.....To-day is the eighth day of the battle. It began last Friday,
and Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday have
passed--and Friday has come again and is gone--and it is still going
on. Both armies, hundreds of thousands of men, are standing in front of
each other, never flinching, sending explosive, crashing projectiles
without stopping, and every instant living men are turned into corpses.
The roar and incessant vibration of the air has made the very sky
shudder and gather black thunderclouds above their heads,--while they
continue to stand in front of each other, never flinching and still
killing each other. If a man does not sleep for three nights, he
becomes ill and loses his memory, but they have not slept for a whole
week and are all mad. That is why they feel no pain, do not retreat,
and go on fighting until they have killed all to the last man. They say
that some of the detachments came to the end of their ammunition, but
still they fought on, using their fists and stones, and biting at each
other like dogs. If the remnants of those regiments return home, they
will have canine teeth like wolves--but they will not return, they have
gone mad and die, every man of them. They have gone mad. Everything is
muddled in their heads, and they cease to understand anything! If they
were to be turned round suddenly and sharply, they would begin firing
at their own men, thinking that they were firing at the enemy.
Strange rumours--strange rumours that are told in a whisper, those
repeating them turning white from horror and dreadful forebodings.
Brother, brother, listen what is being told of the red laugh! They
say phantom regiments have appeared, large bands of shadows, the
exact copy of living men. At night, when the men forget themselves
for an instant in sleep, or in the thick of the day's fight, when the
bright day itself seems a phantom, they suddenly appear, firing out of
phantom guns, filling the air with phantom noises; and men, living but
insane men, astounded by the suddenness of the attack, fight to the
death against the phantom enemy, go mad from horror, become grey in an
instant and die. The phantoms disappear as suddenly as they appear,
and all becomes still, while the earth is strewn with fresh mutilated
bodies. Who killed them? You know, brother, who killed them. When
there is a lull between two battles and the enemy is far off, suddenly
in the darkness of the night there resounds a solitary, frightened
shot. And all jump up and begin firing into the darkness, into the
silent dumb darkness, for a long time, for whole hours. Whom do they
see there? Whose terrible, silent shape, full of horror and madness
appears before them? You know, brother, and I know, but men do not know
yet, but they have a foreboding, and ask, turning pale: "Why are there
so many madmen? Before there never used to be so many."
"Before there never used to be so many madmen," they say, turning pale,
trying to believe that now it is as before, and that the universal
violence done to the brains of humanity would have no effect upon their
weak little intellects.
"Why, men fought before and always have fought, and nothing of the sort
happened. Strife is a law of nature," they say with conviction and
calmness, growing pale, nevertheless, seeking for the doctor with their
eyes, and calling out hurriedly: "Water, quick, a glass of water!"
They would willingly become idiots, those people, only not to feel
their intellect reeling and their reason succumbing in the hopeless
combat with insanity.
In those days, when men over there were constantly being turned
into corpses, I could find no peace, and sought the society of my
fellow-men; and I heard many conversations and saw many false smiling
faces, that asserted that the war was far off and in no way concerned
them. But much oftener I met naked, frank horror, hopeless, bitter
tears and frenzied cries of despair, when the great Mind itself cried
out of man its last prayer, its last curse, with all the intensity of
its power,--
"Whenever will the senseless carnage end?"
At some friends', whom I had not seen for a long time, perhaps several
years, I unexpectedly met a mad officer, invalided from the war. He was
a schoolfellow of mine, but I did not recognise him: if he had lain
for a year in his grave, he would have returned more like himself than
he was then. His hair was grey and his face quite white, his features
were but little changed,--but he was always silent, and seemed to
be listening to something, and this stamped upon his face a look of
such formidable remoteness, such indifference to all around him, that
it was fearful to talk to him. His relatives were told he went mad
in the following circumstances: they were in the reserve, while the
neighbouring regiment was ordered to make a bayonet charge. The men
rushed shouting "Hurrah" so loudly as almost to drown the noise of the
cannon,--and suddenly the guns ceased firing, the "Hurrah" ceased also,
and a sepulchral stillness ensued: they had run up to the enemy and
were charging him with their bayonets. And his reason succumbed to that
stillness.
Now he is calm when people make a noise around him, talk and shout, he
listens and waits, but if only there is a moment's silence, he catches
hold of his head, rushes up to the wall or against the furniture, and
falls down in a fit resembling epilepsy. He has many relations, and
they take turns and surround him with sound, but there remain the
nights, long solitary nights--but here his father, a grey-haired old
man, slightly wandering in his mind too, helped. He hung the walls
of his son's room with loudly ticking clocks, that constantly struck
the hour at different times, and at present he is arranging a wheel,
resembling an incessantly-going rattle. None of them lose hope that he
will recover, as he is only twenty-seven, and their house is even gay.
He is dressed very cleanly--not in his uniform--great care is taken
of his appearance and he is even handsome with his white hair, young,
thoughtful face and well-bred, slow, tired movements.
When I was told all, I went up and kissed his hand, his white languid
hand, which will never more be lifted for a blow--and this did not seem
to surprise anybody very much. Only his young sister smiled at me with
her eyes, and afterwards showed me such attention that it seemed as if
I were her betrothed and she loved me more than anybody in the world.
She showed me such attention that I very nearly told her about my dark
empty rooms, in which I am worse than alone--miserable heart, that
never loses hope.... And she managed that we remained alone.
"How pale you are and what dark rings you have under your eyes," she
said kindly. "Are you ill? Are you grieving for your brother?"
"I am grieving for everybody. And I do not feel well."
"I know why you kissed my brother's hand. They did not understand.
Because he is mad, yes?"
"Yes, because he is mad."
She grew thoughtful and looked very much like her brother, only younger.
"And will you," she stopped and blushed, but did not lower her eyes,
"will you let me kiss your hand?"