Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 1

by Leo Tolstoy

  ‘This is a German trying to be hail fellow well met,’ thought I.

  Chapter XII

  MY surmise was at once confirmed. Captain Kraft asked for vodka, calling it a ‘warmer’, croaked horribly, and throwing back his head emptied the glass.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, we have scoured the plains of Chéchnya to-day, have we not?’ he began, but seeing the officer on duty, stopped at once to allow the major to give his orders.

  ‘Have you been round the lines?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have the ambuscades been placed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then give the company commanders orders to be as cautious as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The major screwed up his eyes in profound contemplation.

  ‘Yes, and tell the men they may now boil their buckwheat.’

  ‘They are already boiling it, sir.’

  ‘All right! you may go, sir.’

  ‘Well, we were just reckoning up how much an officer needs,’ continued the major, turning to us with a condescending smile. ‘Let us count. You want a uniform and a pair of trousers, don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘That, let us say, is 50 rubles for two years; therefore 25 rubles a year for clothes. Then for food, 40 kopeks a day – is that right?’

  ‘Oh yes, that is even too much.’

  ‘Well, never mind, I’ll leave it so. Then for a horse and repair of harness and saddle – 30 rubles. And that is all. So it’s 25, and 120, and 30 – that’s 175 rubles. So you have for luxuries – tea, sugar, tobacco – a matter of 20 rubles left. So you see … Isn’t it so, Nicholas Fëdorovich?’

  ‘No, but excuse me, Abram Ilých,’ said the adjutant timidly, ‘nothing remains for tea and sugar. You allow one suit in two years; but it’s hardly possible to keep oneself in trousers with all this marching. And boots? I wear out a pair almost every month. Then underclothing – shirts, towels, leg-bands,12 – it all has to be bought. When one comes to reckon it all up nothing remains over. That’s really so, Abram Ilých.’

  ‘Ah, it’s splendid to wear leg-bands,’ Kraft suddenly remarked after a moment’s silence, uttering the word ‘leg-bands’ in specially tender tones. ‘It’s so simple, you know; quite Russian!’

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ Trosénko remarked. ‘Reckon what way you like and you’ll find we might as well put our teeth away on a shelf, and yet here we are all alive, drinking tea, smoking tobacco, and drinking vodka. When you’ve served as long as I have,’ he went on, turning to the ensign, ‘you’ll have also learned how to live. Why, gentlemen, do you know how he treats the orderlies?’

  And Trosénko, dying with laughter, told us the whole story about the ensign and his orderly, though we had all heard it hundreds of times.

  ‘Why do you look so like a rose, old chap?’ continued he, addressing the ensign, who blushed, perspired, and smiled, so that it was pitiful to see him. ‘Never mind, old chap! I was just like you once and now look what a fine fellow I am. You let a young fellow straight from Russia in here – haven’t we seen them? – and he gets spasms or rheumatism or something; and here am I settled here, and it’s my house and my bed and all, d’you see?’

  And thereupon he drank another glass of vodka and looking fixedly at Kraft, said, ‘Eh?’

  ‘That is what I respect! Here’s a genuine old Caucasian! Permit me to shake hands.’

  And Kraft, pushing us all aside, forced his way to Trosénko and catching hold of his hand shook it with peculiar emotion.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Kraft, ‘we may say we have gone through every kind of experience here. In ’45 you were present, Captain, were you not? – you remember the night between the 12th and 13th, when we spent the night knee-deep in mud and next day captured the barricades they had made of felled trees. I was attached to the commander-in-chief at the time and we took fifteen barricades that one day, – you remember, Captain?’

  Trosénko nodded affirmatively, stuck out his nether lip and screwed up his eyes.

  ‘You see …’ began Kraft with great animation, making unsuitable gestures with his hands and addressing the major.

  But the major, who had in all probability heard the story more than once, suddenly looked at the speaker with such dim, dull eyes that Kraft turned away from him and addressed me and Bólkhov, looking alternately at one and the other. But he did not give a single glance at Trosénko during the whole of his narration.

  ‘Well then, you see, when we went out in the morning the commander-in-chief said to me, “Kraft, take those barricades!” Well, you know, a soldier’s duty is not to reason – it’s hand to cap, and “Yes, your Excellency!” and off. Only as we drew near the first barricade I turned and said to the soldiers, “Now then, lads, don’t funk it but look sharp. If anyone hangs back I’ll cut him down myself!” With Russian soldiers, you know, one has to speak straight out. Suddenly a bomb … I look, one soldier down, another, a third … then bullets came whizzing … vzin! … vzin! … vzin! … “On!” I cry, “On, follow me!” Just as we got there I look and see a … a … you know … what do you call it?’ and the narrator flourished his arms, trying to find the word he wanted.

  ‘A scarp?’ suggested Bólkhov.

  ‘No … Ach! what is the word? Good heavens, what is it?… A scarp!’ he said quickly. ‘So, “fix bayonets! Hurrah! ta-ra, ta-ta-ta!” not a sign of the enemy! Everybody was surprised, you know. Well, that’s all right; we go on to the second barricade. Ah, that was a totally different matter. Our mettle was now up, you know. Just as we reached it I look and see the second barricade, and we could not advance. There was a what’s-its-name … now what do you call it? Ach, what is it? …’

  ‘Another scarp, perhaps,’ I suggested.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said crossly: ‘not a scarp but – oh dear, what do you call it?’ and he made an awkward gesture with his hands. ‘Oh, good heavens, what is it?’ He seemed so distressed that one involuntarily wished to help him.

  ‘A river, perhaps,’ said Bólkhov.

  ‘No, only a scarp! Hardly had we got down, when, will you believe it, such a hell of fire …’

  At this moment someone outside the tent asked for me. It was Maksímov. And as after having heard the different histories of these two barricades there were still thirteen left, I was glad to seize the excuse to return to my platoon. Trosénko came out with me.

  ‘It’s all lies,’ he said to me when we were a few steps from the hut; ‘he never was near those barricades at all,’ and Trosénko laughed so heartily that I, too, enjoyed the joke.

  Chapter XIII

  IT was already dark and only the watch-fires dimly lit up the camp when, after the horses were groomed, I rejoined my men. A large stump lay smouldering on the charcoal. Only three men sat round it: Antónov, who was turning a little pot of ryábco13 on the fire; Zhdánov, who was dreamily poking the embers with a stick, and Chíkin, with his pipe, which never would draw well. The rest had already lain down to sleep – some under the ammunition wagons, some on the hay, some by the camp-fires. By the dim light of the charcoal I could distinguish familiar backs, legs, and heads, and among the latter that of the young recruit who, drawn close to the fire, seemed to be already sleeping. Antónov made room for me. I sat down by him and lit a cigarette. The smell of mist and the smoke of damp wood filled the air and made one’s eyes smart and, as before, a dank drizzle kept falling from the dismal sky.

  One could hear the regular sound of snoring near by, the crackling of branches in the fire, a few words now and then, and the clattering of muskets among the infantry. The camp watch-fires glowed all around, lighting up within narrow circles the dark shadows of the soldiers near them. Where the light fell by the nearest fires I could distinguish the figures of naked soldiers waving their shirts close over the fire. There were still many who had not lain down, but moved and spoke, collected on a space of some eighty square yards; but the gloomy dull night gave a peculiar mysterious c
haracter to all this movement as if each one felt the dark silence and feared to break its calm monotony.

  When I began to speak I felt that my voice sounded strange, and I discerned the same frame of mind reflected in the faces of all the soldiers sitting near me. I thought that before I joined them they had been talking about their wounded comrade, but it had not been so at all. Chíkin had been telling them about receiving supplies at Tiflís and about the scamps there.

  I have noticed always and everywhere, but especially in the Caucasus, the peculiar tact with which our soldiers avoid mentioning anything that might have a bad effect on a comrade’s spirits. A Russian soldier’s spirit does not rest on easily inflammable enthusiasm which cools quickly like the courage of Southern nations; it is as difficult to inflame him as it is to depress him. He does not need scenes, speeches, war-cries, songs, and drums; on the contrary he needs quiet, order, and an absence of any affectation. In a Russian, a real Russian, soldier you will never find any bragging, swagger, or desire to befog or excite himself in time of danger; on the contrary, modesty, simplicity, and a capacity for seeing in peril something quite else than the danger, are the distinctive features of his character. I have seen a soldier wounded in the leg, who in the first instant thought only of the hole in his new sheepskin cloak; and an artillery outrider who, creeping from beneath a horse that was killed under him, began unbuckling the girths to save the saddle. Who does not remember the incident at the siege of Gergebel when the fuse of a loaded bomb caught fire in the laboratory and an artillery sergeant ordered two soldiers to take the bomb and run to throw it into the ditch, and how the soldiers did not run to the nearest spot by the colonel’s tent, which stood over the ditch, but took it farther on so as not to wake the gentlemen asleep in the tent and were consequently both blown to pieces? I remember also how, in the expedition of 1852, something led a young soldier while in action to say he thought the platoon would never escape, and how the whole platoon angrily attacked him for such evil words which they did not like even to repeat. And now, when the thought of Velenchúk must have been in the mind of each one and when we might expect Tartars to steal up at any moment and fire a volley at us, everyone listened to Chíkin’s sprightly stories and no one referred either to the day’s action, or to the present danger, or to the wounded man; as if it had all happened goodness knows how long ago or had never happened at all. But it seemed to me that their faces were rather sterner than usual, that they did not listen to Chíkin so very attentively, and that even Chíkin himself felt he was not being listened to, but talked for the sake of talking.

  Maksímov joined us at the fire and sat down beside me. Chíkin made room for him, stopped speaking, and started sucking at his pipe once more.

  ‘The infantry have been sending to the camp for vodka,’ said Maksímov after a considerable silence; ‘they have just returned.’ He spat into the fire. ‘The sergeant says they saw our man.’

  ‘Is he alive?’ asked Antónov, turning the pot.

  ‘No, he’s dead.’

  The young recruit suddenly raised his head in the little red cap, looked intently for a minute over the fire at Maksímov and at me, then quickly let his head sink again and wrapped himself in his cloak.

  ‘There now, it wasn’t for naught that death had laid its hand on him when I had to wake him in the “park” this morning,’ said Antónov.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Zhdánov, turning the smouldering log, and all were silent.

  Then, amid the general silence, came the report of a gun from the camp behind us. Our drummers beat an answering tattoo. When the last vibration ceased Zhdánov rose first, taking off his cap. We all followed his example.

  Through the deep silence of the night rose a harmonious choir of manly voices:

  ‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done as in heaven so on earth. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from the evil one.’

  ‘We had a man in ’45 who was wounded in the same place,’ said Antónov when we had put on our caps and again sat down by the fire. ‘We carried him about with us on a gun for two days – do you remember Shévchenko, Zhdánov? – and then we just left him there under a tree.’

  At this moment an infantryman with tremendous whiskers and moustaches came up to our fire, carrying a musket and pouch.

  ‘Give me a light for my pipe, comrades,’ said he.

  ‘All right, smoke away: there’s fire enough,’ remarked Chíkin.

  ‘I suppose it’s about Dargo14 you are telling, comrade,’ said the infantry soldier to Antónov.

  ‘Yes, about Dargo in ’45,’ Antónov replied.

  The infantryman shook his head, screwed up his eyes, and sat down on his heels near us.

  ‘Yes, all sorts of things happened there,’ he remarked.

  ‘Why did you leave him behind?’ I asked Antónov.

  ‘He was suffering a lot with his stomach. As long as we halted it was all right, but as soon as we moved on he screamed aloud and asked for God’s sake to be left behind – but we felt it a pity. But when he began to give it us hot, killed three of our men from the guns and an officer besides and we somehow got separated from our battery.… It was such a go! We thought we shouldn’t get our guns away. It was muddy and no mistake!’

  ‘The mud was worst under the Indéysky15 Mountain,’ remarked one of the soldiers.

  ‘Yes, it was there he got more worse! So we considered it with Anóshenka – he was an old artillery sergeant. “Now really he can’t live and he’s asking for God’s sake to be left behind; let us leave him here.” So we decided. There was a tree, such a branchy one, growing there. Well, we took some soaked hard-tack Zhdánov had, and put it near him, leant him against the tree, put a clean shirt on him, and said good-bye, – all as it should be – and left him.’

  ‘And was he a good soldier?’

  ‘Yes, he was all right as a soldier,’ remarked Zhdánov.

  ‘And what became of him God only knows,’ continued Antónov; ‘many of the likes of us perished there.’

  ‘What, at Dargo?’ said the infantryman as he rose, scraping out his pipe and again half-closing his eyes and shaking his head; ‘all sorts of things happened there.’

  And he left us.

  ‘And have we many still in the battery who were at Dargo?’ I asked.

  ‘Many? Why, there’s Zhdánov, myself, Patsán who is now on furlough, and there may be six others, not more.’

  ‘And why’s our Patsán holiday-making all this time?’ said Chíkin, stretching out his legs and lying down with his head on a log. ‘I reckon he’s been away getting on for a year.’

  ‘And you, have you had your year at home?’ I asked Zhdánov.

  ‘No, I didn’t go,’ he answered unwillingly.

  ‘You see, it’s all right to go,’ said Antónov, ‘if they’re well off at home or if you are yourself fit to work; then it’s tempting to go and they’re glad to see you.’

  ‘But where’s the use of going when one’s one of two brothers?’ continued Zhdánov. ‘It’s all they can do to get their bread; how should they feed a soldier like me? I’m no help to them after twenty-five years’ service. And who knows whether they’re alive still?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever written?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed! I wrote two letters, but never had an answer. Either they’re dead, or simply won’t write because they’re living in poverty themselves; so where’s the good?’

  ‘And is it long since you wrote?’

  ‘I wrote last when we returned from Dargo … Won’t you sing us “The Birch-Tree”?’ he said, turning to Antónov, who sat leaning his elbows on his knees and humming a song.

  Antónov began to sing ‘The Birch-Tree’.

  ‘This is the song Daddy Zhdánov likes most best of all,’ said Chíkin to me in a whisper, pulling at my cloak. ‘Sometimes he right down weeps when Phil
ip Antónych sings it.’

  Zhdánov at first sat quite motionless with eyes fixed on the glimmering embers, and his face, lit up by the reddish light, seemed very gloomy; then his jaws below his ears began to move faster and faster, and at last he rose, and spreading out his cloak, lay down in the shadow behind the fire. Either it was his tossing and groaning as he settled down to sleep, or it may have been the effect of Velenchúk’s death and of the dull weather, but it really seemed to me that he was crying.

  The bottom of the charred log, bursting every now and then into flames, lit up Antónov’s figure with his grey moustaches, red face, and the medals on the cloak that he had thrown over his shoulders, or it lit up someone’s boots, head, or back. The same gloomy drizzle fell from above, the air was still full of moisture and smoke, all around were the same bright spots of fires, now dying down, and amid the general stillness came the mournful sound of Antónov’s song; and when that stopped for an instant the faint nocturnal sounds of the camp – snoring, clanking of sentries’ muskets, voices speaking in low tones – took part.

  ‘Second watch! Makatyúk and Zhdánov!’ cried Maksímov.

  Antónov stopped singing. Zhdánov rose, sighed, stepped across the log, and went slowly towards the guns.

  1 The Térek Territory lies to the north-east of the Caucasian Mountains. The Great and Little Chéchnya are districts in the southern part of it.

  2 The vintóvka was a long Asiatic rifle used by the Circassians (Cherkéses). When firing, they rested the barrel on a support fanned by two thin spiked sticks tied at the top by a strap.

  3 A distinction very frequently met with in Russian is between literate and illiterate people; i.e. between those who can and those who cannot read and write.

  4 A soldier’s card game. L. T.

  5 Most of the Russian army at that time were armed with smooth-bore muskets, but a few had wide-calibred muzzle-loading rifles (stútzers), which were difficult to handle and slow to load. Vintóvkas were also rifles.