Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 1

by Leo Tolstoy

  ‘How high did you play?’

  The younger did not reply. The question seemed to suggest a doubt of his honour.

  Vexed with himself, ashamed of having done anything that could give rise to such suspicions, and hurt at such offensive words from the brother he so loved, his impressionable nature suffered so keenly that he did not answer. Feeling that he could not suppress the sobs that were gathering in his throat he took the money without looking at it and returned to his comrades.

  VIII

  NIKOLÁEV, who had fortified himself in Duvánka with two cups of vodka4 sold by a soldier he had met on the bridge, kept pulling at the reins, and the trap bumped along the stony road that leads by the Belbék5 to Sevastopol. The two brothers, their legs touching as they jolted along, sat in obstinate silence though they never ceased to think about each other.

  ‘Why did he say that?’ thought the younger. ‘Couldn’t he have left it unsaid? Just as if he thought me a thief! And I believe he’s still angry, so that we have gone apart for good. And yet how fine it would have been for us to be together in Sevastopol! Two brothers, friends with one another, fighting the enemy side by side: one, the elder, not highly educated but a brave warrior, and the other young but … also a fine fellow.… In a week’s time I would have proved to everybody that I am not so very young! I shall leave off blushing and my face will look manly; my moustaches, too, will have grown by that time – not very big but quite sufficiently,’ and he pulled at the short down that showed at the corners of his mouth. ‘Perhaps when we get there to-day we may go straight into action, he and I together. And I’m certain he is very brave and steadfast – a man who says little, but does more than others. I wonder whether he is pushing me to the very edge of the trap on purpose? I expect he knows I am uncomfortable but pretends he doesn’t notice me.’ Pressing close to the edge of the trap for fear of his brother’s noticing his discomfort, he continued his meditations: ‘Well then, we shall get there to-day, and then perhaps straight to the bastion – I with the guns and my brother with his company, both together. Suddenly the French will fall upon us. I shall fire and fire. I shall kill quite a lot of them, but they will still keep coming straight at me. I can no longer fire and of course there is no escape for me, but suddenly my brother rushes to the front with his sword drawn and I seize a musket, and we run on with the soldiers. The French attack my brother: I run forward, kill one Frenchman, then another, and save my brother. I am wounded in the arm, I seize the gun in the other hand and still run on. Then my brother falls at my side, shot dead by a bullet. I stop for a moment, bend sadly over him, draw myself up and cry: “Follow me, we will avenge him! I loved my brother more than anything on earth,” I shall say. “I have lost him. Let us avenge him, let us annihilate the foe or let us all die here!” They will all rush after me shouting. Then all the French army, with Pélissier himself, will advance. We shall slaughter them, but at last I shall be wounded a second and a third time and shall fall down dying. Then they will all rush to me and Gorchakóv himself will come and ask if I want anything. I shall say that I want nothing – only to be laid near my brother: that I wish to die beside him. They will carry me and lay me down by the blood-stained corpse of my brother. I shall raise myself, and say only, “Yes, you did not know how to value two men who really loved the Fatherland: now they have both fallen. May God forgive you!” … and then I’ll die.’

  Who knows how much of these dreams will come true?

  ‘I say, have you ever been in a hand-to-hand fight?’ he suddenly asked, having quite forgotten that he was not going to speak to his brother.

  ‘No, never,’ answered the elder. ‘We lost two thousand men from the regiment, but it was all at the trenches, and I was wounded while doing my work there. War is not carried on at all in the way you imagine, Volódya.’

  The pet name Volódya touched the younger brother. He longed to put matters right with the elder, who had no idea that he had given offence.

  ‘You are not angry with me, Mísha?’ he asked after a minute’s pause.

  ‘Angry? What for?’

  ‘Oh, nothing … only because of what happened … it’s nothing.’

  ‘Not at all,’ answered the other, turning towards him and slapping him on the knee.

  ‘Then forgive me if I have pained you, Mísha!’ And the younger brother turned away to hide the tears that suddenly filled his eyes.

  IX

  ‘CAN this be Sevastopol already?’ asked the younger brother when they reached the top of the hill.

  Spread out before them they saw the Roadstead with the masts of the ships, the sea with the enemy’s fleet in the distance, the white shore-batteries, the barracks, the aqueducts, the docks, the buildings of the town, and the white and purple clouds of smoke that, rising continually from the yellow hills surrounding the town, floated in the blue sky lit up by the rosy rays of the sun, which was reflected brilliantly in the sea towards whose dark horizon it was already sinking.

  Volódya looked without the slightest trepidation at the dreadful place that had so long been in his mind. He even gazed with concentrated attention at this really splendid and unique sight, feeling aesthetic pleasure and a heroic sense of satisfaction at the thought that in another half-hour he would be there, and he continued gazing until they came to the commissariat of his brother’s regiment, on the North Side, where they had to ascertain the exact location of the regiment and of the battery.

  The officer in charge of the commissariat lived near the so-called ‘new town’ (a number of wooden sheds constructed by the sailors’ families) in a tent connected with a good-sized shed constructed of green oak branches that had not yet had time to dry completely.

  The brothers found the officer seated at a dirty table on which stood a tumbler of cold tea, a tray with a vodka bottle, and bits of dry caviare and bread. He was wearing a dirty yellowish shirt, and, with the aid of a big abacus, was counting an enormous pile of bank-notes. But before speaking of the personality of this officer and of his conversation, we must examine the interior of the shed more attentively and see something of his occupations and way of living. His newly built shed was as big, as strongly wattled, and as conveniently arranged with tables and seats made of turf, as though it were built for a general or the commander of a regiment. To keep the dry leaves from falling in, the top and sides were lined with three carpets, which though hideous were new and must have cost money. On the iron bedstead, beside which a most striking carpet was fastened to the wall (the pattern of which represented a lady on horseback), lay a bright red plush coverlet, a torn and dirty leather pillow, and an overcoat lined with racoon fur. On the table was a looking-glass in a silver frame, an exceedingly dirty silver-backed hair-brush, a broken horn comb full of greasy hair, a silver candlestick, a bottle of liqueur with an enormous red and gold label, a gold watch with a portrait of Peter I, two gold rings, a box of some kind of capsules, a crust of bread, and a scattered pack of old cards. Bottles, full and empty, were stowed away under the bed. This officer was in charge of the regimental commissariat and the forage for the horses. With him lived his great friend, the commissioner employed on contracts. When the brothers entered, the latter was asleep in the tent while the commissariat officer was making up the regimental accounts for the month. He had a very handsome and military appearance: tall, with large moustaches and a portly figure. What was unpleasant about him was merely that his white face was so puffy as almost to hide his small grey eyes (as if he were filled with porter), and his extreme lack of cleanliness, from his thin greasy hair to his big bare feet thrust into ermine-lined slippers of some kind.

  ‘What a heap of money!’ said the elder Kozeltsóv on entering the shed, as he fixed his eyes eagerly on the pile of bank-notes. ‘If only you’d lend me half, Vasíli Mikháylovich!’

  The commissariat officer shrank back when he saw his visitor, as if caught stealing, and gathering up the money bowed without rising.

  ‘Oh, if it were mine! But it’s Gover
nment money, my dear fellow.… And who is that with you?’ he asked, placing the money in a cash-box that stood near him and looking at Volódya.

  ‘It’s my brother, straight from the training college. We’ve come to learn from you where our regiment is stationed.’

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen. Won’t you have something to drink? A glass of porter perhaps?’ he said, and without taking any further notice of his visitors he rose and went out into the tent.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do, Vasíli Mikháylovich.’

  Volódya was struck by the grandeur of the commissariat officer, his off-hand manner, and the respect with which his brother addressed him.

  ‘I expect this is one of their best officers, whom they all respect – probably simple-minded but hospitable and brave,’ he thought as he sat down modestly and shyly on the sofa.

  ‘Then where is our regiment stationed?’ shouted the elder brother across to the tent.

  ‘What?’

  The question was repeated.

  ‘Seifert was here this morning. He says the regiment has gone over to the Fifth Bastion.’

  ‘Is that certain?’

  ‘If I say so of course it’s certain. Still, the devil only knows if he told the truth! It wouldn’t take much to make him tell a lie either. Well, will you have some porter?’ said the commissariat officer, still speaking from the tent.

  ‘Well, yes, I think I will,’ said Kozeltsóv.

  ‘And you, Osip Ignátevich, will you have some?’ continued the voice from the tent, apparently addressing the sleeping contractor. ‘Wake up, it’s past four!’

  ‘Why do you bother me? I’m not asleep,’ answered a thin voice lazily, pronouncing the ls and rs with a pleasant lisp.

  ‘Well, get up, it’s dull without you,’ and the commissariat officer came out to his visitors.

  ‘A bottle of Simferópol porter!’ he cried.

  The orderly entered the shed with an expression of pride as it seemed to Volódya, and in getting the porter from under the seat he even jostled Volódya.

  [‘Yes, sir,’ said the commissariat officer, filling the glasses. ‘We have a new commander of the regiment now. Money is needed to get all that is required.’

  ‘Well, this one is quite a special type of the new generation,’ remarked Kozeltsóv, politely raising his glass.

  ‘Yes, of a new generation! He’ll be just as close-fisted as the battalion-commander was. How he used to shout when he was in command! But now he sings a different tune.’

  ‘Can’t be helped, old fellow. It just is so.’

  The younger brother understood nothing of what was being said, but vaguely felt that his brother was not expressing what he thought, and spoke in that way only because he was drinking the commissariat officer’s porter.]

  The bottle of porter was already emptied and the conversation had continued for some time in the same strain, when the flap of the tent opened and out stepped a rather short, fresh-looking man in a blue satin dressing-gown with tassels and a cap with a red band and a cockade. He came in twisting his little black moustaches, looking somewhere in the direction of one of the carpets, and answered the greetings of the officers with a scarcely perceptible movement of the shoulders.

  ‘I think I’ll have a glass too,’ he said, sitting down to the table.

  ‘Have you come from Petersburg, young man?’ he remarked, addressing Volódya in a friendly manner.

  ‘Yes, sir, and I’m going to Sevastopol.’

  ‘At your own request?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now why do you do it, gentlemen? I don’t understand it,’ remarked the commissioner. ‘I’d be ready to walk to Petersburg on foot, I think, if they’d let me go. My God, I’m sick of this damned life!’

  ‘What have you to complain of?’ asked the elder Kozeltsóv – ‘As if you weren’t well enough off here!’

  The contractor gave him a look and turned away.

  ‘The danger, privations, lack of everything,’ he continued, addressing Volódya. ‘Whatever induces you to do it? I don’t at all understand you, gentlemen. If you got any profit out of it – but no! Now would it be pleasant, at your age, to be crippled for life?’

  ‘Some want to make a profit and others serve for honour,’ said the elder Kozeltsóv crossly, again intervening in the conversation.

  ‘Where does the honour come in if you’ve nothing to eat?’ said the contractor, laughing disdainfully and addressing the commissariat officer, who also laughed. ‘Wind up and let’s have the tune from Lucia,’ he added, pointing to a musical box. ‘I like it.’

  ‘What sort of a fellow is that Vasíli Mikháylovich?’ asked Volódya when he and his brother had left the shed and were driving to Sevastopol in the dusk of the evening.

  ‘So-so, but terribly stingy! [You know he gets at least three hundred rubles a month, but lives like a pig, as you saw.] But that contractor I can’t bear to look at. I’ll give him a thrashing some day! [Why, that rascal carried off some twelve thousand rubles from Turkey.…’

  And Kozeltsóv began to enlarge on the subject of usury, rather (to tell the truth) with the bitterness of one who condemns it not because it is an evil, but because he is vexed that there are people who take advantage of it.]

  X

  IT was almost night when they reached Sevastopol. Driving towards the large bridge across the Roadstead Volódya was not exactly dispirited, but his heart was heavy. All he saw and heard was so different from his past, still recent, experience: the large, light examination hall with its parquet floor, the jolly, friendly voices and laughter of his comrades, the new uniform, the beloved Tsar he had been accustomed to see for the past seven years, and who at parting from them with tears in his eyes had called them his children – all he saw now was so little like his beautiful, radiant, high-souled dreams.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ said the elder brother when they reached the Michael Battery and dismounted from their trap. ‘If they let us cross the bridge we will go at once to the Nicholas Barracks. You can stay there till the morning, and I’ll go to the regiment and find out where your battery is and come for you to-morrow.’

  ‘Oh, why? Let’s go together,’ said Volódya. ‘I’ll go to the bastion with you. It doesn’t matter. One must get used to it sooner or later. If you go, so can I.’

  ‘Better not.’

  ‘Yes, please! I shall at least find out how.…’

  ‘My advice is don’t go … however —’

  The sky was clear and dark. The stars, the flash of the guns and the continual flare of the bombs already showed up brightly in the darkness, and the large white building of the battery and the entry to the bridge6 loomed out. The air was shaken every second by a quick succession of artillery shots and explosions which became ever louder and more distinct. Through this roar, and as if answering it, came the dull murmur of the Roadstead. A slight breeze blew in from the sea and the air smelt moist. The brothers reached the bridge. A recruit, awkwardly striking his gun against his hand, called out, ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Soldier!’

  ‘No one’s allowed to pass!’

  ‘How is that? We must.’

  ‘Ask the officer.’

  The officer, who was sitting on an anchor dozing, rose and ordered that they should be allowed to pass.

  ‘You may go there, but not back.’

  ‘Where are you driving, all of a heap?’ he shouted to the regimental wagons which, laden high with gabions, were crowding the entrance.

  As the brothers were descending to the first pontoon, they came upon some soldiers going the other way and talking loudly.

  ‘If he’s had his outfit money his account is squared – that’s so.’

  ‘Ah, lads,’ said another, ‘when one gets to the North Side one sees light again. It’s a different air altogether.’

  ‘Is it though?’ said the first. ‘Why, only the other day a damned ball flew over and tore two soldiers’ legs off for them, even there.…’

>   Waiting for the trap the brothers after crossing the first pontoon stopped on the second, which was washed here and there by the waves. The wind which seemed gentle on land was strong and gusty here; the bridge swayed and the waves broke noisily against beams, anchors, and ropes, and washed over the boards. To the right, divided from the light blue-grey starry horizon by a smooth, endless black line, was the sea, dark, misty, and with a hostile sullen roar. Far off in the distance gleamed the lights of the enemy’s fleet. To the left loomed the black hulk of one of our ships, against whose sides the waves beat audibly. A steamer too was visible moving quickly and noisily from the North Side. The flash of a bomb exploding near the steamer lit up for a moment the gabions piled high on its deck, two men standing on the paddle-box, and the white foam and splash of the greenish waves cut by the vessel. On the edge of the bridge, his feet dangling in the water, a man in his shirt sat chopping something on the pontoon. In front, above Sevastopol, similar flashes were seen, and the terrible sounds became louder and louder. A wave flowing in from the sea washed over the right side of the bridge and wetted Volódya’s boots, and two soldiers passed by him splashing their feet through the water. Suddenly something came crashing down which lit up the bridge ahead of them, a cart driving over it, and a horseman, and fragments of a bomb fell whistling and splashing into the water.

  ‘Ah, Michael Semënich!’7 said the rider, stopping his horse in front of the elder Kozeltsóv. ‘Have you recovered?’

  ‘As you see. And where is fate taking you?’

  ‘To the North Side for cartridges. You see I’m taking the place of the regimental adjutant to-day.… We’re expecting an attack from hour to hour.’

  ‘And where is Mártsov?’

  ‘His leg was torn off yesterday while he was sleeping in his room in town.… Did you know him?’

  ‘Is it true that the regiment is at the Fifth Bastion now?’