Part 11 (1/2)
”Well,” I said to Trenchard, ”what's to be done?”
He pulled himself back from his thoughts.
He had been sitting in the cart, quite motionless, his face white and hidden, as though he slept. He raised his tired, heavy eyes to my face.
”Do?” he said.
”Yes,” I answered impatiently. ”Didn't you hear what Nikolai said? There are no soldiers here. We can't find Maximoff because he isn't here. We must go back, I suppose.”
”Very well,” he answered indifferently.
”I'm not going back,” I said, ”until I've had something to drink--tea or coffee. I wonder whether there's anything here--any place we could go to.”
Nikolai inquired. Old Shylock pointed with his bony finger down the street.
”Very fine restaurant there,” he said.
”Will you come and see?” I asked Trenchard.
”Very well,” said Trenchard.
I told Nikolai to stay there and wait for us. I walked down the street, followed by Trenchard. I found on my left, at the top of a little flight of steps, a house that was for the most part untouched by the general havoc around and about it. The lower windows were cracked and the door open and gaping, but there stood, quite bravely with new paint, the word ”Restoration” on the lintel and there were even curtains about the upper windows. Pa.s.sing through the door we found a room decently clean, and behind the little bar a stout red-faced Galician in white s.h.i.+rt and grey trousers, a citizen of the normal world. We were just then his only customers. We asked him for tea and sat down at a little table in the corner of the room. He did not talk to us but stood in his place humming cheerfully to himself and cleaning gla.s.ses. He was a rogue, I thought, looking at his little eyes, but at any rate a merry rogue; he certainly had kept off from him the general death and desolation that had overwhelmed his neighbours. I sat opposite to Trenchard and wondered what to say to him. His expression had never varied. As I looked at him I could not but think of the strength of his eyes, of his mouth, the quiet concentration of his hands ... a different figure from the smiling uncertain man on the Petrograd station--how many years ago?
Our tea was brought to us. Then quite suddenly Trenchard said to me: ”Did she say anything before she died?”
”No,” I answered quietly. ”She died instantly, they told me.”
”How exactly was she killed?”
His eyes watched my face without falter, clearly, gravely, steadfastly.
”She was killed by a bullet. Stepped out from behind her shelter and it happened at once. She can have suffered nothing.”
”And Semyonov let her?”
”He could not have prevented it. It might have happened to any one.”
”I would have prevented it,” he said, nodding his head gravely.
He was silent for a little; then with a sudden jerk he said: ”Where has she gone?”
”Gone?” I repeated stupidly after him.
”Yes--that's not death--to go like that. She must be somewhere still--somewhere in this beastly forest. What--afterwards--when you saw her--what? ... her face?...”
”She looked very peaceful--quite happy.”
”No restlessness in her face? No anxiety?”
”None.”
”But all that life--that energy. It can't have stopped. Quite suddenly. It can't. She can't have wanted not to know all those things that she was so eager about before.” He was suddenly voluble, excited, leaning forward, staring at me. ”You know how she was. You must have seen it numbers of times--how she never looked at any of us really, how we were none of us--no, not even Semyonov--anything to her really; always staring past us, wanting to know the answer to questions that we couldn't solve for her. She wouldn't give it all up simply for nothing, simply for a bullet ...” he broke off.
”Look here, Trenchard,” I said, ”try not to think of her just now more than you can help, just now. We're in for a stiff time, I believe. This will be our last easy afternoon, I fancy, and even now we ought to be back helping Nikitin. You've got to work all you know. One's nerves get wrong easily enough in a place like this--and after what has happened I feel this d.a.m.ned Forest already. But we mustn't let our nerves go. We've simply got to work and think about nothing at all--think about nothing at all.”
I don't believe that he heard me.
”Semyonov?” he said slowly. ”What did he do?”
”He was very quiet,” I answered. ”He didn't say anything. He looked awful.”
”Yes. She snapped her fingers at him anyway. He couldn't keep her for all his bullying.”
”It pretty well killed him,” I said rather fiercely. ”Look here, Trenchard. Don't think of yourself--or of her. Every one's in it now. There isn't any personality about it. We've simply got to do our best and not think about it. It's thinking that beats one if one lets it.”
”Semyonov ... Semyonov,” he repeated to himself, smiling. ”No, he had not power over her.” Then looking at me very calmly, he remarked: ”This Death, you know, Durward.... It simply doesn't exist. It can't stop her. It can't stop any one if they're determined. I'll find her before Semyonov does, too.”
Then, as though he had waked from sleep, he said to me, his voice trembling a little: ”Am I talking queerly, Durward? If I am, don't think anything of it. It's this heat--and this place. Let's get back.” He only spoke once more. He said: ”Do you remember that first drive--ages ago, when we saw the trenches and heard the frogs and I thought there was some one there?”
”Yes,” I said. ”I remember.”
”Well, it's rather like that now, isn't it?”
A pretty girl, twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, obviously the daughter of the red-faced proprietor, came up to us and asked us if we would like any more tea. She would be stout later on, her red cheeks were plump and her black hair arranged coquettishly in little s.h.i.+ning curls. She smiled on us.
”No more tea?” she said.
”No more,” I answered.
”You will not be staying here?”
”Not to-night.”
”We have a nice room here.”
”No, thank you.”
”Perhaps one of you--”
”No. We are returning to-night,”
”Perhaps, for an hour or two.” Then smiling at me and laughing a little, ”I have known many officers ... very many.”
”No, thank you,” I said sternly.
”I have a sister,” she said. She turned, crying: ”Marie, Marie!”