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Produced by David Widger





TALES OF HEARSAY

BY JOSEPH CONRAD



COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1917, 1918, BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE CO. GARDEN
CITY, N. Y.




CONTENTS

The Warrior's Soul

Prince Roman

The Tale

The Black Mate





THE WARRIOR'S SOUL (1917)


The old officer with long white moustaches gave rein to his indignation.

"Is it possible that you youngsters should have no more sense than that!
Some of you had better wipe the milk off your upper lip before you start
to pass judgment on the few poor stragglers of a generation which has
done and suffered not a little in its time."

His hearers having expressed much compunction the ancient warrior became
appeased. But he was not silenced.

"I am one of them - one of the stragglers, I mean," he went on
patiently. "And what did we do? What have we achieved? He - the great
Napoleon - started upon us to emulate the Macedonian Alexander, with
a ruck of nations at his back. We opposed empty spaces to French
impetuosity, then we offered them an interminable battle so that their
army went at last to sleep in its positions lying down on the heaps of
its own dead. Then came the wall of fire in Moscow. It toppled down on
them.

"Then began the long rout of the Grand Army. I have seen it stream on,
like the doomed flight of haggard, spectral sinners across the innermost
frozen circle of Dante's Inferno, ever widening before their despairing
eyes.

"They who escaped must have had their souls doubly riveted inside their
bodies to carry them out of Russia through that frost fit to split
rocks. But to say that it was our fault that a single one of them got
away is mere ignorance. Why! Our own men suffered nearly to the limit of
their strength. Their Russian strength!

"Of course our spirit was not broken; and then our cause was good - it
was holy. But that did not temper the wind much to men and horses.

"The flesh is weak. Good or evil purpose, Humanity has to pay the price.
Why! In that very fight for that little village of which I have been
telling you we were fighting for the shelter of those old houses as much
as victory. And with the French it was the same.

"It wasn't for the sake of glory, or for the sake of strategy. The
French knew that they would have to retreat before morning and we knew
perfectly well that they would go. As far as the war was concerned there
was nothing to fight about. Yet our infantry and theirs fought like wild
cats, or like heroes if you like that better, amongst the houses - hot
work enough - -while the supports out in the open stood freezing in
a tempestuous north wind which drove the snow on earth and the great
masses of clouds in the sky at a terrific pace. The very air was
inexpressibly sombre by contrast with the white earth. I have never seen
God's creation look more sinister than on that day.

"We, the cavalry (we were only a handful), had not much to do except
turn our backs to the wind and receive some stray French round shot.
This, I may tell you, was the last of the French guns and it was the
last time they had their artillery in position. Those guns never went
away from there either. We found them abandoned next morning. But that
afternoon they were keeping up an infernal fire on our attacking column;
the furious wind carried away the smoke and even the noise but we could
see the constant flicker of the tongues of fire along the French front.
Then a driving flurry of snow would hide everything except the dark red
flashes in the white swirl.

"At intervals when the line cleared we could see away across the plain
to the right a sombre column moving endlessly; the great rout of the
Grand Army creeping on and on all the time while the fight on our left
went on with a great din and fury. The cruel whirlwind of snow swept
over that scene of death and desolation. And then the wind fell as
suddenly as it had arisen in the morning.

"Presently we got orders to charge the retreating column; I don't know
why unless they wanted to prevent us from getting frozen in our saddles
by giving us something to do. We changed front half right and got into
motion at a walk to take that distant dark line in flank. It might have
been half-past two in the afternoon.

"You must know that so far in this campaign my regiment had never been
on the main line of Napoleon's advance. All these months since the
invasion the army we belonged to had been wrestling with Oudinot in
the north. We had only come down lately, driving him before us to the
Beresina.

"This was the first occasion, then, that I and my comrades had a close
view of Napoleon's Grand Army. It was an amazing and terrible sight. I
had heard of it from others; I had seen the stragglers from it: small
bands of marauders, parties of prisoners in the distance. But this was
the very column itself! A crawling, stumbling, starved, half-demented
mob. It issued from the forest a mile away and its head was lost in the
murk of the fields. We rode into it at a trot, which was the most we
could get out of our horses, and we stuck in that human mass as if in a
moving bog. There was no resistance. I heard a few shots, half a dozen
perhaps. Their very senses seemed frozen within them. I had time for a
good look while riding at the head of my squadron. Well, I assure you,
there were men walking on the outer edge so lost to everything but
their misery that they never turned their heads to look at our charge.
Soldiers!

"My horse pushed over one of them with his chest. The poor wretch had a
dragoon's blue cloak, all torn and scorched, hanging from his shoulders
and he didn't even put his hand out to snatch at my bridle and save
himself. He just went down. Our troopers were pointing and slashing;
well, and of course at first I myself... What would you have! An enemy's
an enemy. Yet a sort of sickening awe crept into my heart. There was no
tumult - only a low deep murmur dwelt over them interspersed with louder
cries and groans while that mob kept on pushing and surging past us,
sightless and without feeling. A smell of scorched rags and festering
wounds hung in the air. My horse staggered in the eddies of swaying
men. But it was like cutting down galvanized corpses that didn't care.
Invaders! Yes... God was already dealing with them.

"I touched my horse with the spurs to get clear. There was a sudden rush
and a sort of angry moan when our second squadron got into them on our
right. My horse plunged and somebody got hold of my leg. As I had no
mind to get pulled out of the saddle I gave a back-handed slash without
looking. I heard a cry and my leg was let go suddenly.

"Just then I caught sight of the subaltern of my troop at some little
distance from me. His name was Tomassov. That multitude of resurrected
bodies with glassy eyes was seething round his horse as if blind,
growling crazily. He was sitting erect in his saddle, not looking down
at them and sheathing his sword deliberately.

"This Tomassov, well, he had a beard. Of course we all had beards then.
Circumstances, lack of leisure, want of razors, too. No, seriously, we
were a wild-looking lot in those unforgotten days which so many, so very
many of us did not survive. You know our losses were awful, too. Yes, we
looked wild. _Des Russes sauvages_ - what!

"So he had a beard - this Tomassov I mean; but he did not look _sauvage_.
He was the youngest of us all. And that meant real youth. At a distance
he passed muster fairly well, what with the grime and the particular
stamp of that campaign on our faces. But directly you were near enough
to have a good look into his eyes, that was where his lack of age
showed, though he was not exactly a boy.

"Those same eyes were blue, something like the blue of autumn skies,
dreamy and gay, too - innocent, believing eyes. A topknot of fair hair
decorated his brow like a gold diadem in what one would call normal
times.

"You may think I am talking of him as if he were the hero of a novel.
Why, that's nothing to what the adjutant discovered about him. He
discovered that he had a 'lover's lips' - whatever that may be. If the
adjutant meant a nice mouth, why, it was nice enough, but of course it
was intended for a sneer. That adjutant of ours was not a very delicate
fellow. 'Look at those lover's lips,' he would exclaim in a loud tone
while Tomassov was talking.

"Tomassov didn't quite like that sort of thing. But to a certain extent
he had laid himself open to banter by the lasting character of his
impressions which were connected with the passion of love and, perhaps,
were not of such a rare kind as he seemed to think them. What made
his comrades tolerant of his rhapsodies was the fact that they were
connected with France, with Paris!

"You of the present generation, you cannot conceive how much prestige
there was then in those names for the whole world. Paris was the centre
of wonder for all human beings gifted with imagination. There we were,
the majority of us young and well connected, but not long out of our
hereditary nests in the provinces; simple servants of God; mere rustics,
if I may say so. So we were only too ready to listen to the tales of
France from our comrade Tomassov. He had been attached to our mission
in Paris the year before the war. High protections very likely - or maybe
sheer luck.

"I don't think he could have been a very useful member of the mission
because of his youth and complete inexperience. And apparently all his
time in Paris was his own. The use he made of it was to fall in love, to
remain in that state, to cultivate it, to exist only for it in a manner
of speaking.

"Thus it was something more than a mere memory that he had brought with
him from France. Memory is a fugitive thing. It can be falsified, it
can be effaced, it can be even doubted. Why! I myself come to doubt
sometimes that I, too, have been in Paris in my turn. And the long road
there with battles for its stages would appear still more incredible if
it were not for a certain musket ball which I have been carrying about
my person ever since a little cavalry affair which happened in Silesia
at the very beginning of the Leipsic campaign.

"Passages of love, however, are more impressive perhaps than passages
of danger. You don't go affronting love in troops as it were. They are
rarer, more personal and more intimate. And remember that with Tomassov
all that was very fresh yet. He had not been home from France three
months when the war began.

"His heart, his mind were full of that experience. He was really awed
by it, and he was simple enough to let it appear in his speeches. He
considered himself a sort of privileged person, not because a woman had
looked at him with favour, but simply because, how shall I say it, he
had had the wonderful illumination of his worship for her, as if it were
heaven itself that had done this for him.

"Oh yes, he was very simple. A nice youngster, yet no fool; and with
that, utterly inexperienced, unsuspicious, and unthinking. You will find
one like that here and there in the provinces. He had some poetry in him
too. It could only be natural, something quite his own, not acquired. I
suppose Father Adam had some poetry in him of that natural sort. For the
rest _un Russe sauvage_ as the French sometimes call us, but not of that
kind which, they maintain, eats tallow candle for a delicacy. As to the
woman, the French woman, well, though I have also been in France with
a hundred thousand Russians, I have never seen her. Very likely she was
not in Paris then. And in any case hers were not the doors that would
fly open before simple fellows of my sort, you understand. Gilded salons
were never in my way. I could not tell you how she looked, which is
strange considering that I was, if I may say so, Tomassov's special
confidant.

"He very soon got shy of talking before the others. I suppose the usual
camp-fire comments jarred his fine feelings. But I was left to him
and truly I had to submit. You can't very well expect a youngster in
Tomassov's state to hold his tongue altogether; and I - I suppose you
will hardly believe me - I am by nature a rather silent sort of person.

"Very likely my silence appeared to him sympathetic. All the month of
September our regiment, quartered in villages, had come in for an easy
time. It was then that I heard most of that - you can't call it a story.
The story I have in my mind is not in that. Outpourings, let us call
them.

"I would sit quite content to hold my peace, a whole hour perhaps, while
Tomassov talked with exaltation. And when he was done I would still hold
my peace. And then there would be produced a solemn effect of silence
which, I imagine, pleased Tomassov in a way.

"She was of course not a woman in her first youth. A widow, maybe. At
any rate I never heard Tomassov mention her husband. She had a salon,
something very distinguished; a social centre in which she queened it
with great splendour.

"Somehow, I fancy her court was composed mostly of men. But Tomassov, I
must say, kept such details out of his discourses wonderfully well. Upon
my word I don't know whether her hair was dark or fair, her eyes brown
or blue; what was her stature, her features, or her complexion. His love
soared above mere physical impressions. He never described her to me in
set terms; but he was ready to swear that in her presence everybody's
thoughts and feelings were bound to circle round her. She was that sort
of woman. Most wonderful conversations on all sorts of subjects went
on in her salon: but through them all there flowed unheard like a
mysterious strain of music the assertion, the power, the tyranny of
sheer beauty. So apparently the woman was beautiful. She detached all
these talking people from their life interests, and even from their
vanities. She was a secret delight and a secret trouble. All the men
when they looked at her fell to brooding as if struck by the thought
that their lives had been wasted. She was the very joy and shudder of
felicity and she brought only sadness and torment to the hearts of men.

"In short, she must have been an extraordinary woman, or else Tomassov
was an extraordinary young fellow to feel in that way and to talk like
this about her. I told you the fellow had a lot of poetry in him and
observed that all this sounded true enough. It would be just about the
sorcery a woman very much out of the common would exercise, you know.
Poets do get close to truth somehow - there is no denying that.

"There is no poetry in my composition, I know, but I have my share of
common shrewdness, and I have no doubt that the lady was kind to the
youngster, once he did find his way inside her salon. His getting in
is the real marvel. However, he did get in, the innocent, and he found
himself in distinguished company there, amongst men of considerable
position. And you know, what that means: thick waists, bald heads, teeth
that are not - as some satirist puts it. Imagine amongst them a nice
boy, fresh and simple, like an apple just off the tree; a modest,
good-looking, impressionable, adoring young barbarian. My word! What a
change! What a relief for jaded feelings! And with that, having, in his
nature that, dose; of poetry which saves even a simpleton from being a
fool.

"He became an artlessly, unconditionally devoted slave. He was rewarded
by being smiled on and in time admitted to the intimacy of the house.
It may be that the unsophisticated young barbarian amused the exquisite
lady. Perhaps - since he didn't feed on tallow candles - he satisfied
some need of tenderness in the woman. You know, there are many kinds of
tenderness highly civilized women are capable of. Women with heads and
imagination, I mean, and no temperament to speak of, you understand. But
who is going to fathom their needs or their fancies? Most of the time
they themselves don't know much about their innermost moods, and blunder
out of one into another, sometimes with catastrophic results. And then
who is more surprised than they? However, Tomassov's case was in its
nature quite idyllic. The fashionable world was amused. His devotion
made for him a kind of social success. But he didn't care. There was his
one divinity, and there was the shrine where he was permitted to go in
and out without regard for official reception hours.

"He took advantage of that privilege freely. Well, he had no official
duties, you know. The Military Mission was supposed to be more
complimentary than anything else, the head of it being a personal
friend of our Emperor Alexander; and he, too, was laying himself out for
successes in fashionable life exclusively - as it seemed. As it seemed.

"One afternoon Tomassov called on the mistress of his thoughts earlier
than usual. She was not alone. There was a man with her, not one of the
thick-waisted, bald-headed personages, but a somebody all the same,
a man over thirty, a French officer who to some extent was also a
privileged intimate. Tomassov was not jealous of him. Such a sentiment
would have appeared presumptuous to the simple fellow.

"On the contrary he admired that officer. You have no idea of the French
military men's prestige in those days, even with us Russian soldiers
who had managed to face them perhaps better than the rest. Victory had
marked them on the forehead - it seemed for ever. They would have been
more than human if they had not been conscious of it; but they were good
comrades and had a sort of brotherly feeling for all who bore arms, even
if it was against them.

"And this was quite a superior example, an officer of the
major-general's staff, and a man of the best society besides. He was
powerfully built, and thoroughly masculine, though he was as carefully
groomed as a woman. He had the courteous self-possession of a man of the
world. His forehead, white as alabaster, contrasted impressively with
the healthy colour of his face.

"I don't know whether he was jealous of Tomassov, but I suspect that
he might have been a little annoyed at him as at a sort of walking
absurdity of the sentimental order. But these men of the world are
impenetrable, and outwardly he condescended to recognize Tomassov's
existence even more distinctly than was strictly necessary. Once or
twice he had offered him some useful worldly advice with perfect tact
and delicacy. Tomassov was completely conquered by that evidence of
kindness under the cold polish of the best society.

"Tomassov, introduced into the _petit salon_, found these two exquisite
people sitting on a sofa together and had the feeling of having
interrupted some special conversation. They looked at him strangely, he
thought; but he was not given to understand that he had intruded. After
a time the lady said to the officer - his name was De Castel - 'I wish you
would take the trouble to ascertain the exact truth as to that rumour.'

"'It's much more than a mere rumour,' remarked the officer. But he got
up submissively and went out. The lady turned to Tomassov and said: 'You
may stay with me.'

"This express command made him supremely happy, though as a matter of
fact he had had no idea of going.

"She regarded him with her kindly glances, which made something glow and
expand within his chest. It was a delicious feeling, even though it did
cut one's breath short now and then. Ecstatically he drank in the sound
of her tranquil, seductive talk full of innocent gaiety and of spiritual
quietude. His passion appeared to him to flame up and envelop her in
blue fiery tongues from head to foot and over her head, while her soul
reposed in the centre like a big white rose....

"H'm, good this. He told me many other things like that. But this is the
one I remember. He himself remembered everything because these were the
last memories of that woman. He was seeing her for the last time though
he did not know it then.

"M. De Castel returned, breaking into that atmosphere of enchantment
Tomassov had been drinking in even to complete unconsciousness of the
external world. Tomassov could not help being struck by the distinction
of his movements, the ease of his manner, his superiority to all the
other men he knew, and he suffered from it. It occurred to him that
these two brilliant beings on the sofa were made for each other.

"De Castel sitting down by the side of the lady murmured to her
discreetly, 'There is not the slightest doubt that it's true,' and
they both turned their eyes to Tomassov. Roused thoroughly from his
enchantment he became self-conscious; a feeling of shyness came over
him. He sat smiling faintly at them.

"The lady without taking her eyes off the blushing Tomassov said with a
dreamy gravity quite unusual to her:

"'I should like to know that your generosity can be supreme - without a
flaw. Love at its highest should be the origin of every perfection.'

"Tomassov opened his eyes wide with admiration at this, as though her
lips had been dropping real pearls. The sentiment, however, was
not uttered for the primitive Russian youth but for the exquisitely
accomplished man of the world, De Castel.

"Tomassov could not see the effect it produced because the French
officer lowered his head and sat there contemplating his admirably
polished boots. The lady whispered in a sympathetic tone:

"'You have scruples?'

"De Castel, without looking up, murmured: 'It could be turned into a
nice point of honour.'

"She said vivaciously: 'That surely is artificial. I am all for natural
feelings. I believe in nothing else. But perhaps your conscience...'

"He interrupted her: 'Not at all. My conscience is not childish. The
fate of those people is of no military importance to us. What can it
matter? The fortune of France is invincible.'

"'Well then...' she uttered, meaningly, and rose from the couch. The
French officer stood up, too. Tomassov hastened to follow their example.
He was pained by his state of utter mental darkness. While he was
raising the lady's white hand to his lips he heard the French officer
say with marked emphasis:

"'If he has the soul of a warrior (at that time, you know, people really
talked in that way), if he has the soul of a warrior he ought to fall at
your feet in gratitude.'

"Tomassov felt himself plunged into even denser darkness than before. He
followed the French officer out of the room and out of the house; for he
had a notion that this was expected of him.

"It was getting dusk, the weather was very bad, and the street was quite
deserted. The Frenchman lingered in it strangely. And Tomassov lingered,
too, without impatience. He was never in a hurry to get away from the
house in which she lived. And besides, something wonderful had happened
to him. The hand he had reverently raised by the tips of its fingers had
been pressed against his lips. He had received a secret favour! He was
almost frightened. The world had reeled - and it had hardly steadied
itself yet. De Castel stopped short at the corner of the quiet street.

"'I don't care to be seen too much with you in the lighted
thoroughfares, M. Tomassov,' he said in a strangely grim tone.

"'Why?' asked the young man, too startled to be offended.

"'From prudence,' answered the other curtly. 'So we will have to part
here; but before we part I'll disclose to you something of which you
will see at once the importance.'

"This, please note, was an evening in late March of the year 1812. For
a long time already there had been talk of a growing coolness between
Russia and France. The word war was being whispered in drawing rooms
louder and louder, and at last was heard in official circles. Thereupon
the Parisian police discovered that our military envoy had corrupted
some clerks at the Ministry of War and had obtained from them some very
important confidential documents. The wretched men (there were two
of them) had confessed their crime and were to be shot that night.
To-morrow all the town would be talking of the affair. But the worst was
that the Emperor Napoleon was furiously angry at the discovery, and had
made up his mind to have the Russian envoy arrested.

"Such was De Castel's disclosure; and though he had spoken in low tones
Tomassov was stunned as by a great crash.

"'Arrested,' he murmured, desolately.

"'Yes, and kept as a state prisoner - with everybody belonging to
him....'

"The French officer seized Tomassov's arm above the elbow and pressed it
hard.

"'And kept in France,' he repeated into Tomassov's very ear, and then
letting him go stepped back a space and remained silent.

"'And it's you, you, who are telling me this!' cried Tomassov in an
extremity of gratitude that was hardly greater than his admiration for


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