The Doll

by Bolesław Prus

  The battalion’s flanks were getting further away from us; finally, the right-hand flank disappeared over a hilltop, while the left-hand one dived into a broad ravine a few hundred feet away from us, where their bayonets gleamed from time to time. The hussars and cannons had disappeared somewhere, as had the reserve battalion trailing along behind, so our battalion was alone, ascending one hill only to be confronted by another. Now and then, from the front, rear or side, a courier would fly past, with a dispatch or order for the major. It was really quite remarkable that he did not get confused with so many orders!

  It was already nearly nine when we came out upon the last of the hills, which was covered with thick undergrowth. A new order was given: they began to disperse the platoons one alongside the other. When we came to the hilltop, they ordered us to crouch, lower our rifles, then kneel.

  Katz, do you remember Kratochwil, who was kneeling beside us, as he poked his head up between two young pines and whispered: ‘Look there!’ From the top of our hill, to the south, as far as the horizon, stretched a valley and over it, like a river, lay a column of white smoke, several hundred feet wide and perhaps a mile long.

  ‘That’s riflemen,’ said an old corporal. On both sides of this strange river were to be seen several black and some dozen white clouds, boiling up on the earth. ‘Those are batteries, and villages burning,’ the corporal explained.

  By looking more closely, it was possible to discern square blotches here and there on either side of this long ribbon of smoke: they were dark on the left, white on the right. They looked like great hedgehogs with gleaming bristles: ‘These are our regiments—those the Austrians…’ said the corporal, and added, ‘Even headquarters won’t have a better view.’

  The ceaseless clatter of rifle firing reached us from this long river of smoke, and the thunder of cannons roared from those white clouds. ‘Ooooh!…’ Katz exclaimed, ‘so this is a battle, is it? Is this what I was supposed to be afraid of?’

  ‘Just you wait,’ the corporal muttered.

  ‘Rifles at the ready…’ was heard along the ranks. Kneeling, we began to get out our bullets and warm them up. The clatter of steel ramrods and rifles being cocked was heard…We tipped powder into our pans and again there was silence.

  Opposite us and perhaps a kilometre away were two hills, with a highroad winding between them. I noticed that some white blotches had appeared against this green background, which soon formed into a white line and then into a white smudge. At the same time, soldiers dressed in blue emerged from the ravine a few hundred feet to our left, and quickly formed into a blue column. At this moment a cannon was heard to the right of us, and a grey puff of smoke appeared over the white Austrian unit. A few minutes pause followed, then another shot and another little cloud over the Austrians. Half a minute later, another shot and the cloud again…‘Herr Gott!’ the old corporal exclaimed, ‘just look how our lads are firing…General Bem or the devil himself must be in command…’

  From this time on a shot from our side followed every shot of theirs, until the earth shook, while the white smudge on the highroad grew larger. At the same time, smoke gleamed on the opposite hill, and a snarling shell flew in the direction of our battery. Another smoke-cloud…a third…a fourth…‘Clever devils!’ the corporal muttered. ‘Battalion, forward march!’ our major roared in a tremendous voice…‘Company, forward march!…Platoon, forward march!…’ officers echoed in different tones.

  Again they deployed us differently. The four central platoons remained in the rear, four went ahead to the right and left respectively. We pulled out our knapsacks and took up our arms as we pleased. ‘Up and at ’em!’ Katz exclaimed. At this moment a shell flew high over our heads and burst with a great bang somewhere in the rear. Then a peculiar notion came to me: surely battles are merely noisy spectacles, arranged by armies for the benefit of people at home, but not intended to harm anyone. For what I could see before me looked very fine, as though it was not so terrible after all.

  We went down into the plain. A hussar flew from our battery to report that one of the cannons had been blown to bits. At the same time a shell fell to the left of us; it ploughed into the earth without going off. ‘They are beginning to get our scent,’ said the old corporal. A second shell exploded overhead, and a piece of shrapnel fell at Kratochwil’s feet. He went pale, then laughed. ‘Aha!…Ah!’ men shouted in the ranks.

  Confusion started in the platoons which were marching about a hundred yards ahead of us, to the left; when the column moved on, we saw two men, one lying face downwards, stretched out like a piece of cord, the other sitting up, holding his stomach with both hands. I caught the stench of gun-powder: Katz said something to me, but I did not hear him, for there was a roaring in my right ear as if a drop of water had got into it.

  The corporal went over to the left, we followed. Our column separated into two long lines. Smoke was boiling up a few hundred feet ahead. They trumpeted something but I did not understand the signal; however, I heard shrill screaming overhead and past my left ear. Something hit the ground a few feet away, bespattering me with sand on my face and chest. My neighbour fired: two men behind, almost at my back, levelled their rifles and fired, one after the other. Entirely deafened, I fired too. I loaded and fired again. In front, someone’s helmet and rifle fell, but we were surrounded by such a dense cloud of smoke that I could see nothing more. All I could see was Katz, who kept on firing, looking like a madman, with froth in the corners of his mouth. The roaring in my ears intensified so that finally I could hear neither the rattling of rifles nor the cannons.

  Finally the smoke grew so thick and intolerable that I felt I had to get out of it at any price. I moved away, slowly at first, then running, surprised to see that other men were doing the same. Instead of two long lines I now saw a mass of fleeing men. ‘Why the devil are they running away?’ I thought, hastening my step. It was no longer a run but a gallop. We paused half-way up the hill, and not until now did we notice that our position on the battle-field had been taken by another battalion, and they were firing cannons from the hill-top.

  ‘Reserves into action!…Forward, you scoundrels!…You swine-herds, you sons of dogs!’ the officers were shouting, black with smoke, furious, aligning us into ranks again and striking anyone who came within reach.

  The major was not among them. Gradually the soldiers who had been bewildered by the retreat found they were back in their platoons; the deserters were caught and the battalion returned to order. However, some forty men were missing.

  ‘Where have they gone?’ I asked the corporal.

  ‘Ah, they’ve bolted,’ he replied gloomily. I dared not think they had been killed.

  Two soldiers came driving down from the hill-top: each was accompanied by a horse loaded with packs. Our corporal ran to meet them, and soon came back with packets of bullets. I took eight, for so many were missing in my pouch, and I wondered how I had happened to lose them. ‘You know,’ said Katz to me, ‘it’s past eleven o’clock already.’

  ‘Just fancy,’ I replied, ‘I can’t hear anything…’

  ‘Fool, you can hear me, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t hear the cannons. Or rather—of course I can,’ I added, concentrating. The roar of the cannons and rattling of rifles had merged into one huge rumbling, no longer deafening, but stupefying. Apathy overcame me. In front, perhaps half a kilometre away, a broad column of smoke was surging, which the wind sometimes broke up. Then it was possible to catch sight of a long row of legs or of helmets, with bayonets gleaming. Shells were whistling over that column and over ours, being exchanged between the Hungarian battery firing from our rear and the Austrians, replying from the opposite hills. The river of smoke stretching along the valley to the south billowed more and more violently, and was very much curved to the left where the Austrians were gaining ground, and to the right where the Hungarians were winning. On the whole the river of smoke curved more to the right, as if our men were already driving the A
ustrians back. A delicate blue mist was spreading along the entire valley. It was odd that the roaring, though now stronger than before, no longer made any impression on me; I had to listen intently in order to hear it. However, the clash of rifles being loaded, or the crash of cocks reached me clearly.

  The adjutant ran up, bugles sounded, officers began shouting.

  ‘Lads!’ our lieutenant cried at the top of his voice (he had run away not long before from a seminary), ‘we retreated because there were more Huns but now we will have a go at that column on the flank, d’you see?…The third battalion and the reserves will support us…Long live Hungary!…’

  ‘I’d like to live a bit, too!’ Kratochwil muttered.

  ‘Half turn to the right—forward!’

  We went on like this for several minutes, then made a half-turn to the left and began descending into the valley, trying to gain the right flank of the column that was fighting in front of us. The area was rocky: through the mist ahead we could see fields overgrown with stalks and a small wood beyond them. Suddenly I caught sight of a dozen or so small bursts of smoke among these stalks, as if men were lighting pipes at various points: simultaneously bullets began whistling overhead. I thought that the whistling of bullets, which poets have sung the praises of, was not at all poetic, but rather vulgar. One could sense the malice of inanimate objects in it.

  A string of men in scattered battle array broke from our column and ran towards the stalks. We kept on marching as though the bullets flying from the flank were not meant for us at all. At this moment the old corporal marching on the right flank whistling the Rakoczy march dropped his rifle, threw up his hands and staggered as though tipsy. I saw his face for a moment: on the left side was the shattered visor of his helmet, and there was a red stain on his forehead. We went on marching: another corporal, a young, fair-haired fellow, appeared on the right flank.

  We were now coming up level with the fighting column and could see the empty gap between the smoke of infantry and that of the Austrians, when a long row of white uniforms appeared. This row moved up and down and very quickly, their legs twinkled as if they were on parade. The row halted. Above it, gleamed a band of steel glistening like brand-new needles, which was then lowered, and I saw about a hundred rifles aimed at us. Then it grew smoky, there was a rattling noise like a chain being dragged along iron bars, and a storm of bullets flew past us. ‘Halt!…Fire!…’ I fired as fast as I could, wanting to shield myself if only in the smoke. Despite the uproar, I heard something like the blow of a stick striking a man behind me: someone fell, clutching at my pack. Anger and desepration overwhelmed me: I felt I would perish if I did not kill the unseen enemy. I loaded my weapon and fired at random, lowering the rifle a little and thinking with crazy glee that my bullets would not go over their heads. I did not look to the side nor downward: I was afraid to see a man lying there.

  Then something unexpected happened. Near us, drums rattled and fifes shrilled in a terrifying manner. The same behind us. Someone yelled ‘Forward!’ and goodness knows how many voices echoed the cry like groans or howls. The column moved forward slowly, then faster, began running…The firing almost ceased and only single shots were heard…I hit my chest against something hard, men pushed me from all sides, I pushed too…

  ‘Kill the Huns!’ Katz shrieked in an inhuman voice, rushing ahead. As he could not extricate himself from the throng, he raised his rifle and brought its butt down on the packs of comrades in front. Finally it grew so crowded that my chest began giving way and I could not breathe. I was lifted up, then let fall, and I realised I was not even standing on the ground, but on a man who was gripping my leg.

  At this moment the shouting crowd moved ahead and I fell down, my left hand sliding in blood. By me an Austrian officer was lying on his side, a young man, with very aristocratic features. He looked at me, his eyes darkening with inexpressible grief, and he whispered hoarsely: ‘No need to kick…We Germans are human beings too…’ He put one hand to his side and groaned pitifully.

  I ran after the column. Our men were already on the hill where the Austrian batteries had stood. Climbing up after the others, I saw one cannon on its side, the other harnessed and surrounded by our men. I came upon an unusual scene. Some of our men were clutching the cannon wheels, others pulling it off the carriage: Katz stabbed a horse of the first pair with his bayonet, and an Austrian bombardier was trying to hit him on the head with a cleaning-rod. I seized the bombardier by his collar and hurled him to the ground. Katz wanted to stab him. ‘What are you doing, you madman?’ I shouted, pushing his bayonet away.

  Then Katz hurled himself furiously at me, but an officer nearby knocked his bayonet away with a sabre. ‘What are you interfering for?’ Katz shrieked at the officer, ‘What are you interfering for?’

  The two cannons were captured, the hussars hurried after the others. Far ahead our men were standing singly and in groups, firing after the retreating Austrians. Now and then a wandering enemy bullet whistled over our heads or tore into the earth, with a little cloud of dust. The buglers blew the ‘Fall-in’.

  An hour later, the regimental bands were playing at various points of the huge battlefield. The adjutant hurried over to congratulate us. The buglers and drummers struck up the call for prayers. We took off our helmets, the ensign bearers raised the banners and the entire army, weapons at their feet, thanked the Hungarian God for victory.

  Gradually the smoke died away. As far as the eye could see we saw what looked like scraps of white or navy-blue paper scattered in disorder on the trampled grass in various places. Several carts were moving around the field, and some people were placing these scraps in them. The rest remained. ‘So this is what they were born for,’ Katz sighed, leaning on his rifle, overcome by melancholy.

  This was just about the last of our victories. From this time on the banners bearing the three rivers went in front of, rather than behind, the enemy, until finally at Vilagos, they fell from their poles like autumn leaves.

  When he learned this, Katz threw his sword on the ground (we were both officers by then) and said that he would now shoot himself. I recalled, however, that Napoleon was already installed in France. So I encouraged him, and we crept over to Komorna. We watched for relief for a month: from Hungary, France, even Heaven. Finally Komorna surrendered.

  On that day, I remember Katz prowling around the gunpowder store with the same look on his face as when he had wanted to stab the recumbent bombardier. Several of us seized him and took him out of the fortress. ‘What’s this?’ one of his comrades whispered to him, ‘instead of going into exile with the rest of us, you want to steal a march, do you? Eh, Katz, Hungarian infantry does not take fright or break its word even…to the Huns.’

  Five of us got away from the rest of the army, smashed our swords, disguised ourselves as peasants and set off in the direction of Turkey with our revolvers hidden in our clothing. But Haynau’s pack of hounds caught up with us. Our journey across the pathless plains and woods lasted three weeks. Mud underfoot, autumn rains overhead, patrols before and behind—eternal exile—these were our travelling companions. Nevertheless we were cheerful. Szapary kept saying Kossuth would still think of something; Stein was certain Turkey would declare war on our side; Liptak longed for a night’s rest and a hot dinner, and I said no matter what happened, Napoleon would not desert us. The rain melted our clothes like butter, we struggled through marshes up to our knees, our soles dropped apart and our boots squeaked like so many bugles: the local people were afraid even to sell us a jug of milk, and peasants chased us away from one village with their hoes and scythes. Despite all this, we were cheerful, and Liptak, as he plunged along beside me so the mud splashed, breathlessly exclaimed: ‘Eljen Magyar!…We’ll have a good night’s sleep…Oh, for a night-cap of slivovica…’

  Of all this cheerful company of ragged men who were enough to scare the crows, only Katz was depressed. He needed to rest more than anyone, and somehow grew thinner more rapidly: he was parched
all the time, and had a pale glittering in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid he may have camp fever,’ said Szapary to me.

  Not far from the Sava river on I don’t know which day of our wanderings, we found some huts in a lonely neighbourhood, where we were received very hospitably. Dusk had fallen, we were exhausted, but a good fire and a bottle of slivovica brought us more cheerful thoughts. ‘I vow,’ Szapary exclaimed, ‘that by March at the latest Kossuth will summon us back to the ranks. We were foolish to break our swords…’

  ‘Maybe in December the Turkish army will start moving,’ Stein added. ‘If only it heals up by that time…’

  ‘My dear fellows,’ Liptak groaned, wrapping himself up in a heap of pea-pods, ‘go to bed for the devil’s sake, otherwise neither Kossuth nor the Turks will ever wake us…’

  ‘That they won’t,’ Katz muttered. He was sitting on a bench by the hearth, looking sadly into the fire.

  ‘Katz, you will soon stop believing in heavenly justice,’ Szapary exclaimed, frowning.

  ‘There is no justice for those who don’t know how to die with their rifles in their hands,’ Katz exclaimed, ‘you are fools and so am I. Will France or Turkey risk their necks for the likes of us? Why didn’t you stick your own out?’

  ‘He’s feverish,’ Stein whispered, ‘we’ll have trouble with him on the way…’

  ‘Hungary! Hungary doesn’t exist any longer!’ Katz muttered, ‘equality! There never was equality…Justice! There never will be any.…A pig doesn’t mind taking a bath in a bog: but a man with guts.…It’s no use, Mr Mincel, I shall never cut up soap for you again.’