As he spoke the heavy grey clouds of the first dawn were parting and a faint very liquid blue, almost white and very cold, hovered above dim shapeless trees and fields. I flung open the corridor window and a sound of running water and the first notes of some sleepy bird met me.
“And her family?” I said. “Who are they, and will they not mind her marrying an Englishman?”
“She has only a mother,” he answered. “I fancy that Marie has always had her own way.”
Yes,
I thought to myself. I also fancy that that is so.
A sense of almost fatherly protection had developed in myself towards him. How could he, who knew nothing at all of women, hope to manage that self-willed, eager, independent girl? Why, why, why had she engaged herself to him? I fancied that very possibly there were qualities in him—his very childishness and helplessness—which, if they only irritated an Englishman, would attract a Russian. Lame dogs find a warm home in Russia. But did she know anything about him? Would she not, in a week, be irritated by his incapacity? And he—he—bless his innocence!—was so confident as though he had been married to her for years!
“Look here!” I said, moved by a sudden impulse. “Will you mind if, sometimes, I tell you things? I’ve been to the war before. It’s a strange life, unlike anything you’ve ever known—and Russians too are strange—especially at first. You won’t take it badly, if—”
He touched my arm with his hand while his whole face was lighted with his smile. “Why, my dear fellow, I shall be proud. No one has ever thought me worth the bother. I want to be—to be—at my best here. Practical, you know—like others. I don’t want her to think me—”
“No, exactly,” I said hurriedly, “I understand.” Gold was creeping into the sky. A lark rose, triumphant. A pool amongst the reeds blazed like a brazen shield. The Spring day had flung back her doors. I saw that suddenly fatigue had leapt upon my friend. He tottered on his little seat, then his face, grey in the light, fell forward. I caught him in my arms, half carried, half led him into our little carriage, arranged him in the empty corner, and left him, fast, utterly fast, asleep.
II
The Schoolhouse
The greater part of the next day was spent by us in the little town of S⸺, a comfortable place very slightly disturbed by the fact that it had been already the scene of four battles; there was just this effect, as it seemed to me, that the affairs of the day were carried on with a kind of somnolent indifference. … “You may order your veal,” the waiter seemed to say, “but whether you will get it or no is entirely in the hands of God. It is, therefore, of no avail that I should hurry or that you should show temper should the veal not appear. At any moment your desire for veal and my ability to bring it you may have ceased forever.”
For the rest the town billowed with trees of the youngest green; also birds of the tenderest age, if one may judge by their happiness at the spring weather. There were many old men in white smocks and white trousers and women in brightly-coloured kerchiefs. But, except for the young birds, it was a silent place.
I had much business to carry through and saw the rest of our company only at luncheon time; it was after luncheon that I had a little conversation with Marie Ivanovna. She chose me quite deliberately from the others, moved our chairs to the quieter end of the little balcony where we were, planted her elbows on the table and stared into my face with her large round credulous eyes. (I find on looking back, that I have already used exactly those adjectives. That may stand: I mean that, emphatically, and beyond every other impression she made, her gaze declared that she was ready to believe anything that she were told, and the more in the telling the better.)
She spoke, as always, with that sense of restrained, sharply disciplined excitement, as though her eager vitality were some splendid if ferocious animal struggling at its chain.
“You talked to John—Mr. Trenchard—last night,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, smiling into her eyes.
“I know—all night—he told me. He’s splendid, isn’t he? Splendid!”
“I like him very much,” I answered.
“Ah! you must! you must! You must all like him! You don’t know—his thoughts, his ideals—they are wonderful. He’s like some knight of the Middle Ages. … Ah, but you’ll think that silly, Mr. Durward. You’re a practical Englishman. I hate practical Englishmen.”
“Thank you,” I said, laughing.
“No, but I do. You sneer at everything beautiful. Here in Russia we’re more simple. And John’s very like a Russian in many ways. Don’t you think he is?”
“I haven’t known him long enough—” I began.
“Ah, you don’t like him! I see you don’t. … No, it’s no use your saying anything. He isn’t English enough for you, that’s what it is. You think him unpractical, unworldly. Well, so he is. Do you think I’d ever be engaged to an ordinary Englishman? I’d die of ennui in a week. Oh! yes, I would. But you like John, really, don’t you?”
“I tell you that I do,” I answered, “but really, after only two days—”
“Ah! that’s so English! So cautious! How I hate your caution! Why can’t you say at once that you haven’t made up your mind about him—because that’s the truth, isn’t it? I wish he would not sit
