I left on the second morning after my arrival and returned to Mittövo alone.
Trenchard’s Diary. Tuesday, August 10. Durward has been here for two days. He’s a good fellow but I seem rather to have lost touch with him during these last days. Then he’s rather bloodless—a little more humour would cheer him up wonderfully. We’ve all been in mad spirits today as though we were drunk. The battery officers have got a gramophone that we turned on. We danced a bit although it’s hot as hell. … Then in the evening my spirits suddenly went; Andrey Vassilievitch gets on one’s nerves. His voice is tiresome and I’m tired of his wife. He tells me that he thinks he sees her at night. “Do I think it likely?” Silly little ass—just the way to rot his nerves. Funny thing tonight. We were playing chemin-de-fer. Suddenly Semyonov said:
“Supposing Molozov says that only one of us is to stay on here.” There was silence after that. We all four looked at one another. All I knew was nothing was going to move me away from this place if I could help it. Then Semyonov said:
“Of course I would have to stay.”
We went for him then. You should have heard Nikitin! I didn’t believe that he had it in him. Semyonov was quiet, of course, smiling that beastly smile of his.
Then at last he said:
“Suppose we play for it?”
We agreed. The one who turned up the Ace of Hearts was to stay. You could have heard a pin drop after that. I have never before felt what I felt then. If I had to return and leave Semyonov here! They say that the attack may develop in this direction at any moment. If Semyonov were to be here and I not. … And yet what was it that I wanted? What I want is to be close to Marie again, to be there where Semyonov cannot reach us. I believe that she might always have cared for me if he had not been there. Whatever death may be, I must know. … If there is nothing more, no matter. If there is something more—then there is something for her as well as for me and I shall find her, and I must find her alone. There’s nothing left in life now to me save that. As I sat there looking at the cards I knew all this, knew quite clearly that I must escape Semyonov. There’s no madness in this. Whilst he is there I’m nothing—but without him, if I were with her again—I was always beaten easily by anybody but in this at least I can be strong. I don’t hate him but I know that he will always be first as long as we’re together. And we seem to be tied now like dogs by their tails, tied by our thoughts of Marie. …
Well, anyway I turned up the Ace. My heart seemed to jump right upside down when I saw it. The others said nothing. Only Semyonov at last:
“Well, Mr., if it comes to it we’ll have to see that it’s necessary for two of us to be here. It will never do for you and me to be parted—”
Meanwhile, the firing’s very close tonight. They say the Austrians have taken Vulatch. Shocking, our lack of ammunition. … God! The heat!
V
The Door Closes Behind Them
Trenchard’s Diary. Saturday, August 14th. …
Captain T⸺ died this afternoon at four-thirty. A considerable shock to me. He was so young, so strong. They all said that he had a remarkable future. He had dined with us several times at Mittövo and his vitality had always attracted me; vitality restrained and drilled towards some definite purpose. He might have been a great man. … His wound in the stomach did not hurt him, I think. He was wonderfully calm at the last. How strange it is that at home death is so horrible with its long ceremonies, its crowd of relations, its gradual decay—and here, in nine out of every ten deaths that I have seen there has been peace or even happiness. This is the merest truth and will be confirmed by anyone who has worked here. Again and again I have seen that strange flash of surprised, almost startled interest, again and again I have been conscious—behind not in the eyes—of the expression of one who is startled by fresh conditions, a fine view, a sudden piece of news. This is no argument for religion, for any creed or dogma, I only say that here it is so, that Death seems to be happiness and the beginning of something new and unexpected. … I believe that even so hardy a cynic as Semyonov would support me in this. I and Semyonov were alone with young Captain T⸺ when he died. Semyonov had liked the man and had done everything possible to save him. But he was absorbed by his death—absorbed as though he would tear the secret of it from the body that looked suddenly so empty, and so meaningless.
“Well, I’m glad he was happy,” he said to me. Then he stood, looking at me curiously. I returned the look. We neither of us said anything. These are all commonplaces, I suppose, that I am discovering. The only importance is that some ten million human beings are, in this war, making these discoveries for themselves, just as I am. Who can tell what that may mean? I have seen here no visions, nor have I met anyone who has
