“My beliefs seem to you the beliefs of a child,” I said, trying to speak more calmly. “Well, then, leave me to them. They at least do you no harm. I love her now as I loved her when I first saw her. I cannot believe that I shall never be with her again. But that is my own affair and matters to no one but myself!”
He answered me: “You have a simple fashion of looking at things which I envy you. I assure you that I am not laughing at you. You believe, if I understand you, that after your death you will meet her again. You are afraid that if I die before you she will belong to me, but that if you die first you will be with her again as you were ‘at the beginning’? … Is not that so?”
I did not answer him.
“I swear to you,” he continued, “that I am not mocking you. What my own thoughts may be does not interest you, but I have not, in my life, found many things or persons that are worth one’s devotion, and she was worthy of being loved as you love her. Such days as these in such a place as this must bring strange thoughts to any man. When we return to Mittövo tomorrow night I assure you that you will see everything differently.”
He felt, I suppose, that he had been speaking too seriously because the ironic humour with which he always treated me returned.
“Here, Mr., at any rate we are. I’m sorry for you—tiresome to be tied to someone as uncongenial as myself—but be a little sorry for me, too. You’re not, you know, the ideal companion I would have chosen.”
“Why did you come?” I asked him. “Durward was here—we were doing very well—”
“Without me”—he caught me up. “Yes, I suppose so. But your fascination is so strong that—” He broke off laughing, then continued almost sharply: “Here we are anyway. Tonight and tomorrow we are going to be lively enough if I know anything about it. I’ll do you the justice, Mr., of saying you’ve worked admirably here. I wouldn’t have believed it of you. Let us both of us drop our romantic fancies. We’ve no time to spare.” Then, turning at the door, he ended: “And you needn’t hate me so badly, you know. She cared for you in a way that she never gave me. Perhaps, after all, in the end, you will win—”
He gave me one last word:
“All the same I don’t give her up to you,” he said.
When I came downstairs again it was to find confusion and noise. In the first place little Andrey Vassilievitch was quarrelling loudly with Nikitin. He was speaking Russian very fast and I did not discover his complaint. There was something comic in the sight of his small body towering to a perfect tempest of rage, his plump hands gesticulating and always his eyes, anxious and self-important, doing their best to look after his dignity. Nikitin explained to me that he had been urging Andrey Vassilievitch to return to Mittövo with the wagons. “There’s no need,” he said, “for us all to stay. It’s only taking unnecessary risks—and somebody should take charge of the wagons.”
“There’s Feodor Constantinovitch,” said Andrey, naming a feldsher and stammering in his rage. “He’s re-responsible enough.” Then, seeing that he was creating something of a scene, he relapsed into a would-be dignified sulkiness, finally said he would not go, and strutted away.
There were many other disturbances, men coming and going, one of the battery officers appearing for a moment dirty and dishevelled, and always the wounded drowsy or in delirium, watching with dull eyes the evening shadows, talking excitedly in their sleep. Semyonov called me to help in the operating room. Within the next two hours he had carried out two amputations with admirable cool composure. During the second one, when the man’s arm tumbled off into the basin and lay there amongst the filthy rags with the dirty white fingers curved, their nails dead and grey, I suddenly felt violently sick.
A sanitar took my place and I went out into the cool of the forest, where a silver pattern of stars swung now above the branches and a full moon, red and cold, was rising beyond the hill. After a time I felt better and, finding that I was not needed for a time, I wrote this diary.
Tuesday, August 17th. It is just six o’clock—a most lovely evening. Strangely enough everything is utterly quiet—not a sound anywhere. You might fancy yourself in the depths of England somewhere. However, considering what has happened today and what they expect will happen now at any moment, the strain on our nerves is pretty severe, and as usual at such times I will fill in my diary. This is probably the last time that I write it here as we move as soon as the wagons return, which should be in about two hours from now.
All our things are packed and I shall slip this book into my bag as soon as I have written this entry; but I have probably two or three hours clear for writing, as everything is ready for departure. Meanwhile I am wonderfully tranquil and at peace, able, too, to think clearly and rationally for the first time since Marie’s death. I want to give an account of the events since my last entry minutely and as truthfully as my memory allows me.
At about half-past eleven last night Semyonov and I went up to our bedroom to sleep, Nikitin being on duty. There was not much noise, the cannon sounding a considerable distance away, but the flashlights and rockets against the night-sky were wonderful, and when we had blown out the candle our dark little room leapt up and down or turned round
