous, I could see with her eyes, stand beside her and share her emotion. … But God! how that day I despised myself!
“You’re tired!” she said, looking at me. “Is your leg hurting you?”
“Not much,” I answered.
“Sit down here beside me.” She made way for me on the sofa. “Ivan Andreievitch, you will always be my friend?”
“Always,” I answered.
“I believe you will. I’m a little afraid of you, but I think that I would rather have you as a friend than anyone—except John. How fortunate I am! Two Englishmen for my friends! You do not change as R-russians do! You will be angry with me when you think that I am wrong, but then I can believe you. I know that you will tell me the truth.”
“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “Alexei Petrovitch will not wish that I should be your friend!”
“Alexei?” she said, laughing. “Oh, thank you very much, I shall choose my own friends. That will always be my affair.”
I had an uneasy suspicion that perhaps she knew as little about Semyonov as she had once known about Trenchard. It might be that all her life she might never learn wisdom. I do not know that I wished her to learn it.
“No,” she continued. “But you forgive me now? Forgive me for all my mistakes, for thinking that I loved John when I did not and treating him so badly. Ah! but how unhappy I was! I wished to be honourable and honest—I wished it passionately—and I seemed only to make mistakes. And then because I was ashamed of myself I was angry with everyone—at least it seemed that it was with everyone, but it was really with myself.”
“I did you injustice,” I said. “And I did Alexei Petrovitch an injustice also. I know now that he truly and deeply loves you. … I believe that you will be very happy … yes, it is better, much better, than that you should have married Trenchard.”
Her face flushed with happiness, that strange flush of colour behind her pale cheeks, coming and going with the beats of her heart.
She continued happily, confidently: “When I was growing up I was always restless. My mother allowed me to do as I pleased and I had no one in authority over me. I was restless because I knew nothing and no one could tell me anything that seemed to me true. I would have, like other girls, sudden enthusiasms for someone who seemed strong and wonderful—and then they were never wonderful—only like everyone else. I would be angry, impatient, miserable. Russian girls begin life so early. … After a time, mother began to treat me as though I was grown up. We went to Petrograd and I thought about clothes and theatres. But I never forgot—I always waited for the man or the work or the friend that was to make life real. Then suddenly the war came and I thought that I had found what I wanted. But there too there were disappointments. John was not John, the war was not the war … and it’s only today now that I feel as though I were r-right inside. I’ve been so stupid—I’ve made so many mistakes.” She dropped her voice: “I’ve always been afraid, Ivan Andreievitch, that is the truth. You remember that morning before S⸺?”
“Yes,” I said. “I remember it.”
“Well, it has been often, often like that. I’ve been afraid of myself and—of something else—of dying. I found that I didn’t want to die, that the thought of death was too horrible to me. That day of the Retreat how afraid I was! John could not protect me, no one could. And I was ashamed of myself! How ashamed, how miserable. And I was afraid because I thought of myself more than of anyone else—always. I had fine ideals but—in practice—it was only that—that I always was selfish. Now, for the first time ever, I care for someone more than myself and suddenly I am afraid of death no longer. It is true, Ivan Andreievitch, I do not believe that death can separate Alexei from me; I have more reason now to wish to live than I have ever had, but now I am not afraid. Wherever I am, Alexei will come—wherever he is, I will go. …”
She broke off—then laughed. “You think
