The Signal: And Other Stories

Front matter

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Preface

It has been said that to know the literature of a country is to know its people, and to know a people is to appreciate them. The wealth of the Russian language, its nuance of expression, its bewildering detail and plentiful use of diminutives, makes its translation into equivalent English especially difficult. But I trust, nevertheless, that this volume of short stories, translations from the Russian, may assist in promoting knowledge in England of Russia and Russians.

Nowhere is there more genuine hospitality than in Russia, and in no other country is there greater or more general kindliness of feeling.

TRANSLATOR.

GARSHIN

(1855-1888)

WsEWOLOD MiCHAiLOviCH Garshin, the " melancholiac/' as he is sometimes called, was of good family. He was bom in February, 1855. In appearance of a Southern t3^e, he was nice-looking, and possessed a sweetness of disposition and a temperament S3nnpathetic to a degree unusual in a man. His early life was spent on the family estate with his parents, his father having retired from the army in 1858. When nine years old, he was placed at school in St. Petersburg. His original intention of becoming a doctor was frustrated by the issue at that tune of a Government regulation making a University course obligatory on all wishing to take up medicine. He early showed an abnormal nervousness, and in 1872, when only seventeen years old, was temporarily placed under restraint. Reco vering his sanity in 1873, and having completed his school C0UK6, 116 entered the Institute of Mining Engineers in 1874. In 1876 the Russo-Turkish War broke out. Although the horrors of war affected him very deeply, Garshin considered it his bounden duty to take an active share in the campaign, and enlisted at Kishineff asH private lii ift imantry regiment of the line. He rliQplayfif^ ffreat gallantry in action, was wounded in

the leg, and invalided home. From this time his mind

vll viii GARSHIN

became periodically unhinged, and it was immediately preceding one of these attacks that he wrote " A Night/ ' which bears immistakable evidence of a disordered brain. Finally, in 1887, in an access of physical and mental agony, he succeeded in eluding those who were watching by his bedside, and threw himself down a flight of stone steps which formed the staircase leading to Ins apafl5n€lit. He inflicted grave injuries to himself, and added to his mental trouble by brooding over the state of mind which had led him to commit such an act. He was shortly afterwards transferred to a hospital for better treatment, where he expired in April, 1888, at the earl y ag e of th^rty- ^hree, in the presence of some of his always numerous friends and a devoted wife.

An added interest is given to his stories (he only wrote some twenty in all), from the fact that the majority of them possess a groundwork of truth, and embody personal ideas and experiences, or those of friends and acquaintances.

GLOSSARY

AleshSy an intimate form of Alexander. See Names.

Anhln, equals 2i feet (approximately).

BabSy a peasant woman (old).

Barin, Sir or Master ) Words used by servants or the lower

Barlniay Ma'am or Mistress j classes when addressing superiors.

GhlnoTiilky the generic name of all officials, but more usually applied to the smaller class of Government officials. Is often used in contempt.

Desslatine, equals 2*70 acres.

Droshky, a small open four-wheeled hackney-carriage.

Dvornlky a yard porter. Each house has one or more dvomiks, whose duties are to cut and carry firewood, etc. They are also responsible for the cleanliness of the street and pavement immediately adjoining the house, and must assist the police.

Dvii-gTlTeiiniky a silver coin of the value and size of sixpence.

Enprakselnslikay a character in early Russian history.

FortoehkAy a framed pane of glass in a window. It is on hinges, and can be opened for ventilation purposes when the window itself is hermetically sealed up for the winter.

GorodOTOly a policeman.

nia MurometZy a character in early Russian history.

Ispravniky a provincial police officer.

IzTOsehlk, a cabman; used indifferently to mean the man or his conveyance.

Kaftan, a three-quarters length overcoat, usually of leather lined with sheepskin.

KoIIaska. See Droshky.

Kopeeky a copper coin of the size and value of a farthing.

Krasnoe Solnlshko (beautiful sun), a famous early ruler of Russia, and the first of them to embrace Christianity.

LinelkSy a four-wheeled conveyance usually seating ten or twelve persons who ride back to back as in an Irish car.

ix

X GLOSSARY

Masha, an intimate form of Maria or Mary. See Names.

Mateiky the name of an artist.

Mlatel, a blizzard.

Miekoffy an action in the last Polish Rebellion.

Monjlky a Russian peasant (man). Often used to mean a boor or uncouth person.

Nada, Nadla, intimate forms of Nadejda. See Names.

Names. Every Orthodox Russian has but one Christian name and a patronymic in addition to his surname, which last is not used in conversation. In the case of a man, the patronymic is formed by adding -ovich to his father's name, or -ovna in the case of a woman. Thus, a man christened Ivan whose father bore the same name would be known as Ivan Ivanovich. Similarly, a woman christened Olga whose father's name was Ivan would be known as Olga Ivanovna. In addition to the above there are variations of the Christian name used only by relatives and intimate friends, such as Vasia or Vassenka, intimate forms of Vassilli, Nada or Nadia, intimate forms of Nadejda. Thus, a man whose full name was Simon Ivanovich Spiridofi might be addressed as such, or Simon Spiridoff, or as Simon Ivanovich, or Simon Ivanich, or Senia» or Senichka, dependent on the relations between the two persons.

Opatoffy an action in the last Polish Rebellion.

PeehenegSy a tribe of Turkish origin which early settled itself in Russia.

Poltinlky a silver coin of the value and size of a shilling.

Poody equals 36 pounds avoirdupois.

Pristaffy a poUce superintendent.

Prornby a hole cut out in the ice.

Rouble, a silver coin of the value and size of a florin.

Ross, the ancient name of Russia.

Sajene, equals 7 English feet.

SamovaTy a tea-urn in which the water is boiled and kept hot by charcoal.

Sasha, an intimate form of Alexander or Alexandra. See Names.

Semiradski, a Russian artist.

Senia, Seniehkay intimate forms of Simon or Simeon. See Names.

Shaba, a fur-lined overcoat of full length.

Soniay an intimate form of Sophia. See Names.

Sotniay a squadron of cavalry (appUed to Cossack troops only).

Traktir, a humble kind of eating-house frequented by the working classes.

Contents

PAGE

I. THE SIGNAL ------ I ni. AN INCIDENT- - - - - -27

V. THE MEETING - - - - 72

II

I REME MB^;]^ow ' we)rushed through the wood ; how the leaves and twigs came fluttering and twisting down on us as the hununing bullets cut their way through the thick foliage. I remember^ how^ as we pushed through the thick and prickfy undergrowth, the firing became hotter and the fringe of the wood became alive with little spurts of flame which flashed redly from all points. I^ remember how Sedprofi, a recruit of No. i Company (How had hq |tyr.f>Hfl-wr^^|-^rfTig-Kri^ -> flashed through my

mind), suddenly sat down/ and without saying a word gazed at me with big startled eyes as a little stream of blood commenced to^ trickle from his mouth. Yes, , I reme mber it, well . I remember also how, just as we were ontte very edge of the wood, I first saw him in the thick bushes. He was a huge and bulky Turk, but I ran straight at him although I ^J^^tTTL^iil B^"^ wf^^'' ffi^rA ^ was a deafBtfng iio'Se ; 'something enormous seemed to flash past me, making my ears ring. He has fired at me, I thought. I remember how with a scream of fear he pressed himself backwards into a thick and prickly bush, although he could easily have gone round it, but he could remember nothing from fright, and strove instead to push his way into its prickly branches.

With a blow I disarmed hjuqpu ..and lunged with my bayonet* There *^Wi5 "aSi indrawn sob and a piteous groan. Then I rushed on. We cheered as we went forward, some falling, some firing. I remember I fired several times. We were already out of the wood into the open. Suddenly the cheers became a long loud roar, and we all rushed forward. That is, the line did, but not I, because I stayed behind. Something strange seemed to have happened, and then, stranger still, everything disappeared, all the cries and firing died away. I could hear nothing, and saw only something blue, which must have been the sky. Then it, too, disappeared. « « « * «

I was never in such a strange position. I am lying apparently on my stomach, and can see in front of me only a little clod of earth, a few blades of grass, up one of which an ant is climbling head downwards, and some little mounds of dust, last year's dead grass. This is my whole world, and I can only see with one eye because the other one is being^pressetTby something hard ; it must be the bough against which my head is resting. It is dreadfully awkward, and I absolutely cannot understand why, when I want to, I cannot move. And so the time passes — I hear the CBtrrup of grasshoppers, the humming of bees — nothing more. At last I make an effort, free my right arm from under my body, and, resting both hands on the ground, I try to kneel.

Somethin g sharp goes like lightning right through my body from myTmees to my, chest... ftpm my chest w to my headl aiioagain T.fall, again darkness, jagain'ia.llank. ' ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I am awake, but why do I see stars shining brightly in the black-blue of a Bulgarian nighf ? Surely I am in a tent ? Then why have Ttrawled out of it ? I make a movement, and feel an excruciating pain in my legs. Ah, now I understand. I have been wounded. Dangerously ? I catch hold of my leg where it is hurting. Both right and left legs .are covered with clotted blood. When riouch ffiem with my hands the pain is worse. It is like toothache, a throbbing, sickening pain. There is a singing in my ears and my head feels leaden. Vaguely I understand that I have been wounded in both legs. But why have they not picked me up ? The Turks cannot have beaten us ! I commence, confusedly at first, then more clearly, to remember what happened, and come to the conclusion that we were far from being defeated. Because I fell (this, by the way, I do not remember, but I do remember how they all rushed forward, and that I could not, and saw nothing but blue) on the field on the hill, and that was the field to which our little officer had pointed and said, " Children, we must get there !" So of course we had not been beaten. But why, then, have they not picked me up ? Surely here in this field — open ground — everything is visible. Besides which, I cannot be the only one lying here. The firing was too hot. I must turn my head and look. I can do this more easily now, because when I came to my senses and was able to see only grass and that ant climbing with its head downwards I tried to raise myself, and when I fell again it was not into the old position, but on to my back. That is why I can see the stars.

I try to rai<tf> ipY^ftlf into a sit ting position. It is diliicuit when both legs are shot througnT ' Several times I almost give it up in despair, but at last, with tears in my eyes from the awful pain, I succ eed.

Above me — a scrap of blSck-bM6'^Ky in which a big star is burning and several smaller ones. Around me something dark and tall — bushes ! I am amongst the bushes ! They have mi.ssftd.jcne ! J feel how the very roots of niy hair move as I realize this. But how did I get into the bushes when they hit me in the open ? When I was wounded I must have crawled here without remembering it, owing to the pain ; only it is odd that now I cannot stir, but then was able to drag myself to these bushes. Perhaps I had only been hit once then, and the second bullet caught me here. There are pinkish stains around me. . . .

i6 FOUR DAYS

The big star has begun to pale, and the smaller stars have disappeared. It is the moon rising. How pretty it must be at home now I . . . Strange noises keep reaching me as if somebody was groaning. Yes, they are groans. Is it somebody else, also forgotten, lying near me with legs shot through or a bullet in his stomach ? No, the groans are so close, whilst there is no one, it seems, near me. ... It cannot be ? — ^yes, it is I who am groaning and making these pitiful noises. . . . Surely it is not so painful really ? I suppose it must be, only I do not understand why I am in such pain because my head is leaden and everything seems misty. Better lie down again and sleep, sleep. . . . Only, shall I ever awake again ? Anyhow, it does not matter.

Just as I commence to lie down a broad pale gleam of moonlight clearly shows up the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and big on the ground about five paces from me. Something glistens on it in the moonlight. Is it buttons or equipment ? Is it a corpse or somebody wounded ?

Never mind, I will lie down. . . .

No ! impossible ! Our men cannot have gone. They are here ; they have driven out the Turks and are campnig on the position. Then why no voices ? no crackling of camp-fires ? Probably I am so weak I cannot hear. Of course they must be here.

" Help ! help ! help !"

TJie wild, maddened, hoarse cries are wrung from me. but there is no answer. Loudly they resound in the night air, but everything else remains silent. Only the grasshoppers keep up their chirruping. The moon is looking down at me with a pitying gaze.

^If he was somebody wounded my shouts would have roused him. It is a corpse. One of us or a Turk ? But is it not all the same ? And sleep is closing my fevered eyelids.

I am lying with closed eyes, although I woke up long ago. I do not want to open them because through the closed lids I can feel the sun, and if I open my eyes the sun will scorch them. Besides, better not to move. . . . Yesterday (I suppose it was ye sterda y) they wounded mg*!". '.'a'^lifl l6'fl9,V" fl4sg6Ae*past,*^olli6!lfa WBl paiji^ Ki/7SM' rsnalrdie. It is all the same. Better not to move. If only I could stop my brain working ! But nothing will stop it. Ideas, recollections, thoughts come crowding in. However, all this is not for long, the end will soon come. There will be just a few lines in the newspapers that our losses were insignificant : — wounded ... so many ; killed — one, IPrivate Ivanofi — no, the names of the men are not giveiTT W6y BlBipiy J>ay killed . . . one. One private, as if it were one dog.

All the details of an incident which happened long ago flash to my mind. By the way, how l ong ago all my life seems — I mean that life when I was noTlying here with my legs shot through. . . .

I was going along the street when I was stopped by a crowd which had gathered and was silently gazing at something white covered with blood lying on the roadway whining piteously — a l ittle do^ w hjgh Jiad been run over by a tramcar. _ It was djang, as I am now. A' dvomit pusnea nis way' through the crowdrpicCSTt up by the back of the neck, and carried it away, and the crowd dispersed. Will anyone take me away ? No . . . you will lie here and die. And how good is life ! H owhappy I .was that daxL. I went along as it mtoxicated. Recollections I do not torture me ! Leave me alone with this present torture, then at least I cannot involuntarily make comparisons. Oh, this longing for home ! It is worse than wounds.

However, it is getting hot. The sun is scorching me. I open my eyes and see the same bushes, the same sky, only by daylight . . . and there is my neighbour. Yes, he is a Turk, a corpse. What a huge man 1 I recognize him as the same man I . . .

l8 FOUR DAYS

^ Before me lies a man whom I have Irillf^ Why did T kSl bun ^ H^ hes"^there cTeaSTand blood-stained. Why aid Fate bring him here ? Who is he ? Perhaps he has ... as I have ... an old mother. She will sit long and alone in the evenings at the door of her miserable hut, gazing towards the north, for her darling son, her protector and breadwinner. And I ? I also — would that L could change places with him. He is happy. He hears nothing, feels nothing, no pain from wounds, no awful sickness, no thirst . . . the bayonet went straight through his heart. There is a big black hole in his uniform with blood around it. / did tha t !

I did not want to do it. I wished no one harm when I ynluptftpTftd. It somehow never entered my mind that I should have to kill people. J[ onl y thn^ \ g ht nf how I woul d expos e my own breast to the buUetSv Il^ame . . . aiiahow...loolliooll '

And this unhappy fellah (he was ^in fgypt^^" uniform) — he is even less to blame than I. First of all they packed him with others like herrings in a barrel on board a steamer and brought him to Constantinople. He had ney^r^heard^f Russm or jSulgarS They ordered him to go, andlEecame. Had he refused they would have beaten him with sticks, or perhaps some Pascha would have put a bullet into him. He came here by long and difficult mar ches from Stamboul to Rustchuk. We attacked SBoT he defended himself, buf^ seeing tEat we terrible people caffed not for his patent English rifle, but ever leapt forward, he became terror-stricken, and when he wanted to get away, someone, a little man whom he could have killed with one blow of his big black fist, jumped forward and plunged a bayonet into his heart.

Why is he to blame ?

"And* why am I to blame, even though I did kill him ? Hdtr am I to Mime ? Why is this thirst torturing me ? Thirst I Who knows what this word means 1 Even when we came through Roumania, making forced marches of fifty versts in the terrific heat, even then I did not feel what I feel now. Oh, if only somebody would come along !

God ! Yes — there must be something inside that huge ^^icatetsboUJd of his. But I have to get to it. What will it cost me ? Nevermind* I ^U get there.

I crawl, dragging my legs benina me. My arms have grown so weak that they can scarcely help me. It is only a few feet, but for me it is more . . . not more, but worse than tens of versts. Nevertheless, I must crawl there. My throat is burning — burning like fire. Yes, no doubt without water you will die sooner, but still perhaps . . .

And I crawl. My legs seem chained to the ground and every movement causes insufferable pain. I yell, yell, but all the same go on crawling. At last ! Yes, there is water in the flask, a nd what a lot ! More than half full, it wm last meTlon g time . . . until I die !

commenced W unfasieil IIK waTeFbottle, leaning as I did so on one elbow, when, suddenly Josing my ba lance, I fell face forward on to the body of my oenvefef: SF" ready it was becoming unpleasant.

I have dnmk. The water was warm, but still unspoilt. Moreover, there is plenty. I shall live several days more. I remember having read in a book that a man can live without food for more than a week if only he has water, and in the same book 1 read an account of a man who committed suicide by starvation, but lived for ages before he died because he drank water.

But what if I do live another five or six days ? What will come of it ? Our men have gone. The Bulgarians have dispersed. There is no road near. I have to die, only instead of three days' agony I have given myself a week. Would it not be better to finish it now ? Near my neighbour lies h is rifle. I need only str^tpjti out my lea a nasn anS'lEhe^'enar "There are cartridges

Ijdng there. He had no time to use them all. Shall I end iit, then ? ... or wait ? Which ? Deliverance ? death ? Wait until the Turks come and commence to tear the skin from my wounded legs ? Better to finish it myself. No, there is no need to lose heart ; I will struggle to the end, to the very last. If they find me I am saved. Perhaps the bones are not touched, they will cure me. I shall see home — m other— an d Masha. ... Oh merciful God ! grant that toy may never know the whole truth ! Let them believe I was killed outright. What if they find out that I suffered for two, three, four days !

My head is spinning round, my journey to my neighbour has completely exhausted me. And this awful sinell. How black he has become ! What will he be like to-morrow or the day after ? I am Ijdng here now only because I have no strength left to drag myself away. I will rest a little and then crawl back to the old place ; the wind, too, is blowing from there, and will carry this smell away from me.

I am lying absolutely worn out. The sun is burning my face and hands. There is no shelter. If only night (the second, I suppose) would come more qtScklyl '* "^ ^itty' thoughts are getting confused, and I am losing consciousness.

• * * • *

I must have had a long sleep, because when I awoke it was already night. All is as before, my wounds ache as before, and he is Ijdng there as before, just as large and motionless as before.

I cannot help thinking of him. Surely it was not only that he should cease to live that I gave up all — that I have starved, have been frozen by the cold, tormented by the heat, and finally am lying here in this agony ? Have I done anything of any use to my country except this murder ?

Murder 1 murderer ! — ^Who ? I !

When I was fascinated by the idea of going to the war.

mother and Masha did not try to dissuade me, although they both cried bitterly. Blinded by the idea, I did not see those tears. I did not understand (now I do) what I was causing to those near me. But why think of it ? It will not recall the past. And in what a strange light my action appeared to many of my friends — *' Well, madman ! interfering without knowing why !" How could they say this ? How can they reconcile such words with their ideas of heroism, patriotism, etc. ? Surely in their eves represented all tllOlMJ Virtues ? And vet I am a ma d-

tan and m onster " I

Ahd s6 I gu lu Klshineff. There they load me up with a knapsack and all sorts of military paraphernalia. And I go with thousands, of whom some, Uke myself, are going voluntarily. The remainder would stay at home if allowed. However, they too, like us, wUl march thousands of versts and will fight also like us, or even better. They will do their duty notwithstanding that, if allowed, they would immediately give it up and go home. A chilling earlv morning bree^ft ba^y ariRftn. The bushes are moving, and a Dn*ci is sleepily fluttering its wings. The stars have faded away. The black-blue of the heavens has taken a greyish hue, and is covered with soft, feathery clouds. A raw half-mist is rising from the ground . The third day has arrived of my- — wh at can I call it ? Life ? Agony r i ne tnird. . . . How many still remain ? In any case not many. I have become very weak, and apparently cannot even get away from my neighbour. Before long I shall be like him, and then we will not be so unpleasing to each other.

I must have a drink. I will drink three times_^a day : in the morning, at midday, and in the evening. * * * « *

The sun has risen. His huge disc, crimson as blood, is intersected by the black branches of the bushes. It looks as if it will be hot to-day. My neighbour ! what w^ y^ look like after this day is over ? Even now^

«a POUR DAYS

awful. Yes, he is awful. His hair has commenced to fall out. His skin, originally black, has become a greyishyellow. His swollen face has become so tightly stretched that the skin has burst behind one ear. Large blisters like bladders have pushed their way out between the buttons which fasten the leggings around his swollen legs. And he himself looks a veritable mountain. What will the sun do to him to-day ?

To lie so near is unbearable. I must crawl away from him at all costs. But can I ? I can still raise my arm, open the water-bottle, and drink, but to move my own heavy helpless body ? Nevertheless, I will move even if a little way only, if only half a pace an hour.

I have spent the whole morning moving. The pain was awful, but what is that to me now ? I no longer remember, I cannot imagine what it feels like to be sound and well. I am accustomed to pain now. I have succeeded this morning in crawling back to my old place. But I have not enjoyed the fresh air for long, — that is, if there can be fresh air within six paces of a putref jdng corpse. The wind has changed. It is so appalling that I am sick. The convulsions of an empty stomach cause me new tortures, and my whole inside seems to become twisted. But the awful poisoned air still fans me. In my despair I burst out crying.

Absolutely worn out, I lie in a semi-stupor. . . . Suddenly — Is this the fantasy of a disordered imagination ? It seems to me that . . . no . . . yes it is . . ^voices ! The sound of horses* hoofs and human voices. 1 amiost cried out, but just stopped myself. And what if they are Turks ? What then ? Then to my present tortures will be added others far more awful, even to read of which in the newspapers makes one's hair stand on end. They will flay me aliv^^id roast my wounded legs. It will be well if they ^^[^^^more than this, for they have great inventive ^iHjj^^B Is it really better to end life in their hands than to die here ? But if they are some of ours ? You cursed bushes ! Why have you surrounded me with so thick a hedge ? I can see nothing through them. In one place only is there an opening like a little window between the branches which gives me a view away on to the open ground. Yes, tl^e is the small stream from which we drank before the fight. And there is the huge block of sandstone like a little bridge across the stream. They are sure to come across it. Thejvo ices die away, T ra^ ^pot hear wha t lanp ^uaye they a^ f gppjiVipp ftv^n my hfiaHTi|pr

nas become weak. My God ! if they are ours — ^1 will call to them. They should hear me even from there. It is better than riskii^ falling into the clutches of Bashi- Bazouks. Why are they so long in coming ? In the torments of expectancy I do not even notice the dreadful air, although it has in no way improved.