The Dwarf

by Pär Lagerkvist

  Rather a hopeless attempt. The fate of the Montanzas was decided on a historic morning nearly a week ago. Now only the final settlement remains.

  I shall try to give a detailed and authentic description of the great incomparable battle.

  It began with a joint attack from both our armies, exactly as I had predicted. Seen from the slopes, it was a magnificent spectacle, a feast for all the senses. Martial music resounded, the standard was unfurled, the banners waved over the orderly and colorful ranks. The silver bugle echoed over the countryside in the dawning, and the infantry poured down the slopes. The enemy awaited them ranged in close and somewhat threatening formations, and the strongly armed adversaries closed in on each other. From the start it was a bloody business. There were casualties on both sides, the wounded were stabbed or trampled to death as they tried to crawl away, and the usual cries and moans were heard. The fighting shifted to and fro; sometimes our men seemed to have the upper hand, elsewhere the enemy was superior. To begin with, Boccarossa pretended to take the same line as we, but by degrees his troops swung in a wide arc and fell upon the enemy’s wing. This dangerous maneuver caught them unawares, and they had great difficulty in defending themselves. Victory was within reach, or so it appeared to me. By now several hours had passed and the sun was high in the heavens.

  Suddenly something terrible happened. Those of our troops who were nearest the river began to weaken. They yielded to the pressure of il Toro’s right wing and allowed themselves to be driven backward, making only the clumsiest and feeblest attempts to stand. They seemed to have lost all their fighting spirit, merely went on retreating, ready to face anything rather than death. I could not believe my eyes. I could not grasp what was going on down there, particularly as we were numerically superior, actually about twice as many as the others. I felt my blood boil with shame over their incredible cowardice. I raved and shrieked and stamped, shaking my fists in helpless fury, showering abuse on them, screaming my anger and contempt. But what was the use? Of course they did not hear me and merely continued to withdraw. I thought I should go out of my mind. And nobody came to reinforce them! Nobody seemed to pay the slightest attention to their predicament. Not that they deserved it!

  Suddenly I saw the Prince, who was commanding the center, signal to some detachments to the rear of the center. They started to move forward at an angle toward the river, and with renewed vigor began to break through the enemy’s lines. Step by step, with irresistible strength, they fought their way until, with a wild bellow of joy, they reached the river bank. They had cut off the retreat of between five and seven hundred men who were thereby completely hedged in with no prospect but immediate annihilation.

  I was overcome with amazement. I had had no suspicion of this ruse! I had taken it for cowardice. My heart thumped, my breast swelled with joy. I felt a wonderful sense of relief after the terrible strain.

  A dramatic scene followed. Our troops pressed in from every side, forcing the surrounded foe together and backward between the front line and the river bank. At last they were packed so closely together that they could scarcely move, and we began to destroy them. It was a massacre the like of which I have never seen, and not only a massacre, for they were driven out into the river where they drowned like rats. They fought for dear life in the current, flailing the water with their arms, yelling for help and altogether behaving in a most un-soldierly fashion. Hardly any of them could swim; it was as though they had never seen water before. Those who could crawl ashore were promptly cut down, and those who tried to reach the other bank were carried away by the fierce current. Scarcely any escaped alive.

  Our disgrace was transformed into a splendid victory!

  Developments followed each other at a tremendous pace. Our center stormed down on the enemy, followed by the left wing, while, on the right, Boccarossa’s troops slashed away with renewed and frenzied energy. And from the hills fresh cavalry squadrons came charging down with their lances in rest, and joined in the melee, completely demoralizing il Toro’s exhausted wavering army. Soon their desperate defense was turned into disorderly flight, and we pursued them with the horsemen in the van, to squeeze the last drops from our matchless victory. The Prince was determined to profit by every opportunity. Part of his force, including infantry and cavalry, was sent in a different direction from the others, and went off down one of the side valleys with the obvious purpose of overtaking the enemy. The mountains concealed their further movements so we could not see exactly what happened next. They disappeared among the vine-clad hills on the other side of the level ground which had been the scene of the battle.

  Now we began to stir ourselves in the camp. Horses were harnessed to the wagons, and everything was hastily packed onto them, stores and armaments of every description; everybody rushed wildly about, the baggage was to be sent away. I sat at the back of the cart on which the Prince’s tent had been placed. The signal was given and we drove down the slope and on to the battlefield. It was deserted, save for the dead and wounded who lay so close together that we could hardly proceed without sometimes driving over them. Most of them were already dead, but the others moaned and sighed without ceasing. Our own men called to us to take them along, but it was impossible, for we must hasten to catch up with the army. In war one becomes hardened, inured to everything, but I had never known anything like this before. I saw some horses among the corpses. We drove past one that had had its belly split open so that the entrails lay on the ground. The sight made me feel sick and I feared I might vomit. I do not know what came over me; I called to the driver to increase his pace; he cracked his whip and we rolled on.

  It is very strange. I have often noticed that in some respects I am peculiarly sensitive. I find certain things quite unendurable. It is the same whenever I think of Francesco’s intestines. Some things, though perhaps quite natural in themselves, are really extraordinarily nauseating.

  The day was drawing to a close. Even a day like this must have an end. The sun was low above the western hills and its dying rays fell over the field which had witnessed so much glory, heroism, and defeat. Twilight began to cover it as I sat there in the jolting wagon, looking backward.

  The scene was enveloped in darkness and the bloody drama which had been enacted there was already a part of history.

  I HAVE had plenty of time for writing, because it rains without stopping, pouring down for days on end as though the heavens had been opened. We are deluged unceasingly.

  This, of course, is tiresome. Everything in camp is dirty and muddy. The tent lanes are knee-deep in clay, and equine and human excrement floats about in the mire. Everything one touches is wet and filthy and feels disgusting and if one goes out for a moment one is immediately soaked to the skin. The tent roofs leak and inside it is like a morass. All this is very unpleasant and not at all good for morale. Every evening we hope that tomorrow will be fine, but as soon as we wake up we hear the same pattering on the canvas.

  I do not see the point of this eternal rain. It impedes all warfare and puts a stop to the whole campaign. And just when we were going to garner the fruits of our great successes. Why is it raining?

  The soldiers are out of sorts. They spend their days sleeping or throwing dice. Naturally there can be no martial spirit under such conditions. We can be sure that all this time il Toro is reinforcing his troops, whereas we are not getting any stronger. Not that it worries me, but the thought of it is irritating just the same.

  Nothing has such an injurious effect on an army’s morale as rain. The excitement of the game fades away and the glamour disappears, all the glitter and stimulus which are part of warfare. The power and the glory have departed. But there should be a reaction against this picture of war as an uninterrupted carnival. War is not a pastime, it is deadly serious. It is death, defeat, destruction. It is no agreeable life, no jousting with an opponent who is perhaps perpetually inferior. One must school oneself to endure everything, toil, hardship, suffering of every kind. That is absolutely
necessary.

  It can be dangerous if this depression spreads itself among the troops. Much still lies ahead before we can achieve the final victory. The enemy is not quite routed, although he soon will be. And we must admit that he made rather a skillful retreat after the terrible defeat at the river, and prevented us from actually capturing him. And now, as I have pointed out, he is sure to be mustering new forces. We shall need all our old fighting spirit to put an end to him.

  But the Prince is not in the least dispirited. He is one of those who really love war in all its forms. He is calm, self-confident, and energetic, and his temperament is unchanging in its serenity. He is always filled with courage and absolutely sure of victory. A marvelous warrior! In the field he and I really resemble one another.

  I have only one grudge against him which I cannot overlook and for which I constantly reproach him; that is his refusal to let me join in the fighting. I cannot understand why he refuses my request, why he prevents me! Before every battle I have begged and implored him, once I even besought him on my knees, clasping his legs and bathing them with my tears. But he always pretends not to hear me or merely smiles and says something about my being too precious, that something might happen to me. Happen! I ask nothing better! He does not realize what this means to me, that I crave combat with all my soul, more so than any of his soldiers, with a deeper and more burning passion than they. War is no game to me, but grim reality. I want to fight, I want to kill! Not for the glory of it, but for the deed alone! I want to see men fall, see death and destruction around me. He knows nothing about me! And so he lets me pour his wine and wait upon him, and forbids me to leave the tent and join in the fray where I so long to be. I must stand about and look on while others perform the deeds which are never out of my thoughts, but I may never share in the battle. It is so unbearably humiliating! Why, I have not yet killed a man, not a single one! He has no notion of the suffering which he causes me.

  So I am not absolutely truthful when I call myself really happy.

  Others besides the Prince have noticed my martial spirit, but they do not know as he does how serious it is, how deeply rooted in my being. They only see me going about in sword and armor and it catches their attention. Their opinion of me and my share in the campaign is of no significance whatsoever.

  Naturally, I know many of the people here, courtiers and others who were always at the palace, renowned scions of ancient families famous in warfare throughout the centuries, noble lords exercising high commands thanks to their social position. I am well acquainted with all the superior officers and, of course, they know me too. They and the Prince are the real leaders and one must admit that he has surrounded himself with a magnificent collection of the old fighting nobility.

  Don Riccardo’s share in the campaign irritates me. He is everywhere, boasting and swaggering, preferably in the vicinity of the Prince, full of silly jests which arouse the coarse laughter of his associates. He looks extraordinarily foolish with his fresh peasant complexion which is far too ruddy, and his big white teeth which are constantly in evidence, for he laughs at everything. His way of tossing his head and twisting the curls of his black beard is quite unbearable. I cannot understand how the Prince can stand having him in the neighborhood.

  Still less can I understand how the Princess can see any charm in this vulgarian, for vulgar he is despite his pedigree. Still, that has nothing to do with me nor with anything else, for that matter, and in point of fact is of no interest to me.

  When they call him brave I, at least, do not understand what they are talking about. He was in the fighting at the river like all the others, but I do not believe that he distinguished himself in any way. I never caught a glimpse of him. Presumably he has told everybody how brave he was, and as they all listen whenever he opens his mouth, he has gained their credence. Personally, I do not for one moment believe in his courage. He is an intolerable braggart-that’s what he is!

  He a hero! The mere idea is ridiculous!

  Ah, but the Prince is brave. He is always in the melee. One can see his white charger and distinctive crest in the thick of the battle, and the enemy can see them too. He is always exposing himself to mortal danger. One can see that he loves a hand-to-hand fight for its own sake; he rejoices in it. And, of course, Boccarossa is brave, if bravery be the right word. It seems too inadequate and fails to give a true picture of him in action. They tell me that his tactics are enough to terrify the most hardened warrior and, most terrifying of all, he does not seem in the least maddened or agitated by the fighting, but bites his lips together and calmly pursues his trade of cold-blooded and methodical slaughter. Often he fights afoot so as to be nearer his victim. He seems to enjoy the carnage and revels in cutting down his man. In comparison, the methods of the Prince and the others seem like child’s play. I speak from hearsay, for I have always been too far away to see it for myself. I cannot describe my vexation when I think of what I have missed.

  Men like the Prince and Boccarossa are brave, each in his own way, but Don Riccardol It is grotesque to mention his name in the same breath.

  Boccarossa and his men enjoy harrying the land through which they pass, burning and plundering rather more than the Prince considers necessary. He too, of course, realizes that plunder is part of warfare. Where they have passed they leave practically nothing living behind them, and it is said that the Prince and his condottiere are not of the same mind on this point. I must say that I incline to Boccarossa’s theory. Enemy country is enemy country and must be treated as such. That is the law of war. It may seem cruel, but war and cruelty go together; there is no getting away from it. One must exterminate the people against whom one is fighting and ravage the land so that it cannot rise again. It can be very dangerous to leave a few opposition centers in the rear; one must know that one’s back is free. I am sure that Boccarossa is right.

  Sometimes the Prince seems to forget that he is in the midst of the enemy. Now and then he treats the population in a manner of which one cannot possibly approve. For example, when he came to the dirty mountain village, he stayed to watch their rustic feast and listen to their flute players as though he thought their music worth hearing. I could not understand how he could take any pleasure in it and how he could bring himself to speak to these dolts. That sort of thing passes my understanding, nor did I understand what they were doing, though according to their own account it was some kind of feast to celebrate the harvest. A pregnant woman poured wine and olive oil over the earth on a bit of tilled ground, and then they all seated themselves in a circle around it and partook of bread and wine and goats’ milk cheese.

  The Prince sat down too and ate with them, praising their olives and the cheese which looked dry and nasty. When the dirty old earthen pitcher of wine reached him he set it to his lips and drank like the others. It was a distasteful sight. Never had I seen him behave like that, nor believed that he could do so. He never ceases to surprise me in one way or another.

  When he asked them why the woman had done all that, they became very secretive and embarrassed and did not want to answer, but smiled knowingly with their silly peasant faces. But at last they came out with it: it was to make the earth bear grapes and olives the next year also. It sounded too comic for words. As though the earth could know that they had poured wine and oil on it and their purpose in so doing! “We do this every year at this time,” they said. And an old man with a long tangled beard, splashed with wine, approached the Prince, bent his head and gazed candidly into his eyes. “So have our fathers done,” he said, “and we do the same.”

  Then they got up and began to dance, clumsily and loutishly, old and young, even the poor old man who was already on the brink of the grave. And the flute players played on their homemade pipes which had a few notes only which were repeated again and again. I could not understand how the Prince could wish to listen to this artless music, but both he and Don Riccardo, who was present too (when is he not?), lingered there forgetting that a war was going on and
that they were in the midst of the enemy. And when the people began to sing their gloomy monotonous songs they could not tear themselves away, but remained until twilight fell and they were compelled to leave. Then perhaps they realized that it might be dangerous to stay up there in the encroaching darkness.

  “What a beautiful evening,” they said to each other, when at last we went back to camp. And Don Riccardo, who must give proof of his sensibility in and out of season, began to expatiate most fulsomely on the beauty of the scenery, though there was nothing particularly pretty about it, and stopped time and again to listen to the flutes and songs from the village with its dirty old houses perched up on the mountainside.

  That same evening he brought two harlots into the Prince’s tent; he had found them in the camp whither they had contrived to worm their way from the town, presumably because they hoped to receive better pay here where there was a shortage of their kind. “Also it is more fitting for a woman to lie with an enemy,” they said. At first the Prince seemed shocked and I was sure he would be angry and chase them away and punish Don Riccardo severely for his incredible impudence, but to my intense astonishment he suddenly burst out laugh-ing, took one of them on his knee and called for our rarest wine. I have not yet recovered from my amazement over the things which I was forced to witness that night, I would give much never to have been there i nd to be quit of these revolting memories. If I could discover how they came here! But women, especially women of their kind, are like rats; they admit of no obstacles but gnaw their way through everything. I was about to leave and go to bed in the servitors’ tent, but now I felt compelled to remain and serve not only my lord and Don Riccardo, but also these painted strumpets who stank of Venetian pomades and hot fat female flesh. I found it extraordinarily repulsive.