staying at Moscow, I frequently went to the house of Ivashin, who from
childhood had been an old friend of mine. His wife was an agreeable
hostess, a charming woman, as everybody said; but she never pleased me.
. . . The winter that I knew her, she often spoke with hardly
concealed pride of her brother, who had shortly before completed his
course, and promised to be one of the most fashionable and popular
young men in the best society of Petersburg. As I knew by reputation
the father of the Guskofs, who was very rich and had a distinguished
position, and as I knew also the sister's ways, I felt some prejudice
against meeting the young man. One evening when I was at Ivashin's, I
saw a short, thoroughly pleasant-looking young man, in a black coat,
white vest and necktie. My host hastened to make me acquainted with
him. The young man, evidently dressed for a ball, with his cap in his
hand, was standing before Ivashin, and was eagerly but politely arguing
with him about a common friend of ours, who had distinguished himself
at the time of the Hungarian campaign. He said that this acquaintance
was not at all a hero or a man born for war, as was said of him, but
was simply a clever and cultivated man. I recollect, I took part in
the argument against Guskof, and went to the extreme of declaring also
that intellect and cultivation always bore an inverse relation to
bravery; and I recollect how Guskof pleasantly and cleverly pointed out
to me that bravery was necessarily the result of intellect and a
decided degree of development,--a statement which I, who considered
myself an intellectual and cultivated man, could not in my heart of
hearts agree with.
I recollect that towards the close of our conversation Madame Ivashina
introduced me to her brother; and he, with a condescending smile,
offered me his little hand on which he had not yet had time to draw his
kid gloves, and weakly and irresolutely pressed my hand as he did now.
Though I had been prejudiced against Guskof, I could not help granting
that he was in the right, and agreeing with his sister that he was
really a clever and agreeable young man, who ought to have great
success in society. He was extraordinarily neat, beautifully dressed,
and fresh, and had affectedly modest manners, and a thoroughly
youthful, almost childish appearance, on account of which you could not
help excusing his expression of self-sufficiency, though it modified
the impression of his high-mightiness caused by his intellectual face
and especially his smile. It is said that he had great success that
winter with the high-born ladies of Moscow. As I saw him at his
sister's I could only infer how far this was true by the feeling of
pleasure and contentment constantly excited in me by his youthful
appearance and by his sometimes indiscreet anecdotes. He and I met
half a dozen times, and talked a good deal; or, rather, he talked a
good deal, and I listened. He spoke for the most part in French,
always with a good accent, very fluently and ornately; and he had the
skill of drawing others gently and politely into the conversation. As
a general thing, he behaved toward all, and toward me, in a somewhat
supercilious manner, and I felt that he was perfectly right in this way
of treating people. I always feel that way in regard to men who are
firmly convinced that they ought to treat me superciliously, and who
are comparative strangers to me.
Now, as he sat with me, and gave me his hand, I keenly recalled in him
that same old haughtiness of expression; and it seemed to me that he
did not properly appreciate his position of official inferiority, as,
in the presence of the officers, he asked me what I had been doing in
all that time, and how I happened to be there. In spite of the fact
that I invariably made my replies in Russian, he kept putting his
questions in French, expressing himself as before in remarkably correct
language. About himself he said fluently that after his unhappy,
wretched story (what the story was, I did not know, and he had not yet
told me), he had been three months under arrest, and then had been sent
to the Caucasus to the N. regiment, and now had been serving three
years as a soldier in that regiment.
"You would not believe," said he to me in French, "how much I have to
suffer in these regiments from the society of the officers. Still it
is a pleasure to me, that I used to know the adjutant of whom we were
just speaking: he is a good man--it's a fact," he remarked
condescendingly. "I live with him, and that's something of a relief for
me. Yes, my dear, the days fly by, but they aren't all alike,"
[Footnote: OUI, MON CHER, LES JOURS SE SUIVENT, MAIS NE SE RESSEMBLENT
PAS: in French in the original.] he added; and suddenly hesitated,
reddened, and stood up, as he caught sight of the adjutant himself
coming toward us.
"It is such a pleasure to meet such a man as you," said Guskof to me in
a whisper as he turned from me. "I should like very, very much, to
have a long talk with you."
I said that I should be very happy to talk with him, but in reality I
confess that Guskof excited in me a sort of dull pity that was not akin
to sympathy.
I had a presentiment that I should feel a constraint in a private
conversation with him; but still I was anxious to learn from him
several things, and, above all, why it was, when his father had been so
rich, that he was in poverty, as was evident by his dress and
appearance.
The adjutant greeted us all, including Guskof, and sat down by me in
the seat which the cashiered officer had just vacated. Pavel
Dmitrievitch, who had always been calm and leisurely, a genuine
gambler, and a man of means, was now very different from what he had
been in the flowery days of his success; he seemed to be in haste to go
somewhere, kept constantly glancing at everybody, and it was not five
minutes before he proposed to Lieutenant O., who had sworn off from
playing, to set up a small faro-bank. Lieutenant O. refused, under the
pretext of having to attend to his duties, but in reality because, as
he knew that the adjutant had few possessions and little money left, he
did not feel himself justified in risking his three hundred rubles
against a hundred or even less which the adjutant might stake.
"Well, Pavel Dmitrievitch," said the lieutenant, anxious to avoid a
repetition of the invitation, "is it true, what they tell us, that we
return to-morrow?"
"I don't know," replied the adjutant. "Orders came to be in readiness;
but if it's true, then you'd better play a game. I would wager my
Kabarda cloak."
"No, to-day already" . . .
"It's a gray one, never been worn; but if you prefer, play for money.
How is that?"
"Yes, but . . . I should be willing--pray don't think that" . . . said
Lieutenant O., answering the implied suspicion; "but as there may be a
raid or some movement, I must go to bed early."
The adjutant stood up, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets,
started to go across the grounds. His face assumed its ordinary
expression of coldness and pride, which I admired in him.
"Won't you have a glass of mulled wine?" I asked him.
"That might be acceptable," and he came back to me; but Guskof politely
took the glass from me, and handed it to the adjutant, striving at the
same time not to look at him. But as he did not notice the tent-rope,
he stumbled over it, and fell on his hand, dropping the glass.
"What a bungler!" exclaimed the adjutant, still holding out his hand
for the glass. Everybody burst out laughing, not excepting Guskof, who
was rubbing his hand on his sore knee, which he had somehow struck as
he fell. "That's the way the bear waited on the hermit," continued the
adjutant. "It's the way he waits on me every day. He has pulled up
all the tent-pins; he's always tripping up."
Guskof, not hearing him, apologized to us, and glanced toward me with a
smile of almost noticeable melancholy, as though saying that I alone
could understand him. He was pitiable to see; but the adjutant, his
protector, seemed, on that very account, to be severe on his messmate,
and did not try to put him at his ease.
"Well, you're a graceful lad! Where did you think you were going?"
"Well, who can help tripping over these pins, Pavel Dmitrievitch?" said
Guskof. "You tripped over them yourself the other day."
"I, old man, [Footnote: batiushka]--I am not of the rank and file, and
such gracefulness is not expected of me."
"He can be lazy," said Captain S., keeping the ball rolling, "but
low-rank men have to make their legs fly."
"Ill-timed jest," said Guskof, almost in a whisper, and casting down
his eyes. The adjutant was evidently vexed with his messmate; he
listened with inquisitive attention to every word that he said.
"He'll have to be sent out into ambuscade again," said he, addressing
S., and pointing to the cashiered officer.
"Well, there'll be some more tears," said S., laughing. Guskof no
longer looked at me, but acted as though he were going to take some
tobacco from his pouch, though there had been none there for some time.
"Get ready for the ambuscade, old man," said S., addressing him with
shouts of laughter. "To-day the scouts have brought the news, there'll
be an attack on the camp to-night, so it's necessary to designate the
trusty lads." Guskof's face showed a fleeting smile as though he were
preparing to make some reply, but several times he cast a supplicating
look at S.
"Well, you know I have been, and I'm ready to go again if I am sent,"
he said hastily.
"Then you'll be sent."
"Well, I'll go. Isn't that all right?"
"Yes, as at Arguna, you deserted the ambuscade and threw away your
gun," said the adjutant; and turning from him he began to tell us the
orders for the next day.
As a matter of fact, we expected from the enemy a cannonade of the camp
that night, and the next day some sort of diversion. While we were
still chatting about various subjects of general interest, the
adjutant, as though from a sudden and unexpected impulse, proposed to
Lieutenant O. to have a little game. The lieutenant most unexpectedly
consented; and, together with S. and the ensign, they went off to the
adjutant's tent, where there was a folding green table with cards on
it. The captain, the commander of our division, went to our tent to
sleep; the other gentlemen also separated, and Guskof and I were left
alone. I was not mistaken, it was really very uncomfortable for me to
have a tete-a-tete with him; I arose involuntarily, and began to
promenade up and down on the battery. Guskof walked in silence by my
side, hastily and awkwardly wheeling around so as not to delay or
incommode me.
"I do not annoy you?" he asked in a soft, mournful voice. So far as I
could see his face in the dim light, it seemed to me deeply thoughtful
and melancholy.
"Not at all," I replied; but as he did not immediately begin to speak,
and as I did not know what to say to him, we walked in silence a
considerably long time.
The twilight had now absolutely changed into dark night; over the black
profile of the mountains gleamed the bright evening heat-lightning;
over our heads in the light-blue frosty sky twinkled the little stars;
on all sides gleamed the ruddy flames of the smoking watch-fires; near
us, the white tents stood out in contrast to the frowning blackness of
our earth-works. The light from the nearest watch-fire, around which
our servants, engaged in quiet conversation, were warming themselves,
occasionally flashed on the brass of our heavy guns, and fell on the
form of the sentry, who, wrapped in his cloak, paced with measured
tread along the battery.
"You cannot imagine what a delight it is for me to talk with such a man
as you are," said Guskof, although as yet he had not spoken a word to
me. "Only one who had been in my position could appreciate it."
I did not know how to reply to him, and we again relapsed into silence,
although it was evident that he was anxious to talk and have me listen
to him.
"Why were you . . . why did you suffer this?" I inquired at last, not
being able to invent any better way of breaking the ice.
"Why, didn't you hear about this wretched business from Metenin?"
"Yes, a duel, I believe; I did not hear much about it," I replied.
"You see, I have been for some time in the Caucasus."
"No, it wasn't a duel, but it was a stupid and horrid story. I will
tell you all about it, if you don't know. It happened that the same
year that I met you at my sister's I was living at Petersburg. I must
tell you I had then what they call une position dans le monde,--a
position good enough if it was not brilliant. Mon pere me donnait ten
thousand par an. In '49 I was promised a place in the embassy at Turin;
my uncle on my mother's side had influence, and was always ready to do
a great deal for me. That sort of thing is all past now. J'etais recu
dans la meilleure societe de Petersburg; I might have aspired to any
girl in the city. I was well educated, as we all are who come from the
school, but was not especially cultivated; to be sure, I read a good
deal afterwards, mais j'avais surtout, you know, ce jargon du monde,
and, however it came about, I was looked upon as a leading light among
the young men of Petersburg. What raised me more than all in common
estimation, c'est cette liaison avec Madame D., about which a great
deal was said in Petersburg; but I was frightfully young at that time,
and did not prize these advantages very highly. I was simply young and
stupid. What more did I need? Just then that Metenin had some
notoriety--"
And Guskof went on in the same fashion to relate to me the history of
his misfortunes, which I will omit, as it would not be at all
interesting.
"Two months I remained under arrest," he continued, "absolutely alone;
and what thoughts did I not have during that time? But, you know, when
it was all over, as though every tie had been broken with the past,
then it became easier for me. Mon pere,--you have heard tell of him,
of course, a man of iron will and strong convictions,--il m'a
desherite, and broken off all intercourse with me. According to his
convictions he had to do as he did, and I don't blame him at all. He
was consistent. Consequently, I have not taken a step to induce him to
change his mind. My sister was abroad. Madame D. is the only one who
wrote to me when I was released, and she sent me assistance; but you
understand that I could not accept it, so that I had none of those
little things which make one's position a little easier, you
know,--books, linen, food, nothing at all. At this time I thought
things over and over, and began to look at life with different eyes.
For instance, this noise, this society gossip about me in Petersburg,
did not interest me, did not flatter me; it all seemed to me
ridiculous. I felt that I myself had been to blame; I was young and
indiscreet; I had spoiled my career, and I only thought how I might get
into the right track again. And I felt that I had strength and energy
enough for it. After my arrest, as I told you, I was sent here to the
Caucasus to the N. regiment.
"I thought," he went on to say, all the time becoming more and more
animated,--"I thought that here in the Caucasus, la vie de camp, the
simple, honest men with whom I should associate, and war and danger,
would all admirably agree with my mental state, so that I might begin a
new life. They will see me under fire. [Footnote: On me verra au
feu.] I shall make myself liked; I shall be respected for my real
self,--the cross--non-commissioned officer; they will relieve me of my
fine; and I shall get up again, et vous savez avec ce prestige du
malheur! But, quel desenchantement! You can't imagine how I have been
deceived! You know what sort of men the officers of our regiment are."
He did not speak for some little time, waiting, as it appeared, for me
to tell him that I knew the society of our officers here was bad; but I
made him no reply. It went against my grain that he should expect me,
because I knew French, forsooth, to be obliged to take issue with the
society of the officers, which, during my long residence in the
Caucasus, I had had time enough to appreciate fully, and for which I
had far higher respect than for the society from which Mr. Guskof had
sprung. I wanted to tell him so, but his position constrained me.
"In the N. regiment the society of the officers is a thousand times
worse than it is here," he continued. "I hope that it is saying a good
deal; J'ESPERE QUE C'EST BEAUCOUP DIRE; that is, you cannot imagine
what it is. I am not speaking of the yunkers and the soldiers. That
is horrible, it is so bad. At first they received me very kindly, that
is absolutely the truth; but when they saw that I could not help
despising them, you know, in these inconceivably small circumstances,
they saw that I was a man absolutely different, standing far above
them, they got angry with me, and began to put various little
humiliations on me. You haven't an idea what I had to suffer.
[Footnote: CE QUE J'AI EUA SOUFFRIR VOUS NE FAITES PAS UNE IDEE.] Then
this forced relationship with the yunkers, and especially with the
small means that I had--I lacked everything; [Footnote: AVEC LES PETITS
MOYENS QUE J'AVAIS, JE MANQUAIS DE TOUT] I had only what my sister used
to send me. And here's a proof for you! As much as it made me suffer,
I with my character, AVEC MA FIERTE J'AI ECRIS A MON PERE, begged him
to send me something. I understand how living four years of such a
life may make a man like our cashiered Dromof who drinks with soldiers,
and writes notes to all the officers asking them to loan him three
rubles, and signing it, TOUT A VOUS, DROMOF. One must have such a
character as I have, not to be mired in the least by such a horrible
position."
For some time he walked in silence by my side.
"Have you a cigarette?" [Footnote: "Avez-vous un papiros?"] he asked me.
"And so I stayed right where I was? Yes. I could not endure it
physically, because, though we were wretched, cold, and ill-fed, I
lived like a common soldier, but still the officers had some sort of
consideration for me. I had still some prestige that they regarded. I
wasn't sent out on guard nor for drill. I could not have stood that.
But morally my sufferings were frightful; and especially because I
didn't see any escape from my position. I wrote my uncle, begged him
to get me transferred to my present regiment, which, at least, sees
some service; and I thought that here Pavel Dmitrievitch, qui est le
fils de l'intendant de mon pere, might be of some use to me. My uncle
did this for me; I was transferred. After that regiment this one
seemed to me a collection of chamberlains. Then Pavel Dmitrievitch was
here; he knew who I was, and I was splendidly received. At my uncle's
request--a Guskof, vous savez; but I forgot that with these men without
cultivation and undeveloped,--they can't appreciate a man, and show him
marks of esteem, unless he has that aureole of wealth, of friends; and
I noticed how, little by little, when they saw that I was poor, their
behavior to me showed more and more indifference until they have come
almost to despise me. It is horrible, but it is absolutely the truth.
"Here I have been in action, I have fought, they have seen me under
fire," [Footnote: On m'a vu au feu.] he continued; "but when will it
all end? I think, never. And my strength and energy have already
begun to flag. Then I had imagined la guerre, la vie de camp; but it
isn't at all what I see, in a sheepskin jacket, dirty linen, soldier's
boots, and you go out in ambuscade, and the whole night long lie in the
ditch with some Antonof reduced to the ranks for drunkenness, and any
minute from behind the bush may come a rifle-shot and hit you or
Antonof,--it's all the same which. That is not bravery; it's horrible,
c'est affreux, it's killing!" [Footnote: Ca tue]
"Well, you can be promoted a non-commissioned officer for this
campaign, and next year an ensign," said I.
"Yes, it may be: they promised me that in two years, and it's not up
yet. What would those two years amount to, if I knew any one! You can
imagine this life with Pavel Dmitrievitch; cards, low jokes, drinking
all the time; if you wish to tell anything that is weighing on your
mind, you would not be understood, or you would be laughed at: they
talk with you, not for the sake of sharing a thought, but to get
something funny out of you. Yes, and so it has gone--in a brutal,
beastly way, and you are always conscious that you belong to the rank
and file; they always make you feel that. Hence you can't realize what
an enjoyment it is to talk a coeur ouvert to such a man as you are."
I had never imagined what kind of a man I was, and consequently I did
not know what answer to make him.
"Will you have your lunch now?" asked Nikita at this juncture,
approaching me unseen in the darkness, and, as I could perceive, vexed
at the presence of a guest. "Nothing but curd dumplings, there's none
of the roast beef left."
"Has the captain had his lunch yet?"
"He went to bed long ago," replied Nikita, gruffly, "According to my
directions, I was to bring you lunch here and your brandy." He
muttered something else discontentedly, and sauntered off to his tent.
After loitering a while longer, he brought us, nevertheless, a
lunch-case; he placed a candle on the lunch-case, and shielded it from
the wind with a sheet of paper. He brought a saucepan, some mustard in
a jar, a tin dipper with a handle, and a bottle of absinthe. After
arranging these things, Nikita lingered around us for some moments, and
looked on as Guskof and I were drinking the liquor, and it was
evidently very distasteful to him. By the feeble light shed by the
candle through the paper, amid the encircling darkness, could be seen
the seal-skin cover of the lunch-case, the supper arranged upon it,
Guskof's sheepskin jacket, his face, and his small red hands which he
used in lifting the patties from the pan. Everything around us was
black; and only by straining the sight could be seen the dark battery,
the dark form of the sentry moving along the breastwork, on all sides
the watch-fires, and on high the ruddy stars.
Guskof wore a melancholy, almost guilty smile as though it were awkward
for him to look into my face after his confession. He drank still
another glass of liquor, and ate ravenously, emptying the saucepan.
"Yes; for you it must be a relief all the same," said I, for the sake
of saying something,--"your acquaintance with the adjutant. He is a
very good man, I have heard."
"Yes," replied the cashiered officer, "he is a kind man; but he can't
help being what he is, with his education, and it is useless to expect
it."
A flush seemed suddenly to cross his face. "You remarked his coarse
jest this evening about the ambuscade;" and Guskof, though I tried
several times to interrupt him, began to justify himself before me, and
to show that he had not run away from the ambuscade, and that he was
not a coward as the adjutant and Capt. S. tried to make him out.
"As I was telling you," he went on to say, wiping his hands on his
jacket, "such people can't show any delicacy toward a man, a common
soldier, who hasn't much money either. That's beyond their strength.
And here recently, while I haven't received anything at all from my
sister, I have been conscious that they have changed toward me. This
sheepskin jacket, which I bought of a soldier, and which hasn't any
warmth in it, because it's all worn off" (and here he showed me where
the wool was gone from the inside), "it doesn't arouse in him any
sympathy or consideration for my unhappiness, but scorn, which he does
not take pains to hide. Whatever my necessities may be, as now when I
have nothing to eat except soldiers' gruel, and nothing to wear," he
continued, casting down his eyes, and pouring out for himself still
another glass of liquor, "he does not even offer to lend me some money,
though he knows perfectly well that I would give it back to him; but he
waits till I am obliged to ask him for it. But you appreciate how it
is for me to go to him. In your case I should say, square and fair,
vous etes audessus de cela, mon cher, je n'ai pas le sou. And you
know," said he, looking straight into my eyes with an expression of
desperation, "I am going to tell you, square and fair, I am in a
terrible situation: pouvez-vous me preter dix rubles argent? My sister
ought to send me some by the mail, et mon pere--"
"Why, most willingly," said I, although, on the contrary, it was trying
and unpleasant, especially because the evening before, having lost at
cards, I had left only about five rubles in Nikita's care. "In a
moment," said I, arising, "I will go and get it at the tent."
"No, by and by: ne vous derangez pas."
Nevertheless, not heeding him, I hastened to the closed tent, where
stood my bed, and where the captain was sleeping.
"Aleksei Ivanuitch, let me have ten rubles, please, for rations," said
I to the captain, shaking him.