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

with him? ‘Either they are soldiers or militia,’ he says. Those are the silly kind of speeches he makes. ‘War,’ says he, ‘is so cruel that even if I am cruel with the men it is but a drop in the ocean.⁠ ⁠…’ ‘They,’ he says, ‘are in such a low state of development.⁠ ⁠…’ In a word, the deuce knows what he doesn’t say. All the same he is an excellent chap. He doesn’t drink or play cards. He is a conscientious soldier, helps his old father and a sister, and is a splendid companion. Moreover, he is the best-read man in the regiment. And mark my word, he will either be court-martialled, or they”⁠—he nodded his head towards the window⁠—“will deal with him. It’s a bad job. And that’s how the matter stands, my most worthy trooper.”

Ivan Platonich gave me a kindly pat on my shoulder-strap and then dived his hand into his pocket, brought out a tobacco-pouch, and commenced to roll a gigantic cigarette, which he stuck into an enormous amber mouthpiece on which was the inscription “Caucasus” in oxidized silver. Sticking the holder into his mouth, he silently pushed the pouch towards me. We were all three smoking, and the Captain recommenced:

“Sometimes it is impossible not to hit them. They are really like children. Do you know Balunoff?”

Stebelkoff suddenly burst out laughing.

“Well, what’s the matter, Stebelkoff?” grunted Ivan Platonich. “Balunoff is an old soldier who has often been punished. He has served twenty years, and yet they will not let him go on account of his various offences. Well, this rascal once⁠ ⁠… You weren’t with us then. When we were leaving a village near Kishineff an order was given to inspect all the extra pairs of boots. I drew the men up in line, and walking behind them to see if any of the boot-tops were sticking out of the knapsacks, saw that Balunoff had none. ‘Where are your boots?’ ‘I have put them inside my knapsack for safety, sir.’ ‘That’s a lie.’ ‘Not at all, sir. They are in my knapsack so as not to get wet,’ the blackguard replied.

“ ‘Take off your knapsack and open it. I noticed he didn’t open it, but dragged the tops of the boots from under the cover.

“ ‘Open it.’ ‘I can take them out without opening it, sir.’

“However, I made him open the knapsack, and what do you think? He dragged a live sucking-pig by the ears out of it. Its snout was tied up with string so that it shouldn’t squeak. With his right hand at the salute he stood and grinned, and with his left hand held the pig. He had stolen it, the rascal, from the Moldavians. Well, of course I hit him, but not hard.”

Stebelkoff roared with laughter, and, scarcely able to speak, said: “Yes⁠ ⁠… and do you know, Ivanoff, what he hit him with?⁠ ⁠… With the pig!”

“Yes, but couldn’t you have avoided that, Ivan Platonich?”

“Oh you! Upon my word, it makes me tired to listen to you. I couldn’t court-martial him for it, could I?”

VII

On the night of the 14th to 15th of June Feodoroff woke me.

“Mikhailich, do you hear?”

“What is it?”

“Firing. They are crossing the Danube.”

I began to listen. A strong wind was blowing, driving before it lowering black clouds which hid the moon. It blew against the canvas of our tents, making them flap, whistled through the guy-ropes, and made a faint sighing sound through the piles of arms. Through these sounds could be heard occasional deep reports.

“Many are being killed now,” whispered Feodoroff with a sigh. “Will they order us forward or not? What do you think? It sounds like thunder.”

“Perhaps it is only a thunderstorm?”

“No, it is so regular. Listen, do you hear them one after another?”

The booming was certainly very regular in its intervals. I crawled out of the tent and gazed in the direction of the sounds. No flashes of flame were visible. Sometimes a light appeared to be visible to the straining eyes in the direction whence the reports were coming, but it was only fancy.

At last it has come, I thought.

And I tried to picture to myself what was happening in the darkness there. I imagined a wide black river with precipitous banks, utterly unlike the real Danube as I afterwards saw it. Hundreds of boats are crossing. These measured, frequent shots are at them. Will many of them escape? A cold shiver ran down my back. “Would I like to be there?” I asked myself involuntarily.

I gazed at the sleeping camp. All was quiet. In the intervals between the distant thunder of guns and the noise of the wind could be heard the heavy breathing of the men. And I had a sudden passionate longing that all this should not take place, that the march should continue, that all these soundly sleeping men and with them myself should not be obliged to go where the firing was taking place.

Sometimes the cannonade became heavier. Sometimes I heard confusedly a less loud deep noise. They are firing volleys, I thought, not knowing that we were still twenty versts from the Danube and that a painfully strained imagination was creating these sounds. But though imaginary, they roused, nevertheless, quickened fancy, causing it to picture fearful scenes. In imagination I heard the cries and groans, I saw thousands of human beings falling, and heard the desperate hoarse hurrahs. I pictured the bayonet charge, the carnage. And if beaten oft, it will all be for nothing!

Grey dawn commenced in the dark east. The wind began to die away. The clouds parted, disclosing stars waning in the paling heavens. It grew lighter. Somebody in the camp awoke and, hearing the sounds of battle, aroused the others. They spoke little and quietly. The unknown had approached closely to us. No one knew what the morrow would bring. No one cared to think or speak of it.

I slept until daylight and awoke rather late. The cannon continued to rumble deeply, and, although