“I don’t know, only I have no use for the Caucasus,” he interrupted me.
“No, not so with me. I like the Caucasus even now, but differently—”
“Maybe the Caucasus is all right,” he continued, as though provoked a little, “ but I know this much: I am not good for the Caucasus.”
“Why not? “ I asked, in order to say something.
“Because, in the first place, it has deceived me. All that from which I had come away to be cured in the Caucasus, as the tradition has it, has followed me up here, — but with tliis difference. Formerly I was led to it on a large staircase, and now it is a small, dirty staircase, at each step of which I find millions of petty annoyances, meanness, insults; in the second place, because I feel that I am every day falling morally lower and lower, and, what is most important, because I feel unfit for this kind of service; I am unable to bear danger — I am simply not a brave man—”
He stopped and looked earnestly at me.
Although this unasked-for confession surprised me very much, I did not contradict him, as my interlocutor had evidently expected me to do, but awaited from him the refutation of his own words, which is always forth- coming under such circumstances.
“Do you know, I am to-day taking Part in an action for the first time since I have been in the frontier guard,” he continued, “and you will hardly believe what hap- pened to me yesterday. When the sergeant brought the order that my company was to be in the column, I grew as pale as a sheet, and was unable to speak from trepida- tion.
And if you only knew what a night I have passed! If it is true that people grow gray from fright, I ought to be entirely white to-day, for not one man condemned to death has suffered so much in one night as I have; though I am feeling a little more at ease now than I did in the night, it still goes around here,” he added, moving his clinched hand in front of his breast. “ Now this is certainly ridiculous,” he continued, “ a most terrible drama is being played here, and I myself am eating cutlets with onions, and persuading myself that all this is very gay. Have you any wine, Nikolaev? “ he added, with a yawn.
“There he is, brothers! “ was heard at that moment the alarmed voice of one of the soldiers, and all eyes were directed to the edge of the far-off forest.
In the distance rose a bluish cloud of smoke, borne upwards by the wind, and constantly growing larger. When I understood that this was a shot which the enemy had aimed at us, everything that was before my eyes, everything suddenly assumed a new and majestic charac- ter.
The stacked guns, and the smoke of the camp-fires, and the blue sky, and the green gun-carriages, and the sunburnt, whiskered face of Nikolaev, — everything seemed to tell me that the cannon-ball which had emerged from the smoke and which at that moment was flying through space might be directed straight at my breast, “Where did you get your wine? “ I asked Bolkhov, lazily, while in the depth of my soul two voices were speaking with equal distinctness; one said, “ Lord, receive my soul in peace,” and the other, “ I hope I shall not cower, but smile as the ball flies past me,” and at the same instant something dreadfully disagreeable whistled over our heads, and struck the ground within two steps of us.
“Now, if I were a Napoleon or a Frederick,” Bolkhov remarked at that time, turning toward me with extraordi- nary composure, “ I should utter some witticism.”
“But you have told one just now,” I replied, with diffi- culty concealing the alarm caused within me by the danger just past, “Even if I have, nobody will make a note of it,”
“I will.”
“Yes, if you make a note of it, it will be to put in a critical paper, as Mishchenkov says,” he added, smiling.
“Pshaw, you accursed one! “ said Antonov, who was sitting behind us, angrily spitting to one side, “ just missed my legs,”
All my endeavours to appear cool and all our cunning phrases suddenly seemed intolerably stupid after this simple-hearted exclamation.
VII.
The enemy had really stationed two guns where the Tartars had been riding, and every twenty or thirty min- utes they sent a shot at our wood-cutters. My platoon was moved out into the clearing, and the order was given to return the fire. At the edge of the forest appeared a puff of smoke, there was heard a discharge, a whistling, — and the ball fell behind or in front of us. The projectiles of the enemy lodged harmlessly, and we had no losses.
The artillerists conducted themselves well, as they always did, loaded expeditiously, carefully aimed at the puffs of smoke, and quietly joked each other. The flank- ing infantry detachment lay near us, in silent inaction, waiting for their turn. The wood-cutters did their work: the axes sounded through the woods faster and more fre- quently; only, whenever the whistling of the projectile was heard, everything suddenly grew quiet, and amid the dead silence could be heard the not very calm voices, “ Get out of the way, boys! “ and all eyes were directed toward the ball, ricocheting over the fires and the brush.
The fog was now completely lifted, and, assuming the forms of clouds, was slowly disappearing in the dark blue vault of the sky; the un shrouded sun shone brightly and cast its gleaming rays on the steel of the bayonets, the brass of the ordnance, the thawing earth, and the spark- ling hoarfrost. The air was brisk with the freshness of the morning frost, together with the warmth of the vernal sun; thousands of different shadows and hues were min- gled in the dry leaves of the forest, and on the hard shin- iDg road were distinctly visible the traces of the wheel tires and horse-shoe sponges.
Between the troops the motion grew more animated and more noticeable. On all sides flashed more and more fre- quently the bluish puffs of the discharges. The dragoons, with the pennons fluttering from their lances, rode out in front; in the companies of the infantry, songs were started, and the wagons with the wood were being drawn up in the rear. The general rode up to our platoon, and ordered us to get ready for the retreat. The enemy took up a position in the bushes, opposite our left flank, and began to harass us with musketry-fire.
On the left side a bullet whizzed by from the forest and struck a gun-car- riage, then a second, a third — The flanking infantry, which was lying near us, rose noisily, picked up their guns, and formed a cordon. The fusilade grew fiercer, and the bullets kept flying oftener and oftener. The retreat began, and, consequently, the real engagement, as is always the case in the Caucasus.
It was quite evident that the artillerists did not like the bullets, as awhile ago the foot-soldiers had enjoyed the cannon-balls. Antonov frowned. Chikin imitated the sound of the bullets and made fun of them; but it was apparent that he did not like them. Of one he said, “ What a hurry it is in! “ another he called a “ little bee; “ a third one, which flew over us slowly, and whining pitifully, he called an “ orphan,” wliich provoked a uni- versal roar.
The recruit, who was not used to this, bent his head aside and craned his neck every time a bullet passed by, which, too, made the soldiers laugh. “ Is it an acquaint- ance of yours, that you are bowing to it? “ they said to him, Velenchiik, who otherwise was exceedingly indif- ferent to danger, now was in an agitated mood: he was obviously angry because we did not fire any canister-shot in the direction from wliich the bullets proceeded. He repeated several times, in a discontented voice: “ Why do we let Mm shoot at us for nothing? If we trained our gun upon him, and treated him to a canister-shot, he probably would stop.”
It was indeed time to do so. I ordered the last shell let out, and a canister-shot loaded.
“Canister-shot! “ cried Antonov, lustily, before the smoke had dispersed, and walking up with the sponge to the gun the moment the shell had been discharged.
Just then I suddenly heard a short distance behind me the ping of a whizzing bullet striking against something. My heart was compressed. “ It seems to me it has struck somebody,” I thought, but at the same time I was afraid to turn around, under the influence of a heavy presenti- ment. Indeed, immediately following upon this sound was heard the heavy fall of a body, and “ Oh, oh, oh! “ the piercing cry of a wounded man. “ It has struck me, brothers! “ uttered with difficulty a voice which I recog- nized. It was Velenchuk. He lay fiat on his back between the limber and the gun. The cartridge-box which he carried was thrown to one side. His forehead was blood-stained, and down his right eye and nose ran the thick red blood. The wound was in the abdomen, but he had hurt his forehead in his fall.
All this I found out much later; in the first moment I saw only an indistinct mass, and a terrible lot
