by Leo Tolstoy
‘I thought that here, in the Caucasus,’ he continued, growing more and more animated, ‘la vie de camp,14 the simple, honest men with whom I should be in contact, the war, the dangers – all this would just suit my frame of mind and I thought I should begin life anew. On me verra au feu15 – people would like me, would respect me not for my name only; then I should receive a cross, become a non-commissioned officer and at last be pardoned and should return, et, vous savez, avec ce prestige du malheur!16 But quel désenchantement!17 You can’t think how I was mistaken! … You know the officer set of our regiment?’ He paused for some time, probably expecting me to say that I knew how bad the society of officers here is; but I did not reply to him. I was disgusted that – on account, no doubt, of my knowing French – he should suppose that I ought to despise the officer set, which on the contrary I, having lived long in the Caucasus, had fully learnt to appreciate, and which I esteemed a thousand times more than the society Mr Guskov had left. I wished to tell him so, but his position restrained me.
‘In the N— Regiment the officer set is a thousand times worse than here,’ he continued – ‘J’espère que c’est beaucoup dire,18 – so that you can’t imagine what it is like! Not to mention the cadets and the soldiers – it was just awful! At first I was well received, that’s perfectly true, but afterwards, when they saw I couldn’t help despising them – when in those scarcely noticeable everyday relations, you know, they saw that I was a totally different sort of man standing on a far higher level than they – they were exasperated with me and began to retaliate by subjecting me to all kinds of petty indignities. Ce que j’ai eu à souffrir, vous ne vous faites pas une idée.19 Then, being obliged to associate with the cadets; and above all, avec les petits moyens que j’avais, je manquais de tout,20 I had only what my sister sent me. A proof of what I have suffered is that I, with my character, avec ma fierté, j’ai écrit à mon père,21 imploring him to send me something, however little.… I can understand how after five years of such a life one may become like our cashiered officer Dromov, who drinks with the soldiers and writes notes to all the officers begging them to lend him three rubles, and signs himself, “Tout à vous, Dromov.” One needs a character like mine in order not to sink quite into the mire in this terrible position.’ He then walked silently by my side for a long time. ‘Avez-vous un papiros?’22 he said at last. ‘Yes, … where had I got to? Oh yes, I could not stand it. I don’t mean physically, for although it was bad enough and I suffered from cold and hunger and lived like a soldier, yet the officers still had a sort of regard for me. I still had a kind of prestige in their eyes. They did not send me to do sentry duty or drill. I could not have borne that. But morally I suffered terribly, and above all I could see no escape from this position. I wrote to my uncle imploring him to transfer me to this regiment, which is at least on active duty, and I thought that here Paul Dmitrich, qui est le fils de l’intendant de mon père,23 would be of use to me. My uncle did this much for me, and I was transferred. After that other regiment this seemed an assembly of courtiers. And Paul Dmitrich was here; he knew who I was, and I was capitally received—at my uncle’s request.… Guskov, vous savez. But I noticed that these people, without education or culture, cannot respect a man nor show him respect when he is not surrounded by an aureole of wealth and rank. I noticed how, little by little, when they saw that I was poor, their behaviour to me became more and more careless, and at last almost contemptuous. It is dreadful, but it is perfectly true.
‘Here I have been in action, have fought, on m’a vu au feu,’24 he continued, ‘but when will it end? Never, I think! And my strength and energy are beginning to fail. And then I had imagined la guerre, la vie de camp,25 but it turns out to be quite different from what I expected: dressed in a sheepskin, in soldier’s boots, unwashed, you are sent to the outposts and He all night in a ditch with some Antonov or other who has been sent into the army for drunkenness, and at any moment you may be shot from behind a bush – you or Antonov, all the same.… That is not courage! It is horrible. C’est affreux, ça tue.’26
‘Well, but you may be made a non-commissioned officer for this expedition, and next year may become an ensign,’ I said.
‘Yes, possibly. I was promised it, but that would be another two years and it is very doubtful. And does anyone realize what two such years mean? Just imagine the life with this Paul Dmitrich: gambling, rough jokes, dissipation.… You want to speak out about something that has risen in your soul, but you are not understood or you are laughed at. They talk to you not to communicate their thoughts, but to make a fool of you if possible. And it’s all so vulgar, coarse, horrid; and all the time you feel you are a private – they always make you feel that. That is why you can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to talk à cœur ouvert27 to a man like you!’
I could not imagine what sort of a man I was supposed to be and therefore did not know how to reply to him.
‘Will you have supper?’ at this moment asked Nikita, who had approached unseen in the darkness, and who, I noticed, was not pleased at the presence of my visitor: ‘there’s nothing but dumplings and a little beef left.’
‘And has the Captain had his supper?’
‘He’s asleep long ago,’ said Nikita, crossly.
On my telling him to bring us something to eat and some vodka, he muttered discontentedly and went slowly to his tent. However, after grumbling there a bit, he brought us the cellaret, on which he placed a candle (round which he first tied a piece of paper to keep the wind off), a saucepan, a pot of mustard, a tin cup with a handle, and a bottle of vodka bitters. Having arranged all this, Nikita stood some time near us and watched with evident disapproval while Guskov and I drank some of the spirit. By the dim light of the candle shining through the paper the only things one could see amid the surrounding darkness were the sealskin with which the cellaret was covered, the supper standing on it, and Guskov’s face, his sheepskin coat, and the little red hands with which he took the dumplings out of the saucepan. All around was black, and only by looking intently could one discern the black battery, the equally black figure of the sentry visible over the breastwork, the camp-fires around, and the reddish stars above. Guskov smiled just perceptibly in a sad and bashful way as if it were awkward for him to look me in the eyes after his confession. He drank another cup of vodka and ate greedily, scraping out the saucepan.
‘Yes, it must at any rate be some relief to you,’ I remarked, in order to say something, ‘to be acquainted with the Adjutant; I have heard he is a very decent fellow.’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘he is a kind-hearted man, but he can’t help being what he is; he can’t be a man, with his education one can’t expect it,’ and he suddenly seemed to blush. ‘You noticed his coarse jokes to-day about the ambuscades.’ And Guskov, in spite of my repeated efforts to turn the conversation, began to justify himself to me and to demonstrate that he did not run away from the ambuscades, and that he was not a coward as the Adjutant and Captain S. wished to imply.
‘As I told you,’ he said, wiping his hands on his sheepskin, ‘people of that kind can’t be considerate to a man who is a private and who has but little money: that is beyond them. And these last five months, during which it has somehow happened that I have received nothing from my sister, I have noticed how they have changed towards me. This sheepskin I bought of a soldier, and which is so worn that there is no warmth in it’ (here he showed me the bare skirt of the coat), ‘does not inspire him with sympathy or respect for my misfortunes, but only contempt which he is unable to conceal. However great my need, as, for instance, at the present time, when I have nothing to eat except the soldiers’ buckwheat, and nothing to wear,’ he continued, seemingly abashed, and pouring out for himself yet another cup of vodka, ‘he does not think of offering to lend me any money, although he knows that I should certainly repay him, but he waits that I, in my position, should ask him for it. You understand what it would mean for me to have to go to him. Now, to you, for instance, I could
say quite straight: Vous êtes au-dessus de cela, mon cher, je n’ai pas le sou.28 And do you know,’ said he, looking desperately into my eyes, ‘I tell you straight, I am now in terrible difficulties; pouvez-vous me prêter dix roubles argent?29 My sister must send me something by the next mail, et mon père.…’
‘Oh, with pleasure,’ said I, though on the contrary it was painful and vexatious, especially because, having lost at cards the day before, I myself had only a little over five rubles and they were in Nikita’s possession. ‘Directly,’ I said, rising, ‘I will go and get them from the tent.’
‘No, it will do later, ne vous dérangez pas.’30
But without listening to him I crept into the closed tent where my bed stood and where the Captain lay asleep.
‘Alexey Ivanich, please lend me ten rubles till our allowances are paid,’ said I to the Captain, shaking him.
‘What! cleared out again? And it’s only yesterday you resolved not to play any more!’ said the Captain, still half-asleep.
‘No, I have not been playing! But I want it – please lend it me.’
‘Makatyuk!’ shouted the Captain to his orderly, ‘get me the money-box and bring it here.’
‘Hush, not so loud,’ I said, listening to Guskov’s measured footsteps outside the tent.
‘What! … Why not so loud?’
‘Oh, that fellow in the ranks asked me for a loan. He’s just outside.’
‘If I had known that, I would not have given it you,’ remarked the Captain. ‘I have heard about him, he’s the dirtiest young scamp.’
Still the Captain let me have the money all the same, ordered the money-box to be put away and the tent properly closed, and again repeating, ‘If I had known what it was for I would not have given it you,’ he wrapped himself, head and all, in his blanket. ‘Remember you owe me thirty-two now!’ he shouted after me.
When I came out of the tent Guskov was pacing up and down in front of the little seats, his short bandy-legged figure in the ugly cap with the long white wool disappearing in the darkness and reappearing as he passed in and out of the candle-light. He pretended not to notice me. I gave him the paper-money. He said ‘Merci,’ and crumpling it up he put it in his trouser-pocket.
‘I suppose play is in full swing at Paul Dmitrich’s now!’ he then began.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘He plays so queerly, always à rebours,31 and does not hedge. When you have luck it is all right, but when it goes against you you may lose terribly. He is a proof of it. On this expedition he has lost more than fifteen hundred rubles, counting the things he has lost. And with what self-control he used to play formerly! So that that officer of yours seemed even to doubt his honesty.’
‘Oh, he did not mean anything.… Nikita, have we any Caucasian wine left?’ I asked, very much relieved by Guskov’s loquacity. Nikita grumbled again, but brought us the wine all the same, and again crossly watched Guskov emptying his cup. In Guskov’s manner the former nonchalance again became apparent. I wished him to go away, and thought he stopped only because he did not like to go immediately after receiving the money. I was silent.
‘How could you, with means at your disposal and no necessity, de gaieté de cœur32 make up your mind to come and serve in the Caucasus? That is what I don’t understand,’ he said.
I tried to justify myself for this step that seemed to him so strange.
‘I can imagine how uncongenial the society of these officers must be to you: men without an idea of education. It is impossible for you and them to understand one another. Why, you may live here for ten years, and except cards and wine and talk about rewards and campaigns, you will see nothing and hear nothing.’
I did not like his being so certain that I shared his opinion, and I assured him with perfect sincerity that I was very fond of cards and wine, and of talks about campaigns, and that I did not wish for better comrades than those I had. But he would not believe me.
‘Oh, you do not really mean it,’ he continued; ‘and the absence of women – I mean femmes comme il faut33 – is not that a terrible privation? I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to transport myself into a drawing-room now, and take a peep, though but through a crack, at a charming woman.’
He was silent a moment and drank another cup of wine.
‘O God, O God! It is still possible we may some day meet again in Petersburg among men, live with human beings, with women.’
He emptied the bottle and said: ‘Oh, pardon, perhaps you would have taken some more, I am so terribly absent-minded. And I’m afraid I have drunk too much, et je n’ai pas la tête forte.34 There was a time when I lived on the Morskaya35 au rez-de-chaussée.36 I had a delightful little flat and furniture – you know I had a knack for arranging things elegantly and not too expensively. It is true mon père gave me the crockery, and plants, and excellent silver plate. Le matin je sortais,37 then calls, at five o’clock régulièrement I went to dine with her, and often found her alone. Il faut avouer que c’était une femme ravissante!38 Did you not know her? Not at all?’
‘No.’
‘You know, there was so much of that womanliness about her, that tenderness, and then such love! … O God! I did not know how to value my happiness then.… Or when we returned from the theatre and had supper together. It was never dull in her company, toujours gaie, toujours aimante.39 Yes, I did not then foresee how rare a joy it was. Et j’ai beaucoup à me reprocher40 in regard to her. Je l’ai fait souffrir, et souvent41 – I was cruel. Oh, what a delightful time it was! But I am wearying you.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then I will tell you about our evenings. I used to enter – oh, that staircase, I knew every plant-pot on it – the very door-handle – all was so nice, so familiar to me – then the ante-room, and then her room.… No, it will never, never, return! She writes to me even now; I can, if you like, even show you her letters. But I am no longer what I was – I am ruined, I am no longer worthy of her.… Yes, I am completely ruined! Je suis cassé.42 I have neither energy nor pride; nothing, not even nobility.… Yes, I am ruined! and no one will ever understand what I have suffered. Everyone is indifferent. I am a lost man! I can never rise again, because I have sunk morally … sunk into the mire … sunk.…’ And a real, deep despair sounded in his voice at that moment; he did not look at me, but sat motionless.
‘Why give way to such despair?’ I said.
‘Because I am vile; this life has destroyed me; all that was in me has perished. I no longer suffer proudly, but basely; I have no dignité dans le malheur.43 I am insulted every moment and I bear it all, and go to meet insults half-way. The mud a déteint sur moi.44 I have become coarse myself, have forgotten what I knew, I can’t even speak French now, and I feel that I am base and despicable. I can’t fight in these surroundings; it is impossible! I might perhaps have been a hero: give me a regiment, gold epaulettes, and trumpeters; but to march side by side with some uncivilized Antonov Bondarenko or other and to think there is no difference between him and me, it is all the same whether I get killed or he does – that is the thought that is killing me. You understand how terrible it is that some ragamuffin may kill me – a man who thinks and feels – and that he might as well kill Antonov by my side, a creature indistinguishable from a brute; and it is quite likely to happen that it is I who will be killed and not Antonov – it is always so, une fatalité for all that is lofty or good. I know they call me a coward. Granted that I am a coward. It is true I am a coward and cannot help it; but it is not enough that I am a coward, according to them I am also a beggar and a contemptible fellow. There, I have just begged money from you, and you have a right to despise me. No, take back your money,’ and he held out to me the crumpled note; ‘I want you to respect me.’ He covered his face with his hands and began to cry, and I did not in the least know what to say or do.
‘Don’t go on like that,’ said I; ‘you are too sensitive; you should not take things so much to heart: don’t analyse but look at things simply
. You say yourself that you arc a man of character; face your task, you have not much longer to suffer,’ I said to him very incoherently, for I was excited both by feelings of pity and by a feeling of repentance at having allowed myself to condemn a man who was truly and deeply suffering.
‘Yes,’ he began; ‘had I but once since I came into this hell heard a single word of advice, sympathy, or friendship – a single human word such as I hear from you – I might have borne everything calmly, have faced my task, and even behaved like a soldier; but now it is terrible.… When I reason sanely I long for death. Why should I care for a life of dishonour, or for myself who am dead to all that is good in life? But at the least sign of danger I can’t help craving for this vile life and guarding it as if it were something very precious, and I can’t, je ne puis pas,45 master myself.… That is, I can,’ he continued, after a moment’s pause; ‘but it costs me too great an effort, a tremendous effort when I am alone. When others are present, and in ordinary circumstances when going into action, I am brave enough —j’ai fait mes preuves,46 – because I have self-love and am proud – that is my fault – and in the presence of others … I say, let me spend the night with you – they’ll be playing all night in our tent. I can sleep anywhere – on the ground.’