"Nonsense, advance on the enemy indeed!"
"But you know yourself--"
"Shut up. As if we cannot talk of something else."
The sunset faded. The cloud lifted, and it seemed to grow lighter; the
faces became more familiar, and he, who kept circling round us, grew
calmer and sat down.
"I wonder what it's like at home now?" asked he, vaguely, and in his
voice there sounded a guilty smile.
And once again all became terrible, incomprehensible and strange--so
intensely so, that we were filled with horror, almost to the verge
of losing consciousness. And we all began talking and shouting at the
same time, bustling about, moving our glasses, touching each other's
shoulders, hands, knees--and all at once became silent, giving way
before the incomprehensible.
"At home?" cried somebody out of the darkness. His voice was hoarse and
quivering with emotion, fear and hatred. And some of the words would
not come out, as if he had forgotten how to say them.
"A home? What home? Why, is there home anywhere? Don't interrupt me
or else I shall fire. At home I used to take a bath every day--can
you understand?--a bath with water--water up to the very edges. While
now--I do not even wash my face every day. My head is covered with
scurf, and my whole body itches and over it crawl, crawl.... I am going
mad from dirt, while you talk of--home! I am like an animal, I despise
myself, I cannot recognise myself, and death is not at all terrifying.
You tear my brain with your shrapnel-shots. Aim at what you will, all
hit my brain--and you can speak of--home. What home? Streets, windows,
people, but I would not go into the street now for anything. I should
be ashamed to. You brought a samovar here, but I was ashamed to look at
it."