The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories Page 5

  Later, at the aide-de-camp’s house, I met someone who surprised me even more. He was a young lieutenant from K — Regiment, a man of almost feminine gentleness and timidity, who had called on the aide to give vent to his bitterness and annoyance towards certain people who had apparently intrigued against him to stop him taking part in the forthcoming action. He maintained that it was very caddish of them, not the decent thing at all, that he would not forget it, and so on. The more I scrutinized his face and listened to his voice, the more convinced I became that he was not play-acting, that he was deeply resentful and distressed at not being allowed to go and shoot Circassians and expose himself to their fire. He was as upset as an unfairly beaten child ... I was completely mystified by it all.

  6

  The troops were to move out at ten that night. At half-past eight I mounted my horse and rode to the general’s house, but on the assumption that the general and his aide would be busy I stopped in the street, tied my horse to a fence and waited for him to come out.

  The heat and glare of the sun had already given way to the coolness of night and the soft light of the new moon which was just setting — a pale, shimmering crescent against the dark, starry sky. Lights appeared in the windows of the houses and shone through chinks in the shutters of the mud huts. Beyond those whitewashed moonlit huts with their rush-thatched roofs, the graceful poplars seemed even taller and darker on the horizon.

  The long shadows of houses, trees and fences formed pretty patterns on the bright, dusty road ... From the river came the incessant, resonant call of frogs.6 In the streets I could hear hurried footsteps and voices, a galloping horse. Now and then the sound of the barrel-organ playing the song ‘The Winds are Gently Blowing’ or some ‘Aurora’ waltz drifted over from the suburb.

  I shall not say what I was thinking about then, firstly because I am too ashamed to admit to the succession of gloomy thoughts that kept nagging at me while all around there was only joy and gaiety, and secondly because they would be quite irrelevant to my narrative. I was so deep in thought that I did not even notice when the bell struck eleven and the general rode past me with his suite. I hurriedly mounted my horse and raced off to catch up with the detachment.

  The rearguard was still inside the fortress and I had great difficulty crossing the bridge, with all those guns, ammunition wagons, supply carts, and officers shouting out orders. Once through the gates I trotted past the line of soldiers which stretched in a line almost a mile long and who were silently moving through the darkness, and finally I caught up with the general. As I passed the guns drawn out in single file and the officers riding between them I suddenly heard a voice call in a German accent, ‘A linshtock, you schwein!’ which struck a jarring, discordant note amid the quiet solemn harmony, followed by a soldier hurriedly shouting, ‘Shevchenko! The lieutenant wants a light!’

  Most of the sky was overcast with long, dark grey clouds, with only a few dim stars twinkling here and there. The moon had disappeared behind the black mountains on the near horizon to the right and shed a faint, trembling light on their peaks, in sharp contrast to the impenetrable gloom enveloping their foothills. The air was so warm and still that not one blade of grass, not one cloud moved. It was so dark that it was impossible to make out even the closest objects: by the side of the road I thought I could see rocks, animals, strange people and it was only when I heard them rustle and smelled the fresh dew that lay on them that I realized they were only bushes.

  Before me I could see a dense, heaving black wall, followed by several dark spots: this was the cavalry vanguard, and the general and his suite. Behind us was a similar dark mass, lower than the first: this was the infantry.

  The whole detachment was so quiet that I could distinctly hear all the mingling sounds of night, so full of enchanting mystery: the mournful howling of distant jackals, now like a despairing lament, now like laughter; the sonorous, monotonous song of crickets, frogs, quails; a rumbling noise whose cause baffled me and which seemed to be coming ever nearer; and all of Nature’s barely audible nocturnal sounds that defy explanation or definition and merge into one rich, beautiful harmony that we call the stillness of night. And now that stillness was broken by — or rather, blended with — the dull thud of hoofs and the rustle of the tall grass as the detachment slowly advanced.

  Only occasionally did I hear the clang of a heavy gun, the clatter of clashing bayonets, hushed voices, or a horse snorting. Nature seemed to breathe with pacifying beauty and power.

  Can it be that there is not enough space for man in this beautiful world, under those immeasurable, starry heavens? Is it possible that man’s heart can harbour, amid such ravishing natural beauty, feelings of hatred, vengeance, or the desire to destroy his fellows? All the evil in man, one would think, should disappear on contact with Nature, the most spontaneous expression of beauty and goodness.

  7

  We had been on the move for more than two hours. I began to feel shivery and drowsy. In the darkness I could still catch glimpses of vague shapes: not far ahead was that same black wall and those same little moving dots. Close by I could make out the rump of a white horse swishing its tail, with its hind legs wide apart; the back of a white Circassian coat with a rifle in a black case swinging against it and a white pistol butt in an embroidered holster; the glow of a cigarette lighting up a fair moustache, a beaver collar and a hand in a kid glove. Every now and then I leant forward over my horse’s neck, closed my eyes and forgot myself for a few minutes. But then the familiar tramping of hoofs and rustling would suddenly bring me to my senses and I would glance round, feeling that I was standing still and that the black wall in front was moving towards me, or had stopped and I was about to ride straight into it. At one such moment I was even more conscious of the unbroken rumbling that I had been unable to explain and which was drawing nearer. What I had heard was in fact the sound of water. We were entering a deep gorge and approaching a mountain torrent that was in full spate at this time of year.7

  The roar grew louder, the damp grass became thicker and taller; there were more bushes and the horizon gradually closed in. Now and then bright lights flared up here and there in the dark mountains and immediately vanished.

  ‘Please tell me what those lights are,’ I whispered to a Tartar riding beside me.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ he replied.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the mountain tribesmen. They tie bundles of straw to poles, light them and wave them around.’

  ‘Why are they doing that?’

  ‘To warn everyone the Russians are coming. They must be running around like mad in the villages now,’ he added, laughing. ‘Everyone will be dragging his belongings down into the gorge.’

  ‘Surely they can’t already know from right up there, in the mountains, that a detachment is coming?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, they know all right! They always know. We Tartars are like that!’

  ‘So Shamil8 too is preparing for action?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Shamil himself won’t be taking part — he’ll send his henchmen while he watches from up there through a telescope.’

  ‘Does he live far away?’

  ‘No, not very far. About eight miles away, over to the left.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Yes. All our people have been there.’

  ‘And did you see Shamil?’

  ‘No! It’s not for the likes of us to see Shamil! He’s always surrounded by his bodyguards — a hundred, three hundred, perhaps a thousand of them, with Shamil himself somewhere in the middle!’ he added with an expression of servile respect.

  When I looked up I saw that the sky had cleared and it was growing brighter in the east, while the Pleiades were sinking towards the horizon. But it was damp and gloomy in the gorge through which we were advancing.

  Suddenly, not far ahead, several lights flashed in the darkness and almost instantaneously some bullets whistled past. The shots rang out in the silence, together with a loud shrill cry from the enemy’s advance picket, made up of Tartars, who whooped, fired at random and scattered.

  When all was quiet again, the general summoned his interpreter. The Tartar in the white Circassian coat rode up and had a long talk with him, gesticulating and whispering.

  ‘Colonel Khasanov! Tell the men to advance in open order,’ the general drawled, softly but audibly.

  The detachment advanced towards the river, leaving the towering dark sides of the gorge behind. It began to grow light. The sky immediately above the horizon, where a few pale stars could just be seen, seemed higher. The dawn glowed brightly in the east, while from the west blew a fresh, piercing breeze; shimmering mist rose like steam over the rushing river.

  8

  Our scout showed us the ford and the cavalry vanguard, followed by the general and his suite, started crossing the river. The water, which came up to the horses’ chests, rushed with tremendous force between the white boulders which appeared here and there above the surface, and foamed and eddied around the animals’ legs. Startled by the noise, the horses lifted their heads and pricked up their ears, but they stepped carefully and steadily against the current, over the uneven riverbed. The riders lifted their feet and weapons; the infantry, in literally nothing but their shirts, and holding above the water their rifles, to which their clothes were tied in bundles, linked arms in groups of twenty and struggled bravely against the current, the enormous strain clearly showing in their faces. The mounted artillerymen gave a loud shout and drove their horses into the water at a trot. Now and then the water splashed over the guns and green ammunition wagons whose wheels rang against the bottom. But the sturdy little horses all pulled together, churning the water, until finally they clambered up on to the opposite bank with dripping manes and tails.

  Immediately the crossing was completed, the general’s face suddenly became thoughtful and serious. He turned his horse and trotted off with his cavalry down the broad glade which opened out in the middle of the forest before us; a cordon of Cossacks spread out around the edges.

  In the forest we spotted a man on foot dressed in a Circassian coat and a tall sheepskin cap ... then a second ... and a third ... One of the officers said, ‘They’re Tartars’, and at that moment a puff of smoke appeared from behind a tree, followed by the report, then another. Our rapid fire drowned the enemy’s and only occasionally did a bullet come flying past with a sound like the slow buzz of a bee, as if to show us that not all the shots were ours. First the infantry, at the double, followed by the field guns at a trot, joined the cordon. I could hear the guns booming, then the metallic sound of flying grapeshot, the hiss of rockets, the crackle of rifles. All over the broad glade could be seen cavalry, infantry and artillery. Puffs of smoke from the guns, rockets and rifles mingled with the dewy verdure and the mist. Colonel Khasanov galloped over to the general and sharply reined in his horse.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, touching his cap, ‘shall I order the cavalry to charge? The enemy’s colours are in sight.’ And he pointed with his whip at some mounted Tartars headed by two men on white horses bearing poles decorated with bits of red and blue cloth.

  ‘Carry on — and good luck!’ the general replied.

  The colonel turned his horse on the spot, drew his sabre and shouted, ‘Hurrah!’

  ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ echoed from the troops and the cavalry flew after him.

  Everyone watched with great enthusiasm as one colour appeared, then a second, a third, fourth, fifth ...

  Without waiting for us to attack, the enemy hid in the forest from where they opened fire with their rifles. The bullets flew thicker.

  ‘Quel charmant coup d’oeil!’ the general remarked, rising slightly, English-style, in the saddle of his slim-legged black horse.

  ‘Charrmant,’ replied the major, rolling his r’s and striking his horse as he rode over to the general. ‘C’est un vrrai plaisirr que la guerre dans un aussi beau pays,’ he said.

  ‘Et surtout en bonne compagnie,’ the general added, pleasantly smiling. The major bowed.

  Just then, an enemy cannon ball flew past with a nasty hiss and struck something. Behind us we heard the moan of a wounded soldier. This moan had such a peculiar effect on me that the spectacle immediately lost all its charm. However, I seemed to be the only one to notice it — the major was laughing with great gusto; another officer was repeating with the utmost composure what he had just been saying; and the general was looking the other way and saying something in French with the most tranquil of smiles.

  ‘Shall we return their fire?’ the artillery commander asked, galloping up.

  ‘Yes, let’s give them a fright!’ the general replied nonchalantly, lighting a cigar.

  The battery took up position and the firing began. The earth groaned under the shots, lights continually flashed and my eyes were blinded by the clouds of smoke through which it was almost impossible to make out the gun crews at work.

  The village was bombarded and Colonel Khasanov galloped up once more and then rode off to it at the general’s command. The war cry rang out again and the cavalry disappeared in clouds of dust. It was a truly magnificent scene. But the one thing that spoilt the general impression for me, an inexperienced onlooker, who had not taken part, was all that movement, animation and shouting, which seemed quite superfluous. I could not help comparing it to a man swinging an axe to cut only thin air.

  9

  Our troops had occupied the village, in which not one of the enemy was left by the time the general arrived with his suite, to which I had attached myself. The long clean huts with their flat earthen roofs and pretty chimneys were scattered over small stony hillocks, through which flowed a stream. On one side were green sunlit gardens with enormous pear and plum trees, while on the other were the strange shadows cast by the tall, erect headstones in the cemetery and the long poles with balls and multicoloured flags fixed to their ends which marked the graves of the dhzigits, the bravest warriors.

  The troops were drawn up outside the gates.

  A few moments later dragoons, Cossacks and infantrymen poured down the crooked lanes with evident delight and the deserted village immediately sprang to life. Somewhere a roof came crashing down, an axe rang out against a strong wooden door. Somewhere else a haystack, a fence and a hut were set on fire and a thick column of smoke rose into the clear air. A Cossack dragged a sack of flour and a carpet along; a soldier emerged from a hut, gleefully carrying a tin basin and some bits of old cloth. Another, with outstretched arms, was trying to catch two hens that were cackling and beating their wings by a fence. A third soldier, who had found a huge pot of milk, drank some and then threw it down with loud guffaws.

  The battalion with which I had left N — fortress was also in the village. The captain sat on the roof of a hut smoking his cheap tobacco and sending streams of smoke from his short pipe with such a casual air that when I saw him I forgot that I was in an enemy village and felt quite at home.

  ‘Ah, so you’re here, too,’ he said when he saw me.

  The tall figure of Lieutenant Rosenkrantz flitted around the village. He gave one order after the other and seemed to have a lot to do. I saw him emerge from one hut with a triumphant expression, followed by two soldiers leading an old Tartar whose hands were tied. This old man, whose only clothing was a gaily coloured but ragged coat and much-patched trousers, looked so frail that his bony arms, tightly bound behind his hunched back, seemed about to part company with his shoulders, and he could hardly drag his bare crooked feet along. His face, and even part of his shaven head, was deeply furrowed; his misshapen, toothless mouth with a close-cut grey moustache and beard around it, was always moving, as if he were chewing. But there was still a gleam in those red, lashless eyes which quite clearly expressed an old man’s indifference to life.

  Rosenkrantz asked him, through the interpreter, why he had not gone with the others.

  ‘Where could I have gone?’ he replied, quietly looking away.

  ‘Where the others have gone,’ someone suggested.

  ‘The dhzigits have gone off to fight the Russians, but I’m an old man.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of the Russians?’

  ‘What can they do to me? I’m an old man,’ he repeated, nonchalantly surveying the circle that had formed around him.

  Later, when I was returning, I saw that same old man bumping along behind a Cossack’s saddle, bound and bareheaded, still looking around with the same indifferent expression. They needed him for an exchange with Russian prisoners.

  I climbed up on to the roof and sat beside the captain.

  ‘It seems there weren’t very many of the enemy,’ I told him, wishing to find out his opinion of the raid.

  ‘The enemy?’ he repeated in surprise. ‘But there wasn’t any enemy! Do you call that the enemy? Just you wait until this evening when we leave - they’ll be simply pouring out from over there to speed us on our way!’

  He pointed with his pipe at the small wood through which we had passed that morning.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked anxiously, interrupting the captain and pointing to a group of Don Cossacks who had gathered around something not far from us.

  Something like a baby’s cry came from there and the words, ‘Hey, stop ... don’t cut it ... they’ll see. Got a knife, Yevstigneich? Give it me ...’

  ‘They’re up to something, the devils,’ the captain calmly remarked. But just then the handsome ensign, his face flushed and frightened, ran out. Waving his arms he dashed over to the Cossacks.

  ‘Don’t touch it! Don’t hurt it!’ he cried in a childlike voice. The moment they saw the officer, the Cossacks stepped aside and released a little white kid. The young ensign seemed quite confused, kept muttering something and stood before them with an embarrassed look. When he saw the captain and myself on the roof he blushed even deeper and skipped over to us. ‘I thought they were killing a child,’ he said with a timid smile.