Besides the regular members of the club, I found there my friend Petia from Alexandropol, who had come to Kars on a visit. He was the son of Kerensky, a postal-telegraph inspector who was later one of the officers killed in the Russo-Japanese war. There was also a boy from the Greek quarter of Kars nicknamed Fekhi, whose real name was Korkhanidi, and who later became the author of many school-books. He had brought home-made Greek halva as a present from his aunt to us choir-boys, whose singing had often affected her to the depths of her soul.
We sat, ate the halva, smoked and chatted. Soon after, Piotr Karpenko arrived with his eyes bandaged, accompanied by two other Russian boys, not members of the club. He came up to me demanding an explanation for my having insulted him the day before. Being one of those youths who read a good deal of poetry and love to express themselves in high-faluting language, he delivered a lengthy harangue which he brought to an abrupt close with the following categorical declaration: ‘The earth is too small for both of us; hence one of us must die.’
On hearing his bombastic tirade I wanted to knock this nonsense right out of his head. But when my friends began to reason with me, saying that only people who have not yet been touched at all by contemporary culture, as, for instance, Kurds, square accounts in this manner, and that respectable people have recourse to more civilized methods, my pride began to assert itself; and in order not to be called uneducated or cowardly, I entered into a serious discussion of this incident.
After a lengthy dispute, called by us a debate, during which it turned out that several of the boys present were on my side and several on the side of my rival—and which debate at times developed into a deafening din and brought us perilously near to throwing each other down from the top of the bell-tower—it was decided that we must fight a duel.
Then the question arose, where to obtain weapons? Neither pistols nor swords were to be had anywhere and the situation became very perplexing. All our emotions, which a moment before had reached the limits of excitement, were suddenly concentrated on how to find a way out of the difficulty which had arisen.
Among the company was a friend of mine, a boy named Tourchaninov, who had a very squeaky voice and whom we all considered a very comical fellow. While we were sitting pondering on what was to be done, he suddenly chirped up and exclaimed: ‘If it’s difficult to get pistols, it’s easy to get cannon.’
Everybody laughed, as they always did at everything he said.
‘What are you laughing at, you silly devils!’ he retorted. ‘It’s quite possible to use cannon for your purpose. There’s only one drawback. You’ve decided that one of you must die, but in a duel with cannon both of you might die. If you consent to take such a risk, then to carry out my proposal is the easiest thing in the world.’
What he proposed was that we should both go to the artillery range where firing practice was held, lie down and hide somewhere between the guns and the targets and await our doom. Whichever of us should be hit by a random shell would be the one fated to die.
We all knew the artillery range very well. It was not far away in the mountains encircling the town. It was a fairly large tract of land, from six to nine miles square, which it was absolutely forbidden to enter at certain times of the year, during firing practice, and which was strictly guarded on all sides.
We often went there, chiefly at night, at the instigation of two big boys named Aivazov and Denisenko, who had a certain authority over us, to collect, or more truly to steal, the copper parts of the used shells and the scraps of lead which lay scattered about after the shells had burst, and which we later sold by weight for a good price.
Although it was strictly forbidden to collect, let alone sell, the remnants of the shells, we nevertheless contrived to do so by taking advantage of moonlight nights and of those times when the guards were less vigilant.
As a result of the fresh debate held on Tourchaninov’s proposal, it was categorically decided by all present to carry out this project the very next day.
According to the stipulations of the ‘seconds’, who were Kerensky and Korkhanidi on my side, and on the side of my rival the two strange boys whom he had brought along with him, we were to go to the artillery range early in the morning before the firing began, and at approximately one hundred yards from the targets lie down at a certain distance from each other in some large shell-hole where no one could see us, and remain there until dusk; whichever one was still alive by then could leave and go where he wished.
The seconds also decided to remain all day near the range, by the banks oft he river Kars Chai, and in the evening to look for us in our holes to find out the result of the duel. If it should turn out that one or both of us were merely wounded, then they would do the necessary; and if it should turn out that we had been killed, they would then spread the tale that we had gone to collect copper and lead, not knowing that there would be firing that day, and so had been ‘wiped out’.
The next morning at break of day the whole party of us, supplied with provisions, made our way to the Kars Chai. Arriving there, we two rivals were given our share of the provisions and were conducted by two of the seconds to the range, where we lay down in separate hollows. The seconds returned to the others at the river and passed the time fishing.
So far everything had seemed rather a joke, but when the firing began it was anything but a joke. I do not know either the form or the sequence in which the subjective experiencings and mental associations of my rival flowed, but I do know what proceeded in me as soon as the firing started. What I experienced and felt when the shells began to fly and burst over my head, I remember now as if it were only yesterday.
At the beginning I was completely stupefied, but soon the intensity of feeling which flooded through me, and the force of logical confrontation of my thought increased to such an extent that, at each moment, I thought and experienced more than during an entire twelvemonth.
Simultaneously, there arose in me for the first time the ‘whole sensation of myself’, which grew stronger and stronger, and a clear realization that through my thoughtlessness I had put myself in a situation of almost certain annihilation, because at that moment my death seemed inevitable.
Instinctive fear in face of this inevitability so took possession of my entire being that surrounding realities seemed to disappear, leaving only an unconquerable living terror.
I remember I tried to make myself as small as possible and to take shelter behind a ridge in the ground, so as to hear nothing and think about nothing.
The trembling which began in the whole of my body reached such a frightful intensity that it was as if each tissue vibrated independently, and, in spite of the roaring of the guns, I very distinctly heard the beating of my heart, and my teeth chattered so hard that it seemed as if at any moment they would break.
I will remark here, by the way, that in my opinion it was owing to this incident in my youth that there first arose in my individuality certain data—which later took definite form, thanks to various conscious actions upon me on the part of certain normally educated people—data which have always prevented me from being perturbed by life questions in which exclusively my own egoistic interests were at stake, and from acknowledging or experiencing any but authentic fears, while on the other hand, they have enabled me, without being carried away or deluded, to understand the fear of another and to enter into his position.
I do not remember how long I lay there in this state; I can only say that in this case, as always and in everything, our most supreme, inexorable Sovereign, Time, did not fail to assert his rights, and I began to grow accustomed to my ordeal as well as to the roar of the cannon and the bursting of the shells round me.
Little by little the tormenting thoughts of the possibility of my sad end began to disappear. Although as usual the firing was broken up into several periods, it was impossible to escape during the intervals, chiefly because of the danger of falling into the hands of the guards.
There was nothing to be done but
to keep lying there quietly. After eating some lunch I even, without knowing it, fell asleep. Evidently the nervous system, after such intensive activity, urgently demanded rest. I do not know how long I slept, but when I woke up it was already evening and everything was quiet.
When I was fully awake and realized clearly the reasons for my being in that place, I first assured myself with great joy that I was safe and sound, and it was only when this egoistic gladness of mine had subsided that I suddenly remembered and began to feel concerned about my comrade in misfortune. So creeping quietly out of my hole and taking a good look round, I went over to the place where he should have been.
Seeing him lying there motionless, I was very frightened, though I thought and was even quite sure that he was asleep; but when I suddenly noticed blood on his leg, I completely lost my head, and all the hatred of the day before turned into pity. With a fear as great as I had experienced only a few hours earlier for my own life, I crouched down as though still instinctively trying not to be seen.
I was still in this position when the seconds crawled up to me on all fours. Seeing me looking so strangely at the outstretched Karpenko and then noticing the blood on his leg, they felt that something terrible had happened, and crouching there, glued to the spot, they also began to stare at him. As they later told me, they too were quite certain that he was dead.
The whole group of us remained as though self-hypnotized, until accidentally we were aroused out of our stupor by Kerensky. As he later explained, having been for some time in a cramped position while staring at Karpenko, he suddenly felt his corn hurting him, and leaning forward a little to change his position, he noticed that the edge of Karpenko’s coat was moving at regular intervals. Creeping nearer, he became convinced that he was breathing, and informed us of this almost with a shout.
Instantly brought back to our senses, we also crept forward, and right there in the ditch round the motionless Karpenko, we began, constantly interrupting each other, to deliberate on what was to be done. Suddenly by some kind of tacit agreement, we made a chair of our arms and carried Karpenko to the river.
We stopped at the ruins of an old brick factory and there, having hurriedly made an improvised bed out of some of our clothes and laid Karpenko on it, we began to examine the wound. It appeared that only one leg had been grazed by shrapnel and not in a dangerous place.
As Karpenko was still unconscious and no one knew what to do, one of us ran off to find a friend of ours in the town, an assistant surgeon, who was also a member of the cathedral choir, while the others washed the wound and somehow or other bandaged it.
The assistant surgeon soon arrived in his buggy and we explained to him that the accident had occurred while we were collecting copper, not knowing that the firing would take place. Having examined the wound, he said that it was not dangerous and that the fainting was due to loss of blood. In fact, when he administered a whiff of smelling salts, the patient immediately came to himself.
We of course begged the assistant surgeon not to tell anyone how the accident had happened, since it would certainly get us into great trouble because of the strict orders against trespassing on the firing-range.
As soon as Karpenko came to, he looked round at everyone present; and when, resting his gaze on me longer than on the others, he smiled, something moved within me and I was overcome with remorse and pity. From that moment I began to feel towards him as towards a brother.
We carried the patient home, and explained to his family that, in crossing a ravine to go fishing, a boulder had become dislodged and had fallen and injured his leg.
His parents believed our tale, and I obtained their permission to spend every night at his bedside until his recovery. During those days while he was still weak and lay in bed, I took care of him like a kind-hearted brother and, talking about one thing and another, our close friendship began.
As for the love of our ‘lady’ on whose account all this had occurred—in Karpenko as well as in me, this feeling had suddenly evaporated.
Soon after his recovery his parents took him to Russia, where later he passed his examinations and was admitted to some technical institute.
For several years after this incident I did not see Karpenko, but regularly on each of my Saint’s-days and birthdays I received a long letter from him, in which he usually began by describing his inner and outer life in detail and went on to ask my opinion on a long list of questions which interested him, chiefly on religious subjects. His first serious enthusiasm for our common ideas arose seven years after the duel I have described.
One summer, while travelling to Kars for the holidays by mail-coach—at that time there was no railway there—he passed through Alexandropol, and learning that I was there at the time, he stopped off to see me. I had gone to Alexandropol that summer in order to carry out, in solitude and without being disturbed, certain practical experiments relating to questions which particularly interested me then, concerning the influence of the vibrations of sound on various types of human beings as well as on other forms of life.
The day he arrived I had lunch with him, and suggested that he should accompany me to the large stable which I had converted into an original kind of laboratory, where I used to spend every afternoon. He examined everything that I had there and became so interested in what I was doing that, when he left that day for Kars to visit his family, he decided to return in three days. On his return he stayed with me almost the entire summer, going only for a day or two, from time to time, to see his family in Kars.
At the end of the summer several members of our recently formed group, the Seekers of Truth, joined me in Alexandropol with the object of going to make some excavations among the ruins of Ani, the ancient capital of Armenia. On this expedition Karpenko joined us for the first time, and, being in contact for several weeks with various members of our group, he was gradually drawn into the sphere of the questions which interested us.
When the expedition was over he returned to Russia, and soon afterwards obtained his diploma as a mining engineer. I did not see him again for three years, but thanks to our uninterrupted correspondence we did not lose touch with each other. Karpenko also corresponded during this period with other members of the Seekers of Truth with whom he had become friends.
At the end of these three years he became a full member of our original society, and from then on took part in several serious expeditions of ours in Asia and Africa.
It was during one of these big expeditions, when we were intending to cross the Himalayas from the Pamir region to India, that the incident occurred which was the cause of his premature death. From the start we had encountered great difficulties. In our journey up the north-western slopes of the Himalayas, while crossing a steep mountain-pass, a large avalanche buried us all in snow and ice. With much effort all but two of us extricated ourselves from beneath the snow. Although we dug out the two others as fast as we could, they were already dead. One of them was Baron X, an ardent occultist; the other, our guide, Karakir Khainu.
By this misfortune we lost not only one of our good friends, but also a guide who knew the locality very well.
By the way, it must be said that the entire region between the Hindu Kush mountains and the great Himalayan range, where this accident took place, is a maze of narrow, intersecting gorges, the most bewildering of all the formations of similar cataclysmic origin on the surface of our planet over which we ever had to wander. These regions seem to have been intentionally made so confusing and complicated by the Higher Powers in order that not a single human being should ever dare to try to find his way through them.
After this accident, which deprived us of our guide, who was considered even among his own people as the one who knew best all the corners and windings of these regions, we wandered for several days, searching for a way out of this inhospitable place.
‘Did they not have map or compass?’ every reader will doubtless ask.
How not? We had them and even more than necessary,
but in fact, it would be fortunate for travellers if these so-called maps of uninhabited regions did not exist.
A map, as my friend Yelov used to say, is called in a certain language by the word khormanoupka, which means ‘wisdom’, and ‘wisdom’ in that language is characterized as follows: ‘Mental proof that twice two makes seven and a half, minus three and a little bit of something’.
In my opinion in employing contemporary maps it would be ideally useful to put into practice the sense of a judicious saying which declares: ‘If you wish to succeed in anything then ask a woman for advice and do the opposite’.
It is the same in this case: if you wish to find the right road, consult the map and take one in the opposite direction, and you can always be sure of reaching just where you want to go. These maps may perhaps be all right for those contemporary people who, sitting in their studies with neither the time nor the possibility to go anywhere, nevertheless have to write books on all kinds of travel and adventures. Indeed, these maps are excellent for such people, because thanks to them they have more leisure for concocting their fantastic stories.
Good maps may perhaps exist for some localities, but with all I have had to do with them in my life, from ancient Chinese maps to special military topographic maps of many countries, I was never able to find one that was of practical use when it was really needed. Certain maps may, at times, more or less help travellers to find their way in thickly populated areas, but in uninhabited regions, that is to say, where they are the most necessary, as, for instance, in Central Asia, then, as I have already said, it would be better if they did not exist at all. Reality is distorted in them to the point of absurdity.
Such maps have many undesirable and distressing consequences for genuine travellers. For example, let us say that, according to the indications of the map, you will have to cross the next day over a high elevation where of course you expect to find it cold. At night while packing your baggage, you take out your warm clothes and other things for protection against the cold and put them aside. Tying up all the remaining things into packs and loading them on your animals—horses, yaks or whatever they are—you put the warm things on top of the packs in order to have them ready as soon as they should be needed.
Meetings With Remarkable Men Page 23