Part + 

II + 

It was Petrov, a volunteer and friend of Pavel’s, who informed me about his death. To spare his mother and Sashenka a sudden shock, Pavel must have arranged with his friend to write to my office address in case of need, so that I should be the one to break the terrible news to his nearest and dearest. I shall never forget the awful moment when I tore open the envelope marked “On active service,” and addressed in an unfamiliar hand, a fact which in itself foreboded evil, and read the few lines it contained.⁠ ⁠… The men in our office were very sympathetic, but what did their sympathy matter to me? I went home at once, wondering, in agony, how I was to break the news to mother and Sashenka. When I reached Sashenka’s hospital I turned away again, not daring to go in, and for a couple of hours I paced the streets; I even wandered aimlessly into the Philipov Café. I can’t remember whether it had been snowing hard that day, but everything seemed deadly white. People and tramcars seemed weird and strange; the sound of a car bell vibrated painfully through the brain; it seemed as though human beings were drowned in silence, and only the car bells rang and rang like mad. I could not cry at the time; my tears were dried by the thought of Sashenka and mother. + 

Why need I describe a condition that must be so plain to everyone? I must say this, however, I would sooner die a thousand deaths than have to tell any woman that her son has been killed. Rather than go through the experience a second time, to gaze into trusting, innocent eyes, I would sooner lay hands on myself. Grieved as I am over Pavel’s death, I can’t help rejoicing that the ordeal is behind me and will never have to be repeated again. Death would be easier. + 

I need hardly say that we did not go to Finland. Sashenka deserted the hospital during those sad days, and, hiding her own grief, she did all she could to console mother. The old lady is neither dead nor alive. I find it hard to understand her condition. For hours at a time she will cry in some corner, or, with Sashenka, she will go to church to have a Mass said for the dead, or she will wander aimlessly about the rooms, and begin to dust some place where not a speck of dust is to be seen. She brings me my coffee without any sugar, as usual. Yesterday she disappeared. After an hour and a half had gone by we grew anxious and made a search. We found her locked in the lavatory. She couldn’t open the door, and wouldn’t give a sign of life, even though she must have heard us calling her. It was only after we had banged and banged at the door that she made a feeble sound. The numbers and numbers of times we had shown her how to lock and unlock that door, and still she couldn’t do it. In the end I had to fetch a locksmith to get her out. + 

When Sashenka reproved her for not answering when she was called the old lady burst into tears. She is more sensitive than ever. Now nurse or Lidotchka have to take her to the lavatory; it isn’t safe to let her go alone. + 

What an awful Christmas this is, to be sure! The days are more or less bearable, but when I go to bed at night I lie in dread of hearing either Sashenka begin to sob in her bed, or mother in the adjoining room. They may lie quiet until daybreak sometimes, and then a bed will begin to shake with sobbing, and so it goes on and on.⁠ ⁠… + 

The last time we saw Pavel was on the fourth of August when we were in the country. Mother happened to be staying with us at the time, too. His regiment was on its way south to the front from some remote part of Finland, and having to wait about an hour and a half for a change of trains, he rushed over to see us. It was getting dark when he came, and his visit was so unexpected that we completely lost our heads at sight of him. He had on his heavy field kit with a kettle and bag slung over his shoulder, and was grimy and dusty. He had an unfamiliar smell about him, and looked so strange in his uniform with his closely-cropped hair that was just beginning to grow a little. He had been digging and felling timber, and looked more like a peasant than a soldier. “Wish me luck,” he managed to whisper, “we are going to Warsaw.” + 

We couldn’t talk properly, and said the silliest things that came into our heads. We were so anxious to make him eat, and he was as hungry as only a soldier can be. We sat out on the verandah, I remember. We examined his rifle in turn; it looked pretty and straight; I can’t remember the number of it, though he told us. I can’t remember even the expression of his face. I know only that there was something peculiar about it. I wanted to lead him from room to room. I wanted to say, “Bid goodbye to everything, Pavel, for you may never return, and may never see it again.” + 

He, too, had the same thought, no doubt, but neither of us dared to give expression to it, and we sat on the verandah like strangers, and made no attempt to go into the house at all. When he was forced to leave us, we accompanied him to the station, which was quite close, and we gave him a hasty, affectionate kiss and watched him clamber into the goods-wagon filled with his jolly, laughing comrades. Soon the long train started, the soldiers shouted “Hurrah” and then it was over, and all was still. I can still see that receding red lamp at the back of the train. I remember, too, how quiet and dead the house seemed when we got back to it. + 

And now Pavel is dead, and we do not even know where he is buried. I cannot picture the place, no matter how hard I try. I am dazed; I don’t understand what is happening; I don’t understand the war. I feel only that it crushes us, and there is no salvation for any of us, big or small. My thoughts are all broken; my soul seems like a strange house where I cannot find a comfortable spot to rest in. What was I like before the war? I don’t remember. + 

A huge pair of hands seem to hold me in their grasp, moulding me into some fantastic shape, hands that are too strong for resistance. + 

What a scare we’ve had today! Mother disappeared from the house. She went out early in the morning and was not back by the evening. I was at the office as usual, and Sashenka was at the hospital. Our fool of a nurse couldn’t tell us anything, as she never noticed when the old lady first went out, and hadn’t the sense to let either of us know when she missed her. I was naturally alarmed; absentminded as mother is, she might have been run over by a tram or a motor. + 

I fetched Sashenka and we began to hunt for her. I telephoned to every one of our friends, and to nearly all the police stations when she herself appeared on the scene. It turned out that she had been to see an old friend, who lived at the end of Vasily Island, and had stayed there until the evening. The idea of disappearing like that without a word! + 

When Sashenka reproved her she was hurt, and burst into tears, and we had the greatest difficulty in soothing her afterwards. The old lady has grown more sensitive than ever. We shall have to keep a strict eye on her. + 

The Germans have now taken to sinking ships. What can one do but shrug one’s shoulders at such mad goings-on? They have passed human understanding. The very nature of a submarine must be vicious that it must be forever destroying. Or is it the closeness and darkness that stupefies and poisons the men in them and makes them bestial? The fellows in our office were disgusted and indignant. I only shrugged my shoulders in perplexity. My face must have been as stupid as that of a German who sinks ships. What could I say? + 

I caught a chill, and have been at home with a bad attack of influenza all the week. I might have enjoyed a good rest in spite of my indisposition had I not devoured so many papers, nor thought so much about the horrors of the times. The things they write, the things that go on, are simply unbearable! One fellow made me furious! And he is considered, by some mistaken idea, as one of our leading writers. To my mind his pernicious article is nothing short of criminal, for all that the men in our office are so enthusiastic about it. The man assures us in the most flowering terms, distorting every fact, that the war will bring every possible kind of good to humanity all over the world⁠—future humanity, that is. At present, he says, we must sacrifice ourselves for the good of posterity. The war is like a disease that destroys separate cells in the body, at the same time regenerating the whole organism. And the “cells” must be consoled by this idea! Who are these “cells,” I should like to ask? I suppose he means me, mother, our poor dead Pavel, the millions of killed and wounded, and the rest who will soon lie buried in the cold earth! An excellent idea! + 

It seems that we “cells” must not only refrain from protesting, rebelling, but we must not even feel pain; we must submerge ourselves with the most wild rejoicing, for the general good, exulting that we have been of some use! But what if we don’t want to exult! We are held responsible just the same. The war will take five, ten millions of us, if it deems necessary, and then will come the process of healing and happiness. According to the worthy writer’s words, the broken remnants of humanity will suddenly repent of their sins, understand certain wonderful truths, and begin to love each other⁠—they will turn into angels, in fact. I should like to take the man who preaches this gospel and have him well flogged while there are still rods in the world with which to do it, and we haven’t grown wings! It would be awkward to flog an angel! + 

From now onwards I am no longer Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, but a “cell,” with no right even to think for myself for fear of upsetting the whole show! No, sir, I am not a “cell” but Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, as I always was⁠—a man with all a man’s rights! You may ask me as much as you like to die exulting, but I refuse to die dancing! If it should so happen that you drive me to my grave or to the lunatic asylum, I will die in hatred, cursing those who murdered me. I am not a “cell,” and I refuse to become an angel after your pattern! I would much rather be Ilya Petrovitch, the sinner that I am, answerable to God alone for my sins! + 

I refuse to perish for the good of posterity! I haven’t the smallest desire to do so! Where is the sense in it all, if the man of yesterday suffered for me, and I must suffer for the man of tomorrow, and the man of tomorrow must suffer for the man of the day after tomorrow? We have had enough of such frauds and deceptions! I want to live and enjoy the good things of life, and not convert myself into manure for the nurture of some delicate person of the future with tender white hands! I detest that future person and the glories that are to be his! + 

A “cell” indeed! Pavel, I suppose, must find consolation in the thought in his unknown grave in some Prussian cabbage-field, and mother must dry up her tears and paint her cheeks. It was not her son who was killed, but a “cell” to whom nothing better could have happened! How wicked and presumptions a man must be to compare a human being⁠—sacred as he is⁠—to a “cell.” The blackguard! Instead of dancing on my grave if I should die, he ought to shed tears for me. He ought to shed tears for every man who dies, for once dead, no one returns! For all that he is a great writer and I an insignificant little man of whom the world has never heard, he should scatter flowers on my grave, mourn for me with all the tears he can command, and pity me with all the pity in his heart! This comes of speaking of men in numbers like so much grain! The very look of a figure takes all the sense out of one. Millions, indeed! Man is not so much seed to be measured! Anyone who can speak of a human being in other than the dignified term of man, and can look upon him as no more than a figure in a number, is a servant of Satan. He deceives himself and others. When a man begins to count other men, he loses all values and every sense of pity. Here is an example of my meaning in a few words taken out of my paper, reporting some engagement. “Our losses were insignificant; only two killed and five wounded.” + 

Who considers these losses insignificant, I wonder? Is it the killed? I should like to hear what they had to say on the subject, if they could rise from their graves! Would they consider the losses insignificant when they recalled their childhood, their kith and kin, the women they had loved, their emotions and terror as they marched along, and how all was cut short by the horror of death.⁠ ⁠… Insignificant losses, indeed! The blackguard ought to be made to realise whom it is that he serves with his clever arithmetic to keep him from his lying statements regarding the welfare of the human race about which he is so ignorant. + 

Condfound the beggar, how furious he’s made me! + 

The children are well. Lidotchka has lost two milk teeth, making her face look sweeter than ever. It’s nice to have a clever child. During my illness she read me fairy tales, spelling out each word. + 

Fimotchka has just made an interesting discovery. Just before the war, she says, red was very much in fashion. Women wore red dresses, and hats and ribbons and all the other little requisites peculiar to the sex. As far as I can remember, this seems to be true. I wonder if it was not some presentiment of the bloodshed that was to come? How blind the people were to have considered it an attractive colour! No one wears red now; as a colour it seems to have disappeared, washed out by wind and rain. In what darkness must man grope, when the choice of his garments is not left to his free will! + 

I am tired, and not drawn to my diary. I have so much to do and so little time. The confounded war simply eats up the money. No matter how hard you work, you cannot earn enough. + 

I don’t know whether I’ve grown indifferent to the wholesale murder going on, or that I take a saner view of things, but I can read about twenty thousand killed and calmly light a cigarette. I no longer devour the papers too, as in the early days, when I was always rushing round the corner for the new editions, in all weathers. It doesn’t do any good. + 

Sashenka is at the hospital as usual, and the house just as disorderly as before, but I’ve got used to that too, and hardly notice what food I eat. Mother is like a shadow in the house; you would hardly know she was there. To drive away my depression, I have taken to teaching Lidotchka, and to read fairy tales to her. She is a dear child! In our gloomiest moments she lights up our house like a sacred lamp. + 

I have another confession to make which will not meet with the approval of the serious-minded. I have no need of their approval, thank God. Fimotchka called one day when Sashenka was out, and seeing how depressed I was, taught me to play Patience. It’s a silly game for a grown man to play, but if you happen to be in the condition when you can neither take in what you read nor what’s being said to you, it’s very comforting, and gets so interesting sometimes that you forget about your sleep. I tried to teach Mother the game, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand; she seemed to look upon it as an attempt on my part to interfere with her legitimate grief. + 

I came across a curious saying in the calendar: “If you don’t learn to play cards in your youth, you are storing up a sad old age.” + 

It’s not a question of playing cards. One would jump at anything at a time like this. + 

I’m tired. + 

I got a letter from Andrei Vasilevitch. After expressing his sympathy over Pavel’s death (he was very fond of Pavel) he asks me to excuse him for writing so seldom, on the plea of being busy and tired. In answer to certain questions of mine, he gives me this unexpected piece of advice, “Learn from the Germans.” Here is an extract from his extraordinary letter: “I don’t like the Germans, but I think we would do well to learn from them, especially those of you in the rear. Mark how the Germans build up the walls of their state, and how wise they are in their self-abnegation. Knowing that you can’t build a good, steady wall from all sorts of irregularly-shaped materials, every German voluntarily rubs off his corners and projecting parts to make himself into an even brick. From these bricks alone you get a good wall, and when the mortar is added you get the soundest of walls, not, as with us, a ramshackle affair, full of holes. Don’t be afraid, but learn from the Germans, Ilya Petrovitch!” + 

Excellent! A moment ago I was a “cell” and now I am to turn myself into a brick. And the fact that I am a man I am persistently asked to forget. Ilya Petrovitch is in future to be called brick number so-and-so. + 

For the sake of argument I consent to be a brick, but who is to be the architect and the unscrupulous contractor? Must I submit if the architect builds a brothel instead of a temple or a palace? No, Andrei Vasilevitch, I am not a “cell” nor a “brick,” but Ilya Petrovitch, the same as I always was and mean to remain to the end of my days. There are many “bricks” and “cells” in the world of one and the same pattern, but I am the one and only Ilya Petrovitch, and there never will be another man like me. With every ounce of strength I possess I will hold myself apart and not submit to the war. I refuse to have my wings clipped and will not be badgered by your noisy drum! + 

I regret to have been foolish enough to take my difficulties to a man so wrapped up in the war. He no doubt despises us heroes of the rear. + 

Hurrah! our troops have captured Przemysl! Petrograd is rejoicing. What a gloriously happy day! + 

The news was telephoned to our office by one of the newspapers, and when I heard it, such a tremendous feeling of joy came over me, that I snatched up my things and hastened out into the street. Our Nevsky had never looked so festive and beautiful before. The snow fell fast in large flakes and settled on the shoulders of the crowd, but beneath this covering of white, flushed cheeks could be seen and sparkling eyes. For once the citizens of Petrograd had good complexions. Immediately the crowd began to organise itself. The National Anthem was struck up, and a procession started to the palace, I could not take part in that, unfortunately, for I had to return to the office. + 

What a day of joy this has been! At last I begin to realise why the preceding days and months had been so gloomy and hard to bear. We had got so resigned to our hopelessness, that we had come to regard it as a natural condition. It seems strange to look back, to think even of yesterday. What long heavy days and nights those were! One did not seem to live by day, nor to rest by night. And when I think of my confused thoughts, my silly Patience playing, Mother, our dirty, untidy house, the despair, the fear of what tomorrow would bring. + 

I don’t know how it is, but for the first time during the war I have realised the meaning of the word “Victory.” It is no little thing, it raises a man to heights undreamed of. What a simple word it is! and how many are the times one has heard it spoken! Victory, victory! now I know how wonderful it is. I could rush from room to room shouting it! + 

I am still excited⁠—with a pleasant excitement, strange to say. When I think that I am a Russian, that there’s a country in the world called Russia, the hot tears come into my eyes. The sight of a soldier’s grey uniform in the street fills me with emotion. I smile and wink at the man and make a fool of myself generally. The word Russia stirs my very being. How sweet and agitating it is, for all that it brings the tears to one’s eyes! + 

Visions of rye-fields keep floating before my eyes, and when I shut them, I see wheels going round and round as plainly as on a kinematograph film. I hear larks singing too. I love larks; they always sing in the sky, not on the ground or in trees. Other birds must perch themselves comfortably on a tree, smooth down their feathers before they begin to sing, and then they sing in chorus, but a lark sings alone as it soars in the sky. Dear, dear, how I have wandered off! But what does it matter, so long as I keep on about something? + 

Another curious thing has happened today. For the first time since Pavel’s death Sashenka and I have been able to talk about him, and we talked for quite a long time, too. Our new victory seemed to touch Pavel also, and he had come to take his eternal place at our fireside in invisible form. Sashenka, of course, shed a few tears, but they were not like those terrible, solitary tears that used to shake her bed at nights. We decided to go to church together on the morrow to have a mass said for our dead. Usually I don’t like this ritual, but now it seemed not only proper, but a pleasant thing to do. + 

There is another gratifying event to relate. I was able to give Sashenka my views, very gently expressed, of course, about her continual absence from home, and to my surprise, she did not flare up, as I had expected her to do, but promised not to be at the hospital so much, and to devote herself more to the children in future. She even complained of feeling tired. The poor thing certainly looks tired; I have only just noticed how thin and pale she has grown. I am quite anxious about her. However, Sashenka looks, if anything, more beautiful than ever. What a blessing beauty must be in the work she is doing! When a dying soldier gazes up at the beautiful face of the nurse bending over him, she must be to him a symbol of love and beauty on earth, and he must carry her image away with him as an eternal dream. There must be many dying soldiers who would have cursed the world that destroyed them, but for the sight of the nurse’s beautiful eyes that made him forgive and forget. + 

For the first time I do not resent Sashenka’s being at the hospital and leaving me alone. There is something to occupy my mind now. I keep on thinking of victory. What a sense of gladness it gives! How many times have I seen the word in novels and histories, and of late, in the papers, yet only now have I realised what an alluring beast it is! Men have hunted it since the creation of the world; all have desired it; all desire it now, and the wonder of it is ours! Victory, victory! I could rush out into the streets and proclaim it with brass trumpets. Victory! victory! + 

Lidotchka is ill. God help us. + 

She is dead. + 

It is three months since I have touched this diary; I had forgotten about its very existence. When I took it out today, I sat for some time staring blankly at the last page containing the words, “She is dead.” + 

“She is dead,” only three words on a sheet of ordinary white paper. + 

God, how wretched man is! How well I remember the day I wrote the words! If instead of the white paper with the few scrawls there had been a mirror to reflect eternally the face of the man who wrote them with all its anguish and despair! What do these words convey? + 

What a friend this diary is to me! Its pages contain the name of my Lidotchka which was so much part of her being. She is gone, and now the diary only remains to me. + 

Lidotchka died on the 27th March, four days after we had taken Przemysl. She became unwell on the very day of rejoicing and her illness lasted only three days and three nights. It was appendicitis she had, in an acute form, only we did not realise it until it was too late to do anything. It was twenty-four hours before we could get a doctor to see her, every man of them being busy at the military hospitals. I fell in with one in the street who turned away as soon as he looked at her, declaring that there was no danger, and we could safely wait. The child was dying, and he asked us to wait, and we waited! I was even fool enough to apologise for having kept him away from his more important duties. We waited with despair in our hearts; we did not like to worry anyone needlessly. We smiled and tried to keep up our courage, fools that we were! When at last the surgeon from Sashenka’s hospital came he declared it was appendicitis, and too late for an operation. + 

How could I have believed the first man and waited! How could I have let her lie parched with fever, moaning and suffering, and do nothing? There she was, dying and trusting me! How senseless and wicked it was! I remember her black, trusting eyes, her parched lips as I touched mine against them lightly, and how I stroked her tangled hair. On one occasion I bathed her face with eau-de-cologne and felt satisfied that I was doing all that was required. And the poor child suffered agonies. It seemed impossible that such a small child should suffer such great pain. + 

On the third day I ran about like one possessed. I shouted at the doctors, I threw money in their faces. “I will pay! I will pay!” I cried in despair. In one doctor’s waiting-room, I can’t remember where it was, I struck my head against the lintel of the door in a woman’s presence, hoping thereby to arouse pity.⁠ ⁠… + 

But that is nothing. + 

For hours I hunted all over the town, and the surgeon had been twice to our house and assured me that an operation was useless and would only torment the child for nothing. I put her into the coffin myself and carried her to the table. + 

And here am I living as though nothing particular had happened. I go to my office, I acknowledge my friends in the street, I read the papers. We are being defeated on all hands, and driven out of Poland and Galicia. Przemysl has been retaken. We never got a chance. The gendarme Miasoyedov sold Russia for thirty pieces of silver. Well, well, I don’t exactly hate everyone, but I’m getting on in that direction. Only I hold my peace. + 

How can I express my grief and despair? They are beyond words and tears, and human understanding. I scrutinise my face carefully in the glass to see if I have changed, but there does not seem any difference. There is one grey-haired fool in the glass and another outside of it. My hair has turned grey. + 

When the great die, the town is steeped in mourning and flags are hung up to inform the population of the fact. Had I been great and had I possessed the gift of eloquence, I would have raised my voice and made the whole world mourn for my Lidotchka, but I am only an insignificant little man, and can merely cry for her as a cow cries for its lost calf. Even a cow is more effective in her grief, for her cries may be heard by someone in the night, while I have to stifle my sobs for fear that others may hear and object. + 

How contemptible I am! nothing but a “cell.” + 

I remember a certain day⁠—a day to which I could erect a bronze memorial for the edification of posterity. It was a week after Lidotchka’s death, and I, like a conscientious worker, returned to the confounded office. The other fellows are kindhearted enough; they remarked upon the fact that my hair had turned grey, and expressed their sympathy in the usual polite way of “Lost a little daughter? Dear, dear, what a pity it is!” + 

It was a pity, but what did it matter? Wasn’t I working and adding up figures? When the band of crêpe caught the eye of the sympathetic, I was greeted with, “Have you lost someone at the war?” + 

“No, not at the war. I have lost my little daughter Lidia.” + 

“Oh!” + 

I could see they were disappointed. + 

Zvoliansky, the Pole, remarked casually⁠—with every degree of politeness and propriety, of course, that no one ought to wear mourning at a time like this, not even for relatives killed at the front. One must consider the public nerves. It stands to reason that when a man dresses himself up in a smart tie and patent shoes he doesn’t want to meet the spectacle of a gloomy, grey-haired old man in mourning. It would spoil his pleasure. Zvoliansky did not dare to say as much, but his remarks implied it plainly. If people had no right to wear mourning for those killed at the front⁠—the only dead that matter now⁠—what right had I to wear it for a six-year-old little girl who died a natural death? Weren’t there enough six-year-old little girls in the world? + 

I was led to understand, though it was gently done, that I had acted inconsiderately in flaunting my grief before the eyes of others. It was as though I had got drunk in the midst of the general sobriety. A casual acquaintance met in the street made me realise this to the full with his exclamation of “A little girl? Oh!” + 

But do I argue? I have submitted to public opinion and put my band of crêpe in my pocket. I must be careful of other people’s feelings. As a patriot I have no right to hurt anyone. A patriot or a worm, I wonder? + 

But I hold my tongue. + 

It was raining and I walked under my umbrella, wondering what was the most important of all things. The most important thing of all is to bury. Killing doesn’t matter, it will happen sometimes, but to bury is essential. As soon as things are covered up and nothing is to be seen, all is well. What would it be like if the four or five million who have now been killed had been left unburied? What a stench there would be, and how many torn uniforms! + 

Despair, and no way to express it. Like a fool I can’t say what’s in my heart. And how long my legs have grown! I can feel how long they are as I walk. Am I going mad? + 

You may call me a heartless blackguard, a criminal or anything you like, but by God, I am not in the least sorry for our killed. I don’t care what happens to our men. I didn’t order them to be killed. If men will rend and kill each other, let them, by all means; it has nothing to do with me. + 

The house seems deserted and full of horrors invisible. Last year, at this time, we were in the country, Lidotchka was with us and no foreboding of ill. + 

I wonder sometimes when I look at Peter and Jena, my two youngest children, whether it wouldn’t be best to tie a piece of cord around their necks and jump off the Troitsky Bridge with them into the water. No one wants them, they are miserable, neglected little “cells.” They keep on crying all the time. Peter nearly cut his head against the table, and came to me to kiss his bump and pity him, but I can’t pity. Poor children! Their mother is in the hospital looking after the wounded⁠—doing her duty; their father, like Satan, rummages about the streets for peace of mind, and they are left with a stupid nurse and a half-witted grandmother. What an existence! + 

What a strange animal man is! I can make my blood flow with one prick of my knife⁠—but I can’t wring a single tear. I can’t sleep in consequence, and am frightened of my sofa. I sleep in my study now, on the sofa. That is to say, I toss about the livelong white night. The light comes in at window, for there are no curtains over it. + 

Last night, tired of tossing about, I got up, and from three to five o’clock I sat on my windowsill smoking, and looking out on the dead town. It was as light as day and not a soul to be seen anywhere. Like ours, the house opposite has many windows, both up- and downstairs. Not a single sign of life was to be seen in any of them. + 

I had nothing on but my pants and shirt, and I sat there or paced the room, barefoot, wondering whether I had gone mad. + 

By day my study is an ordinary room, and I an ordinary man, but I wonder what people would think if they saw us at night? I am barefoot at this moment, and have nothing on but my pants. + 

What makes me write all this? + 

I am a completely changed man. I’ve no pity or affection for anyone, not even for my children. Pure hatred only inspires me. When I walk through the town and look at the houses and people, I think, and even smile at the thought, “I wish the earth would open and swallow you all up!” A beggar stretched his hand out to me today, and I gave him such a look that his tongue stuck, and his hand dropped to his side. What a look it must have been! + 

I can’t cry; I can’t remember how it’s done. Not only my tears have dried up, altogether I seem to have become dry; on the hottest day I never perspire. A curious thing; I must ask a doctor about it. + 

Sashenka took notice of me today. She cried to see me like this. But like what? She wondered that I did not read the newspapers, but what can one learn from the papers? That we have Miasoyedovs, that wholesale slaughter is going on, we know without their aid. I don’t want to read them. + 

“How is your digestion?” Sashenka asked. + 

“My digestion? Why? Have I got a digestion? Oh, yes! It’s quite well, thank you. How are your wounded?” + 

“They are your wounded, too.” + 

“Oh, no, I didn’t make them.” + 

“Why are you so hard-hearted, Ilenka?” she asked through her tears. + 

“How? my kindhearted Sashenka?” + 

She was annoyed at that and went back to the hospital, not forgetting to slam the door behind her, like a truly affectionate wife. I don’t care, only it’s not good for the children: and one must think of them sometimes. + 

I can hardly believe I have a wife; we so rarely see each other. She is always at the hospital. A great many wounded arrived on Saturday, so many that there were not enough beds for them all, and some had to be put on the floor. Sasha did not come home that day for the children’s bath. This is not the first occasion on which it has happened. Nurse usually bathes them under these circumstances, but that day it came into my head to do Jena myself. The boy has grown awfully thin. I could count all his ribs; he has such small bones. When I rubbed down his poor little body and thin hair, I wondered why I couldn’t cry. Even when I scratched the poor child in my clumsiness, and he burst into tears, I still felt no pity. His crying only annoyed me, and I handed him over to the nurse. What is the matter with me? There was a time, old men tell us, when people in my condition were healed by prayer in church, but who would pray for me? What nonsense I am talking, to be sure! + 

There is no pity in my heart for Russia even; her groans affect me not. I have no pity for myself, and I think if Sasha were to die this moment, I wouldn’t turn a hair. There is a rumour of cholera in town, but what do I care? Let there be cholera or an epidemic of smallpox or the plague, it makes no difference to me. + 

There was quite a sensation in our office today. Zvoliansky, the Pole, has joined the army as a volunteer. He wants to defend Warsaw with his own hand, so to speak. At first we thought he was only bragging, but it turned out to be true. Who would have expected it of him? He used to brag so much that no one would have given him the credit of it. The other fellows arranged all sorts of treats for him, of course, but I did not take part in them, saying that I was not well. Let them parade their patriotism without my aid. I am not afraid of their sneers and suspicions! + 

In the private talks I’ve had with Zvoliansky, I’ve always heard him say, in high flown terms, that if he did not take part in the war now his conscience would never give him any peace afterwards. Conscience indeed! One can understand his anxiety about Poland, but the least said about conscience, the better. + 

Conscience, conscience; you can’t get away from it, no matter how hard you try. Conscientious people are to be seen everywhere. They quite alarm a fool like me. To plunder, to betray, to starve children, is all done in the name of conscience. No one can raise any objections. It’s war time, you see, and can’t be helped! So the war and the tears only serve to make unscrupulous tradesmen and manufacturers grow fat and to build them big houses and motorcars that the public admire. They deserve to be hanged, every man of them, but it can’t be done because of conscience. + 

I happened to notice that our poor old mother always conceals her feet under her skirt when she sits down, and I couldn’t understand the reason of it, until I discovered that the old lady’s shoes were so worn that her toes came through. Poor soul! When I said to her, “Mother, aren’t you ashamed? Why didn’t you tell me or Sashenka?” she burst into tears. I couldn’t get a word out of her in explanation. Some absurd idea of economy of hers, no doubt, that I had upset. It seems so ridiculous to economise and be careful of every farthing when, sooner or later, a farthing saved is sure to find its way into some contractor’s pocket. It is worked like a conjuring trick. + 

I bought mother a pair of prunella shoes and presented them to her solemnly with the due feelings of a benefactor. She burst into tears again, of course, and as I watched them roll down her cheeks, I thought, “If only she’d give me one of them!” + 

Andrei Vasilevitch, the man who was to have read my diary, was badly wounded, and died in a hospital in Warsaw. All peace to his soul! No one will read my diary now. It is as well, perhaps. I seem to be alone in hell, surrounded by dancing demons and beckoning sinners. What good am I or my diary to anyone? It seems absurd, but my wife has known for a long time that I keep a diary, and has never expressed the smallest desire or curiosity to see it. Writing a diary or cracking sunflower seeds is all the same to her! + 

Even a mouse gets more attention; one hurls a boot at it when it makes a noise. + 

But what right has a little worm like me to attention and sympathy when so many more worthy than I go under daily? It would be a fine thing, indeed, if every little “cell” doomed to perdition were to begin to howl and object like a full-grown organism! + 

I saw some refugees from Poland in the Morskaya today. Pretty figures they make! + 

I can’t exist like this! I wasn’t made for wicked, vicious thoughts, and can find no others in my wretched soul. Sleep has deserted me. I am consumed inwardly by a white flame like a tree that is drying at the roots. I am afraid to look at my contorted face in the glass. I wander about until I am ready to drop and my legs are as heavy as lead, then I fling myself on my bed, and go to sleep instantly; but at three in the morning I start up, as at the sound of a drum, and go to my windowsill, and there I sit until five or six, staring aimlessly at the Petrograd night, also sleepless. Horrible light! horrible night! Whether it’s pouring with rain and the walls of the house are soaking wet, or the sun is playing among the chimney pots, it is appalling alike in this dead, motionless town. It seems as if the prophecy was fulfilled and mankind was destroyed, and over the scene of destruction shone the useless light of a useless day. + 

The house opposite is flat and high If you happened to fall from the top there would be nothing to clutch hold of to stop you. I can’t get rid of a tormenting thought that I’ve fallen from the roof, down, down, to the pavement past windows and cornices. The sensation is so real as to make me sick. To get away from the sight of that wall I pace the room, but there is little comfort in that. I step cautiously over the creaking floor, barefoot, in pants only, seeming more and more like a lunatic or a hunted murderer. And still it is light! And still it is light! + 

I can’t go on like this! In like conditions, I suppose, men write the words, “Accuse no one of my death; I am tired of life.” + 

What rubbish I allow myself to talk! I am simply not well, and must treat myself. I really must be more careful of my health. + 

Lidotchka, my angel, set me free. Give me tears that I may weep for you! I can’t go on as I am. Pray to God for me; you are so near to Him; you can look into His eyes. Ask Him to have mercy on your father, Lidotchka, my darling, my silent angel; remember how I carried you from the bed to the table, and held you close, oh, so close.⁠ ⁠… + 

What a hard time we are going through. God spare Russia! From end to end of the vast land people are praying for Russia’s salvation. + 

I am ashamed to confess in what a vain frame of mind I set out for the Kazan Cathedral, where a public service was to be held. I don’t know at what moment I suddenly began to see and understand. I only remember that at first I smiled superciliously and cast my eye about for other clever fellows like myself, with whom to exchange knowing glances. I was horribly annoyed at the pushing and shoving, and stuck out my elbows ostentatiously for the benefit of my neighbours. But when did daylight come? + 

No words can describe the impressiveness of the sight. From every street and alley hundreds of thousands of people were streaming to one particular spot to offer up their common prayers to God. It seemed like some practical joke at first, or a showy parade; but when they came and came, and there was no breathing space, and still they kept on coming, the solemnity of it made cold shivers run down my back. “What does it mean?” you asked yourself with a shudder, but no one heard you, and no one replied, and still the people kept on coming and coming. The solemnity and gravity was enhanced by the very fact that no one paid any heed to you, and you paid no heed to them. Your heart began to beat fast. What a vital occasion it must be to bring so many people together so intent for the purposes of prayer! Is it for my small mind to question and criticise? + 

Men were not ashamed to weep; some even forgot to dry their tears. All restraint was abandoned. “How naive the people are!” I thought like a fool, as I eyed a robust-looking peasant, a yard-porter, or cabman, no doubt, whose tears were streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly I felt a moistness in my own eyes, dry for so long, and I wept shamefacedly, not yet appreciating the value of my tears, and raising my eyes artfully to heaven, lest someone should see. “God, how far away Thou art, yet how near!” I thought. + 

All at once a shudder went through me, and I seemed to be pierced by a heavenly fire. On wings invisible I seemed to soar on high to the white clouds, and from that height I looked down on this land we call Russia. I saw that it was she, and no other land, that was menaced by misery indescribable! It was against her the enemy was marching with fire and bomb! And it was for Russia, for Russia’s salvation, we were praying! Once more I looked at the people; they wept, and I wept with them. They did not spurn me, those near me, but leant trustingly, against my breast. Lunatic! What had I been thinking of before? An intense love for these people came over me. I could hardly contain myself. I could have cried aloud for love of them, I could cry aloud at this moment when I recall the sensation. + 

It’s difficult to express what I felt. Though only a few hours have gone by since the great moment, I cannot see Russia as I saw her then. She is only a map to me now, yet then I had seen and known so clearly. I do remember, I suppose, but I cannot express it in words. Oh, God, save Russia! Spare her, foolish as she is! + 

I ought to leave off now, but the tears will come, and why shouldn’t I let them? Yesterday when I got home and saw mother wiping Peter’s nose with her trembling hand, I remembered Pavel, and, unable to contain myself, I sobbed aloud like a child. I fell on my knees before mother and kissed her wrinkled, aged hand. Nurse was there, and she, too, could not keep back her tears. How guilty I feel before all decent people! I had good reason to cry! + 

I must stop now or I shall become unintelligible. My thoughts come so quickly. Let them come. + 

Once more I can’t sleep. My heart is filled with anxiety. I am shivering with cold. I am still thinking of Russia. + 

Man is not slow to utilise his experiences to his advantage. There is something very subtle about it. I had no sooner learned to love Russia than I hastened home to lavish affection on my own children, Peter and Jena. The very desire to love them was wonderful after my coldness and hardness of heart that had made me forget their existence. + 

I bought them some fruit from a stand: a thing I had not done for a long time. I rather fear now that it may upset their little stomachs. Jena has grown so thin that it makes my heart ache to look at him. His eyes are pensive like Lidotchka’s. He used to be such a happy little fellow! Has the trouble affected him too? + 

A horrible fear has come over me again, I must go to bed, even though I can’t sleep; it may prevent horrible thoughts from entering my head. The children⁠ ⁠… Russia.⁠ ⁠… + 

I haven’t seen Sashenka today. She came home when I was at the office, and has not been able to get away again, I suppose. I am sorry I did not see her. I wanted to go to the hospital, but after my long absence I was afraid it might look funny. + 

Sashenka, Sashenka, my dear! + 

This, then, is the meaning of Russia! + 

Depression and despair once again. I awoke for a brief moment and got a glimpse of reality, and again I have lapsed into sleep, eternal and restless. The newspapers fill one with horror. A dreadful rumour is abroad, and the office is full of incredible tales. They say Warsaw has fallen, and a great many other things, about which it would be best to keep silent. I have no faith in the Duma, but I should like to see it convoked. + 

I am afraid. + 

The town is in a state of depression; the people in the streets look grave. Only some hooligan may be seen to laugh, or a contractor, portly and unscrupulous, who stalks along in sublime indifference. The pig! + 

As I write these words the Germans may be entering Warsaw. When I close my eyes I see them as plainly as on the film of a kinematograph, with their pointed helmets, marching victoriously through the ruined, deserted streets, past blazing houses. I remember how the men in our office used to joke about Wilhelm’s presumptuousness, the stories they used to tell of his having declared he would dine in Paris and sup in Warsaw, and the like; and while the fools were enjoying the joke, the Germans have come! they are here! What can we do? The disgrace of it! + 

How could we have been so blind as not to foresee the danger? Again I shut my eyes and see their pointed helmets, the flames, the panic-stricken inhabitants crouching behind the houses. What is the use of their hiding? Supposing it were not Petrograd where I sat writing in the dead of night, but in Warsaw, with the Germans marching across the bridge, entering the town.⁠ ⁠… Horrible thought! A loud knock comes at my door, and a German walks in and looks about him, strutting from room to room as though the place belonged to him. He questions me with a rifle in his hand, and keeps from shooting me down only out of a feeling of charity. How would I look into his blue Teutonic eyes? Would I smile to him, out of politeness only, of course, but would I? No! + 

I shall not sleep tonight. + 

The Duma has met, and the sittings are in progress. I pray for fortitude when I read and reread the reports of the terrible speeches. I devour each sentence with my eyes. There must be some mistake. It can’t be that there are no shells! No shells! Shells were promised, but our men were left in the lurch! Our gallant soldiers tried to stay the Germans with their naked hands! To think of it! What is the country coming to? + 

I don’t understand. There must be something wrong. What about the people who prayed in the Kazan Square? How dared they call upon God when they betrayed our men? But was it the people who betrayed? I heard their prayers, and I prayed with them; I saw their hot tears and their anguish, but there was no sign of the fear and shame the guilty must feel before the all-seeing eyes of God. Was it then different people who prayed, and different people who betrayed? I don’t know, but I feel sure that the country is not guilty; I could swear to that by the life of my children! Something is wrong somewhere. + 

I can’t convey the impression I got when I first read the speeches of the Duma members. A big German shell seemed to have burst in my brain, deafening, blinding, and shaking me to the very roots of my being. It seemed to deprive me of human speech; I could only jabber unintelligibly and look horror-stricken. Everyone seemed to be affected in the same way. Even the fellows in the office, who always talked so lightly and decided all questions so easily, were almost speechless with consternation. They couldn’t work, and sat about in their shirt sleeves, red as boiled lobsters, devouring the papers, and making the office-boy run for every new edition. When they had had their fill, they set up an uproar, banging their fists on the table and shouting: + 

“I told you so!” + 

“What did I say?” + 

“No one would listen to me!” + 

“It was you who would not listen, I maintained.⁠ ⁠…” + 

One and all had maintained and prophesied, and the mischief had come through no one listening to them. And who had taken Tsar-Grad, and walked through the streets of Berlin, and even bought a tie in some shop on the Freidrich Strasse? They had all forgotten that. + 

The thing that surprises me most about them is the way they’ll say the most horrible things to each other⁠—things one would think that would keep any man awake for a week⁠—and then be as chummy as possible together. It seemed as if they were anxious to show off the good spirit in the office. After the most abusive argument one will begin on “Satirikon,” another will collect subscriptions for some choice refreshment, to be consumed in the back room, far removed from the eyes of the chief. It’s a good thing they can’t get vodka. + 

Sashenka is another person who surprises me. Filled as I was with a burning desire to communicate my strange, new impressions about these painful events, I naturally thought of her as someone who would like to share my thoughts, and even pictured the solemn, profound conversation we would have; or perhaps no conversation at all; we might commune in silence, I thought, a silence that would convey more than words, all that was in our hearts.⁠ ⁠… But it turned out differently. When I opened my eyes wide in astonishment and asked, “You’ve read about it, I suppose?” she looked alarmed at my expression, and said, “What?” + 

“How what? I’m referring to the speeches in the Duma.” + 

“What speeches?⁠ ⁠… Oh, yes, I just glanced at them. I’m too busy to read. The Lord knows what they are after.” + 

Failing to notice her indifference, I began to expound the situation with warmth, explaining everything with great detail; but suddenly I realised by the expression of pensiveness on her face, by her downcast eyes, and the strange compression of her lips, that she was not listening to me, but was engrossed in some thoughts of her own. I was hurt and angry. I didn’t mind on my own account so much, as that she should ignore a thing so vital for all Russia. + 

“I don’t think much of your patriotic spirit, Sashenka,” I said coldly, and impressibly. + 

She blushed, and a pang went through my heart as I saw the colour spread over her pale, worn features. + 

“Don’t be angry with me, Ilenka dear, for having wandered off and missed part of what you said. It’s not so very important, is it?” + 

“Not important!” I exclaimed angrily. “You can hardly be aware of what you are saying, Sasha! Surely only a traitor who rejoiced in Russia’s downfall could say a thing like that! Don’t you understand? We have no shells! Aren’t you sorry for our poor, patient, unarmed soldiers whom the well-armed Germans can defeat with a smile on their faces?” + 

She was impressed by that. Her eyes opened wide, and she said with alarm in her voice, “It is dreadful, but what can we do?” + 

“That’s what everyone is trying to decide, and you say it is not important. It’s horribly important, Sashenka! It’s so important that it makes you go mad to think of it!” + 

At that point someone came from the hospital to fetch her to attend to some man who had both arms amputated, and refused to eat unless Sashenka fed him. She instantly forgot everything, and with a guilty look, she gave me a hasty kiss on the ear, and whispered, “Don’t be angry with me, dear; I can’t.⁠ ⁠…” And she was gone. + 

What couldn’t she?⁠ ⁠… + 

An unexpected thing has happened. Nikolai, my brother-in-law, who appears to be in Moscow, sent me a polite letter, offering me money. It has taken him a whole year to remember his mother, and now he proposes to take a share in supplying her wants. He never mentioned Sashenka or Pavel, or little Lidotchka. + 

His letter sent me into a fury, and I wrote a reply that he won’t be in a hurry to forget. I didn’t want to bother Sashenka, so I never said anything to her about it. The blackguard! I knew he had been contracting lately, and made about a million. I heard about it from the fellows in my office. A million! We know the things necessary to make such a sum! And this unscrupulous traitor, in the largeness of his heart, offers me one of his thirty pieces of silver! No, Nikolai, I would sooner starve than touch a penny of your money! Your filthy lucre is tainted with blood; you could never wash your hands clean again when you had touched it! It doesn’t become your mother to live on your contaminated money! She has lost a dearly-beloved, honest son at the front! + 

God! Why dost Thou let the weight of Thy anger fall on the weak? Wreak Thy vengeance on men like these, the rich and the strong, the traitors, the liars and the swindlers! How long will they be permitted to mock at us and show their golden teeth, riding over us in their motorcars with derisive laughter? They are so shameless in their security that it drives one mad with despair to think of one’s own impotence. When you remonstrate with them, they smile; when you try to make them see the disgrace, it amuses them; when you entreat and implore, they laugh in your very face. After robbing and betraying the country, they sleep soundly in their beds as on the softest pillows of eiderdown. + 

It makes one’s blood boil to think that no punishment awaits them. It is not right that blackguards should be triumphant in this world! It takes away respect for honesty, it kills justice, it makes life meaningless. It is blackguards like these against whom we ought to declare war, and not break each other’s heads because one man happens to be a German and another a Frenchman. Mild as I am by nature, I would be the first to take up arms in such a war, and would delight in sending a bullet into one of their brazen foreheads! + 

What’s the good of patience? Nikolai’s letter has stirred my blood. And why did my Lidotchka die, my poor innocent child, eternally and beloved, divine flower from Thy garden, oh Lord? Was she an ill-gotten million to be snatched from my beggarly? It’s horrible, horrible! Many are the people who are cursing in torment as I am! Perish, miserable worm, that’s all you’re good for! Perish, and then you can rest! Have not enough of you Dementevs perished cursing, to be sure, and crying aloud in the hope that justice might be done, and the golden crown set upon their brows? But who bothers about them now? They have perished, and there’s an end of them. + 

I follow the speeches in the Duma carefully, and each day I seem to ascend higher up a mountain that opens out new visions before me. And what horrible visions they are! The Germans are still in possession of Warsaw and advancing steadily. When is this alarming advance to stop? Our military experts declare that they cannot come beyond the forts of Vilna and Grodno, before whose impregnable walls they will crumple up. Ought not this to reassure us? But I am not reassured; I seem to feel their physical nearness and never turn a street corner without an absurd fear of seeing a German come rushing out. How clearly I see his German face, and spiked helmet! I can almost hear his insolent Teutonic speech. God forbid that it should come to pass! + 

Talking of visions, they make one’s hair stand on end. Why am I small and insignificant? I am honest enough, how is it I didn’t see and understand? Why did I trust as idiotically as a bewitched ass⁠—if one can use the expression⁠—when the country was in danger? The country in danger⁠—what appalling words! What use am I to the country? Any horse is far more useful than I, for all my wretched honesty. Wretched is the very word for it. + 

God save Russia! The words are heard on all hands, even among the sceptical fellows in the office. Supposing God refuses to save her? Supposing God were to say, “Perish with your Miasoyedovs, since you are so stupid and corrupt!” Should we have to go under? I shudder at the thought! I can’t admit it; I will fight against it with every ounce of strength I possess! And my heart is cold and apprehensive and desperate. What can I do? The country needs Samsons and heroes, and what kind of a hero am I? A sinner stripped I stand at the last judgment, quaking and unable to say a word in my own defence, for earthly subterfuges are over. + 

This is the case of Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, a clerk, who lived through the great war. + 