"You forget, that they fought like lions for ten days."
"And they are sleeping," he repeated, looking through me and higher up.
Then he stooped down to me and shaking his finger, continued in the
same dry and calm way: "I will tell you--I will tell you...."
"What?"
He stooped still lower towards me, shaking his finger meaningly, and
kept repeating the words as if they expressed a completed idea,--
"I will tell you--I will tell you. Tell them...." And still looking at
me in the same severe way, he shook his finger once more, then took out
his revolver and shot himself in the temple. And this did not surprise
or terrify me in the least. Putting my cigarette into the left hand, I
felt his wound with my fingers, and went back to the train.
"The student has shot himself. I believe he is still alive," said I to
the doctor. The latter caught hold of his head and groaned.
"D--n him!... There is no room. There, that one will go and shoot
himself too, soon. And I give you my word of honour," cried he, angrily
and menacingly, "I will do the same! Yes! And let me beg you--just walk
back. There is no room. You can lodge a complaint against me if you
like."
And he turned away, still shouting, while I went up to the other who
was about to commit suicide. He was an ambulance man, and also, I
believe, a student. He stood, pressing his forehead against the wall of
the carriage, and his shoulders shook with sobs.
"Stop!" said I, touching his quivering shoulder. But he did not turn
round or answer, and continued crying. And the back of his head was
youthful, like the other student's, and as terrifying, and he stood in
an absurd manner with his legs spread out like a person drunk, who is
sick; and his neck was covered with blood; probably he had clutched it
with his own hands.
"Well?" said I, impatiently.
He pushed himself away from the carriage and, stooping like an old man,
with his head bent down, he went away into the darkness, away from all
of us. I do not know why, but I followed him, and we walked along for
a long time away from the carriages. I believe he was crying, and a
feeling of distress stole over me, and I wanted to cry too.
"Stop!" I cried, standing still.
But he walked on, moving his feet ponderously, bent down, looking like
an old man with his narrow shoulders and shuffling gait. And soon he
disappeared in the reddish haze, that resembled light and yet lit
nothing. And I remained alone. To the left of me a row of dim lights
floated past--it was the train. I was alone--amidst the dead and dying.
How many more remained? Near me all was still and dead, but farther
on the field was stirring, as if it were alive--or so it seemed to me
in my loneliness. But the moan did not grow less. It spread along the
earth--high-pitched, hopeless, like the cry of a child or the yelping
of thousands of cast-away puppies, starving and cold. Like a sharp,
endless, icy needle it pierced your brain and slowly moved backwards
and forwards--backwards and forwards....