‘Don’t go on like that,’ said I; ‘you are too sensitive; you should not take things so much to heart: don’t analyse but look at things simply. You say yourself that you arc a man of character; face your task, you have not much longer to suffer,’ I said to him very incoherently, for I was excited both by feelings of pity and by a feeling of repentance at having allowed myself to condemn a man who was truly and deeply suffering.
‘Yes,’ he began; ‘had I but once since I came into this hell heard a single word of advice, sympathy, or friendship – a single human word such as I hear from you – I might have borne everything calmly, have faced my task, and even behaved like a soldier; but now it is terrible.… When I reason sanely I long for death. Why should I care for a life of dishonour, or for myself who am dead to all that is good in life? But at the least sign of danger I can’t help craving for this vile life and guarding it as if it were something very precious, and I can’t, je ne puis pas,45 master myself.… That is, I can,’ he continued, after a moment’s pause; ‘but it costs me too great an effort, a tremendous effort when I am alone. When others are present, and in ordinary circumstances when going into action, I am brave enough —j’ai fait mes preuves,46 – because I have self-love and am proud – that is my fault – and in the presence of others … I say, let me spend the night with you – they’ll be playing all night in our tent. I can sleep anywhere – on the ground.’
While Nikita was making up a bed we rose, and again, in the dark, began walking up and down the battery. Guskov must really have had a very weak head, for after only two cups of vodka and two glasses of wine he was unsteady on his feet. When we had walked away from the candle I noticed that he put the ten-ruble note, which he had held in his hand all through the foregoing conversation, back into his pocket, trying not to let me see it. He continued to say that he felt he might yet rise if he had a man like myself to take an interest in him.
We were about to enter the tent to go to bed when suddenly a cannon-ball whistled over us and struck into the ground not far off. It was very strange: the quiet, sleeping camp, our conversation – and suddenly the enemy’s ball flying, God knows whence, right in among our tents: so strange that it was some time before I could realize what had happened. But one of our soldiers, Andreev, who was pacing up and down the battery on guard, came towards me.
‘He’s sneaked within range. There’s the place he fired from,’ remarked he.
‘The Captain must be roused,’ said I, and glanced at Guskov.
He had crouched nearly to the earth and stammered, trying to say something, ‘This … this … is unple … this is … most … absurd.’ He said no more, and I did not see how and where he suddenly vanished.
In the Captain’s tent a candle was lit and we heard him coughing, as he always did on waking; but he soon appeared, demanding the linstock to light his little pipe with.
‘What’s the matter, old man?’ said he, smiling. ‘It seems I am to have no sleep to-night; first you come with your “fellow from the ranks”, and now it’s Shamyl. What are we going to do? Shall we reply or not? Nothing was mentioned about it in the orders?’
‘Nothing at all. There he is again,’ said I; ‘and this time with two guns.’
And, in fact, before us, a little to the right, two fires were seen in the darkness like a pair of eyes, and then a ball flew past, as well as an empty shell, probably one of our own returned to us – which gave a loud and shrill whistle. The soldiers crept out of the neighbouring tents and could be heard clearing their throats, stretching themselves, and talking.
‘Hear him a-whistling through the fuse-hole just like a nightingale!’ remarked an artilleryman.
‘Call Nikita!’ said the Captain, with his usual kindly banter. ‘Nikita, don’t go hiding yourself; come and listen to the mountain nightingales.’
‘Why not, y’r honour?’ said Nikita, as he came up and stood by the Captain. ‘I have seen them nightingales and am not afraid of ’em; but there’s that guest who was here a moment ago drinking your wine, he cut his sticks soon enough when he heard ’em; went past our tent like a ball, doubled up like some animal.’
‘Well, someone must ride over to the Chief of Artillery,’ said the Captain to me in a grave and authoritative tone, ‘to ask whether we are to reply to the shots or not. We can’t hit anything, but we can shoot for all that. Be so good as to go and ask. Order a horse to be saddled, you’ll get there quicker; take my Polkan, if you like.’
Five minutes later the horse was brought, and I started to find the Chief of Artillery.
‘Mind, the watchword is pole,’ whispered the careful Captain, ‘or you won’t be allowed to pass the cordon.’
It was barely half a mile to where the Chief of Artillery was stationed. The whole way lay among tents. As soon as I had left the light of our own camp-fires behind, it was so dark that I could not even see my horse’s ears – only the camp-fires, which seemed now very near, now very far away, flickered before my eyes. Having given the horse the rein and let him take his own course for a little, I began to distinguish the white four-cornered tents, and then the black ruts of the road. Half an hour later, after having asked my way some three or four times, twice stumbled over tent-pegs and been sworn at each time from within the tent, and after having been twice stopped by sentries, I reached the Chief of Artillery at last.
While on my way I heard two more shots fired at our camp, but they did not reach the place where the staff was stationed. The Chief of Artillery ordered not to fire, especially now that the enemy had ceased firing; so I returned, leading my horse and making my way on foot among the infantry tents. More than once, while passing a soldier’s tent in which I saw a light, I slackened my pace to listen to a tale told by some wag, or to a book read out by some ‘literate’ person, to whom a whole company listened, tightly packed inside and crowding outside the tent and now and then interrupting the reader with their remarks, or I caught merely some scrap of conversation about an expedition, about home, or about the officers.
Passing one of the tents of the 3rd Battalion, I heard Guskov’s loud voice speaking very merrily and confidently. He was answered by young voices, not of privates but of gentlemen, as merry as his own. This was evidently a cadet’s or sergeant-major’s tent. I stopped.
‘I have long known him,’ Guskov was saying. ‘When I was in Petersburg he often came to see me and I visited him. He belonged to very good society.’
‘Whom are you talking about?’ asked a tipsy voice.
‘About the prince,’ answered Guskov. ‘We are related, you know; more than that, we are old friends. You know, gentlemen, it is a good thing to have such an acquaintance. He is awfully rich, you see. A hundred rubles is nothing to him; so I’ve taken a little off him till my sister sends me some.’
‘Well, then send …’
‘All right! … Savelich, old boy!’ came Guskov’s voice from the tent as he drew near to the entrance; ‘here are ten rubles, go to the canteen and get two bottles of Kahetinsky.… What else, gentlemen? Speak up!’ and Guskov, bare-headed and with hair dishevelled, reeled out of the tent. Throwing open his sheepskin and thrusting his hands into the pockets of his greyish trousers, he stopped at the entrance. Though he was in the light and I in the dark, I trembled with fear lest he should see me, and moved on, trying not to make a noise.