Short Fiction by Vsevolod Garshin (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📕

correctly, but when he repeated the question I replied that Bokhara was beyond two seas, four thousand versts away, and we were never likely to get there.

“No, Mikhailich, don’t talk like that. One of the regimental clerks has told me. He says that we shall cross the Danube, and then we shall be in Bokhara.”

“Not Bokhara⁠—Bulgaria!” I exclaimed.

“Well, Bokhara or Bulgaria, whichever you call it, isn’t it all the same?”

And he said no more, evidently dissatisfied.

We only knew that we were going to kill the Turk because he had shed much blood. And we wanted to kill him, not so much for the blood he had shed of persons not known to us, but because he had upset so many people that, through it, we were forced to experience a hard campaign (“for which we are going a thousand versts to him, the unclean beast!”). Those on furlough and reservists were obliged to leave home and family, and all go together somewhere under shell and bullet. The Turk was pictured as a rioter and ringleader, whom it was necessary to pacify and subdue.

We occupied ourselves much more with our family, battalion, and company affairs than in the war. In our company all was quiet and peaceful. But matters went from bad to worse with the rifle company. Ventzel did not grow more sensible. Secret indignation grew, and after one incident, which, even now, five years afterwards, I cannot remember without becoming worked up, it developed into regular hatred.

We had just passed through a town, and had come out on to a field where the first regiment, marching ahead of us, had already pitched its tents. The camp was a good one. On one side was a river, on the other an old clean oak grove, probably a resort of the local inhabitants. It was a nice warm evening. The sun was setting. We halted and piled arms. I and Jitkoff began to pitch our shelter. We had fixed up the supports. I was holding one edge of the sheet, and Jitkoff was hammering in a peg with a stick.

“Tighter, hold it tighter, Mikhailich.” (He had for some days past commenced to address me in this intimate way.) “There, that’s right.”

But at this moment from behind us there came some strange measured smacking sounds. I turned round.

The riflemen were standing in line. Ventzel, shouting out something hoarsely, was hitting one of the soldiers in the face. The man, with a face pale as death, holding his rifle at the order and not daring to avoid the blows, was trembling all over. Ventzel’s thin, small body swayed with the force of the blows he was dealing with both hands, first the right and then the left. Everyone around was silent⁠—only the smack was heard and the hoarse muttering of the infuriated commander. Everything went dark, and began to swim before me. I made a movement. Jitkoff understood it, and tugged with all his strength at the tent sheet.

“Hang on to it, d⁠⸺⁠n you, you awkward⁠—” he shouted, showering the most abusive epithets on me.

“Have your hands withered or what? Where are you looking? Have you never seen it before?”

The blows continued to resound. Blood was trickling from the man’s upper lip and chin. At last he fell, Ventzel turned round, and glaring full at the whole company, shouted:

“If anyone else dares to smoke, I will treat the blackguard worse. Lift him up, wash his ugly face, and put him in the tent. Let him lie there. Pile arms!” he commanded.

His hands were trembling, red, swollen, and covered with blood. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his hands, and left the men, who had piled their arms and were dangerously silent. Several of them, muttering amongst themselves, collected around the bruised victim, and raised him. Ventzel was walking with a nervous, worn-out gait. He was pale and his eyes glistened. The twitching of his muscles told how hard his teeth were set. He went past us, and, meeting my searching look, he smiled with his thin lips, only in an unnatural, derisive manner, and, muttering something, went on.

“Bloodsucker!” said Jitkoff, with hatred in his voice. “And you too, sir.⁠ ⁠… What did you want to go there for? Do you want to be shot? Wait a little, and they will get even with him.”

“Will they complain?” I asked. “If so, to whom?”

“No, there will be no complaint. We also will do something.”

And he muttered something almost to himself. I dared not understand him. Feodoroff, who had already been amongst the riflemen and asked what it was all about, came back to us.

“He bullies the men without any reason,” he said. “This little soldier, Matushkin, was smoking on the march. When they halted he ordered his rifle, keeping the cigarette between his fingers. Evidently, and unluckily for him, he forgot all about it. But Ventzel noticed it. Brute, beast!” he added sorrowfully, laying himself down in the tent, which was now ready. “The cigarette was out. It’s quite clear the poor beggar had forgotten.”

In the course of a few days we marched into Alexandria, where an enormous number of troops had collected. Whilst still coming down the high mountain, we saw an enormous expanse dotted with white tents and the black figures of men, long horse lines and glistening rows of guns with their green carriages and limbers. Whole crowds of officers and men were wandering through the streets of the town. Lugubrious, mournful Hungarian music, mingling with the clatter of dishes and loud conversation, came from the open windows of crowded and dirty hotels. The little shops were crammed with Russian purchasers. Our soldiers, Romanians, foreigners, and Jews shouted loudly at each other, without making themselves understood. Quarrels as to the rate of exchange on the paper rouble could be heard at every step.

“Where is the Post-Office?” with exaggerated courtesy and touching the peak of his kepi with his hand, inquires of a smartly-dressed Romanian an officer equipped with a Soldier’s Translator, a