borating her into a high romantic figure. Behind her, behind
all our thoughts of her, there was the presence of Semyonov. Nothing
was stranger during our time here than the way that Semyonov had
always kept us company.

Our consciousness of relief from him had begun it. We had been more
under his influence than any of us had cared to confess and, in his
presence, had checked our natural impulses. I also was strongly aware
of him through Trenchard. Trenchard seemed now to have a horror of him
that could be explained only by the fact that he held him responsible
for Marie Ivanovna's death. "It's a good thing," I thought to myself,
"that Semyonov's not here."

These hours of waiting, when there was nothing to do, was bad for all
our nerves. Upon this afternoon I remember that after a time silence
fell between us. We were all staring in front of us, seeing pictures
of other places and other people. I was aware, as I always was, of the
Forest, seeing it shine with its sinister green haze, seeing the white
bleached town, the huddled villagers waiting for their food, but
seeing yet more vividly the deep silences, the dark hollows, the
silent avenues of silver birch. Against this were the figures of the
people who were dear to me. It is strange how war selects and brings
forward as one's eternal company the one or two souls who have been of
importance in one's life. One knows then, in those long, long
threatening pauses, when the battle seems to gather itself together
before it thunders its next smashing blow, those who are one's true
companions. Certain English figures were now with me outlined against
the Forest--and joined together with them Marie Ivanovna as I had last
seen her, turning round to me by the door and smiling upon me. I did
truthfully feel, as Trenchard had said to me, that she was not dead; I
sat, staring before me, conjuring her to appear. The others also sat
there, staring in front of them. Were they also summoning some figure?
I knew, as though Andrey Vassilievitch had told me, that he was
thinking of his wife. And Nikitin?...

He sat there, lying back on the old sofa that Marie had used, his
black beard, his long limbs, his dark eyes giving him the colour of
some Eastern magician. He did indeed, with his intense, absorbed gaze,
seem to be casting a spell As I looked Andrey Vassilievitch caught his
glance--they exchanged the strangest flash--something that was
intimate and yet foreign, something appealin