VI
Difficult marches, dust, heat, fatigue, bleeding feet, brief halts by day, deathlike slumber by night, the hated bugle waking us at scarce dawn, and all the time fields—fields. Not like those in our own country, but covered with high, green, loudly-rustling, long, silky leaves of maize or wheat, already in places turning yellow.
The same faces, the same regimental life, the same topics of conversation and tales of home, of the halt in the provincial town, and criticisms of the officers.
Of the future we seldom and unwillingly spoke. We only knew vaguely that we were going to war, notwithstanding the fact that we had halted not far from Kishineff for a whole six months, although quite ready to march. It would have been possible during that time to have explained why we were preparing for war, but I suppose it was not considered necessary. I remember a soldier one day asked me:
“Vladimir Mikhailich, shall we soon arrive in Bokhara?”
I thought at first that I had not heard correctly, but when he repeated the question I replied that Bokhara was beyond two seas, four thousand versts away, and we were never likely to get there.
“No, Mikhailich, don’t talk like that. One of the regimental clerks has told me. He says that we shall cross the Danube, and then we shall be in Bokhara.”
“Not Bokhara—Bulgaria!” I exclaimed.
“Well, Bokhara or Bulgaria, whichever you call it, isn’t it all the same?”
And he said no more, evidently dissatisfied.
We only knew that we were going to kill the Turk because he had shed much blood. And we wanted to kill him, not so much for the blood he had shed of persons not known to us, but because he had upset so many people that, through it, we were forced to experience a hard campaign (“for which we are going a thousand versts to him, the unclean beast!”). Those on furlough and reservists were obliged to leave home and family, and all go together somewhere under shell and bullet. The Turk was pictured as a rioter and ringleader, whom it was necessary to pacify and subdue.
We occupied ourselves much more with our family, battalion, and company affairs than in the war. In our company all was quiet and peaceful. But matters went from bad to worse with the rifle company. Ventzel did not grow more sensible. Secret indignation grew, and after one incident, which, even now, five years afterwards, I cannot remember without becoming worked up, it developed into regular hatred.
We had just passed through a town, and had come out on to a field where the first regiment, marching ahead of us, had already pitched its tents. The camp was a good one. On one side was a river, on the other an old clean oak grove, probably a resort of the local inhabitants. It was a nice warm evening. The sun was setting. We halted and piled arms. I and Jitkoff began to pitch our shelter. We had fixed up the supports. I was holding one edge of the sheet, and Jitkoff was hammering in a peg with a stick.
“Tighter, hold it tighter, Mikhailich.” (He had for some days past commenced to address me in this intimate way.) “There, that’s right.”
But at this moment from behind us there came some strange measured smacking sounds. I turned round.
The riflemen were standing in line. Ventzel, shouting out something hoarsely, was hitting one of the soldiers in the face. The man, with a face pale as death, holding his rifle at the order and not daring to avoid the blows, was trembling all over. Ventzel’s thin, small body swayed with the force of the blows he was dealing with both hands, first the right and then the left. Everyone around was silent—only the smack was heard and the hoarse muttering of the infuriated commander. Everything went dark, and began to swim before me. I made a movement. Jitkoff understood it, and tugged with all his strength at the tent sheet.
“Hang on to it, d⸺n you, you awkward—” he shouted, showering the most abusive epithets on me.
“Have your hands withered or what? Where are you looking? Have you never seen it before?”
The blows continued to resound. Blood was trickling from the man’s upper lip and chin. At last he fell, Ventzel turned round, and glaring full at the whole company, shouted:
“If anyone else dares to smoke, I will treat the blackguard worse. Lift him up, wash his ugly face, and put him in the tent. Let him lie there. Pile arms!” he commanded.
His hands were trembling, red, swollen, and covered with blood. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his hands, and left the men, who had piled their arms and were dangerously silent. Several of them, muttering amongst themselves, collected around the bruised victim, and raised him. Ventzel was walking with a nervous, worn-out gait. He was pale and his eyes glistened. The twitching of his muscles told how hard his teeth were set. He went past us, and, meeting my searching look, he smiled with his thin lips, only in an unnatural, derisive manner, and, muttering something, went on.
“Bloodsucker!” said Jitkoff, with hatred in his voice. “And you too, sir. … What did you want to go there for? Do you want to be shot? Wait a little, and they will get even with him.”
“Will they complain?” I asked. “If so, to whom?”
“No, there will be no complaint. We also will do something.”
And he muttered something almost to himself. I dared not understand him. Feodoroff, who had already been amongst the riflemen and asked what it was all about, came back to us.
“He bullies the men without any reason,” he said. “This little soldier, Matushkin, was smoking on the march. When they halted he ordered his rifle, keeping the cigarette between his fingers. Evidently, and unluckily for him, he forgot all about it. But Ventzel noticed it. Brute, beast!” he added sorrowfully, laying himself down in the tent, which was now ready. “The cigarette was out. It’s quite clear the poor beggar had forgotten.”
In the course of a few days we marched into Alexandria, where an enormous number of troops had collected. Whilst still coming down the high mountain, we saw an enormous expanse dotted with white tents and the black figures of men, long horse lines and glistening rows of guns with their green carriages and limbers. Whole crowds of officers and men were wandering through the streets of the town. Lugubrious, mournful Hungarian music, mingling with the clatter of dishes and loud conversation, came from the open windows of crowded and dirty hotels. The little shops were crammed with Russian purchasers. Our soldiers, Romanians, foreigners, and Jews shouted loudly at each other, without making themselves understood. Quarrels as to the rate of exchange on the paper rouble could be heard at every step.
“Where is the Post-Office?” with exaggerated courtesy and touching the peak of his kepi with his hand, inquires of a smartly-dressed Romanian an officer equipped with a Soldier’s Translator, a little book with which the troops had been supplied. The Romanian explains. The officer turns over the pages of the book, looking for a translation of the unintelligible words, and understands nothing, but still thanks him politely. “Tfy, you comrades! What a people! Our priests and our churches, and yet you can’t understand a word!”
“Will you take a silver rouble for this?” a soldier shouts at the top of his voice, holding up a shirt in his hands to a Romanian trading at an open stall. “How much for the shirt? Five francs? Four francs?”
He draws out the money, shows it, and the business ends in mutual satisfaction.
“Make way, make way, chums, the General’s coming.”
A tall, young-looking General, in a smart jacket and high boots, with a cossack whip hanging by its lash over his shoulder, came rapidly along the street. Several paces behind him was an orderly, a little Asiatic in a coloured robe and turban, with an enormous sword and a revolver at his belt. The General, holding his head well up, and with good-natured indifference looking at the men as they saluted and made way for him, passed into an hotel. Here I, Ivan Platonich, and Stebelkoff were ensconced in a corner swallowing down some local dish composed of red pepper and meat. The dilapidated room, laid out with little tables, was full of people. The clatter of dishes, the popping of corks, and the hum of sober and drunken voices, were all hidden by the orchestra, which was seated in a kind of alcove decorated with red stuff curtains. There were five musicians. Two violins were scraping away furiously. A cello was booming on two or three notes, whilst a double-bass roared. But all these instruments merely formed an accompaniment for a fifth. A swarthy, curly-haired Hungarian, almost a boy, sat in front of all. From inside the wide velvet collar of his coat there projected a strange-looking instrument, a wooden flute of the precise pattern that Pan and the Fauns are always depicted as playing. It consisted of a row of uneven wooden pipes, so fastened together that their open ends rested against the lips of the artist. The Hungarian, turning his head first to one side then to another, blew into these pipes, producing powerful, melodious sounds, not unlike those of a flute or clarinet. He executed the most tricky and difficult passages by shaking and turning his head. His black greasy locks danced on his head and fell over his forehead. His red face was covered with perspiration, and the veins stood out on his neck. It was evidently a difficult job. … Against the discordant accompaniment of the stringed instruments, the sound of the pan-pipes stood out sharply, clearly, and wildly beautiful.
The General took his place at a table around which were some officers known to him, bowed to all who had risen at his entry, and loudly said, “Be seated, gentlemen,” which applied to the rank and file present. We finished our dinner in silence. Ivan Platonich ordered a bottle of red Romanian wine, and after the second bottle, when his face had taken on a jovial expression and his cheeks and nose had become brightly tinted, he turned to me:
“You, young man, tell me. … Do you remember when we had the big halt?”
“I do, Ivan Platonich.”
“Did you speak with Ventzel then?”
“I did.”
“Did you seize him by the arm?” inquired the Captain, in a preternaturally solemn tone. And when I replied I had done so he gave a prolonged deep sigh and began to blink in an agitated manner.
“You did wrong … you acted stupidly. Look here, I don’t want to reprimand you. You did very well … that is, it was contrary to all discipline. … Oh, damn it! what am I saying? You will excuse me. …”
He remained silent, gazing at the floor and breathing heavily. I also was silent. Ivan Platonich gulped down half a glass and then smacked me on the knee.
“Give me a promise that you will not do such a thing again. I quite understand. … It is difficult for a newcomer. But what good can you do by it? He is such a mad dog, this Ventzel. Well, look here. …”
Ivan Platonich evidently could not find the right word, and after a long pause again had recourse to his glass.
“That is … you see … he is a good chap really. It is a kind of … deuce knows what—a kind of madness of his. You yourself saw how I, too, knocked one of the men about a little not long ago. But if the idiot won’t understand his mistakes. … You know he is such a wooden … But I, Vladimir Mikhailich, act like a father to them. I swear I have no malice against them, even though I do flare up sometimes. But as for Ventzel, it has got into his system. Hey, you!”—he shouted to one of the Romanian waiters—“another bottle. … And some day he will be court-martialled or even worse. The men will get revengeful, and the first time under fire. … It will be a pity, because all the same he is a good man, as you know. And even a warmhearted fellow.”
“What!” Stebelkoff exclaimed. “What warmhearted man would act like he does?”
“You should have seen, Ivan Platonich, what your warmhearted man did the other day.”
And I told the Captain how Ventzel had knocked about one of the men for smoking in the ranks.
“There you are, there you are. …”
Ivan Platonich turned red, puffed, stopped short, and again commenced to talk. “But for all that he is not a beast. Whose men are best fed? Ventzel’s. Which are the best-trained men? Ventzel’s. In which company are there practically no fines? Who never sends his men up for court-martial, unless a man does something very bad? Always Ventzel. If it were not for this unhappy weakness of his the men would carry him shoulder high.”
“Have you spoken about it to him, Ivan Platonich?”
“I have spoken and argued a dozen times. What can you do with him? ‘Either they are soldiers or militia,’ he says. Those are the silly kind of speeches he makes. ‘War,’ says he, ‘is so cruel that even if I am cruel with the men it is but a drop in the ocean. …’ ‘They,’ he says, ‘are in such a low state of development. …’ In a word, the deuce knows what he doesn’t say. All the same he is an excellent chap. He doesn’t drink or play cards. He is a conscientious soldier, helps his old father and a sister, and is a splendid companion. Moreover, he is the best-read man in the regiment. And mark my word, he will either be court-martialled, or they”—he nodded his head towards the window—“will deal with him. It’s a bad job. And that’s how the matter stands, my most worthy trooper.”
Ivan Platonich gave me a kindly pat on my shoulder-strap and then dived his hand into his pocket, brought out a tobacco-pouch, and commenced to roll a gigantic cigarette, which he stuck into an enormous amber mouthpiece on which was the inscription “Caucasus” in oxidized silver. Sticking the holder into his mouth, he silently pushed the pouch towards me. We were all three smoking, and the Captain recommenced:
“Sometimes it is impossible not to hit them. They are really like children. Do you know Balunoff?”
Stebelkoff suddenly burst out laughing.
“Well, what’s the matter, Stebelkoff?” grunted Ivan Platonich. “Balunoff is an old soldier who has often been punished. He has served twenty years, and yet they will not let him go on account of his various offences. Well, this rascal once … You weren’t with us then. When we were leaving a village near Kishineff an order was given to inspect all the extra pairs of boots. I drew the men up in line, and walking behind them to see if any of the boot-tops were sticking out of the knapsacks, saw that Balunoff had none. ‘Where are your boots?’ ‘I have put them inside my knapsack for safety, sir.’ ‘That’s a lie.’ ‘Not at all, sir. They are in my knapsack so as not to get wet,’ the blackguard replied.
“ ‘Take off your knapsack and open it. I noticed he didn’t open it, but dragged the tops of the boots from under the cover.
“ ‘Open it.’ ‘I can take them out without opening it, sir.’
“However, I made him open the knapsack, and what do you think? He dragged a live sucking-pig by the ears out of it. Its snout was tied up with string so that it shouldn’t squeak. With his right hand at the salute he stood and grinned, and with his left hand held the pig. He had stolen it, the rascal, from the Moldavians. Well, of course I hit him, but not hard.”
Stebelkoff roared with laughter, and, scarcely able to speak, said: “Yes … and do you know, Ivanoff, what he hit him with? … With the pig!”
“Yes, but couldn’t you have avoided that, Ivan Platonich?”
“Oh you! Upon my word, it makes me tired to listen to you. I couldn’t court-martial him for it, could I?”