The Dark Forest by Hugh Walpole — Read

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.