The Tartar Steppe

by Dino Buzzati

  Drogo accompanied him to the edge of the plateau where they said goodbye. It was the morning of a long fine summer’s day; the clouds passing through the sky made a strange pattern on the landscape. Ortiz dismounted and stood with Drogo a little apart from the others; neither spoke for they did not know how they should say farewell. Then forced and banal words came to their lips, so different from what was in their hearts and so much poorer.

  ‘Life will be different for me now,’ said Drogo. ‘I almost wish I was leaving. I almost feel like resigning my commission.’

  ‘You are still young,’ said Ortiz. ‘It would be a silly thing to do – you still have time.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Time for the war. You’ll see – it won’t be more than two years.’ So he said, but in his heart he hoped it might not be so; in actual fact he hoped that like himself Drogo would leave without having had that great good fortune. It would have seemed an injustice. And yet he counted Drogo his friend and wished him well.

  But Giovanni did not say anything.

  ‘You’ll see it won’t be more than two years, that’s a fact,’ Ortiz insisted, in the hope of being contradicted.

  ‘Two years!’ said Drogo at last. ‘Centuries will pass and it will still not come. The road has been abandoned and no one will ever come from the north.’ But although this was what he said, the voice in his heart spoke differently; for there still lived on within him that deep-rooted presentiment of great events, an obscure conviction that the prime of life was still to come, a relic of his youth, absurd and undaunted by the years.

  They fell silent again, for they saw that the subject was raising a barrier between them. But what could they say, they who had lived together almost thirty years between the same walls and with the same dreams? After all that way together their two roads were now going apart – one in one direction, one in another – leading on to unknown territories.

  ‘What wonderful sunshine,’ said Ortiz, and looked at the walls of his Fort, of the Fort he was leaving for ever; his eyes were a little dimmed with age. They seemed to be unchanged, the walls of the same yellowish colour, with the same romantic aspect. Ortiz looked at them intensely and only Drogo could have guessed how much he suffered.

  ‘Yes, it is hot,’ replied Giovanni, and remembered Maria Vescovi, that far off conversation in the drawingroom and the melancholy falling chords of the piano.

  ‘A hot day, that’s a fact,’ added Ortiz, and the two smiled to each other, an instinctive sign of understanding as if to say that they knew perfectly the meaning of these stupid words. Now a cloud had touched them with its shadow and for a minute or two the whole plateau was darkened; the Fort, in contrast, still lay in the sun and gleamed with sinister splendour. Two great birds wheeled over the first redoubt. Far off, almost imperceptible, there was the sound of a trumpet.

  ‘Did you hear? the trumpet,’ said the old officer.

  ‘No, I didn’t hear,’ Drogo lied in reply with a vague feeling that he was thereby pleasing his friend.

  ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken. In fact we are too far off,’ Ortiz admitted, his voice trembling, then he added with difficulty: ‘Do you remember the first time, when you arrived here and you were afraid? You didn’t want to stay, you remember?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ was all Drogo could say, for a strange knot had tightened round his throat.

  Then Ortiz, who had been following his own thoughts, said something else: ‘Who knows?’ he said, ‘perhaps I might be some use if there was a war. Maybe I wouldn’t. Perhaps in a war – but otherwise no use at all; that we have all seen.’

  The cloud had passed over, had passed over the Fort and now was sliding across the desolation of the Tartar steppe, moving silently north. Twenty yards off the horses of Ortiz and his escort beat their hooves on the stones to show their impatience.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Another page turns, the months and the years go by. Drogo’s schoolmates are almost tired of work, they have grey squarecut beards, they walk composedly through the city and people salute them respectfully. Their sons are grown men; some of them are grandfathers. Drogo’s friends like to linger at the door of the houses they have built themselves and, content with the career they have made, to watch the river of life; they amuse themselves by picking out their sons among the whirling multitude and encouraging them to hurry, to outstrip the others, and arrive first at the goal. But Giovanni Drogo still waits, although hope grows feebler from moment to moment.

  Now he has changed at last. He is fifty-four, has the rank of major and is second in command of the scanty garrison of the Fort. Up to a little time ago he had not changed much, he might still be called young. Every now and again he rode about a little for his health’s sake on the plateau; but it was an effort.

  Then he began to grow thinner, his face became a sad yellow colour, the muscles slackened. Liver trouble, said Doctor Rovina, who is now exceedingly old and determined to end his life up there. But Rovina’s powders had no effect. In the morning Giovanni awoke with a disheartening feeling of fatigue; then he sat in his office and could scarcely wait for the evening to arrive so that he might throw himself into an easy chair or on to his bed. Liver trouble aggravated by general exhaustion, said the medical officer, but exhaustion was very odd with the life Giovanni led. However, it was something that would pass off, and common at that age – said Rovina – a little tedious perhaps but with no danger of complications.

  Thus a further reason for waiting became engrafted on to Drogo’s life – his hope of recovery. Otherwise he showed no sign of impatience. The northern steppe was still empty; nothing pointed to a possible enemy advance.

  ‘You are looking better,’ his colleagues told him almost every day, but in reality Drogo did not feel the slightest improvement. Admittedly the earlier headaches and painful attacks of diarrhoea had disappeared. No specific ailment tortured him. But in general his energies were flagging.

  Simeoni, the commandant of the Fort, said to him: ‘Take some leave. Have a rest. It would do you good to go to somewhere by the sea.’ And since Drogo said no, he felt better already, he preferred to stay on, Simeoni would shake his head reprovingly as if Giovanni were ungratefully refusing valuable advice, advice which not only was in the spirit of the regulations but to his own personal advantage and in the interests of the efficient running of the garrison. For Simeoni made his own virtuous perfection such a burden to the others that he had contrived to make them lament Matti’s going.

  Whatever the topic, what he said, and it was superficially extremely cordial, had always a vague flavour of reproof, as if he were the only one to do his duty to the last, the only support of the Fort, the only one who thought of dealing with the innumerable troubles which would otherwise have brought everything to wrack and ruin. Matti too, in his day, had been a little like this, but less hypocritical; Matti had made no secret of the barrenness of his own heart and some of his pitiless coarseness had been not unpleasing to the men.

  Fortunately Drogo had struck up a friendship with Doctor Rovina and had gained his complicity in his effort to stay on. A vague superstitious feeling told him that if he now left the Fort because of illness he would never return. The thought pained him. Admittedly thirty years ago he had wanted to leave, to take his place in the smooth and brilliant life of the garrison towns with summer manœuvres, musketry practice, horse racing, theatres, social events, beautiful women. But now what would be left for him? There were only a few years to go until he was retired on pension, his career was finished, at the most they might give him a job on some headquarters so that he could serve out his time. He had only a few years left – his last reserve – and perhaps before they came to an end the long hoped-for event might come. He had thrown away the good years, now he at least wanted to wait on until the last.

  To hasten his recovery Rovina advised Drogo to spend all day in bed and to have anything he had to attend to brought to his room. This happened one cold and rainy March wh
ich brought with it great and unusual avalanches among the mountains; whole peaks crumbled for reasons unknown and shattered themselves in the abysses; for hour upon hour sad voices resounded through the night.

  At last with extreme slowness the good weather began to appear. The snow had melted in the pass but wet mists lingered over the Fort. It needed a strong sun to dispel them, for the air of the valleys was heavy from the winter. But, waking one morning, Drogo saw a fine strip of sunlight glowing on the floor and felt that spring had come.

  He gave himself up to the hope that with the fine days there would be a corresponding quickening in himself. Even in the ancient beams there awoke in springtime a vestige of life – hence the innumerable creakings which fill the spring nights. Everything seems to begin anew – a rush of health and joy floods the world.

  Drogo dwelt on the thought intensely, recalling to mind what great writers had said on the subject and so sought to convince himself. Rising from his bed he walked swaying to the window. His head began to whirl but he consoled himself with the thought that it always happens so when one gets up after many days in bed, even if one is quite better. And in fact the giddiness disappeared and Drogo could look out upon the brilliance of the sun.

  Limitless joy seemed to be radiated throughout the world. Drogo could not confirm this directly because there was a wall in front of him; but he could easily guess it. Even the old walls, the reddish earth of the courtyard, the benches of discoloured wood, an empty crate, a soldier walking slowly past – all of them seemed happy. So what must it be like out there, beyond the walls?

  He was tempted to get dressed, to sit in the open in an easy-chair and take the sun, but a barely perceptible shiver frightened him and hinted that he should go back to bed. ‘But I’m feeling better today, really better,’ he thought, and was convinced that he was being honest with himself.

  Quietly, overwhelmingly, the spring morning came on and the streak of sunlight moved across the floor. Drogo watched it from time to time and had no inclination to examine the notebooks piled up on the table by his bed. There was besides an extraordinary silence which was immune to the infrequent bugle calls and the dripping in the cistern. Even after his promotion to major, Drogo had not felt like changing his room – he almost seemed to be afraid that it would have brought him bad luck; but by now the sighing of the cistern had become a deep rooted habit and no longer disturbed him.

  Drogo was watching a fly which had come to rest on the ground right on the streak of sunlight, an odd thing to see at that time of year, making him wonder how it had survived the winter. He was watching it walk cautiously about when someone knocked at the door.

  It was not the usual knock, Giovanni noted. It certainly was not his batman, nor Captain Corradi who always asked permission to come in, nor any of the other regular visitors. ‘Come in,’ said Drogo.

  The door opened and in came the old regimental tailor, Prosdocimo; he was all bent now and wore a strange garb which must once have been a sergeant-major’s uniform. He came forward, panting a little, and with the first finger of his right hand pointed to something beyond the wall.

  ‘They are coming, they are coming,’ he whispered loudly, as if it were a great secret.

  ‘Who are coming?’ said Drogo, astonished to see the tailor so possessed. I must watch out, he thought, this chap will begin to talk and talk and he’ll go on for an hour at least.

  ‘They’re coming along the road, God willing, along the road from the north.’

  ‘Along the road from the north? Soldiers?’

  ‘Battalions of them, whole battalions,’ the old man shouted, quite beside himself and clenching his fists. ‘This time there is no mistake, and then a letter has come from the High Command to advise us that they are sending reinforcements. It is war, it is war,’ he kept on crying, and it was hard to tell whether he was not a little afraid.

  ‘Can you see them already?’ asked Drogo. ‘Can you see them even without a telescope?’ He had sat up in bed and a great uneasiness had come over him.

  ‘By God you can. You can see the guns – they have counted eighteen of them.’

  ‘And when will they be able to attack? How long will they take?’

  ‘Ah, with the road they won’t take long – I say they’ll be here in two days, two days at the most.’

  Damn this bed, said Drogo to himself, here I am tied down by my illness. It had never even entered his head that Prosdocimo had invented it; he had suddenly felt that it was all true, he had noticed that even the air seemed different, the air and the light of the sun.

  ‘Prosdocimo,’ he said, breathing heavily, ‘go and call my batman, Luca, for me. There’s no use ringing the bell, he must be down in the senior officers’ mess waiting for papers. Be quick, please.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ said Prosdocimo eagerly, as he went off. ‘Forget about your ailments, come up on the walls, too, and see.’

  He went out rapidly, forgetting to close the door; his steps could be heard disappearing along the corridor and then the silence returned.

  Dear God, make me feel better, I entreat you, if only for a week, whispered Drogo, unable to stem the wave of excitement. He wanted to get up at once, at all costs. To go right out on to the walls, show himself to Simeoni and make him understand that he was there, that he was at his post, that he would resume his responsibilities as usual as if he had never been ill.

  There was a bang – a draught in the corridor slammed the door to. In the great silence the noise had a loud and sinister echo like an answer to Drogo’s prayer. Why was Luca not coming, how long would that dolt take to climb two flights of stairs?

  Without waiting for him Drogo got out of bed and was seized by a wave of giddiness; but slowly it passed away. Now he was in front of the mirror and looked with horror at his own yellow, worn face. It is my beard that makes me look like this, he tried to tell himself; and with uncertain steps, still in his night-gown, he wandered round the room looking for a razor. But why did Luca not make up his mind to come?

  The wind banged the door once more. The devil take it, said Drogo, and moved to shut it. At that moment he heard his batman’s step drawing near.

  Shaved and dressed with care – but the uniform was too big for him and he seemed to sway about within it – Major Drogo left his room and started off along the corridor; it seemed much longer than usual. Luca was at his side, a little behind him, ready to support him because he saw that the officer could barely stand on his feet. Now the waves of giddiness returned suddenly and irregularly; each time Drogo had to stop and lean against the wall. I am too excited, I am strung up as usual, he thought, but on the whole I feel better.

  And in fact the giddiness passed and Drogo reached the uppermost terrace of the Fort where, through the telescope, various officers were scanning the triangle of steppe left exposed by the mountains. Giovanni was dazzled by the full brightness of the sun, for he was no longer used to it and replied in some confusion to the greetings of the officers. It seemed to him, but perhaps it was merely his own sour interpretation, that the subalterns saluted him with a certain casualness as if he were no longer their direct superior, in a sense the arbiter of their daily lives. Did they think he was already written off the strength?

  The unpleasant thought lasted only for a moment, for his main preoccupation returned: the idea of war. First of all Drogo saw a thin column of smoke rising from the summit of the New Redoubt, so the guard had been posted there once more, emergency measures had already been taken, the command was already functioning – but no one had consulted him who was second in command. They had not even given him warning – on the contrary. If Prosdocimo had not come to call him on his own initiative Drogo would still have been in bed, unconscious of the threat.

  He had a fit of burning, bitter anger; a veil came over his eyes; he had to lean on the parapet of the terrace and, as he did so, gripped himself with all his power so that the others should not see the state to which he was reduced. He felt ter
ribly alone, among enemies. Of course there were one or two young lieutenants like Moro who were fond of him, but what use was their support to him?

  At that moment he heard a voice calling them to attention. With hasty steps Colonel Simeoni walked through them, his face red.

  ‘I have been looking for you everywhere for half an hour,’ he exclaimed to Drogo. ‘I was at my wits’ end. We must make some decisions.’

  He approached him with excessive cordiality, knitting his brows, as if he were extremely worried and anxious for Drogo’s advice. Giovanni felt himself disarmed, his anger was suddenly extinguished, although he was fully aware that Simeoni was deceiving him. Simeoni had imagined that Drogo could not move any more, had paid no more attention to him, had taken decisions on his own, although of course he would tell him when everything had been done. Then they had told him that Drogo was walking about the Fort and he had run looking for him, eager to prove his good faith.

  ‘I have a message here from General Stazzi,’ said Simeoni, anticipating all Drogo’s questions and drawing him aside so that the others could not hear. ‘Two regiments are arriving, do you understand? And where shall I put them?’

  ‘Two regiments of reinforcements,’ said Drogo in amazement.

  Simeoni gave him the message. The general announced that as a security measure, since possible provocations were feared, two regiments, the 17th of Foot together with another which was forming, and a group of light artillery had been sent to reinforce the garrison at the earliest possible moment; guard duties should be resumed at the old strength, making use, that is, of the whole force available; quarters should be prepared for the officers and men. Part of them would naturally be under canvas.

  ‘In the meantime I have sent a platoon to the New Redoubt – that was right, wasn’t it?’ added Simeoni, without giving Drogo time to reply. ‘Have you seen them yet?’