The confessions of a little man during great days

PART I St Petersburgh, 28*4 August 1914

To speak with a clear conscience as one does at confession, even now I can't make out why I was in such a panic on that day. War is war, we all know ; no one greets its coming with delight ; still, it is a simple matter, when all is said and done ; we have been through it before. The Japanese War is still fresh in our memories. At present, for example, when bloody battles are being fought, I have no sense of fear, and live as I always do. I go about my work, see my friends, indulge in a theatre or a picture- show, and were it not for my

A 1 wife's brother, Pavel, being at the war, I could almost forget, on occasions, the terrible events that are happening.

Of course, I don't deny that there's a restlessness and anxiety at bottom. I can't exactly describe the sensation ; it's a kind of gnawing despair that comes over one mostly in the morning at breakfast. You no sooner open your paper (I take in two besides Kopeika) than you are brought back to the horrors that are happening over there to those poor Belgians, to their houses and children, and you feel as though some one had poured cold water over you, and turned you out naked on a frosty winter's day. Still, this sensation has no relation to fear ; it's merely a feeling of human pity for those in distress.

As I was saying, on that first day I was ridiculously frightened. It makes me blush to think of it. I need only mention 2 that on the 2nd August I paid no less than thirty roubles for a miserable conveyance to take us from Shuvalov, where we had been staying, back to town, and in less than five days I was taking the whole of my family back again by train, and that we actually remained in the country until the 25th August in the most peaceful manner possible. What a state we were in, to be sure ! My wife, unkempt, unwashed, dazed and distraught, jolted along with the children in the cart, while I, the head of the family, marched in the road by their side, feeling as though doomsday were behind us and we must run, run without looking back, without stopping to take breath, not merely to St Petersburgh, but to the very ends of the earth.

All the shops along the road were selling bread in abundance, and I had thrust some stupid crusts into my pocket in case 3 of need. Prudence and foresight — under any circumstances !

The weather was glorious at the time, but we had no faith even in the weather. It seemed to us that it was bound to pour with rain, or that a sudden snowstorm would descend upon us although it was August, and we should perish on the way ! How horribly we worried our driver !

Another disgraceful circumstance comes to my mind. I picked some blue little bell flower on the wayside and gave it to Lidotchka, my little girl, chaffing her a bit as I did so. It was a natural act, being fond of my children as I am, especially of Lidotchka, but it pains me to recall the thought that occurred to me at the time. I congratulated myself on not having lost my head like other people, since there I was picking flowers, joking and trying to 4 cheer up my family. An extraordinary act of heroism !

With what a sense of relief did we tumble into the house ! Beside ourselves with joy as we lighted the candles (the electric light was disconnected owing to our absence) and seated ourselves at the table round the samovar.

The most astonishing thing is that I don't know exactly when the absurd panic left me, nor how it happened that five days later we were going calmly back again to the country, not the least bit ashamed. However, half the carriage was full of heroes like ourselves. I wonder what we must have thought of each other ? I don't suppose we bothered, though ; we were too engrossed in our journey, telling each other without the least embarrassment what we had been foolish enough to pay for our conveyances ! 5

To do myself a little justice, I was largely infected by my wife's unspeakable horror. At any rate, that is how I explain our " flight from Egypt " to our friends. The explanation, however, does not fully satisfy my own conscience. Had I been a coward, or what might be called an effeminate person, there would have been nothing more to say, but, far from being a coward, I am a man of some courage ; a convulsion took place in my brain, and the world was turned upside down. What a fool I must have looked as I strutted along beside the cart, picking flowers into the bargain ! And what a smart fellow I considered myself, to have got that cart to save my family !

I wonder what made me go like that ?

I know now, to be sure. The vision the war must have presented to me was so appalling and strange as to bear no resem- 6 blance to a war at all. I can't recall that vision, no matter how hard I try. It must have seemed like the crack of doom, that the end of the world had come and the destruction of all living things. I must have heard a tremendous crash of thunder that cleft the earth in two, and we had to fly for our very lives.

I remember one thing, however, I was not in the least afraid of the Germans or their Kaiser. I never thought of them at all, in fact. It must have seemed plain to any fool that they couldn't come flying to Shuvalov in a day.

And why should I have been afraid of the Germans, anyway ? Weren't they human beings like ourselves, as much afraid of us as we of them ?

We were both in the same boat, as it were. It was as if some antediluvian animals were close at our heels, crushing 7 the earth with their tremendous paws. . . . But, no, that doesn't describe it. What is an animal ? Who is afraid of an animal nowadays ? It was something quite different. Some convulsion must have taken place in my brain as to make the world seem upside down — literally upside down — so that I seemed to be walking not on my feet, but on hands like an acrobat.

I remember, too, how everything astonished me on the road that day ; the most ordinary little thing with no claim to the remarkable whatever. For instance, a man would be coming down the road, and as I watched him moving his legs, I thought, " c Fancy that, he's walking ! " Or a hen would run out of some yard, or a little kitten would sit on a patch of weeds, and again I wonder, " A kitten ! " Or a " Good morning " said to some tradesman would make me marvel that he replied " Good 8 morning," and not some unintelligible bla, bla ! We saw the streets in the town — again a surprise. And the policeman, too, standing at the corner, and one we knew into the bargain, brought fresh exclamations of surprise, as though at the words from Wilhelm " War is declared " kittens and policemen and streets should have disappeared into the infernal regions, and the human tongue changed to the unintelligible roar of the beasts. What wild ideas a panic will create, to be sure !

It seems ridiculous to me now, and I'm ashamed to think of it. Another incident, besides the one of Lidotchka's flower, bothers my conscience. Whether I am a coward or not, after what I have stated above, is open to conjecture, but of my honesty I have always been assured. Here in my diary, alone with God and my own conscience, I may even say more ; 9

I am not only honest, but remarkably so, and am naturally proud of the fact, but, however, people know what I am. And still, notwithstanding my honesty and decency, on the 2nd August, accursed day, I left our cook, Annisia, behind in Shuvalov, though she shed tears and entreated me to take her.

Even this incident produces nothing but a smile now. What could have happened to the silly thing there ? And what did happen, in point of fact ? She appeared home a couple of days later, having managed to conceal herself on a train, bringing back a jar of pickled cucumbers. That day, of course, the thing had an ugly look about it. There was I running away to save my family from some impending disaster, and leaving the poor girl behind, because there wasn't room enough for her in the cart, or because I 10 had to leave some one behind to look after my property ! Under no circumstances did I forget my property !

It is consoling to think that, though Annisia cried and begged to be taken, she bore us no grudge for having left her. Foolish woman !

98ih August.

I write this diary in the evenings on the pretext of working on some papers I sometimes bring home from the office. My wife is a wonderful creature in every respect ; she is a woman in a thousand, good-natured, intelligent and responsive, still, even a man's nearest and dearest hinder him from expressing his thoughts as he would like. To secure freedom of thought and expression, I must be perfectly sure that no one will read what I write. Apart from the fact that one 11 doesn't like to disclose certain things even to those one loves, there are dangers and pitfalls to be avoided that a man less wary than I might fall into. I don't interfere with other people's thoughts, and I don't want anyone to interfere with me.

I am going to make a great confession. Notwithstanding the general misery I am a shamelessly happy man ! Over there a bloody war is raging, full of horrors, while here, Sashenka, my wife, is bathing the children. She has finished darling little Lidotchka and that rascal Peter, and is doing Jena. How sweetly she is smiling to herself ! When she has put the children to bed she will go about her own affairs, such as getting things ready for to-morrow, which will be Sunday, or she will play something on the piano, perhaps.

Yesterday we had a postcard from her brother Pavel, so Sashenka will be happy 12 and contented for a week. Of course, we can't tell what may happen, but if we don't look too far ahead, our life may be said to be a truly happy one. Sashenka's piano is a hired one ; Sashenka is very fond of music, and was to have entered the conservatoire. To economise in wartime she offered to give up the piano, but I wouldn't hear of it. Five roubles a month is a paltry sum for which to deprive the household of the pleasure of hearing her play. And Lidotchka, too, is beginning to learn. She shows remarkable talent for a child of six and a half.

Yes, I am truly a happy man. I will mention some of the reasons of my happiness here, though I would not talk of them to a living soul. For one thing, I am forty-five years old, and no matter what happens I will never under any circumstances be called to the colours. This is 13 a thing it would hardly be safe to say to others ; it might lead to so much misunderstanding. I have to be somewhat of a humbug at times and pretend, as all the rest do, that if I were younger and stronger and so on, I should most certainly join as a volunteer, but at bottom I can't help rejoicing, that without in any way breaking the law, I can stop at home and not have to expose myself to some silly bullet.

I confess, too, that when the men in our office stand round the map loudly maintaining that this is a great war, essential to some great purpose, I make no attempt to argue with them. What would be the use of any little objection I might make ? They would only laugh at or make sport of me, as they did of Vasia, the bookkeeper, a day or two ago, almost reducing the poor man to tears. Besides, a few 14 indiscreet words in the mood people are in now might be harmful. No one knows how they might be interpreted.

Still, in spite of what the men in our office say, and the newspapers too, I am firmly convinced that I do not like this war at all. Greater minds than mine, such as those of scholars, politicians, or writers, may see some sense in this ugly brawl, but my small mind fails to see any good in it whatever. When I imagine myself standing in some clear field at the front, men aiming at me with rifle and gun with intent to kill — aiming, straining, bursting to hit me — I find it ridiculous ; it seems like some silly practical joke. Where is the particular spot they would find so tempting to fire at ? Is it my forehead, my chest, or my stomach ? But no matter how much I touch myself, nor look myself up and down, I can discover 15 nothing remarkable about me. I am a man, just an ordinary man, and no one but a fool would want to fire at me. I had some excuse to talk of silly bullets ! And when my imagination carries me a little further, and I see a German on the other side of the field feeling his stomach and thinking what a fool I am, it is more than absurd, it becomes disgusting.

Let us suppose even that the German was not feeling his stomach, but aiming with every intent to kill me, does he know why he wants to do it ? It's quite possible that I'm a fool and a coward ; we won't argue about that, but supposing I'm not the only one ? Supposing there are thousands, a hundred thousand men in St Petersburgh like me, who keep diaries and rejoice that they will never be called up nor be killed, and who argue in exactly the same way as I do ? 16

I admit there is nothing to be proud of in the fact of being afraid of one's skin ; I hardly expect to receive the St George Cross for it ; I wasn't made for the St George Cross, and I never set up to be a hero of the Malakhov Hill. I have never harmed anyone in my life, and I have a perfect right to demand that no one shall harm me by shooting me down like a sparrow. I didn't want the war. Wilhelm did not send his ambassadors to me to find out if I wanted to fight ; he just said " fight," and that's all. Needless to say, I love my country, Russia, and should any fool or madman come to attack it, I should be bound to defend it, regardless of my skin. Were I of military age (and this in all honesty) I should not evade my duties under pretext of medical unfitness, or take advantage of influence and hide behind Auntie's skirts in the rear. I should be b 17 in my place at the front with the others, ready to kill or be killed.

This is as plain as broad daylight ; but it so happens that I am forty-five and have a perfect right to stay where I am, to think as I choose, to be a coward or a fool, if I like. It is the hand of fate ! Instead of being Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, living in Post Office Street in St Peters - burgh, I might have been a Belgian, a Maeterlinck ; I might have perished beneath a German shell, but I am Ilya Petrovitch, forty-five years old, and do live in Post Office Street in St Petersburgh, where no German shell can reach me, and I am happy in the consciousness thereof.

All sorts of things might have been. Instead of working in our particular bank, which is as sound as any banking house can well be, and likely to withstand any war, I might have been working in some 18 wretched little business that would have collapsed with the first breath of war, as so many of them have done, and I might have been left homeless with my Lidotchka, nothing but a lottery ticket in my pocket and five hundred roubles in the savings bank — a pleasant prospect indeed ! Or I might have been a Pole or a Jew in Galicia and lain as carrion in the dust, or dangling from a tree. No man escapes his fate !

It is useless, however, to speculate on things that are not, and no matter how sorry I might feel for the Belgians or for our own soldiers in the trenches, I can't help rejoicing that I am what I am. God ! to think that instead of my dear Sashenka I might have had some wretched woman for a wife, of whom there are so many in the world ! That, too, would have been fate ; as it is, I can't help gloating over the happiness that is mine. 19

Sashenka has just been playing the Belgian National Anthem. What beautiful music it is ! How exhilarating, and what love of freedom and country it expresses ! The tears came into my eyes as I listened. A feeling of pity for the poor Belgians came over me. Their beautiful anthem and their love of their native land availed them nothing ; they are being crushed by the confounded Germans.

Yes, no matter what the politicians in our office may say, I can never agree that this war is a good war. How absurd to think of it ! People are being crushed and butchered, yet they maintain that there is no harm in it, for when we take Berlin, they argue, justice will be done. What kind of justice, and for whom? What use would justice be to an unfortunate Belgian — a man of my age, let us say ? And there must be many men like me. 20

Sashenka says it's late and time for bed. It's not my fault that after a hard, honest day's work I am well pleased at the prospect of a peaceful night's rest !

Petrograd, Tuesday, 1st September.

This is a great, historic day. The name of St Petersburgh has been changed to Petrograd. Henceforth I shall be a citizen of Petrograd. It will be difficult to get used to the change, though it sounds so well. The men in our office are delighted, but I am sorry to lose familiar old Petersburgh, St Petersburgh, into the bargain. Petrograd makes you feel as though you had been stuck in your chief's waiting-room for a whole day in a new coat. The coat was a good one, no doubt, but you couldn't help regretting the cast-off jacket, 21 every stain of which reminded you of its lost comfort.

We continue to be victorious. Prussia has been occupied by our troops, and there is a rumour that to-day or to-morrow, we shall take Konigsberg. This is becoming serious, indeed ! To-day's staff communique says that Lvov and Halitch have fallen, and that the Austrians are completely routed.

I need not conceal what I am going to say. For all that I am a peace-loving man I can't help feeling the glory of it. If there must be a war, of course it is better to beat than be beaten.

How quickly the war has spread ! How swift are its fiery footsteps ! I am reminded of a fire I once saw in the country when a boy. One house caught fire at first, and in less than an hour every thatched roof in the village was ablaze, 22 and there seemed no end to the sea of flame.

It would be an interesting study for a moralist to discover what there was in the human soul that found satisfaction in watching a fire. What is it that produces the festive sensation it gives ? Is it the alarm bell, the firemen's helmets, or the bustling crowd ? I went to a school in a provincial town when I was a boy, and I well remember how we used to run to watch a fire, no matter how far away it was. Workmen would throw down their tools and run, paying no heed to dusty clothes and grimy faces. At the cry of t; Fire," men and boys scrambled to the roofs, the iron sheets clanking as they went, and there they stood, arms outstretched, fingers pointing in the direction of the fire, in the attitudes of marshals on monuments. Even at school we did 23 not fail to rush to the windows at sound of the fire brigade, and the masters, too, were not above looking out themselves. And no one thought at all of the poor people whose house was burning.

I confess to a certain feeling of excitement and curiosity at the European conflagration, and wonder how it will change from day to day. I should have preferred peace, of course, and have no sympathy with the continual assertion of the men in our office that we should be proud to be living at a time like the present and going through this war; nevertheless, I cannot help being interested in the war.

Pavel is the only load at my heart. He is treading as a conqueror on Prussian soil so far, but who knows what may happen to-morrow ? Where would I have been had I been, say, twenty or thirty, not forty-five ? The thought damps your 24 ardour somewhat. It would be as well to remember it when your enthusiasm gets the better of you.

Sunday, %0th September.

It is over a fortnight since we have heard any news of Pavel. From his last letter or two we gathered that he was somewhere in Prussia where the Samsonov Corps was so completely smashed up. Sashenka is horribly uneasy, and added to that, her mother comes to us almost every day, and the sight of the poor old lady's grief upsets the whole household. She is here now, having come straight from Mass. Sashenka is giving her coffee in the dining-room as I write here. Besides Pavel, Sashenka' s mother has another son, Nikolai, who is married and has a family. The old lady lives with them, having no means of her own, but either because 25

Nikolai is unsympathetic, or by the very nature of things, she is drawn more towards her daughter, and gives us the benefit of every little trouble and worry she has. I am not complaining of the harmless old lady, but I must confess I do find her visits rather trying at times. One day it's tears and complaints about Nikolai, who doesn't get on very well with his wife, another it's Pavel. There is always something to upset Sashenka and bring discord into our otherwise happy family.

I am very fond of Pavel myself, and can't think without a shudder that at this moment, as I write his name, he may be wounded or even killed. I awoke in the middle of last night and could not go to sleep again for two absurd, conflicting sensations that tormented me. I couldn't think of Pavel as living, yet I had no ground for thinking him dead. I didn't know 26

DURING GREx\T DAYS

whether to pity him exposed to danger in the trenches, or to mourn for him dead.

At the present moment it seems to me that he is alive, but sooner or later he is bound to be killed in this horrible war that is more like some wholesale butchery than the triumph of justice. I never argue with the men in our office when they declare that the war will be over in November. Their view seems to me too optimistic ; we can hardly expect peace before Christmas at least. Another four months are before us, and with two hundred thousand killed every month, what earthly chance can Pavel have ?

Being a man I can look the inevitable in the face with fortitude, and will bear the blow with dignity should it befall us, but how about mother and Sashenka ? The poor old lady is ready to die at the merest breath of misfortune.

n

When I lay awake last night I wondered how I w r ould break the news to mother in the event of the calamity happening. What could I say to her ? My heart began to beat violently at the very thought. To pronounce the word that is to change completely the aspect of the world for another, to make it something different to what it was a moment ago, is not a pleasant task. To be responsible for the first burst of grief was truly terrifying, particularly as I did not know what form it would take. Would it produce a flood of tears, one heart-rending cry, or sudden death ?

I watched mother in the dining-room before I came away, as she raised a rusk to her mouth. I wonder what would happen to that rusk if I were to say that Pavel was killed ? " I thought. And a vivid picture rose up in my mind of how that unfortunate rusk would roll to the 28 floor ; I even saw the very spot where it would lie, and how Annisia would pick it up when she swept the room, and eat it, little witting how it came there.

The autumn climate of Petrograd is evidently having a bad effect on us all. The children are very fractious. Even my darling Lidotchka so far forgot her usually angelic ways and had a fight with Peter.

The same Evening.

I have just returned from a three horns' walk along the river and the Nevsky. Our northern capital is indeed a beautiful city, so grand and magnificent ! There are many people who compare it unfavourably with Moscow. Even the men in our office are often to be heard in this timeworn dispute, but I hold my tongue according to my usual habit. What is the use of attempting to convince the blind, 29 or men who refuse to see ? The man who irritates me most of all in this respect is Zvoliansky, a Pole, who thinks himself competent to judge because he happened to have spent six months studying in Paris. To see the way he turns up his nose ! I should like to set the fool to build a city like ours !

I happened to reach the Nevsky at the moment when the lights went up as by magic, and turned the grey twilight into deep blue. It is really wonderful that no matter what the weather, be it raining or snowing, it seems to change with the lighting of the lamps, to some enchanted weather of its own. I mixed with the crowd with a sense of pleasure ; it was denser and more animated than usual ; I moved along with it and soon found myself at the Admiralty without having noticed the way I had come. We seemed 30 to be treading on air. I admired, as I walked, the numberless lights of green, white and mauve. Tramcars streamed past, so many that one lost count of their green and red lamps. Motors swept over the smooth bridge, their electric lamps looking like enormous shining eyes ; electric advertisements flashed in the sky ; and the crowd moved along noisily, onward, ever onward ; cabs darted in and out among the traffic ; a carriage with spirited horses flew past, taking some one to an evening party, no doubt. ... It is not for me to describe the glories of this scene !

On the embankment huge sombre palaces rose high ; the light of a passing steamer twinkled here and there on the dark surface of the water ; the Peter-Paul Fortress could just be discernible with its memorials of our Tsars. Its doleful bell sounded like the voice of time. . . . Silent 31 couples sat on the round stone seats as Sashenka and I used to sit together before we were married, when I would put my hand into her warm little muff on pretext of feeling cold. For some time I stood watching the new Palace bridge in course of construction, thinking how that would add to the beauty of our wonderful city.

Wending my way home through the crowd I thought of how remote the horrible war was from us, and how, in spite of its fury, it was powerless to effect human life and all the creations of man. How firm and solid everything seemed ! Trams, cabs, even the couples on the seats, and everything connected with our daily life, seemed to be cast in steel. I was more than ever ashamed of my early panic. What had we to fear, indeed !