The Sentry and Other Stories

Front matter

TRANSLATED BY A. E. CHAMOT

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

EDWARD GARNETT :: :: ::

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

At first sight it seems a little curious that this volume "The Sentry" should be the first translation from Lyeskov to appear in English. But one must recognize that even such a master as Aksakov (1791-1851) was only introduced to our public a few years back, and that it is really a matter of luck whether any but Russian authors of great celebrity get Englished at all. And Lyeskov, born 1831, a most original talent, moreover, flourished in the shade of unpopularity in his own country. Unfortunately for his fame Lyeskov sharply attacked the Nihilists of the sixties and seventies in two novels, "Nowhere to Go" and "At Daggers Drawn." And in retaliation he was cold-shouldered and sent to Coventry by indignant Young Russia, liberal or revolutionary. Thus after the publication of "Nowhere to Go," we find Pisarev wondering "if a single magazine will dare to print any other work by the same author, for to do so would mean the magazine losing its good name for ever." Lyeskov's name remained long under a cloud, and though both Tolstoy and Tchehov commended his work it is only in recent years that it has been judged dispassionately by Russian critics. The critic, M. J. Olgin, in his interesting comments on Lyeskov, quotes a typical attack, characteristically Russian in its parti pris, by A. T. Bogdanovitch:—

"A writer endowed with talent and observing power yet without a God in his soul. A cynic by constitution and a libertine by temperament, Lyeskov is a hypocrite screening himself with lofty words in the sanctity of which he does not believe," etc.

But fifteen years later this verdict is reversed by N. O. Lerner, who writes:—

"Lyeskov remains 'unplaced' in the history of Russian thought and Russian literature. The one thing that is definite and tangible about him is a bright and refined artistic feeling for life, and a pity for man. The title of one of his stories 'Vexation of Mind' may be used as a motto for all his creative work. All Lyeskov is in these words. His mind was vexed by a longing for truth and he knew how to stir souls, to arouse in them good feelings, and to lead them on the road to self-analysis and self-contemplation at the end of which all the problems are solved."

Sementkovsky, Lyeskov's biographer, from whom we condense the information given below, makes it clear that it was Lyeskov's honesty and independence of mind that caused his work to be denounced first by the Left and then by the Right! But let us hear Sementkovsky on Lyeskov's upbringing and outlook:—

"Nikolay Semyonovitch Lyeskov was born in 1831 in the province of Orel on his father's estate, where he spent his childhood and early youth. From ten to sixteen he was at school at Orel, but soon afterwards the Lyeskov family lost all their property, the father died of cholera, and at the age of eighteen Lyeskov had to take a job in Kiev, first in a government office, then as an agent of an Englishman, a certain Mr. Scott, who managed the enormous estates of the Counts Perovsky, and did a great deal to improve the conditions of the peasants. His work for Scott gave Lyeskov exceptional opportunities for studying Russian life; for ten years he travelled from one province to another and came into contact with 'all sorts and conditions of men.' As a young man he had no idea of becoming a writer, and the idea that he might write first occurred to him because the Scott family used to admire enormously the long letters he sent them and to read them to friends as if they were stories, and some of these friends encouraged him to write for publication. But the first things that Lyeskov wrote were wholly devoted to social and political questions, chiefly to matters affecting the welfare of the peasants. About 1860 Lyeskov came to Petersburg and lived there, for the most part, till his death in 1896.

"Lyeskov's parents were ordinary, well meaning people, fairly cultured (the father was a government official; the mother belonged to a noble family) and although he was a good son they had very little influence on him. The people who helped most to shape his character and convictions were his grandmother and his aunt—both of them very fine women—and the priest who gave him his first lessons in religion. Both women were very religious, but the grandmother was firmly Orthodox and used to take little Lyeskov to holy places and monasteries, while the aunt was a Quaker, and it is interesting that throughout his life Lyeskov had equal sympathy with, and appreciation of, the mysticism and ritualism of the Church and the rationalistic faith of Evangelical Christians. The grandmother and the aunt were equally ready to help their neighbours and were always engaged in works of practical charity, and that, too, left a profound impression on Lyeskov, who held that practical love for others was the chief qualification of a good man. Lyeskov's religious feeling and his belief in the importance of Christian charity brought him very near Tolstoy, and at one time he took part in Tolstoy's publications for the peasants ('The Posrednix'), writing several beautiful legends of the early Christian times, the moral of the stories always being that the work most pleasant to God is to help our fellow men. But he differed from Tolstoy in this, that Lyeskov never idealised the primitive conditions of life, and so far from rejecting art, science, political institutions, etc., he thought that the way to make human life—especially Russian life—better, was to become more and not less civilised. Lyeskov attached great importance to all the practical measures that tended to make the peasants better educated, healthier, less inclined to get drunk, etc., and he enthusiastically welcomed the reforms of Alexander II.; But the exceptional opportunities he had had of studying Russian life at first hand convinced him that what matters most are not good laws or institutions in themselves, but the people who carry them out—and the people whom he met in Petersburg in the 'sixties' and who were going to make the 'new' Russia, disappointed him by their lack of practical sense and of knowledge of the real conditions of life. His first ground for quarrel with the 'Nihilists' was the abstract character of their theories—they seemed to him to be out of contact with the real Russian life; and later on he found, too, that the 'advanced' theories attract a particularly objectionable type of people.

"Lyeskov's practical sense, independence of judgment and critical intelligence never allowed him to belong to any party. He could not accept any creed en bloc, and the result was that he was regarded with equal distrust both by the Left and the Right. The beginning of his unpopularity with the Left was, however, due to a misunderstanding … But eight years later the publication of his novel 'Nowhere to Go' raised a storm of abuse against him … and Lyeskov was called a spy, an agent of the government, etc. But Lyeskov was not intimidated by this, nor embittered, and at the end of his life he met with exactly the same fate at the hands of the Conservatives. He held two posts, one in the Ministry of Public Instruction, and another in the Department of Crown Property, both of which he had to give up because he was too free and independent in his judgments. It was a hard thing for him to do because he had no means of livelihood except literature, which did not pay very well, but he never hesitated to sacrifice worldly advantage to his conscience. It was his stories dealing with Church subjects that made him powerful enemies, 'The Cathedral Folk,' 'The Stamped Angel,' 'On the Edge of the World,' etc. He was declared to be 'a secret, cunning and insinuating Nihilist'."

I confess that Lyeskov's fate at the hands of both the Parties and all the pure-souled Defenders of the rival political faiths, greatly delights one's sense or irony. For truth is infinite, and hued like a chameleon. Always behind one truth lurks another, and another, and then another complementary truth, often surprisingly disconcerting to the spirit of the partizan. This is not to say that Lyeskov was not also "prejudiced" by his experiences. No doubt he generalized over freely about the Nihilists from the specimens he himself had encountered. Again it is declared that in both "At Daggers Drawn" and "The Cathedral Folk," Lyeskov unfairly exaggerated the traits of his unscrupulous characters, but who shall say if this were so, in the light of recent Russian history? An artist may divine elements in the life before his eyes, which only fully declare themselves at a later stage. Thus in "The Possessed" Dostoevsky divined the existence of monstrous personalities which more than a generation later emerged in full light in the hideous figure of Azev. And since Azev!

Anyway, in the stories here translated one does not encounter the spirit of the partizan. "The Sentry" is an excellent objective study of military manners under Tzar Nicholas I., and it reflects in a luminous glass the cast iron rigidity of the code dispensed by the martinets under the Autocrat's frown. Another and a blacker illustration of the abuse of despotic power to which the Russian seems specially prone, is seen in "The Toupee Artist," with its picture, admirable for its atmospheric veracity and dramatic strength, of the "paternal rule" of the Counts Kamensky in Orel. In "The Lady Macbeth of the Mzinsk District," a fine example of searching sincerity, one is struck again by the impartial objectivity of the narrative. Lyeskov's qualities and his limitations are here broadly outlined. We have only to compare the portrait of Sergei with that of Naum in Turgenev's story "The Inn" to see how the great master surpasses the lesser in the expression of those delicate shades of feeling and manner in which the secret of personality, no less than the charm of style, resides. Apart from this, however, "The Lady Macbeth of the Mzinsk District" is a splendid example of psychological truth and breadth of vision, qualities in which the Russians always beat us hollow. Equally broad in its humanity is the last story "On the Edge of the World." Although the opening is too leisurely and some of the details are superfluous, how unforgettable is this picture of the worthy Russian bishop and his perplexities in his half-savage Siberian diocese. We are really, here, taken into the heart of ecclesiastical rule, with its unavailing struggle to reconcile the spirit of Christ's teaching with actual Christian practice. Good Father Kiriak's touchstone of conduct is simplicity itself. "Can I do this for the glory of Christ?" What a disconcerting test for Christendom which has "drenched the little Dove with blood." The manner in which the Bishop is floored by the arguments and by the devotion of his heathen driver, is conclusive. The poor Bishop, at the close of the story, is almost as confused in mind as the Christianized savage, who ate the Holy Elements, the chrism, the sponge, carried off the pyx, and left Father Kiriak to freeze to death! But the Bishop at least is honest with us and frank with himself. He possessed that gift of the Russian nature—intellectual sincerity.

Edward Garnett

May, 1922

The Sentry

1839

I

THE events of the story which is now presented to the reader are so touching and terrible in their importance for the chief and heroic actor who took part in them, and the issue of the affair was so unique, that anything similar could scarcely have occurred in another country than Russia.

It forms in part a court anecdote, in part a historic event that characterizes fairly well the manners and the very strange tendencies of the uneventful period comprised in the third decade this nineteenth century.

There is no invention in the following story.

II

DURING the winter of 1839, just before the Festival of the Epiphany, there was a great thaw in Petersburg. The weather was so warm, that it was almost like spring: the snow melted during the day, water dripped from the roofs, the ice on the rivers became blue, and open water appeared in many places. On the Neva, just in front of the Winter Palace, there was a large open space. A warm but very high wind blew from the west, the water was driven in from the gulf, and the signal guns were fired.

The guard at the Palace at that time was a company of the Ismailovsky regiment, commanded by a very brilliant well educated officer named Nikolai Ivanovich Miller, a young man of the very best society (who subsequently rose to the rank of general and became the director of the Lycium). He was a man of the so-called "humane tendencies," which had long since been noticed in him, and somewhat impaired his chances in the service, in the eyes of his superiors.

Miller was really an exact and trustworthy officer; the duty of the guard at the Palace was without any danger; the time was most uneventful and tranquil; the Palace sentries were only required to stand accurately at their posts. Nevertheless, just when Captain Miller was in command, a most extraordinary and very alarming event took place, which is probably scarcely remembered even by the few of his contemporaries who are now ending their days upon earth.

III

AT first everything went well with the guard. The sentries were placed, the men were all at their posts and all was in the most perfect order. The Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich was well, he had been for a drive in the evening returned home, and had gone to bed. The Palace slept, too. The night was most quiet. There was tranquillity in the guard-room. Captain Miller had pinned his white pocket handkerchief to the back of the officer's chair, with its traditionally greasy morocco high back and had settled down to while away the time by reading.

Captain Miller had always been a passionate reader, and therefore was never dull; he read and did not notice how the night passed away. When suddenly at about three o'clock he was alarmed by a terrible anxiety. The sergeant on duty, pale and trembling with fear, stood before him, and stammered hurriedly:

"A calamity, your honour, a calamity!"

"What has happened?"

"A terrible misfortune has occurred."

Captain Miller jumped up in indescribable agitation and with difficulty was able to ascertain what really was the nature of the "calamity" and the "terrible misfortune."

IV

THE case was as follows: the sentry, a private of the Ismailovsky regiment named Postnikov, who was standing on guard at the outer door of the Palace, now called the "Jordan" entrance heard that a man was drowning in the open spaces which had appeared in the ice just opposite the Palace, and was calling for help in his despair.

Private Postnikov, a domestic serf of some great family, was a very nervous and sensitive man. For a long time he listened to the distant cries and groans of the drowning man, and they seemed to benumb him with horror. He looked on all sides, but on the whole visible expanse of the quays and the Neva, as if on purpose, not a living soul could he see.

There was nobody who could give help to the drowning man, and he was sure to sink …

All this time the man struggled long and terribly.

It seemed as if there was but one thing left for him—to sink to the bottom without further struggle, but no! His cries of exhaustion were now broken and ceased, then were heard again, always nearer and nearer to the Palace quay. It was evident that the man had not lost his direction, but was making straight for the lights of the street lamps, but doubtless he would perish because just in his path, he would fall into the "Jordan" (a hole made in the ice of the river for the consecration of the water on the 6th of January.) There he would be drawn under the ice and it would be the end. Again he was quiet, but a minute later he began to splash through the water, and moan: "Save me, save me!" He was now so near that the splashing of the water could actually be heard as he waded along.

Private Postnikov began to realize that it would be quite easy to save this man. It was only necessary to run on to the ice, as the drowning man was sure to be there, throw him a rope, or stretch a pole or a gun towards him, and he would be saved. He was so near that he could take hold of it with his hand and save himself. But Postnikov remembered his service and his oath; he knew he was the sentry, and that the sentry dare not leave his sentry-box on any pretext or for any reason whatever.

On the other hand, Postnikov's heart was not at all submissive; it gnawed, it throbbed, it sank. He would have been glad to tear it out and throw it at his feet—he had become so uneasy at the sound of these groans and sobs. It was terrible to hear another man perishing and not to stretch out a hand to save him, when really it was quite possible to do so, because the sentry-box would not run away, and no other harm could happen. "Shall I run down? Will anybody see it? Oh, Lord, if it could only end! He's groaning again!"

For a whole half hour, while this was going on, Private Postnikov's heart tormented him so much that he began to feel doubts of his own reason. He was a clever and conscientious soldier with a clear judgment, and he knew perfectly well, that for a sentry to leave his post was a crime that would have to be tried by court-martial, and he would afterwards have to run the gauntlet between two lines of cat-o'-nine-tails and then have penal servitude, or perhaps even be shot—but from the direction of the swollen river again there rose, always nearer and nearer, groans, mumblings and desperate struggles.

"I am drowning! Save me, I am drowning!"

Soon he would come to the Jordan cutting and then—the end.

Postnikov looked round once or twice on all sides. Not a soul was to be seen, only the lamps rattled, shook and flickered in the wind, and on the wind were borne broken cries, perhaps the last cries …

There was another splash, a single sob and a gurgling in the water.

The sentry could bear it no longer, and left his post.

V

POSTNIKOV rushed to the steps, with his heart beating violently, ran on to the ice, then into the water that had risen above it. He soon saw where the drowning man was struggling for life and held out the stock of his gun to him. The drowning man caught hold of the butt-end and Postnikov holding on to the bayonet drew him to the bank.

Both the man who had been saved, and his rescuer were completely wet; the man who had been saved was in a state of great exhaustion, shivered and fell; his rescuer Private Postnikov could not make up his mind to abandon him on the ice, but led him to the quay, and began looking about for somebody to whom he could confide him. While all this was happening, a sledge in which an officer was sitting had appeared on the quay. He was an officer of the Palace Invalid corps, a company which existed then, but has since been abolished.

This gentleman who arrived at such an inopportune moment for Postnikov was evidently a man of a very heedless character, and besides a very muddled-headed and impudent person. He jumped out of his sledge and inquired:

"What man is this? Who are these people?"

"He was nearly drowned—he was sinking," began Postnikov.

"How was he drowning? Who was drowning? Was it you? Why is he here?"

But he only spluttered and panted, and Postnikov was no longer there; he had shouldered his gun and had gone back to his sentry-box. Possibly the officer understood what had happened, for he made no further inquiries, but at once took the man who had been rescued into his sledge and drove with him to the Admiralty Police station in the Morskaia Street.

Here the officer made a statement to the inspector, that the dripping man he had brought had nearly been drowned in one of the holes in the ice in front of the Palace, and that he, the officer, had saved him at the risk of his own life.

The man who had been saved was still quite wet, shivering and exhausted. From fright and owing to his terrible efforts he fell into a sort of unconsciousness, and it was quite indifferent to him who had saved him.

The sleepy police orderly bustled around him, while in the office a statement was drawn up from the officer's verbal deposition and, with the suspicion natural to members of the police, they were perplexed to understand how he had managed to come out of the water quite dry. The officer who was anxious to receive the life saving medal tried to explain this happy concurrence of circumstances, but his explanation was incoherent and improbable. They went to wake the police inspector, and sent to make inquiries.

Meantime in the Palace this occurrence was the cause of another rapid series of events.

VI

IN the Palace guard-room all that had occurred since the officer took the half drowned man into his sledge was unknown. There the Ismailovsky officer and the soldiers only knew that Postnikov, a private of their regiment, had left his sentry-box, and had hurried to save a man and, this being a great breach of military duty, Private Postnikov would certainly be tried by court-martial and have to undergo a thrashing, and all his superior officers, beginning from the commander of the company, would have to face terrible unpleasantness, to avert which they would have nothing to say, nor would they be able to defend themselves.

The wet and shivering soldier Postnikov, was of course at once relieved from his post, and when he was brought to the guard-room frankly related to Captain Miller all that we already know, with all the details to the moment when the officer of the Invalid Corps put the half drowned man into his sledge, and ordered the coachman to drive to the Admiralty police station.

The danger grew greater and more unavoidable. It was certain the officer of the Invalid Corps would relate everything to the police inspector and the inspector would at once state all the facts to the chief of police, Kokoshkin, who in the morning would make his report to the Emperor, and then the trouble would begin.

There was no time for reflection; the advice of the superior officer must be obtained.

Nikolai Ivanovich Miller forthwith sent an alarming note to his immediate superior, the commander of his battalion, Lieutenant-Colonel Svinin, in which he begged him to come to the guard room as soon as he could to take every possible measure to help him out of the terrible misfortune that had occurred.

It was already about three o'clock, and Kokoshkin had to present his report to the Emperor fairly early in the morning, so that but little time remained for reflection and action.

VII

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL Svinin did not possess that compassion and tenderness of heart for which Nikolai Ivanovich Miller had always been distinguished. Svinin was not a heartless man, but first and foremost a martinet (a type that is now remembered with regret) Svinin was known for his severity and he even liked to boast of his exacting discipline. He had no taste for evil, and never tried to cause anybody useless suffering, but when a man had violated any of the duties of the service, Svinin was inexorable. In the present case he considered it out of place to enter into the consideration of the causes, that had guided the actions of the culprit, and held to the rule that every deviation from discipline was guilt. Therefore, in the company on guard all knew that Private Postnikov would have to suffer, what he deserved, for having left his post, and that Svinin would remain absolutely indifferent.

Such was the character by which the staff officer was known to his superiors, and also to his com , amongst whom there were men who did not sympathize with Svinin, because at that time "humaneness," and other similar delusions, had not entirely died out. Svinin was indifferent to whether he would be blamed or praised by the "humanitarians." To beg or entreat Svinin, or even to try to move him to pity was quite useless. To all this he was hardened with the well-tempered armour of the people of those times, who wanted to make their way in the world but even he, like Achilles, had a weak spot.

Svinin's career in the service had commenced well, and he of course greatly valued it and was very careful that on it, as on a full dress uniform, not a grain of dust should settle, and now this unfortunate action of one of the men of the battalion entrusted to him would certainly throw a shadow on the discipline of the whole company. Those on whom Svinin's well started and carefully maintained military career depended would not stop to inquire if the commander of the battalion was guilty or not guilty of what one of his men had done, while moved by the most honourable feelings of sympathy, and many would gladly have put a spoke in his wheel, so as to make way for their relations or to push forward some fine young fellow with high patronage. If the Emperor, who would certainly be angry, said to the commander of the regiment that he had feeble officers, that their men were undisciplined: who was the cause of it? Svinin. So it would be repeated that Svinin was feeble, and the reproach of feebleness would remain a stain on his reputation that could not be washed out. Then he would never be in any way remarkable among his contemporaries, and he would not leave his portrait in the gallery of historical personages, of the Russian Empire.

Although at that time but few cultivated the study of history, nevertheless they believed in it, and aspired, with special pleasure, to take part in its making.

VIII

AT about three o'clock in the morning, as soon as Svinin received Captain Miller's disquieting letter, he at once jumped out of bed, put on his uniform, and swayed by fear and anger arrived at the guard-room of the Winter Palace. Here he forthwith examined Private Postnikov, and assured himself that the extraordinary event had really taken place. Private Postnikov again frankly confirmed to the commander of his battalion all that had occurred while he was on guard duty, and what he (Postnikov) had already related to the commander of his company, Captain Miller. The soldier said, that he was guilty before God and the Emperor, and could not expect mercy; that he, standing on guard, hearing the groans of a man, who was drowning in the open places of the ice, had suffered long, had struggled long between his sense of military duty and his feelings of compassion, and at last he had yielded to temptation and not being able to stand the struggle, had left his sentry-box, jumped on the ice and had drawn the drowning man to the bank, and there to his misfortune he met an officer of the Palace Invalid Corps.

Lieutenant-Colonel Svinin was in despair; he gave himself the only possible satisfaction by wreaking his anger on Postnikov, whom he at once sent under arrest to the regimental prison, and then said some biting words to Miller, reproaching him with "humanitarianism," which was of no use at all in military service; but all this was of no avail, nor would it improve the matter. It was impossible to find any excuse, still less justification, for a sentry who had left his post, and there remained only one way of getting out of the difficulty—to conceal the whole affair from the Emperor…

But was it possible to conceal such an occurrence?

It was evident that this appeared to be impossible, as the rescue of the drowning man was known, not only to the whole of the guard, but also to that hateful officer of the Invalid Corps, who by now had certainly had time to report the whole matter to General Kokoshkin.

Which way was he to turn? To whom could he address himself? From whom could he obtain help and protection?

Svinin wanted to gallop off to the Grand Duke Michael Pavlovich and relate to him, quite frankly, all that had happened. Manœuvres of this nature were then customary. The Grand Duke, who had a hot temper, would be angry and storm, but his humour and habits were such, that the greater the harshness he showed at first, even when he grievously insulted the offender, the sooner he would forgive him and himself take up his defence. Similar cases were not infrequent, and they were even sometimes sought after. Words do not hurt; and Svinin was very anxious to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion; but was it possible at night to obtain entrance to the palace and disturb the Grand Duke? To wait for morning and appear before Michael Pavlovich, after Kokoshkin had made his report to the Emperor, would be too late.