Who can tell to what extent these dreams will soon be fulfilled?
“Listen, have you ever been in a hand-to-hand fight?” he asked his brother suddenly, entirely forgetting that he had resolved not to talk to him.
“No, never,” the older man replied. “Two thousand of the men in our regiment have been killed, all of them by shells hitting the earthworks. That’s how I got my wound, too. War’s not at all how you think it is, Volodya!”
The younger Kozeltsov found this use of the affectionate “Volodya” strangely touching. He wanted to clear the matter up with his older brother, who had absolutely no idea that he had offended him.
“You’re not angry with me, are you, Misha?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
“Why should I be angry with you?”
“Oh, I don’t know—because of what we were talking about just now. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.”
“Not one little bit,” replied the older man, turning to him and clapping him on the leg.
“But I am sorry, Misha, if I annoyed you.”
And the younger brother turned away in an effort to conceal the tears that had suddenly sprung to his eyes.
— 9 —
“Is this really Sebastopol, so soon?” asked the younger brother, when they reached the summit of the hill and before them spread the bay with all its masts, the open sea with the enemy fleet in the distance, the white shore batteries, the docks, aqueducts, barracks and other buildings of the town, and the clouds of white and lilac-tinted smoke that constantly rose along the yellow hills surrounding it. The smoke hung motionlessly in the deep blue sky, suffused by the pinkish rays of the sun which, as it sank towards the horizon, was already laying a carpet of reflected light across the dark sea.
Volodya caught his first sight of this terrible place, about which he had thought so much, without the slightest tremor; indeed, he surveyed this truly ravishing and unique spectacle with a sense of aesthetic enjoyment and a hero’s satisfaction in the thought that within the space of half an hour he too would be part of it; he continued to survey it with concentrated attention right up to the very moment they arrived at the North Side and the waggon train of his brother’s regiment, where they would be able to obtain reliable information concerning the regiment’s whereabouts and learn which battery they were to join.
The officer in charge of the waggon train lived not far from the “new town”—a huddle of wooden shanties built by sailors and their families—in a tent adjoining a rather large shelter which had been woven together from green oak twigs that were not yet completely dry.
The brothers found the officer sitting at a card table. On it stood a glass of cold tea with cigarette ash floating in it, and a tray on which were a vodka bottle and some crumbs of bread and dry caviare. The officer wore no uniform—he was dressed in a dirty, yellowish-coloured shirt, and trousers, and he was counting an enormous stack of banknotes with the aid of a large abacus. Before we go on, however, to discuss the personality of this officer, and his manner of discourse, let us take a closer look at the interior of his shelter and thus become a little acquainted with his work and way of life. The newly constructed shelter was very large indeed—solidly woven and comfortable, with tables and benches wattled from turf—and was of the type normally provided only for generals or regimental commanders. The walls and ceiling were covered by a series of three hangings, the purpose of which was to prevent leaves from falling to the floor; the hangings were extremely ugly, but were new and had probably cost a good deal. The iron bedstead that stood against the principal hanging (its design showed an Amazon on horseback) was covered by a bright red plush bedspread, on top of which lay a dirty, torn leather cushion and a raccoon fur coat. On the table were a mirror in a silver frame, a shockingly dirty silver hairbrush, a broken horn comb the teeth of which were congested with oily strands of hair, a silver candle-holder, a bottle of liqueur with a red and gold label, a gold watch, the face of which displayed a portrait of Peter the Great, two gold rings, a box containing some kind of capsules, a piece of a crust of bread and a scattering of old playing cards. Under the bed stood an assortment of porter bottles, both full and empty. This officer was in charge of the waggon train and was responsible for feeding the horses. With, him lived a great friend of his, a Commissariat officer who was involved in shady dealings on the side. When the brothers stepped into the shelter, the Commissariat officer was asleep in the tent; the waggon train officer was doing the regimental accounts in order to have them ready before the end of the month. He was a very handsome, soldierly-looking man: tall, with a bushy moustache and a well-bred, solid physique. His only unattractive features were a certain sweaty puffiness about the face, which almost concealed his small grey eyes (making him look as though he had been pumped full of porter), and a thorough neglect of personal hygiene that displayed itself in everything from his thin, oily hair to his large, unstockinged feet in their ermine slippers.
“That’s a fair bit of money you have there,” said the older Kozeltsov as he came into the shelter, greedily fastening his eyes, in spite of himself, on the stack of banknotes. “I wouldn’t say no to a loan of half that amount, Vasily Mikhailych!”
At these words, and catching sight of his visitors, the waggon train officer made a wry face, as though he had been caught in the act of stealing. Gathering the money together, and forgetting to stand up, he bowed.
“Ah, if only it were mine . . . but it belongs to the government, my dear chap. I say, who’s this you’ve got with you?” he said, as he stuffed the money away into a box beside him, and looked Volodya straight in the face.
“This is my brother, fresh from cadet corps. Actually, the real reason we came to see you was to ask you where the regiment is.”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said the waggon train officer, getting to his feet. Seeming to forget his guests for a moment, he wandered through into the tent. “Are you thirsty? How about some porter?” they heard his voice enquire from within.
“That wouldn’t come amiss, Vasily Mikhailych!”
Volodya was somewhat taken aback by the waggon train officer’s grand manner, his air of careless negligence, and the respect accorded to him by his brother.
“This must be one of their crack officers, one all the others look up to; he’s probably generous, honest and very brave,” he thought, sitting down on the sofa in a shy, self-deprecating manner.
“Well, and where is the regiment?” asked the older brother, addressing the tent.
“What’s that?”
The older brother repeated the question.
“Zeyfer was here today: he said they all transferred to the 5th bastion yesterday.”
“Is that for certain?”
“If I’m telling you so, it must be; but actually, the devil only knows! It doesn’t cost much to make him lie, either. What do you say, will you have a glass?” said the waggon train officer, still speaking from inside the tent.
“You know, I think I will,” said Kozeltsov.
“How about you, Osip Ignatych?” the voice from the tent continued, evidently addressing the sleeping Commissariat officer this time. “You’ve slept long enough; it’s nearly eight o’clock now.”
“Stop bothering me, I’m not asleep,” a lazy, thin little voice replied, pronouncing its Rs and Ls with a pleasantly guttural quality.
“Well, get up, then! I want you to be around.”
And the waggon train officer re-emerged to confront his guests.
“Serve us with porter! The Simferopol stuff!” he cried.
An orderly, whom Volodya thought looked rather supercilious, came into the shelter and whisked a bottle of porter out from under Volodya’s legs, knocking against him as he did so.
“Yes, my dear chap,” said the waggon train officer as he poured out some glasses, “we’ve a new regimental commander now. Can’t get his hands on the money fast enough. Requisitioning things right, left and centre.”
“Well, I expect he’s one of
these types who likes to do everything their own way—one of the new generation,” said Kozeltsov, raising his glass politely.
“The new generation! He’ll end up a skinflint just the same as all the others. When he was in charge of a battalion it was Figaro here, Figaro there—but from now on he’ll have to sing a different tune. It won’t wash with us, my dear fellow.”
“No, quite.”
The younger brother had not a clue as to what they were talking about, but he dimly sensed that his brother was not being quite candid, and was merely saying things to keep the officer happy, since it was the officer’s porter he was drinking.
The bottle was already practically empty, and the conversation had been running on in the same vein for quite some time when the flaps of the tent were thrust open and there emerged a rather short, fresh-faced man who was wearing a blue satin dressing-gown with tassels, and a military cap that sported a red band and a cockade. As he came forward he gave his black moustache a twirl, and scrutinizing some indeterminate point on the carpet, returned the officers’ bows with a barely noticeable movement of one shoulder.
“I’ll have a glass, too!” he said, sitting down at the table. “Well now, young man, travelling from St Petersburg, are you?” he said in a kindly sort of way, turning to Volodya.
“Yes, sir. I’m going to Sebastopol.”
“Volunteered, did you?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I don’t know what gets into you gentlemen, I really don’t,” the Commissariat officer went on. “I think now that I’d even consider walking back to St Petersburg, if they’d let me. My God, this dog’s life is getting me down, I can tell you.”
“What’s so bad about this place?” the older Kozeltsov asked him. “You seem to have quite a reasonable sort of life here.”
The Commissariat officer gave him a look and turned away.
“It’s this constant danger we’re exposed to” (“What sort of danger can he be talking about, sitting over here on the North Side?” thought Kozeltsov) “—the deprivation, the impossibility of obtaining even the simplest things,” he went on, still talking to Volodya. “What does get into you? I really don’t understand you gentlemen! If there were some advantage to be had . . . but to do it as you do . . . I mean, is it right, your being made cripples for the rest of your lives?”
“Some people may be out for profit, but there are others who are serving for the sake of honour,” said the older Kozeltsov, breaking into the conversation again, this time with irritation in his voice.
“What sort of honour is it when there’s nothing to eat?” said the Commissariat officer, laughing scornfully and turning to the waggon train officer, whom Kozeltsov’s last remark had also provoked to laughter. “Come on, let’s hear a bit of Lucia,” he said, pointing to a musical box. “I’m so fond of it.”
“Is he to be trusted, that Vasily Mikhailych?” Volodya asked his brother when, as it was getting dark, they finally emerged from the shelter and continued their journey to Sebastopol.
“Oh, he’s all right. He’s just unbelievably tight-fisted, that’s all. I mean, he gets at least three hundred roubles a month! Yet he lives like a pig—you saw it. No, it’s that fellow from the Commissariat I can’t stand; one of these days I’ll beat the daylights out of him. Would you believe it, that scoundrel arrived from Turkey with twelve thousand . . . ” And Kozeltsov began to wax eloquent on the subject of extortion, with a little of the animosity (if truth be told) of one whose condemnation is grounded less on the notion that extortion is wicked than on his own sense of annoyance that there are people who profit by it.
— 10 —
It would not have been true to say that Volodya was in a bad mood when, towards nightfall, the two brothers approached the large pontoon bridge that led across to the other side of the bay, but he did feel a certain heaviness of heart. All he had seen and heard was so little in accord with the impressions of his recent past: the light, spacious examination hall with its parqueted floors, the good-natured voices and laughter of his companions, his new uniform, his beloved Tsar, whom for seven years he had been accustomed to see in person and who, bidding them farewell with tears in his eyes, had called them his children—and so little, too, in accord with his beautiful, lavish, rainbow-coloured dreams.
“Well, here we are, then,” said the older brother, after they had driven up to the Michael battery and got out of the waggon. “If they’ll allow us on to the bridge we can go straight to the Nicholas Barracks. You can stay there overnight, and I’ll go to regimental headquarters and find out which battery you’re in; I’ll come and fetch you tomorrow.”
“Do we have to do it that way?” said Volodya. “Why can’t we go together? And I’ll go to the bastion with you, too. After all, I’ve got to get used to it some time, haven’t I? If you can go, then so can I.”
“You’d do better not to.”
“No, really, at least I’ll find out what . . . ”
“My advice is for you not to come, but if you really want to . . . ” The sky was dark and cloudless; the gloom was already being vividly lit by the glimmer of the stars and the constantly moving lights of shells and gunfire. The large white structure of the battery and the start of the bridge loomed out of the darkness ahead. Literally every second the air was shaken with increasing stridor and clarity by artillery discharges and explosions that followed one another in rapid succession. Audible somewhere behind this noise, as if echoing it, was the gloomy mutter of the bay. A light wind was blowing in from the sea, and there was a smell of dampness in the air. The brothers drew near to the bridge. A militiaman clumsily knocked his musket against the ground as he raised it, with a shout of: “Who goes there?”
“Soldiers!”
“I have orders to let nobody through.”
“Come on, we’ve got to.”
“You’ll have to ask the officer in charge.”
The officer in charge, who was sitting on an anchor and had dozed off to sleep, rose with a start and ordered the militiaman to let the brothers through.
“It’s one way only, remember; you can’t turn round and come back again. Hey, where are you lot off to all at the same time?” he shouted in the direction of the regimental waggons, piled high with gabions, which were lining up at the entrance to the bridge and blocking it.
As they stepped down on to the first pontoon, the brothers ran into some soldiers who were returning from the other side, talking in loud voices to one another.
“If he got his ammunition money it means he’s settled his account, that’s what,” one of them was saying.
“Hey, lads!” said another voice. “As soon as you get across to the North Side you’re back in the real world again, and that’s a fact! The air’s completely different.”
“That’s enough of that kind of talk!” said the first voice. “One of those bloody things came flying over here only the other day and blew the legs clean off two of our sailor lads. So no more of that talk, I say.”
The brothers walked across the first pontoon, waiting for the waggon that would pick them up; when they reached the second, which was already awash in places, they halted their progress. The wind, which back on the shore had not seemed particularly strong, was violent and buffeting here; the bridge was pitching, and the waves hissed across its boarded surface as they broke against timbers, anchors and hawsers. To their right was the roaring sea, black and obscurely menacing, marked off by a black, even and unending line from the starry horizon and its blend of light and greyness; and somewhere far in the distance gleamed the lights of the enemy fleet. To their left was the dim, black mass of a Russian man-of-war, and they could hear the waves slapping against its sides; a steamboat could be seen moving rapidly and noisily away from the North Side. The flash of a shell bursting beside it lit up, momentarily, the tall piles of gabions on its deck, two men standing beside them, and the white foam and spray of the greenish waves cut by the ship as it forged ahead. By the edge of the pont
oon bridge a shirtsleeved sailor sat chopping at something with an axe, his legs dangling in the water. Ahead, above Sebastopol, similar flashes came and went, and the terrible sounds drifted ever nearer, with ever-increasing volume. A wave suddenly broke against the right-hand side of the bridge, drenching Volodya’s legs; two soldiers walked past him, their feet splashing in the water. A sudden flash, which was followed by a loud explosion, lit up the portion of the bridge that lay ahead of them, and they caught a glimpse of a waggon and a man on horseback; whining shell-fragments lashed the water into spray.
“Well, if it isn’t Mikhail Semyonych!” said the rider, bringing his horse to a standstill in front of the older Kozeltsov. “On your feet again, eh?”
“As you see. Where are you off to?”
“Oh, I’m going to the North Side to get some more ammunition: I’m standing in for the regimental adjutant today, you see . . . We’re expecting an assault any minute now, but we’ve hardly five rounds per man. A fine state of affairs!”
“But where’s Martsov?”
“One of his legs was blown off yesterday . . . It happened in town, he was asleep in his room . . . You might still find him, he’s down at the dressing station.”
“The regiment’s on the 5th bastion, is that correct?”
“Yes, we’ve taken over from the M——s. You should call in at the dressing station: there are quite a few of our chaps there, they’ll show you the way.”
“Well, and is my room on Main Street still in one piece?”
“My dear fellow, the building was shelled to kingdom come ages ago. You won’t recognize Sebastopol now; there’s not a single woman left in the place, no taverns, no brass bands; the last pub closed down yesterday. It’s about as cheerful as a morgue . . . Goodbye, then!”