Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 1

by Leo Tolstoy

  ‘Fire case-shot!’ cried Volódya, running back from the banquette, but the soldiers had already arranged matters without him and the metallic ring of the discharged case-shot whistled over his head first from one mortar and then from the other. ‘One – two!’ ordered Volódya, running the distance between the two mortars and quite forgetting the danger. From one side and near at hand was heard the clatter of the musketry of our supports, and excited cries.

  Suddenly a wild cry of despair arose on the left. ‘They’re behind us! Behind us!’ repeated several voices. Volódya looked round. About twenty Frenchmen appeared behind him. One of them, a handsome man with a black beard, was in front of the rest, but having run up to within ten paces of the battery he stopped, fired point-blank at Volódya, and then again started running towards him. For a moment Volódya stood petrified, unable to believe his eyes. When he recovered and glanced round he saw French uniforms on the breastwork before him; two Frenchmen were even spiking a cannon some ten paces from him. No one was near but Mélnikov, who had fallen at his side killed by a bullet, and Vlang, who had seized a linstock and was rushing forward with a furious look on his face, rolling his eyes and shouting.

  ‘Follow me, Vladímir Semënich! … Follow me!’ he cried in a desperate voice, brandishing his linstock at the Frenchmen who had appeared from behind. The furious figure of the cadet perplexed them. Vlang hit the front one on the head, the others involuntarily hesitated, and he ran to the trench where our infantry lay firing at the French, continually looking back and shouting desperately, ‘Come with me, Vladímir Semënich! Why are you stopping? Run!’ Having jumped in, he climbed out again to see what his adored ensign was doing. Something in a cloak lay prostrate where Volódya had stood, and that whole place was occupied by Frenchmen firing at our men.

  XXVII

  VLANG found his battery at the second line of defence. Of the twenty soldiers belonging to the mortar battery only eight were left.

  Towards nine in the evening Vlang crossed over with the battery to the North Side on a steamer crowded with soldiers, cannon, horses, and wounded men. There was no firing anywhere. The stars shone as brightly in the sky as they had done the night before, but the sea was rocked by a strong wind. On the First and Second Bastions flames kept bursting up along the ground, explosions rent the air and lit up strange dark objects and the stones flying in the air around them. Something was burning near the docks and the red glare was reflected on the water. The bridge thronged with people was illuminated by a fire at the Nicholas Battery. A large flame seemed to stand above the water on the distant little headland of the Alexander Battery, lighting up from below the clouds of smoke that hung above it, and quiet, bold lights gleamed over the sea, as they had done yesterday, from the distant enemy fleet, and the fresh wind raised waves in the Roadstead. By the glaring light of the conflagration one could see the masts of our sinking ships as they slowly descended deeper and deeper into the water. There was no talking on board, only words of command given by the captain, the snorting and stamping of the horses on the vessel, and the moaning of the wounded, could be heard above the steam and the regular swish of the parting waters. Vlang, who had had nothing to eat all day, took a piece of bread from his pocket and began munching it, but suddenly remembering Volódya he began to sob so loud that the soldiers near him heard it.

  ‘Look! He’s eating bread and yet he’s sobbing, is our Vlánga!’ said Vásin.

  ‘That’s queer!’ said another.

  ‘Look! Our barrack’s been set on fire too,’ he continued with a sigh. ‘What a lot of the likes of us perished there; and now the Frenchmen have got it for nothing.’

  ‘At all events we have got off alive, thank God!’ said Vásin.

  ‘All the same, it’s a shame.’

  ‘Where’s the shame? D’you think they’ll get a chance of amusing themselves there? See if ours don’t retake it. No matter how many of the likes of us are lost; if the Emperor gives the word, as sure as there’s a God we’ll take it back. You don’t suppose we’ll leave it like that? No fear! There, take the bare walls.… The ‘trenchments are all blown up.… Yes, I daresay.… He’s stuck his flag on the mound, but he’s not shoved himself into the town.… You wait a bit! The real reckoning will come yet – only wait a bit!’ he concluded, admonishing the French.

  ‘Of course it will!’ said another with conviction.

  Along the whole line of the Sevastopol bastions – which for so many months had been seething with such extraordinary life and energy, for so many months had seen heroes relieved by death as they fell one after another, and for so many months had aroused the fear, the hatred, and at last the admiration of the enemy – no one was now to be seen: all was dead, ghastly, terrible. But it was not silent: destruction was still going on. Everywhere on the ground, blasted and strewn around by fresh explosions, lay shattered gun-carriages crushing the corpses of foes and Russians alike, cast-iron cannons thrown with terrific force into holes and half-buried in the earth and silenced for ever, bombs, cannon-balls and more dead bodies; then holes and splintered beams of what had been bomb-proofs, and again silent corpses in grey or blue uniforms. All this still shuddered again and again, and was lit up by the lurid flames of the explosions that continued to shake the air.

  The enemy saw that something incomprehensible was happening in awe-inspiring Sevastopol. The explosions and the deathly stillness on the bastions made them shudder, but under the influence of the strong and firm resistance of that day they did not yet dare to believe that their unflinching foe had disappeared, and they awaited the end of the gloomy night silently, motionless and anxious.

  The Sevastopol army, surging and spreading like the sea on a rough dark night, its whole mass anxiously palpitating, slowly swayed through the thick darkness by the bridge over the Roadstead and onto the North Side, away from the place where it was leaving so many brave comrades, from the place saturated with its blood, the place it had held for eleven months against a far stronger foe, but which it was now ordered to abandon without a struggle.

  The first effect this command had on every Russian was one of oppressive bewilderment. The next feeling was a fear of pursuit. The men felt helpless as soon as they had left the places where they were accustomed to fight, and crowded anxiously together in the darkness at the entrance to the bridge which was rocked by the strong wind. With bayonets clashing, regiments, vehicles, and militia crowded together and pressed forward to the bay. While mounted officers pushed through with orders, the inhabitants wept, orderlies carrying forbidden luggage entreated, and artillery with rattling wheels hurried to get away. Notwithstanding the diversion resulting from their various and bustling occupations, the instinct of self-preservation and the desire to get away as quickly as possible from this dreadful place of death was present in the soul of each. It was present in the mortally wounded soldier who lay among the five hundred other wounded men on the pavement of the Pávlov Quay praying to God for death; in the militiaman pushing with all his might among the dense crowd to make way for a general who was riding past; in the general who conducted the crossing, firmly restraining the impetuosity of the soldiers; in the sailor who, having got among a moving battalion, was squeezed by the swaying crowd till he could scarcely breathe; in the wounded officer whom four soldiers had been carrying on a stretcher, but stopped by the throng had put down on the ground near the Nicholas Battery; in the artilleryman who having served with the same gun for sixteen years was now, in obedience to an officer’s order quite incomprehensible to him, with the help of his comrades pushing that gun down the steep bank into the Roadstead, and in the sailors of the fleet who, having just scuttled their ships, were briskly rowing away from them in the long-boats. On reaching the North Side and leaving the bridge almost every man took off his cap and crossed himself. But behind this feeling of self-preservation there was another, a deeper feeling, sad and gnawing, akin to remorse, shame, and anger. Almost every soldier looking back at the abandoned town from the North
Side, sighed with inexpressible bitterness in his heart and made a menacing gesture towards the enemy.

  1 The last posting-station north of Sevastopol. L. T.

  2 There were a series of desperate night conflicts on the 9 to 11 May o.s. (21 to 23 May n.s.).

  3 A number of Freemasons were involved in the Decembrist mutiny in 1825, when Nicholas I ascended the throne. He was consequently very suspicious of that organization, which at the time of the Crimean War was prohibited in Russia. The inquiry made would therefore be offensive to a loyal and patriotic volunteer.

  4 Vodka is a spirit distilled from rye. It is the commonest form of strong drink in Russia.

  5 The Belbék is a river.

  6 This pontoon bridge was erected during the summer of 1855. At first it was feared that the water was too rough in the Roadstead for a secure bridge to be built, but it served its purpose, and later on even stood the strain put upon it by the retreat of the Russian army to the North Side.

  7 In addressing anyone in Russian, it is usual to employ the Christian name and patronymic: i.e. to the Christian name (in this case Michael) the father’s Christian name is joined (in this case Semën) with the termination vich (o-vkh or e-vich) which means ‘son of’. The termination is often shortened to ich, and colloquially to ych. Surnames are less used than in English, for the patronymic is suitable for all circumstances of life – both for speaking to and of anyone – except that people on very intimate terms use only the Christian name, or a pet name.

  8 The Korábelnaya was a suburb of Sevastopol lying to the east of the South Bay and to the south of the Roadstead. Like the ‘North Side’ it was connected with Sevastopol by a floating bridge.

  9 That is, a medal granted for service in the suppression of the Hungarian rising in 1849, when Nicholas I helped Austria to suppress the insurgent Hungarians.

  10 Referring to the custom of charging the government more than the actual price of supplies, and thereby making an income which was supposed to go for the benefit of the regiment, but part of which frequently remained unaccounted for.

  11 The Cantonists, under serfdom, which still prevailed at the time of the Crimean War, were the sons of soldiers, condemned by law and heredity to be soldiers also.

  12 It is a Russian custom to offer bread and salt to new arrivals.

  A BILLIARD-MARKER’S NOTES

  IT was going on for three when it happened. The gentlemen playing were ‘the big guest’ (as our people called him), the prince (who always goes about with him), the gentleman with whiskers, the little hussar, Oliver (the one who has been an actor), and the pan.1 There were a good many people.

  The big guest was playing with the prince. I just go round the table with the rest in my hand, counting ‘ten and forty-eight, twelve and forty-eight’. Everybody knows what it is to be a billiard-marker. You haven’t had a bite all day, nor slept for two nights, but you must keep calling the score and taking the balls out. I go on counting and look round – there’s a new gentleman coming in at the door. He looks and looks and then sits down on the sofa. All right.

  ‘Who may that be? – Of what class, I mean?’ think I to myself. He was well dressed – oh, very smartly – all his clothes looked as if they had just come out of a bandbox: fine cloth checked trousers, short fashionable coat, a plush waistcoat, and a gold chain with all sorts of little things hanging from it.

  Handsomely dressed, but still handsomer himself: slim, tall, hair brushed to the front, latest fashion, and with a red and white complexion – in a word, a fine fellow.

  Of course, in our business we see all sorts of people: the grandest that ever were and much trash also, so that though you are a marker you fit in with people, if you are artful enough I mean.

  I looked at the gentleman and noticed that he was sitting quietly and did not know anybody, and his clothes were as new as could be. So I think to myself: ‘He is either a foreigner – an Englishman – or some count who has turned up. He bears himself well although he is young.’ Oliver was sitting beside him and even moved to make room for him.

  The game was finished – the big guest had lost and shouted at me:

  ‘You always blunder! You keep looking at something else instead of counting properly.’

  He swore, threw down the cue, and went out. What can you make of it? He’ll play a fifty-ruble game with the prince of an evening, but now when he loses a bottle of Burgundy he’s quite beside himself. He’s that kind of character! Sometimes he plays with the prince till two in the morning. They don’t put their stakes in the pockets,2 and I know they haven’t either of them got any money, but they just swagger.

  ‘Shall we play double or quits for twenty-five?’

  ‘All right.’

  But if you just dare to yawn or don’t put a ball right – after all, one is not made of stone – then they just jump down your throat:

  ‘We are not playing for chips, but for money!’

  That one plagues me more than all the rest …

  Well – so the prince says to the new gentleman, when the big one has gone:

  ‘Would you care to have a game with me?’

  ‘With pleasure!’ he says.

  As long as he was sitting down he looked quite a sport, and seemed to have plenty of confidence, but when he got up and came to the table he was – not exactly timid – no, he was not timid, but one could see he was upset. Whether he was uncomfortable in his new clothes, or frightened because everybody was looking at him, anyhow his confidence was gone. He walked somehow sideways, his pocket catching the table pockets. When chalking the cue he dropped the chalk, and when he did get a ball into a pocket he kept looking round and blushing. Not like the prince – he was used to it – he would chalk the cue and his hand, turn up his sleeve, and just smash the balls into the pockets, small as he was.

  They played two or three games – I don’t quite remember – and the prince put down the cue and said:

  ‘Allow me to ask your name …’

  ‘Nekhlyúdov,’ he says.

  ‘Didn’t your father command a corps?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  Then they began talking quickly in French, and I didn’t understand. Probably talking about their relations.

  ‘Au revoir,’ says the prince, ‘I’m very glad to have made your acquaintance.’

  He washed his hands and went out to get something to eat, but the other remained beside the table with his cue, shoving the balls about.

  Of course everyone knows in our business that the ruder one is with a newcomer the better, so I began collecting the balls. He blushed and said:

  ‘Can I go on playing?’

  ‘Of course,’ I says, ‘that’s what the billiard-table is for – to be played on.’

  But I didn’t look at him and put away the cues.

  ‘Will you play with me?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ say I.

  I placed the balls.

  ‘Is it to be a crawl?’

  ‘What do you mean by a crawl?’

  So I say: ‘You pay half a ruble, and I crawl under the table if I lose.’

  Of course never having seen such a thing it seemed funny to him and he laughed.

  ‘Let’s!’ he says.

  ‘All right. How much will you allow me?’ I ask.

  ‘Why, do you play worse than I?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I can see there are few players to match you.’

  We began to play. He really thought himself a master at it. He banged the balls about dreadfully, and the pan sat there and kept saying:

  ‘What a ball! What a stroke!’

  What indeed! He could make strokes, but there was no calculation about it. Well, I lost the first game as is the usual thing, and began crawling under the table and groaning. Here Oliver and the pan jumped up and knocked with their cues.

  ‘Splendid! Go on!’ they said. ‘Go on!’

  Go on indeed! The pan especially … for half a ruble he would himself have been glad not only to
crawl under the table but under the Blue Bridge. And then he shouted:

  ‘Splendid!’ he says. ‘But you haven’t swept up all the dust yet.’

  I am Petrúshka the marker. Everybody knows me. It used to be Tyúrik the marker, but now it is Petrúshka.

  But of course I did not show my game. I lost another one.

  ‘I can’t play level with you, sir,’ I says.

  He laughed. Then after I had won three games – and when he had a score of forty-nine and I nothing, I put my cue on the table and said: ‘Will you make it double or quits, sir?’

  ‘Quits, what do you mean?’ he says.

  ‘Either you’ll owe me three rubles, or nothing,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘Am I playing you for money? You fool!’

  He even blushed.

  Very well. He lost the game.

  ‘Enough!’ he says.

  He got out his pocket-book, quite a new one bought at the Magasin Anglais, and opened it. I see that he wants to show off. It was chock full of notes, all hundred-ruble ones.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘there’s no change there,’ and he took three rubles out of his purse.

  ‘There you are,’ he says, ‘two for the games, and the rest for you to have a drink.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I say. I saw he was a nice gentleman. One can do a little crawling for such as him. The pity was that he didn’t want to play for money – ‘or else,’ think I, ‘I’d manage to get maybe twenty or even forty rubles off him.’

  When the pan saw the young gentleman’s money he says: ‘Would you care to play a game with me? You play so splendidly!’ he says, fawning on him like a fox.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘excuse me, please, I haven’t time,’ and he went away.

  I don’t know who that pan was. Someone nicknamed him ‘the pan’ and the name stuck to him. He’d sit all day long in the billiard-room looking on. He had been beaten and sworn at, and no one would play with him. He would bring his pipe and sit by himself and smoke. But he could play a careful game … the beast!