The Tartar Steppe
Page 21
Below him in the common room a man had begun to sing and another joined him, singing a folksong of some sort about love. In the zenith, where the blue was deepest, shone three or four stars. Drogo was alone in the room, the batman had gone down to drink a glass; suspicious shadows began to gather in the corners and under the furniture. For a moment Giovanni seemed to give way – after all no one could see him, no one in the world would know; for an instant Major Drogo felt that the great load on his heart was about to dissolve in tears.
It was then that from somewhere deep down there emerged a new thought, clear and terrible: the thought of death.
He felt as if the flight of time had stopped, as though a spell had been broken. Lately the whirling motion had grown; then suddenly it stopped altogether; the world lay horizontal, listless, apathetic, and the watches ran vainly on. Drogo’s road had come to its end; there he is now on the lonely shore of a grey, monotonous sea, and around him there is neither house nor tree nor human beings and so it has been since time immemorial.
From the furthest horizon he felt a shadow advance upon him, growing darker as it came, closing around him; perhaps it was a question of weeks or months, but even weeks or months are as nothing when they separate us from death. So life had been reduced to a kind of game; everything had been lost for a bet made in a moment of pride.
Outside, the sky had become intensely blue, but in the west a band of light remained above the violet outlines of the mountains. And the dark had come into the room; one could distinguish only the threatening outlines of the furniture, the whiteness of the bed, Drogo’s gleaming sabre. He would, he realised, never move from here.
As he sat thus, surrounded by the dark (below they sang on sweetly to the chords of a guitar) Giovanni Drogo felt a last hope come to life within him. This man, sick and alone in the world, rejected from the Fort as a tiresome burden, this man who had been outstripped by everyone, timid and weak as he was, dared to imagine that everything was not finished, because perhaps his great moment had come, the decisive battle which might make his whole life worth while.
Yes, the last enemy was advancing against Giovanni Drogo. Not men like himself and like him tortured by desires and sufferings, with flesh that one could wound, with faces one could look into, but a being at once malignant and omnipotent; there would be no fighting on the ramparts among the noise of the explosions and huzzas with a blue spring sky overhead, no friends at his side so that, seeing them, his heart would be cheered, no bitter reek of powder and gunshot, no promises of glory. It will happen in a room in an unknown inn, by the light of a candle, in the bleakest solitude. This is not a fight from which one returns one sunny morning, crowned with flowers amid smiling girls. There is no one to watch, no one to say: Well done.
Oh this is a much harder battle than the one he once hoped for. Even veterans would prefer not to venture on it. Because it may be fine to die in the open, with one’s body still young and healthy amidst the triumphant echoes of the bugles; but it is a sadder fate to die of wounds in a hospital ward after long sufferings, and it is more melancholy still to meet one’s end in one’s bed at home in the midst of fond laments, dim lights and medicine bottles. But nothing is more difficult than to die in some strange, indifferent spot, in the characterless bed of an inn, to die there old and worn and leave no one behind in the world.
Be brave, Drogo, this is the last card – go on to death like a soldier and let your bungled life at least have a good end. Take your revenge at last on fate – no one will sing your praises, no one will call you hero or anything of the kind; but for once it is worth the effort. Step across the shadow line with a firm step, erect as if on parade and even smile, if you can. After all, your conscience does not weigh on you too much and God will doubtless pardon you.
So Giovanni said to himself, in a kind of prayer, and he felt the last circle of life draw in around him. And from the bitter depths of the past, of his broken desires, of the injuries he had suffered, there arose such strength as he would not have dared to hope for. With inexpressible joy Giovanni Drogo suddenly was aware that he was absolutely calm, almost eager to put himself once more to the test. So you cannot expect everything from life? So that was it, Simeoni? Now Drogo will show you.
Be brave, Drogo. And he tried to make an effort, to hold out, to jest with the terrible thought. He put his whole heart into it, with a desperate recklessness, as if he were advancing to the assault alone against an army. And suddenly the ancient terrors fell away, the nightmares faded, death lost its icy aspect and became something simple and natural. Major Giovanni Drogo, worn with illness and the years, a poor mortal, thrust against the great black gateway and saw the doors fall apart leaving the way clear to the light.
Then he saw how unimportant it had been to wear himself out on the ramparts of the Fort, to scan the desolate northern steppe, to strive after a career, to wait such long years. There was no need even to envy Angustina. Admittedly Angustina had died on a mountain crest in the heart of the tempest and had gone on his way true to himself, and with great style indeed. But it was much harder to die a hero’s death in Drogo’s state, eaten by disease, exiled from strangers.
One thing only made him unhappy – that he should have to depart with this miserable body of his, with its protruding bones, its sallow, flaccid skin. Angustina had died with his body still intact, thought Giovanni, and his image, in spite of the years, had remained that of a tall, delicate youth, with a handsome face pleasing to women: that was his privilege. But once the dark threshold was crossed, might not Drogo, too, become as he had been before: not handsome, for handsome he had never been, but fresh with the freshness of youth. How wonderful, said Drogo to himself as he thought of it – like a child, for he felt strangely free and happy.
But then it crossed his mind to ask: suppose it were all a deception? suppose his courage was only a kind of intoxication? suppose it had merely something to do with the wonderful sunset, the scented air, the temporary relief from physical pain, the singing on the floor below? and suppose in a few minutes, in an hour, he were once more to be the other Drogo, weak and beaten?
No, don’t think about it, Drogo, don’t torture yourself any more; the worst is over now. Even if pain assails you once more, even if there will be no more music to comfort you and instead of this finest of evenings noisome mists arise, it will come to the same in the end. The worst is over and they cannot cheat you any more.
The room has filled with darkness; only with difficulty can one see the white of the bed and all the rest is black. Soon the moon should rise.
Will Drogo manage to see it or will he have to go before then? The door of the room shakes and creaks slightly. Perhaps it is a breath of wind, merely the air swirling a little as it does on these restless spring nights. But perhaps it is she who has come in with her silent step and now is standing by Drogo’s chair. Giovanni makes an effort and straightens his shoulders a little; he puts right the collar of his uniform with one hand and takes one more look out of the window, the briefest of glances, his last share of the stars. Then in the dark he smiles, although there is no one to see him.
About the Author
Dino Buzzati was born in Belluno, Italy, in 1906. After receiving a law degree from the University of Milan, he worked as a reporter and later as special correspondent and editor for the Corriere della Sera. His literary career began in 1933 with the publication of Barnabas of the Mountains and The Secret of the Old Forest; however, it was not until he wrote The Tartar Steppe in 1940 and The Seven Messengers in 1942 that he received proper recognition in the mainstream of contemporary European literature. His works have been translated into many languages including German, French, Spanish and Swedish. Dino Buzzati died in Milan in 1972.
Tim Parks is the author of Destiny, Europa, Adultery and Other Diversions, An Italian Education and other works of fiction and nonfiction. He lives in Verona, Italy.
First published in Italy under the title Il Deserto dei Tartari
English translation first published in Great Britain in 1952, by Secker & Warburg
Introduction first published by Penguin Books, 200
This edition first published in 2007
by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2012
by Canongate Books
Copyright © Dino Buzzati, 1945
English translation copyright © Stuart C. Hood, 1952
Introduction copyright © Tim Parks, 2000
The moral right of Dino Buzzati and Stuart C. Hood to be identified as respectively the author and translator of the work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The publisher gratefully acknowledges subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards the publication of this volume
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 757 0
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