And quiet flows the Don; a novel (40 page)

advance the roaring, rending sound of the battle reached their ears.

There was a long quivering cheer. Now and then a Cossack spoke:

"That's ours."

"They've started."

"What a row that machine-gun's making."

"Giving our chaps what for,"

"They're not cheering now, are they?"

"Not there yet,"

"We'll be at it in a minute."

The two squadrons were drawn up in a glade. The stout pine trunks hemmed them in and prevented them from following the course of the battle.

A company of infantry went by almost at a trot. A brisk, smart-looking N.C.O. dropped back to the rear ranks and shouted hoarsely:

"Order in the ranks!"

The company tramped past with their equipment jangling and disappeared into an alder thicket.

Far away now, faintly through the trees came that quivering cheer, suddenly breaking off. A deep silence fell.

"They've got there now."

"Aye, now they're at it . . . killing each other."

§38

The Cossacks strained their ears, but could hear nothing more; on the right flank the Austrian artillery thundered away at the attacking forces; the roar was interspersed with the rattle of machine-guns.

Grigory glanced around his troop. The Cossacks were fidgeting nervously, and the horses were restive as though troubled by gadflies. Uryupin had hung his cap on the saddle-bow and was wiping his bald head; at Grigory's side Misha Koshevoi puffed fiercely at his homegrown tobacco. All the objects around were distinct and exaggeratedly real, as they appear after a night of wakefulness.

The squadrons were held in reserve for three hours.

The firing now died, now rose to a still higher pitch. An aeroplane roared overhead. After circling a few times at a great height, it flew eastward, gaining altitude. Milky puffs of bursting shells dotted the blue as anti-aircraft guns opened fire.

All stocks of tobacco had been exhausted and the men were pining in expectation, when just before noon an orderly galloped up with instructions. The commander of the Fourth Squadron immediately led his men off to one side. To Grigory it seemed that they were retreating rather than advancing. His own squad-

ron rode for some twenty minutes through the forest, the sound of the battle drawing nearer and nearer. Not far behind them a battery was firing rapidly; the shells tore through the resisting air with a shrieking roar. The narrow forest paths broke up the squadron's formation, and they emerged into the open in disorder. About half a verst away Hungarian hussars were sabring the crew of a Russian battery.

"Squadron, form!" the commander shouted.

The Cossacks had not completely carried out the order when the further command came:

"Squadron, draw sabres; into the attack, forward!"

A blue lightening flash of blades. From a swift trot the Cossacks broke into a gallop.

Six Hungarian hussars were busily occupied with the horses of the field-gun on the extreme right of the battery. One was dragging at the bits of the excited artillery horses, another was beating them with the flat of his sword, while the others were tugging and pulling at the spokes of the carriage wheels. An officer on a dock-tailed chocolate mare was giving orders. At the sight of the Cossacks the hussars leapt to their horses.

"Closer, closer," Grigory counted to the rhythm of his galloping horse. As he galloped, one foot momentarily lost its stirrup, and feeling

himself insecure in his saddle, with inward alarm he bent over and fished with his toe for the dangling iron. When he had recovered his foothold he looked up and saw the six horses of the field-gun in front of him. The outrider on the foremost in a blood- and brain-spattered shirt, was lying over the animal's neck, embracing it. Grigory's horse brought its hoof down with a sickening scrunch on the body of the dead gunner. Two more were lying by an overturned case of shells. A fourth was stretched face downward over the gun-carriage. Silantyev was just in front of Grigory. The Hungarian officer fired at almost point-blank range and the Cossack fell, his hands clutching and embracing the air. Grigory pulled on his reins and tried to approach the officer from the left, the better to use his sabre; but the officer saw through his manoeuvre and fired under his arm at him. Having discharged the contents of his revolver, he drew his sword. He parried three smashing blows with the skill of a trained fencer. Grigory gritted his teeth and lunged at him yet a fourth time, standing in his stirrups. Their horses were now galloping almost side by side, and he noticed the ashy clean-shaven cheek of the Hungarian and the regimental number sewn on his collar. With a feint he diverted the officer's attention, and changing the direction of

his stroke, thrust the point of his sabre between the Hungarian's shoulder-blades. He aimed a second blow at the neck, just at the top of the spine. The officer dropped his sword and reins from his hands, and arched his back as if he had been bitten, then toppled over his saddlebow. Feeling a terrible relief, Grigory lashed at his head, and saw the sabre smash into the bone above the ear.

A terrible blow on the head from behind tore consciousness away from Grigory. He felt a burning, salty taste of blood in his mouth, and realized that he was falling; from one side the stubbled earth came whirling and flying up at him. The heavy crash of his body against the ground brought him momentarily back to reality. He opened his eyes; blood poured into them. A trample past his ears, and the heavy breathing of horses. For the last time he opened his eyes and saw the pink dilated nostrils of a horse, and someone's foot in a stirrup. "The end!" the comforting thought crawled through his mind like a snake. A roar, and then black emptiness.

XIV

In the middle of August Yevgeny Listnitsky decided to apply for a transfer from the Ataman's Lifeauard Regiment to one of the Cos-

sack regular army regiments. He made his formal application, and within three weeks received the appointment he desired. Before leaving St. Petersburg he wrote to his father:

Father, I have applied tor a transfer from the Ataman's Regiment to the regular army. I received my appointment today, and am leaving for the front to report to the commander of the Second Corps. You will probably be surprised at my decision, hut I want to explain my reasons. I am sick of my surroundings. Parades, escorts, sentry duty-all this palace service sets my teeth on edge. I am fed up with it. I want live work and-if you wish-heroic deeds. I suppose it's my Listnitsky blood that is beginning to tell, the honourable blood of those who ever since the War of 1812 have added laurels to the glory of Russian arms. I am leaving for the front. Please give me your blessing.

Last week I saw the Emperor before he left for headquarters. I worship the man. I was standing guard inside the palace, he smiled as he passed me and said in English to Rodzyanko, who was with him: 'My glorious Guard. I'll beat Wilhelm's hand with it' I worship him like a schoolgirl. I am not ashamed to confess it, although I am over twenty-eight now. I am terribly upset by the palace gossip, besmirch-

ing the Emperor's glorious name. I don't believe it, I can't believe it. The other day I nearly shot Captain Gromov for uttering disrespectful words about Her Imperial Majesty in my presence. It was vile, and I told him that only people who had the blood of serfs flowing in their veins could stoop to such filthy slander. The incident took place before several other officers. I was beside myself, I drew my revolver and was about to waste a bullet on the cad, but my comrades disarmed me. My life becomes more miserable with each day spent in this cesspool. In the guards' regiments-among the officers, in particular-there is no genuine patriotism, and-one is terrified to utter it-there is even no love for the dynasty. This isn't the nobility, it's the rabble. This is really the explanation of my break with the regiment. I cannot associate with people I don't respect.

Well, that's about all. Please forgive my incoherence, I am in a hurry, I must pack my things and leave. Keep well, Papa. I shall write you a long letter from the front.

Your Yevgeny.

The train for Warsaw left Petrograd* at 8 p.m. Listnitsky took a drozhki and drove to the

* St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd in 1914. 544

station. Behind him lay Petrograd in a dove blue twinkle of lights.

The station was noisy and crowded with troops. The porter brought in Listnitsky's suitcase and, on receiving a few coins, wished the young gentleman a good journey. Listnitsky removed his swordbelt and coat, and spread a flowery silk Caucasian eiderdown on the seat. By the window sat a priest with the lean face of an ascetic, his provisions from home laid out on a small table. Brushing the crumbs from his hemp-like beard, he offered some curd-cake to a slim dark girl in school uniform sitting in the seat opposite him.

"Try something, my dear."

"No, thank you."

"Now don't be shy, a girl with your complexion needs plenty to eat."

"No, thank you."

"Try some of this curd-cake then. Perhaps you will take something, sir?"

Listnitsky glanced down.

"Are you addressing me?"

"Yes, indeed." The priest's sombre eyes stared piercingly and only the thin lips smiled under his thin drooping moustache.

"No, thank you. I don't feel like food now."

"You are making a mistake. It is no sin to eat. Are you in the army?"

"Yes."

"May the Lord help you."

As Yevgeny dozed off he heard the priest's fruity voice as though coming from a distance, and it seemed to him that it was the disloyal Captain Gromov speaking:

"It's a miserable income my family gets, you know. So I'm off as a chaplain to the forces. The Russian people can't fight without faith. And you know, from year to year the faith increases. Of course there are some who fall away, but they are among the intelligentsia, the peasant holds fast to God."

The priest's bass voice failed to penetrate further into Yevgeny's consciousness. After two wakeful nights a refreshing sleep came to him. He awoke when the train was a good forty versts outside Petrograd. The wheels clattered rhythmically, the carriage swayed and rocked, in a neighbouring compartment someone was singing. The lamp cast slanting lilac shadows.

The regiment to which Listnitsky was assigned had suffered considerable losses, and had been withdrawn from the front to be remounted and have its complement made up. The regimental staff headquarters was at a large market village called Bereznyagi. Listnitsky left the train at some nameless halt. At the same station a field hospital was detrained. He inquired

the destination of the hospital from the doctor in charge, and learned that it had been transferred from the south-western front to the sector in which his own regiment was engaged. The doctor spoke very unfavourably of his immediate superiors, cursed the divisional staff officers and, tugging his beard, his eyes glowing behind his pince-nez, poured his jaundiced anger into the ears of his chance acquaintance.

"Can you take me to Bereznyagi?" Listnitsky interrupted him.

"Yes, get into the trap. Lieutenant," he agreed, and familiarly twisting the button on Listnitsky's coat, rumbled on with his complaints.

"Just imagine it. Lieutenant. We've travelled two hundred versts in cattle trucks only to loaf about here, with nothing to do at a time when a bloody battle has been going on for two days in the section from which my hospital was transferred. There were hundreds of wounded there who needed our help badly!"

The doctor repeated the words "bloody battle" with spiteful relish.

"How do you explain such an absurdity?" the lieutenant asked out of politeness.

"How?" The doctor raised his eyebrows ironically over his pince-nez and roared: "Disorder, chaos, stupidity of the commanding staff -that's the reason why. Scoundrels occupy high

posts and mix things up. Inefficient, lacking even common sense. Do you remember Vere-sayev's memoirs of the Russo-Japanese war? Well, it's the same thing all over again, only twice as bad."

Listnitsky saluted him and went to the carts. The angry doctor, his puffy red cheeks trembling, was croaking behind him:

"We'll lose the war. Lieutenant. We lost one to the Japanese but didn't grow any the wiser. We can only brag, that's all." And he went along the rails, stepping over little puddles filmed with rainbow spangles of oil, and shaking his head despairingly.

Dusk was falling as the field hospital approached Bereznyagi. The wind ruffled the yellow stubble. Clouds were massing in the west. At their height they were a deep violet black, but below they shaded into a tender, smoky lilac. In the middle the formless mass, piled like ice-floes against a river dam, was drawn aside. Through the breach poured an orange flood of sunset rays, spreading in a spurtling fan of light and weaving a Bacchanalian spectrum of colours below.

A dead horse lay by the roadside ditch. On one of its hoofs, flung weirdly upward, the horseshoe gleamed. As the trap jogged past, Listnitsky stared at the carcass. The orderly with

whom he was riding spat at the horse's belly and explained:

"Been guzzling grain . .. been eating too much grain . . ." he corrected himself; he was about to spit again but for politeness' sake swallowed his spittle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "There it lies, and no one troubles to bury it. That's just like the Russians. The Germans are different."

"What do you know about it?" Yevgeny asked with unreasoning anger. At that moment he was filled with hatred for the orderly's phlegmatic face with its suggestion of superiority and contempt. The man was grey and dreary like a stubble field in September; he was in no way different from the thousands of peasant soldiers whom Yevgeny had seen on his way to the front. They all seemed faded and drooping, dullness stared in their eyes, grey, blue, green or any other colour, and they strongly reminded him of ancient, well-worn copper coins.

"I lived in Germany for three years before the war," the orderly replied unhurriedly. In his voice was the same shade of superiority and contempt that showed in his face. "I worked at a cigar factory in Konigsberg," the orderly continued lazily, flicking the horse with the knotted rein.