“That’s enough, Fyodor Fyodorych!” they all started to say at once, restraining the major. “Stop it!”
But the major, it seemed, had been waiting for this moment in order finally to launch himself into a furious rage. He suddenly leapt to his feet and moved unsteadily towards the perspiring officer.
“Saying insolent things, was I? I’ll have you know that I’m a good deal older than you, and I’ve served the Tsar for twenty years. Insolent? You little ninny!” he squealed suddenly, growing more and more excited at the sound of his own voice. “Bounder!”
But let us quickly lower the curtain on this deeply depressing scene. Tomorrow, perhaps even this very day, each one of these men will go proudly and cheerfully to his death, and will die with calm and fortitude; under these conditions, which appal even the most detached of sensibilities and are characterized by a total absence of the human and of any prospect of salvation, the only relief is that of oblivion, the annihilation of consciousness. Buried in each man’s soul lies the noble spark that will make a hero of him; but this spark grows weary of burning brightly all the time—when the fateful moment arrives, however, it will leap up like a flame and illuminate great deeds.
— 18 —
On the following day the bombardment continued with undiminished intensity. By around eleven in the morning, Volodya Kozeltsov was sitting with a group of battery officers and, having already managed to get to know them a little, was taking a good look at these new faces—observing, asking questions and telling his own story. The modest, somewhat technical conversation of the artillery officers inspired him with respect, and appealed to him. His own shy, innocent and attractive appearance likewise won him the officers’ favourable attention. The captain who was the battery’s chief commanding officer, a rather short, red-haired man with a topknot and smooth temples, who had been trained according to the old artillery traditions, was something of a ladies’ man and had a reputation as a scholar, chaffed him affectionately about his youth and his pretty face, and generally behaved towards him like a father towards a son, something Volodya found very agreeable. Then there was Sub-lieutenant Dyadenko, a young officer with tousled hair who went around in a tattered greatcoat and had a Ukrainian accent, pronouncing all his Os. Although he had a very loud voice, constantly went in search of pretexts for bitter arguments and moved in a nervous, jerky fashion, Volodya found him sympathetic, as beneath this unpolished exterior he could not help discerning a good and extremely kind human being. Dyadenko was forever offering Volodya his services, and kept trying to prove to him that the guns in Sebastopol were incorrectly positioned. Only Lieutenant Chernovitsky, a man with permanently raised eyebrows who was, however, more polite than any of the others, who wore a frock-coat that was at least reasonably clean, if not new, with neatly sewn-on patches, and who sported a gold chain across his satin waistcoat, aroused Volodya’s distaste. Chernovitsky kept plying him with questions about what the Tsar and the War Minister were doing, informed him, with affected enthusiasm, about the feats of bravery that were being performed in Sebastopol, complained about how little patriotism one seemed to encounter anywhere and what senseless decrees the authorities issued, and so on and so forth. Although Chernovitsky exuded an air of knowledgeableness, intelligence and decent feeling, Volodya found the total effect somehow studied and lacking in spontaneity. In particular, he observed that the other officers hardly ever spoke to Chernovitsky. Cadet volunteer Vlang, the man Volodya had aroused from slumber the day before, was also here. Vlang did not really join in the conversation but, sitting unobtrusively in a comer, laughed whenever there was something to laugh at, remembered whenever something had been forgotten, asked for vodka to be served and rolled cigarettes for everyone. Whether it was Volodya’s unassuming, polite manner—Volodya talked to him as if he were an officer and did not order him about as a junior—or his pleasant appearance that so captivated “Vlanga,” as the soldiers called him, for some reason inflecting his name as if it were a feminine noun, he never once took his large, slow eyes off the new officer’s face, anticipated and forestalled all his wishes and spent the whole time in a kind of amorous ecstasy which, needless to say, aroused the attention of the officers and prompted them to laughter.
Before dinner they were joined by a lieutenant-captain who had just come off his spell of duty on the bastion. Lieutenant-Captain Kraut was a handsome, energetic officer; he was fairhaired and sported a large, reddish moustache and sideburns. He spoke excellent Russian, but too correctly and elegantly for a Russian. His bearing as a military man in general mirrored his command of the language: he was an excellent soldier and comrade, and extremely reliable where money was concerned. But precisely because all these aspects of his character were so blameless, he seemed to lack something as a human being. Like all Russian Germans—and in strange contrast to those idealistic “German” Germans—he was extremely practical.
“Here he comes, here’s our hero!” said the captain, as Kraut, swinging his arms and clanking his spurs, came breezily into the room. “What would you like, Fridrikh Krestyanych: tea or vodka?”
“I have already asked them to bring me some tea,” he replied. “But in the meanwhile a drop of vodka would cheer the soul and would certainly not come amiss. Very nice to meet you; I beg your most gracious favour,” he said to Volodya, who had risen to his feet and bowed. “Lieutenant-Captain Kraut. The artillery NCO in the bastion said you only arrived yesterday.”
“I’m extremely grateful for the use of your bed, sir: I spent the night on it.”
“Did you sleep all right? One of its legs is broken, and there’s no one to mend it, there being a siege; you have to place something under it.”
“Well, none the worse for your spell of duty, I take it?” asked Dyadenko.
“Oh, it was all right. Only Skvortsov was hit, and they ‘mended’ one of our gun carriages for us. Blew the side-plate clean to pieces.”
He got up from where he was sitting and began to stroll about; it was evident that he was completely in the grip of the pleasant feeling of relief experienced by those who have escaped from danger.
“Now then, Dmitry Gavrilych,” he said, giving the captain’s knee a shake. “How are you, old fellow? What about your commission, still no word?”
“No news yet, no.”
“And there won’t be any, either,” Dyadenko chipped in. “I’ve already told you why.”
“Tell me again.”
“It’s because your despatch wasn’t worded correctly.”
“There you go, always arguing,” said Kraut, smiling merrily. “A real, obstinate Ukrainian. Well, you’ll end up a lieutenant in spite of yourself.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Vlang, please fetch my pipe and fill it for me,” he said to the cadet, who at once eagerly ran off to fetch it for him.
Kraut made all the men feel more lively; he told them about the bombardment, asked what had been going on while he had been away, and had a word for everyone.
— 19 —
“Well, how’s it going? Settled down with us yet?” Kraut asked Volodya. “I’m sorry to , have to ask, but will you tell me your Christian name and patronymic? We in the artillery generally use them, you know. Have you bought a saddle-horse yet?”
“No,” said Volodya. “I’m not sure what to do. I told the captain I don’t have a horse, nor any money either, until I get my forage and travel allowances. I was thinking of asking the battery commander if he’d lend me a horse on a temporary basis, but I’m afraid he’ll say no.”
“Old Apollon Sergeich?” Kraut made a noise with his lips that expressed scepticism, and glanced at the captain. “I don’t think you’ll get much joy out of him.”
“Oh well, if he does turn you down it won’t be the end of the world,” said the captain. To tell you the truth, you don’t really need a horse around here; but there’s no harm in asking. I’ll have a word with him today.”
“What? You don’t know him,” Dyadenko cut in
. “If it was anything else, he’d turn you down. But this he won’t refuse . . . Do you want to bet on it?”
“Oh, we all know you, you just like arguing!”
“I say it because I know I’m right: he’s stingy about everything else, but he’ll give you a horse because it’s not worth his while to keep it.”
“What do you mean, not worth his while, when he’s getting eight roubles back on oats for every horse he feeds?” said Kraut. “It’ll be worth this young fellow’s while not to have to keep a horse he doesn’t need.”
“Ask him to give you Starling, Vladimir Semyonych,” said Vlang, who had returned with Kraut’s pipe. “He’s a first-rate horse.”
“He’s the one that threw you into the ditch at Soroki, isn’t he, Vlanga?” the lieutenant-captain laughed.
“And anyway, what if he is getting eight roubles?” said Dyadenko, pursuing the argument. “His estimates are for ten roubles fifty.[45] Stands to reason it can’t be worth his while.”
“If he didn’t pocket the difference he’d have nothing left at all! I expect when you’re the commander of a battery you won’t even let a man have a horse to ride into town and back on!”
“When I’m battery commander all my horses will get four bags of oats a day; I won’t make anything on the side, never fear.”
“Oh well, if you live, you’ll learn,” said the lieutenant-captain. “You’ll take your profit, same as all the rest, and so will he,” he added, pointing to Volodya. “When he’s battery commander he’ll be putting the loose change away in his pocket too.”
“Why should he want to do that, Fridrikh Kresyanovich?” said Chernovitsky, butting in. “He’s probably got a private income, so why should he want to make a profit?”
“No, sir, I . . . I’m sorry, captain, but . . . ” said Volodya, blushing scarlet, “ . . . I consider that remark a dishonourable one.”
“Aha! Ha! A real daredevil, isn’t he?” said Kraut. “Just wait till you’ve worked your way up to the rank of captain, my lad, then you won’t talk to me like that.”
“I don’t know anything about that; all I know is that if the money isn’t mine, I have no right to take it.”
“I’ll tell you this, young man,” began the lieutenant-captain in a more serious tone of voice. “I wonder if you’re aware that when you’re in command of a battery you generally, if you do things right, have a surplus of five hundred roubles in peacetime, and a surplus of seven or eight thousand roubles if there’s a war on—and that’s only for the horses. Very well. The battery commander doesn’t concern himself with the matter of the soldiers’ provisions: that’s been the arrangement in the artillery for as long as anyone can remember: if you’re a bad manager, you won’t have any surplus. Now even though it’s not in the regulations, you’ve got to cover the following expenses out of that extra money: one” (he crooked a finger) “you’ve got shoeing; two” (he crooked another finger) “you’ve got medical supplies—then you’ve got stationery. On top of that, my friend, you’ve got to pay out up to five hundred roubles a head for off-horses, and remounts come in at fifty roubles a time—it’s a price you’ll have to pay, too—that makes four. Again, even though it says nothing about it in the regulations, you’ll have to supply your soldiers with a change of collars, you’ll find you spend an awful lot of money on coal, and then there’s the officers’ mess to be taken care of. If you’re a battery commander you have to live in decent style: you’ll need a carriage, and a fur greatcoat, and all kinds of things . . . it goes without saying . . . ”
“But the main thing,” intervened the captain, who all this time had remained silent, “the main thing, Vladimir Semyonych, is this: what about someone like myself who’s served in the army for twenty years on a salary of two hundred roubles a month, in constant hardship? Can’t he be allowed to earn himself a crust of bread for his old age after all the hard work he’s put in, when those contractors are making tens of thousands every month?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” said the lieutenant-captain, butting in again. “Just don’t be in too much of a hurry to pass judgement, that’s all—wait till you’ve seen a bit more service.”
Volodya was beginning to feel terribly guilty and ashamed for having spoken so rashly, and he merely muttered something and went on listening in silence as Dyadenko, with the greatest of zeal, leapt into the argument and proceeded to attempt to prove the contrary.
The disputation was interrupted by the arrival of the colonel’s orderly, who said that dinner was now served.
“Tell Apollon Sergeich to serve us some wine today,” Chemovitsky said to the captain, as he buttoned up his tunic. “What’s he saving it for? If we’re killed, no one will get it!”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” said the captain.
“No, you’re the senior officer: we must do things by the regulations.”
— 20 —
The table in the same room where Volodya had reported to the colonel the day before had been moved away from the wall and spread with a dirty tablecloth. Today the battery commander shook his hand and asked him questions about life in St Petersburg and what sort of journey he had had.
“Well, gentlemen, those of you who drink vodka please help yourselves. Ensigns don’t drink,” he added, giving Volodya a smile.
The battery commander did not seem at all as stern as he had done the previous day; indeed, he was acting like a good-natured, hospitable host and elder colleague. Even so, all the officers, from the old captain to the argumentative Dyadenko, demonstrated by the polite way in which they addressed the commander, looking him straight in the eye, and by the way they came up timidly, one by one, to take a glass of vodka, that they held him in great respect.
Dinner consisted of a large tureen of cabbage soup in which floated fatty gobbets of beef and an enormous quantity of peppers and bay leaves, Polish zrazy[46] with mustard, and peppered meat pies served with butter that was not quite fresh. There were no table-napkins, the spoons were of either the tin or the wooden variety, there were only two glasses, and the only drink on the table was a grey decanter of water; the decanter’s neck had been broken off. The meal was not, however, a tedious one: the conversation never flagged for one instant. It centred initially on the battle of Inkerman, in which the battery had taken part and concerning the unsuccessful outcome of which each man ventured his own ideas and suggestions, falling silent whenever the battery commander began to speak. It then moved on naturally to the question of the inadequate calibre of the light field-pieces, and to that of the new, simplified cannon, at which point Volodya was able to demonstrate his knowledge of artillery. What the conversation never really touched upon, however, was the truly dreadful situation of Sebastopol; it was as though each man had already devoted too much thought to this subject for him to wish to discuss it further. Neither, to Volodya’s surprise and dismay, was there ever any mention of the duties he was to perform; it was as if he had come all the way to Sebastopol solely in order to talk about simplified cannon and have dinner with the battery commander. While they were eating, a shell landed not far from the house. The floor and walls shuddered as from an earthquake, and the windows were clouded by powder smoke.
“I don’t expect you see such things in St Petersburg; but we often have little surprises like that here,” said the battery commander. “Vlang, take a look and see where that one landed.”
Vlang went to look and said the shell had landed in the square. No one mentioned the incident again after that.
Just before dinner came to an end, an old man—the battery clerk—came into the room carrying three sealed envelopes, which he gave to the battery commander. “This one’s extremely urgent, sir, a Cossack’s just brought it from the commander of artillery,” he said. The officers could not help watching the battery commander’s fingers as, experienced in this task, they broke open the seal on the envelope and took out the extremely urgent document. “What’s this going to be?” each man wondered. It mi
ght be orders for a complete withdrawal from Sebastopol, or it might be a command that summoned the entire battery to the bastions.
“Not again!” said the battery commander, angrily flinging the document down on the table.
“What does it say, Apollon Sergeich?” asked a senior officer.
“They want an officer and crew for some mortar battery or other they’ve got over there. I’ve only four officers, and not one of my own crews is complete,” growled the battery commander. “Yet here they are, at me again. Anyway, someone will have to go, gentlemen,” he said, after a moment or two’s silence. “Whoever it is must be at the Turnpike at seven . . . Get the sergeant-major over here. All right, gentlemen, make up your minds who it’s to be,” he said.
“This fellow hasn’t been anywhere yet,” said Chernovitsky, indicating Volodya.
The battery commander made no reply to this.
“Yes, I’d like to go,” said Volodya, feeling a cold sweat breaking out on his neck and back.
“No, why should it be him?” said the captain, intervening. “We all know that no one’s going to refuse to go, but we’re not having any gatecrashers, either. And since Apollon Sergeich is leaving it up to ourselves, why don’t we draw lots like we did last time?”
Everyone was in agreement: Kraut cut some strips of paper, rolled them up and placed them in his cap. The captain fooled around and even ventured to ask the colonel if on this occasion they might not have some wine, “to give us courage,” as he put it. Dyadenko sat looking gloomy, Volodya smiled to himself about something, and Chernovitsky kept telling everybody that he was the one who would have to go. Kraut alone remained absolutely calm.
Volodya was allowed to draw first. He picked up one of the longer rolls of paper, but immediately decided to exchange it for another which was shorter and fatter. Opening it out, he read the word “Go.”
“It’s me,” he said, sighing.