The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories Page 4

  (Later in the Caucasus I found out — not through the captain, however — that he had been severely wounded four times but, needless to say, had not written one word to his mother either about wounds or campaigns.)

  ‘So, let him wear this holy image now,’ she continued. ‘My blessing goes with it. May the Holy Mother of God protect him! Especially in battles — that’s when he must never forget to wear it. Please tell him, dear sir, that those are his mother’s wishes.’

  I promised to do exactly as she asked.

  ‘I know you’ll like my Pashenka,’ the old lady went on. ‘He’s a wonderful man. Why, he never lets a year go by without sending me money. And he’s a great help to my daughter Annushka, too. And all he has is his army pay! I shall always be so thankful to God for giving me such a son,’ she concluded with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Does he write often?’ I asked.

  ‘Rarely. Perhaps a few words once a year, when he sends me money, but not otherwise. “If you don’t hear from me,” he writes, “that means I’m alive and well. But should anything happen to me, God forbid, they’ll be sure to let you know!” ’

  When I gave the captain his mother’s present (it was in my quarters) he asked me for some paper, carefully wrapped it and put it away. I told him a great deal about his mother’s life, but he said nothing. When I had finished, he retired to one corner of the room and took what appeared to be ages to fill his pipe.

  ‘Yes, she’s a fine old lady,’ he said from over there in a rather muffled voice. ‘Will God ever let me see her again?’

  In those simple words there was much affection and sadness.

  ‘Why do you serve here?’ I asked.

  ‘One has to,’ he replied with conviction. ‘The double pay means a lot for poor devils like me.’

  The captain lived frugally: he did not play cards, rarely went out drinking, and he smoked very cheap tobacco which, for some reason, he was too proud to call shag, giving it some obscure brand name instead. I had taken to the captain from the start: he had one of those simple, calm Russian faces that are easy and pleasant to look straight in the eye. After this conversation I felt deep respect for him.

  2

  Next morning at four o’clock the captain came for me. He wore an old threadbare coat without epaulettes, wide Caucasian trousers, a sheepskin cap which once had been white but which was now yellow and tattered; a rather inferior Asiatic sabre was strapped around his shoulder. His small white horse ambled along, its head hung low and its thin tail swinging. Although the good captain’s appearance had nothing particularly martial or handsome about it, it expressed such equanimity towards everything around that it could only inspire respect.

  I did not keep him waiting, but immediately mounted my horse and together we rode out of the fortress gates.

  The battalion was about five hundred yards ahead of us and resembled some dense swaying black mass. One could tell that it was the infantry only from the bayonets, which looked like a bunch of tightly packed needles, and from the snatches of songs, the beating of a drum and the delightful voice of the Sixth Company’s second tenor (I had often admired it back in the fortress) which occasionally reached us. The road ran along a deep and wide ravine by the side of a small stream in full spate. Flocks of wild pigeons circled over it, settling on its rocky banks or turning, swiftly wheeling and disappearing from sight. The sun was not yet visible, but the top of the right slope of the ravine was just beginning to brighten. Grey and whitish pebbles, yellow-green moss, dew-covered Christ’s Thorn bushes, dog-wood and dwarf elm could all be seen with extraordinary clarity in the limpid, golden light of dawn. But the other side of the ravine and the valley, which was shrouded in drifting, smoky layers of dense mist, were damp and gloomy and presented an elusive medley of colours — pale lilac, shades of black, dark green and white. Directly in front of us rose the dazzling white masses of snowy mountains, strikingly clear against the deep azure of the horizon, their shadows and outlines fantastic but graceful in every detail. Crickets, dragonflies and myriads of other insects awoke in the tall grass and filled the air with their clear incessant sounds: it was as if countless numbers of tiny bells were ringing in our ears. The air smelled of water, grass, mist — all the scents of a beautiful early summer’s morning. The captain struck a flint and lit his pipe. I found the smell of his cheap tobacco and tinder extremely pleasant.

  We rode along the side of the road to catch up more quickly with the infantry. The captain seemed more pensive than usual, never took his Daghestan pipe from his mouth and at every step prodded his little horse with his heels. Swaying from side to side, the horse left barely perceptible, dark green tracks in the tall wet grass. A pheasant flew out from under its hoofs with that cry and whirr of wings that makes every huntsman involuntarily start, and then slowly rose into the sky. The captain didn’t take the slightest notice of it.

  We had almost caught up with the infantry when we heard the thud of hoofs behind us and a very handsome young man in officer’s uniform and tall white sheepskin cap galloped past, nodding at the captain and flourishing his whip ... I only had time to notice the unique grace with which he sat in the saddle and held the reins, his beautiful black eyes, his fine nose and the first signs of a moustache. What I particularly liked about him was the way he could not stop smiling when he saw us admiring him. The smile alone showed that he was indeed very young.

  ‘Where does he think he’s dashing off to?’ the captain muttered with a dissatisfied look, his pipe still in his mouth.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Ensign Alanin, a subaltern from my company. He arrived from the Cadet Corps only last month.’

  ‘So this is the first time he’s seen action, is it?’

  ‘Yes — that’s why he’s so pleased!’ the captain replied, thoughtfully shaking his head. ‘Youth!’

  ‘But why shouldn’t he be pleased? I can imagine how interesting it must be for a young officer.’

  For a couple of minutes the captain did not reply.

  ‘That’s just what I mean by youth!’ the captain continued in his deep voice. ‘Why be pleased when you haven’t even seen the real thing? When you’ve seen it a few times you’re not so pleased! Now, I reckon there’s about twenty officers going into action today and you can bet your life that someone or other will be killed or wounded. Today it might be me, and him the day after. So what’s there to be pleased about?’

  3

  The moment the bright sun appeared above the hill and began to light up the valley through which we were passing, the rolling layers of mist lifted and it grew hot. The infantry, rifles and kitbags on their backs, slowly marched along the dusty road. Now and then laughter and the sound of Ukrainian could be heard in their ranks. A few old campaigners in white tunics — mostly non-commissioned officers — were walking by the roadside smoking their pipes and in solemn conversation. Heavily laden wagons, each drawn by three horses, trundled along, raising clouds of dust that hung motionless in the air. The officers rode in front. Some of them were dhzigiting,2 as they say in the Caucasus. That is, they kept whipping their horses to make them perform three or four leaps and then jerked their heads backwards to bring them to an abrupt halt. Others were busy with the singers who untiringly sang song after song, in spite of the stifling heat.

  About two hundred yards ahead of the infantry a tall handsome officer in Caucasian costume rode with the mounted Tartars on a white stallion. Renowned in the regiment for his reckless daring, he was not afraid to tell anyone what he thought of them, no matter who that person was. He wore a black quilted jacket trimmed with gold lace, leggings to match, new tight-fitting soft Caucasian boots that were also trimmed with gold, a yellow Circassian coat and a tall sheepskin cap that was tilted backwards. Over his chest and back were silver straps, to which a powder flask and pistol were fastened. Another pistol and a silver-mounted dagger hung from his belt. Above them was a sword in a red morocco sheath and a rifle in a black case was slung over his shoulder. From the way he dressed, his posture in the saddle, his general bearing and movements, it was obvious that he was trying to look like a Tartar. He even said something to the Tartars with whom he was riding in a language I did not understand and I gathered from the bewildered mocking looks the Tartars gave each other that they did not understand either. He was one of those young, daredevil officers who model themselves on Marlinsky’s or Lermontov’s heroes. These young men view the Caucasus only through the prism of these Mullah Nurs3 and Heroes of Our Time4 and in everything they do are guided by the example of these models and not by their own inclinations.

  The lieutenant, for example, may well have liked the company of well-bred women, of high-ranking men such as generals, colonels, aides-de-camp, and I do not doubt for one moment that he doted on such company, for he was extremely conceited. Nevertheless, he considered that it was his solemn duty to show all important people his rough side, although always in moderation. For example, whenever a lady appeared at the fortress he considered it his duty to parade beneath her window with his Tartar friends, wearing only a red shirt and slippers over his bare feet, shouting and swearing at the top of his voice. But his intention was not so much to cause offence as to show the lady what fine white legs he had and how easy it would be for her to fall in love with him, had he so wished. He would make frequent excursions into the hills with two or three of his Tartar friends to lie in ambush by the roadside and kill a few hostile passing Tartars. And although his heart told him more than once that there was nothing very daring in this, he felt that he must cause suffering to those who disappointed him for some reason, or whom he professed to hate or despise. There were two things he always carried — a large icon which hung round his neck and a dagger which he wore over his shirt, even in
bed. He genuinely believed that he had enemies and convincing himself that he must take revenge on someone and wash away some insult with blood brought him the greatest pleasure. He was quite certain that hatred, vengeance and contempt for the human race were the noblest and most poetic of emotions. But his mistress (a Circassian girl, of course), whom I happened to meet later, maintained that he was the kindest and gentlest of men, and that every evening he would enter his melancholy thoughts in a diary, draw up his accounts on ruled paper, and then go down on his knees to pray. And how that man suffered, just to appear in his own eyes the way he wanted to appear, for his fellow officers and the soldiers could never see him the way he wanted to be seen.

  Once, during one of those nocturnal expeditions on the road with his Tartar friends, he happened to wound a hostile Chechen in the leg with a bullet and took him prisoner. For seven weeks after that incident the Chechen lived with the lieutenant, who nursed and looked after him as though he were a bosom friend and then, when he had recovered, loaded him with presents and let him go. Not long afterwards, during an engagement, when the lieutenant was retreating with his men, firing as he went, he heard an enemy soldier call out his name and the Chechen he had wounded rode out and motioned to him to do the same. The lieutenant rode out to his Chechen friend and shook hands. The other Chechens kept their distance and did not shoot, but the moment the lieutenant turned his horse several of them fired at him and one bullet grazed the small of his back. Another time, at night, when a fire broke out in the fortress and two companies of soldiers tried to put it out, I suddenly saw the tall figure of a man on a black horse, lit up by the red glow, appear in the crowd. Forcing his way through, he rode right up to the fire, leapt from his horse and ran into a house, one side of which was burning. Five minutes later he emerged with singed hair and his arm badly burnt around the elbow, carrying in his bosom two pigeons he had rescued from the flames.

  His name was Rosenkrantz, but he would often speak of his ancestry, somehow tracing his origins back to the Varangians,5 thus clearly proving that he and his ancestors were pure Russians.

  4

  The sun had run half its course and cast its fiery rays through the glowing air on to the dry earth. The dark blue sky was perfectly clear; only the foot of the snowy mountains was beginning to be cloaked by pale, lilac clouds. The motionless air seemed filled with a kind of transparent dust and the heat was becoming unbearable. When the troops reached a small stream

  - the halfway stage — they halted. The soldiers stacked rifles and rushed to the water. The battalion commander sat down on a drum in the shade. Demonstrating the importance of his rank by the expression on his face, he prepared to have a snack with his fellow officers. The captain lay down on the grass under his company’s wagon. The intrepid Lieutenant Rosenkrantz and some other young officers sat on their outspread cloaks, intending to make merry, judging from all the bottles and flasks around them and from the peculiar animation of the singers who stood before them in a semicircle, whistling and singing a Caucasian dance-song:Shamil thought he would rebel,

  In bygone years ...

  Tra-ra, ra-ta-tai ...

  In bygone years.

  Among these young officers was the young ensign who had overtaken us that morning. He was extremely amusing — his eyes sparkled, his speech was rather muddled and he wanted to kiss and declare his love for everyone ... Poor young man! As yet he had no idea that he might look ridiculous or that the frankness and affection which he lavished on everyone might arouse only ridicule, and not the affection he greatly yearned for. Nor did he realize how exceptionally appealing he looked when, with flushed face, he threw himself at last on to his cloak, rested on one elbow and tossed back his thick black hair.

  Filled with curiosity, I listened to the soldiers’ and officers’ conversations and closely studied their expressions. But I could find absolutely no trace in any of them of the nervousness I was feeling: their jokes and laughter, the stories they told — all this was indicative of their high spirits and their indifference to impending danger. It was as though it was unthinkable that some of them were fated never to return by that road.

  5

  After six o’clock that evening, dusty and tired, we passed through the wide fortified gates of the fortress at N — . The sun was setting and cast slanting rosy rays on the picturesque batteries, on the gardens surrounding the fortress, with their tall poplars, on yellow wheat fields and on the white clouds that hung low over the snow-covered mountains: as if imitating them, they formed a range that was no less fantastic and beautiful. On the horizon the new moon was like a tiny translucent cloud. A Tartar was calling the faithful to prayer from the roof of a hut in the village just by the fortress gates. Our singers burst into song again with renewed vigour and energy.

  When I had rested and tidied myself up I went to see an aide-de-camp I knew to ask if he would convey my intentions to the general. On the way from the suburb where I was billeted I saw things in the fortress of N — that I had not at all been expecting to see. I was overtaken by a handsome two-seater carriage in which I caught sight of a fashionable bonnet and from which I could hear the sound of French. The strains of some ‘Liza’ or ‘Katenka’ polka played on an out-of-tune piano came from the open window of the commandant’s house. I passed a tavern where some clerks with cigarettes in their hands were sitting over glasses of wine and I could hear one saying to the other, ‘Look here, old chap, when it comes to politics, Marya Grigorevna is first and foremost amongst the ladies here.’ A hunchbacked sickly faced Jew in a threadbare coat was dragging a wheezy old barrel-organ and the whole suburb echoed to the finale from Lucia. Two women in rustling dresses with silk kerchiefs on their heads and brightly coloured parasols in their hands glided past me on the wooden pavement. Two young girls, one in a pink dress, the other in a blue, stood bareheaded outside a low-roofed cottage and broke into shrill, forced laughter, evidently to attract the attention of passing officers. As for the officers, they swaggered up and down the street in new uniforms, with white gloves and glittering epaulettes.

  I found my acquaintance on the ground floor of the general’s house. I scarcely had time to explain my wish and to hear that there was no problem in carrying it out when the same handsome carriage I had seen earlier rattled past the window where we were sitting and stopped at the entrance. A tall, well-built man in an infantry major’s uniform climbed out and went into the house.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ said the aide, getting up. ‘I must go and announce them to the general immediately.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘The countess,’ he replied, buttoning his uniform as he rushed upstairs. A few minutes later a short but extremely good-looking man in a frock-coat without epaulettes and with a white cross in his buttonhole went out on to the front steps, accompanied by two other officers. The general’s gait, his voice, his every movement, showed that here was a man fully conscious of his own worth.

  ‘Bonsoir, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, offering his hand through the carriage window.

  A small hand in a kid glove pressed his and a pretty, smiling face in a yellow bonnet appeared at the window. All I could hear of their conversation, which lasted several minutes, was the smiling general saying as I passed, ‘Vous savez que j’ai fait voeu de combattre les infidèles; prenez donc garde de le devenir.’

  Laughter came from the carriage.

  ‘Adieu donc, cher General.’

  ‘Non, au revoir,’ said the general as he went up the steps. ‘N’oubliez pas que je m’invite pour la soirée de demain.’

  The carriage clattered off down the street.

  Now there’s a man, I thought as I walked home, who possesses all that Russians strive after: rank, wealth, family. And the day before a battle that could finish God knows how, he can joke with a pretty woman and promise to have tea with her the next day, just as if they had met at a ball!