DinoBuzzati

THETARTARSTEPPE

TranslatedbySTUARTC.HOOD

1940

O

I

NESeptembermorning,GiovanniDrogo,beingnewlycommissioned,setoutfromthecityforFortBastiani;itwashisfirstposting.

Hehadhimselfcalledwhileitwasstilldarkandforthefirsttimeputonhislieutenant’suniform.Whenhehaddone,helookedathimselfinthemirrorbythelightofanoillampbutfailedtofindtheretheexpectedjoy.Therewasagreat silence in the house but from a neighbouring room low noises could beheard;hismotherwasrisingtobidhimfarewell.

Thiswas thedayhehad looked forward to foryears—thebeginningofhisreallife.HethoughtofthedrabdaysattheMilitaryAcademy,rememberedthebitter evenings spent at his books when he would hear people passing in thestreets—people who were free and presumably happy, remembered winterreveilles in the icy barrack rooms heavy with the threat of punishment. Herecalledthetortureofcountingonebyonethedaystowhichthereseemedtobenoend.

Nowhewasanofficerat lastandneednolongerwearhimselfoutoverhisbooksnor trembleat thevoiceof the sergeant; for all thatwaspast.All thosedayswhichat the timehad seemed sounpleasantweregone forever—gone toformmonthsandyearswhichwouldnever return.Yes,nowhewasanofficerandwouldhavemoney,prettywomenwouldperhapslookathim,butthen—orsoitstruckhim—thebestyears,hisfirstyouth,wereprobablyover.SoDrogogazedatthemirrorandsawaforcedsmileonhisface,thefacehehadsoughtinvaintolove.

Howstupid!Whycouldhenotmanagetosmileinthepropercarefreemannerwhilehe saidgoodbye tohismother?Whydidhepaynoattention toher lastinjunctionsandsucceedonlyincatchingthetoneofhervoice,sofamiliarandsohuman?Whydidhe roamabout the roomnervously, inconclusively,unable tofindhiswatch,hiscroporhiscapalthoughtheywereintheirproperplaces?Itwasn’t as if he were going off to the wars. At this very moment scores oflieutenants like himself, his former companions,were leaving home amid gaylaughteras if theyweregoingtoafiesta.Whydidhebringoutforhismothernothingbutvague,meaninglessphrasesinsteadofaffectionate,soothingwords?Itwastruethathisheartwasfullwiththebitternessofleavingtheoldhousefor

thefirsttime—theoldhousewherehehadbeenbornandbeingbornhadlearnedtohope—fullwiththefearswhicheverychangebringswithit,withemotionatsaying goodbye to his mother; but on top of all this there came an insistentthought towhich he could not quite give a name butwhichwas like a vagueforebodingasifhewereabouttosetoutonajourneyofnoreturn.

His friend Francesco Vescovi accompanied him on horseback on the first

stageofhis road.Thehorses’hooves rang, through thedesertedstreets.Dawnwas breaking, the citywas still sunk in sleep; here and there on a top floor ashutteropened,tiredfacesappearedandlistlesseyeslookedforamomentonthemiraculousbirthofthesun.

Thetwofriendsdidnottalk.DrogowaswonderingwhatFortBastianiwouldbelikebutcouldnotimagineit.Hedidnotevenknowexactlywhereitwas,norhowfarhehadtogotoreachit.Somepeoplehadsaidaday’sride,othersless;noonewhomhehadaskedhadeverreallybeenthere.

At the gates of the cityVescovi began to chat about the usual things as ifDrogoweregoingforarideinthecountry.Thensuddenlyhesaid:

“Doyouseethatgrassyhill?Yes,thatone.Doyouseeabuildingontopofit?”hewenton.“That’sabitoftheFort,anoutwork.Ipassedittwoyearsago,Iremember,withmyuncle,whenweweregoinghunting.”

Theyhadleft thecitynow.Thefieldsofmaizehadbegun, thepastures, theredautumnalwoods.Thepairrodeon,sidebyside,alongthewhite,sun-beatenroad.GiovanniandFrancescowereoldfriends,havinglivedtogetherforyearson end,with the same enthusiasms, the same friendships; they had seen eachothereveryday,thenVescovihadgotfatbutDrogohadbecomeanofficerandnowhesawhowfaraparttheywere.Allthateasyelegantlifewashisnolonger;what lay inwait for himwas serious and unknown. It seemed to him that hishorseandFrancesco’shadalreadyadifferentgait,thatthehoof-beatsofhisownwere less light, less lively,withasuggestionofanxietyandfatigue,as ifeventheanimalfeltthatlifewasgoingtochange.

Theyhadreachedthebrowofahill.Drogoturnedtoseethecityagainstthelight;themorningsmokerosefromtheroofs.Hepickedoutthewindowofhisroom.Probablyitwasopen.Thewomenweretidyingup.Theywouldunmakethebed,shuteverythingupinacupboardandthenbartheshutters.Formonthsandmonthsnoonewouldenterexceptthepatientdustand,onsunnydays,thinstreaks of light. There it was, shut up in the dark, the little world of hischildhood.Hismotherwouldkeepitlikethatsothatonhisreturnhecouldfindhimselfagainthere,stillbeaboywithinitswallsevenafterhislongabsence—but of course shewaswrong in thinking that she could keep intact a state of

happinesswhichwas gone for ever or hold back the flight of time,wrong inimagining that when her son came back and the doors and windows werereopenedeverythingwouldbeasbefore.

AtthispointhisfriendVescovitookanaffectionatefarewellandDrogowenton alone, drawing nearer to themountains. The sun stood overhead when hereachedthemouthofthevalleyleadingtotheFort.Ontherighthecouldseeonamountain top the redoubtVescovihadpointedout. It couldn’tbeverymuchfurther.

InhisanxietytocometotheendofhisjourneyDrogodidnotstoptoeat,butpushedhisalreadytiredhorseonuptheroad,whichwasbecomingsteeperandwaswalled in between precipitous banks. Fewer and fewer peoplewere to bemetontheway.GiovanniaskedacarterhowlongittooktoreachtheFort.

“TheFort?”answeredtheman.“Whatfort?”“FortBastiani,”saidDrogo.“Therearen’tanyfortsintheseparts,”saidthecarter.“Ineverheardspeakof

one.”Evidently he was ill-informed. Drogo set off again and as the afternoon

advancedbecameawareofasubtleuneasiness.HesearchedthetopmostrimsofthevalleytodiscovertheFort.Heimaginedasortofancientcastlewithgiddyramparts. As the hours passed he became more and more convinced thatFrancescohadmisinformedhim;theredoubthehadpointedoutmustalreadybefarbehind.Andeveningwascomingon.

Lookhowsmalltheyare—GiovanniDrogoandhishorse—howsmallagainstthe side of the mountains which are growing higher and wilder. He goes onclimbingsoastoreachtheFortbeforetheendoftheday,buttheshadowsrisingfrom the depths where the torrent rushes are quicker than he is. At a certainmoment theyare levelwithDrogoon theopposite sideof the ravine, seem toslackenpaceforaminuteasifnottodiscouragehim,thenglideupthehillsideandoverthebouldersandthehorsemanisleftbehind.

All thevalleywas alreadybrimfulofviolet shadows—only thebaregrassycrests, incredibly high up, were lit by the sun when suddenly Drogo foundhimself infrontofwhatseemed—itwasblackandgiganticagainst the intensepurityoftheeveningsky—amilitarybuildingwithanancientanddesertedlook.Giovanni felt his heart beat, for that must be the Fort; but everything, theramparts,theverylandscape,breathedaninhospitableandsinisterair.

Hecircleditwithoutfindingtheentrance.Althoughitwasalreadydarkthere

wasno light inanywindownorwere thereanywatch-lightson the lineof theramparts.Therewasonlyabatswingingtoandfroagainstthewhitecloud.At

lastDrogotriedashout.“Hallo,”hecried,“isanyonethere?”Then a man rose from the shadows which had gathered at the foot of the

walls,apoorbeggarofsomesortwithagreybeardandalittlebaginhishand.In the half-light it was difficult to make him out; only the white of his eyesglinted.Drogolookedathimwithgratitude.

“Whoareyoulookingfor,sir?”themanasked.“I’mlookingfortheFort.Isthisit?”“Thereisn’taforthereanymore,”saidthestrangerinagood-naturedvoice.

“It’sallshutup,therehasn’tbeenanyoneherefortenyears.”“WhereistheFortthen?”askedDrogo,suddenlyannoyedwiththeman.“WhatFort?Isthatit?”Andsosayingthestrangerstretchedouthisarmand

pointed.Inagap in thenearbycrags (theywerealreadydeep indarkness),behinda

disorderlyrangeofcrestsandincrediblyfaroff,GiovanniDrogosawabarehillwhichwasstillbathedintheredlightofthesunset—ahillwhichseemedtohavesprungfromanenchantedland;onitscresttherewasaregular,geometricbandofapeculiaryellowishcolour—thesilhouetteoftheFort.

Buthowfaroffitwasstill!Hoursandhoursyetontheroadandhishorsewasspent.Drogogazedwithfascinationandwonderedwhatattractiontherecouldbein that solitary and almost inaccessible keep, so cut-of from the world.Whatsecretsdidithide?Buttimewasrunningshort.Alreadythelastraysofthesunwereslowlyleavingthedistanthillandupitsyellowbastionsswarmedthedarkhordesofencroachingnight.

D

II

ARKNESSovertookhimontheway.ThevalleyhadnarrowedandtheForthaddisappeared behind the overhangingmountains. There were no lights, noteventhevoicesofnightbirds—onlyfromtimetotimethenoiseofdistant

water.Hetriedtocall,but theechoesthrewbackhisvoicewithahostilenote.He

tied his horse to a tree trunk on the roadsidewhere itmight find some grass.Herehesatdown,hisbacktothebank,waitingforsleeptocome,andthoughtmeanwhileofthejourneyahead,ofthepeoplehewouldfindattheFort,ofhisfuturelife;buthecouldseenocauseforjoy.Fromtimetotimethehorsepawedthegroundwithitshoovesinastrange,disturbingmanner.

Whenatdawnhesetoffagainhenoticedthatontheothersideofthevalley,atthesameheight,therewasanotherroad,andshortlyaftermadeoutsomethingmoving on it. The sun had not yet reached so far down and the shadows layheavily in the angles of the road, making it difficult to see clearly. But byquickeninghispaceDrogocontrivedtodrawabreastandsawthatitwasaman—anofficeronhorseback.

Amanlikehimselfat last—afriendlybeingwithwhomhecouldlaughandjoke,talkofthelifetheyweregoingtoshare,ofhuntingexpeditions,ofwomen,of the city; of the citywhich toDrogonow seemed to havebecomepart of adistantworld.

Meanwhile thevalleygrewnarrowerand the tworoadsdrewcloser, so thatGiovanni Drogo saw that the other was a captain. At first he did not dare toshout—itwouldhaveseemedsillyanddisrespectful.Insteadhesalutedseveraltimes,raisinghisrighthandtohiscap,buttheotherdidnotrespond.EvidentlyhehadnotnoticedDrogo.

“Captain,” Giovanni cried at last, overcome by impatience, and he salutedagain.

“Whatisit?”avoicerepliedfromtheotherside.ThecaptainhadhaltedandsalutedcorrectlyandnowaskedDrogotoexplain

hiscry.Therewasnoseverityinthequestion,butitwasevidentthattheofficerwassurprised.

“Whatisit?”thecaptain’svoiceechoedagain,this

timeslightlyirritated.Giovanni stopped, used his hands as amegaphone and repliedwith all his

breath:“Nothing,Iwantedtosay‘Goodday’toyou.”It was a stupid explanation—almost an offensive one, because it might be

taken for a joke. Drogo repented of it at once. He had got himself into aridiculoussituationsimplybecausehewasboredwithhimself.

“Whoareyou?”thecaptainshoutedback.Itwas the questionDrogo had feared. This strange conversation across the

valleywasbeginningtosoundlikeanofficialinterrogation.Itwasanunpleasantbeginning, since itwas probable, if not certain, that the captainwas from theFort.However,hehadtoreply.

“LieutenantDrogo,”Giovannishouted,introducinghimself.Thecaptaindidnotknowhim—inallprobabilitycouldnotcatchthenameat

thatdistance;however,heseemedtobecomelessruffled,forhemovedforwardagainmakinganaffirmativegestureasiftosaythattheywouldmeetshortly.Infact,halfanhourlaterabridgeappearedatapointwheretheravinenarrowed.Thetworoadsbecameone.

Atthebridgethetwomenmet.Thecaptain,withoutdismounting,cameuptoDrogoandheldouthishand.Hewasamangettingonforfortyorperhapsolderwithathin,aristocraticface.Hisuniformwasclumsilycutbutperfectlycorrect.Heintroducedhimself:“CaptainOrtiz.”

As he shook his hand it seemed to Drogo that he was at last entering theworldof theFort.Thiswas the first link, tobe followedbyall sortsofotherswhichwouldshuthimin.

Withoutmoreado thecaptain setoff againandDrogo followedathis side,keepingalittlebehindoutofrespectforhisrankandawaitingsomeunpleasantreferencetotheembarrassingconversationofafewminutesbefore.Insteadthecaptainkeptsilence—perhapshedidnotwanttospeak,perhapshewasshyanddidnotknowhowtobegin.Since theroadwassteepand thesunhot, the twohorseswalkedonslowly.

At lastCaptainOrtizsaid:“Ididn’tcatchyournameat thatdistancea littlewhileago.Droso,wasn’tit?”

“Drogo,witha‘g’”Giovannianswered,“GiovanniDrogo.Butreally,sir,youmustexcusemeifIshoutedbackthere.Yousee,”headdedwithconfusion,“Ididn’tseeyourrankacrossthevalley.”

“No,youcouldn’tsee,”Ortizadmitted,notbotheringtocontradicthim,andhelaughed.

Theyrodeonthusawhile,botha littleembarrassed.ThenOrtizsaid:“And

whereareyouboundforlikethis?”“ForFortBastiani.Isn’tthistheroad?”“Yes,itis.”Theyfellsilent.Itwashot;onallsidestherewerestillmountains,hugewild

grass-coveredmountains.“SoyouarecomingtotheFort?”saidOrtiz.“Isitwithadispatch?”

“No,sir,Iamgoingonduty.Ihavebeenpostedthere.”“Postedtothestrength?”.“Ibelieveso,tothestrength,myfirstposting.”“Isee,tothestrength,quiteright.Good,good.MayIcongratulateyou?”“Thankyou,sir.”Theyfellsilentagainandrodeonalittlefurther.Giovannihadatremendous

thirst;therewasawoodenwater-bottlehangingbythecaptain’ssaddleandyoucouldheartheglug-glugofthewaterinit.

“Fortwoyears?”askedOrtiz.“Ibegyourpardon,sir—didyousayfortwoyears?”“Yes, for two years—you will be doing the usual two years’ tour of duty,

won’tyou?”“Twoyears?Idon’tknow.Theydidn’ttellmeforhowlong.”“But of course it’s two years—all you newly commissioned lieutenants do

twoyears,thenyouleave.”“Twoyearsistheusualforeveryone?”“Of course it’s two years—for seniority they count as four. That’s the

importantthing.Otherwisenoonewouldapplyforthepost.Well,ifitmeansaquickriseIsupposeyoucangetusedtotheFort,whatd’yousay?”

Drogohadneverheardofthis,but,notwishingtocutastupidfigure,hetriedavaguephrase:

“Ofcourse,alotofthem...”Ortiz did not press the point; apparently the topic did not interest him.But

nowthattheicewasbroken,Giovannihazardedaquestion:“SoattheForteveryonehasdoubleseniority?”“Whoiseveryone?”“Imeantheotherofficers.”Ortizchuckled.“The whole lot of them! That’s good. Only the subalterns, of course,

otherwisewhowouldasktobepostedtoit?”“Ididn’t,”saidDrogo.“Youdidn’t?”“No,sir,IlearnedOnlytwodaysagothatIhadbeenpostedtotheFort.”

“Well,that’scertainlyodd.”Oncemoretheyweresilent,eachapparentlythinkingdifferentthoughts.“Ofcourse,”saidOrtiz,“itmightmean...”Giovannishookhimself.“Youweresaying,sir?”“Iwassaying—itmightmean thatnooneelseaskedfor thepostingandso

theyassignedyouofficially.”“Perhapsthat’sit,sir.”“Yes,thatmustbeit,rightenough.”Drogowatchedtheclear-cutshadowofthetwohorsesonthedustoftheroad,

their heads nodding at every step; he heard only the fourfold beat of theirhooves,thehumofafly.Theendoftheroadwasstillnotinsight.Everynowandagainwhenthevalleycurvedonecouldseetheroadahead,veryhighup,cutintoprecipitoushillsides,climbinginzigzags.Theywouldreachthatspot,lookupand there the roadwas still in frontof them, still climbinghigher. “Excuseme,sir,”askedDrogo.

“Yes,whatisit?”“Isitstillfar?”“Notvery—abouttwoandahalfhours,perhapsthreeatthispace.Perhapswe

willbetherebymidday.”Theyweresilent forawhile; thehorseswere ina lather—thecaptain’swas

tiredanddraggeditshooves.“YouarefromtheRoyalMilitaryAcademy,Isuppose?”saidOrtiz.“Yes,sir,fromtheAcademy.”“Isee—andtellme,isColonelMagnusstillthere?”“ColonelMagnus?Idon’tthinkso.Idon’tknowhim.”Thevalleywasnarrowingnow,shuttingoutthesunlightfromthepass.Every

nowandagaindarkravinesopenedoffitanddownthemtherecameicywinds;attheheadoftheravinesonecaughtsightofsteep,steeppeaks.Sohighdidtheyseem,thatyouwouldhavesaidtwoorthreedayswerenottimeenoughtoreachthesummit."

“And tellme,”saidOrtiz,“isMajorBoscostill there?Doeshestill run themusketrycourse?”

“No,sir,Idon’tthinkso.There’sZimmermann—MajorZimmermann.”“Yes,Zimmermann,that’sright,I’veheardhisname.Thepointisthatitisa

goodmanyyearssincemytime.Theywillallbedifferentnow.”Bothnowhadtheirownthoughts.Theroadhadcomeoutintothesunagain,

mountainfollowedmountain,evensteepernowwithrockfaceshereandthere.“Isawitinthedistanceyesterdayevening,”saidDrogo.

“What—theFort?”“Yes,theFort.”Hepaused,thenaddedtoshowthatheknewhowtobehave:

“Itmustbeverylarge,isn’tit?Itseemedimmensetome.”“TheFort—verylarge?No,no,itisoneofthesmallest—averyoldbuilding.

Itisonlyfromthedistancethatitlooksalittleimpressive.”Hewassilentforamoment,thenadded:“Very,veryoldandcompletelyoutofdate.”

“Butisn’titoneoftheprincipalones?”“No,no,it’sasecondclassfort,”Ortizreplied.Heseemedtoenjoybelittling

itbutwithaspecial toneofvoice—inthesamewayasoneamusesoneselfbyremarking on the defects of a son, certain that theywill always seem triflingwhensetagainsthisunlimitedvirtues.

“Itisadeadstretchoffrontier,”Ortizadded,“andsotheyneverchangedit.Ithasalwaysremainedasitwasacenturyago.”

“Whatdoyoumean—adeadfrontier?”'“Afrontierwhichgivesnoworry.Beyondthereisagreatdesert.”“Adesert?”“That’s right—a desert. Stones and parched earth they call it the Tartar

steppe.”“WhyTartar?”askedDrogo.“WerethereeverTartarsthere?”“Long,longago,Ibelieve.Butitisalegendmorethananythingelse.Noone

canhavecomeacrossit—noteveninthelastwars.”“SotheForthasneverbeenanyuse?”“Noneatall,”saidthecaptain.As the road rosemore andmore the trees came to an end;only a scattered

bush remained here and there. For the rest—parched grass, rocks, falls of redearth.

“Excuseme,sir,arethereanyvillagesnearathand?”“No,notnear.There’sSanRocco,butitwillbetwentymilesaway.”“SoIdon’tsupposethere’smuchinthewayofamusement?”“Notmuch,that’sright,notmuch.”Theairhadbecomecooler,theflanksofthemountainswerebecomingmore

rounded,announcingthefinalcrests.“Anddon’tpeoplegetbored,sir?”askedGiovannimoreintimately,laughing

atthesametime,asiftosaythatitwouldbeallthesametohim.“Youget used to it,” answeredOrtiz and addedwith an implied rebuke: “I

havebeenthereforalmosteighteenyears.No,that’swrong,I’vecompletedmyeighteenth.”

“Eighteenyears?”saidGiovannigreatlyimpressed.“Eighteen,”answeredthecaptain.

Aflightof ravenspassed, skimming the twoofficers, andplunging into thefunnelofthevalley.

“Ravens,”saidthecaptain.Giovannididnotreply—hewasthinkingofthelifethatawaitedhim;hefelt

thathewasnopartofthatworld,ofthatsolitude,ofthosemountains.“But,”he asked, “doanyof theofficers stayonwhogo thereon their first

posting?”“Notmanynow,”answeredOrtiz,half sorryathavingdecried theFort and

noticingthattheotherwasnowgoingtoofar,“infactalmostnoone.Nowtheyallwanttogotoacrackgarrison.Onceitwasanhonour,FortBastiani,nowitalmostseemstobeapunishment.”

Giovannisaidnothingbuttheotherwenton:“Allthesame,itisafrontiergarrison.Speakingbyandlargetherearesome

firstclassfellowsthere.Afrontierpostisstillafrontierpostafterall.”Drogokeptsilent;hefeltasuddenoppression.Thehorizonhadwidened;in

theextremedistanceappearedthestrangesilhouettesofrockymountains,sharppeaksrisinginconfusionintothesky.

“Eveninthearmythingsarelookedatdifferentlythesedays,”Ortizwenton.“OnceuponatimeFortBastianiwasagreathonour.Nowtheysaythefrontierisdead—theyforgetthatthefrontierisalwaysthefrontierandoneneverknows.”

A little stream crossed the road. They stopped to water their horses and,havingdismounted,walkedupanddownalittletostretchthemselves.

“Doyouknowwhatisreallyfirstrate?”saidOrtizandlaughedheartily.“What,sir?”“The messing—you’ll see how we eat at the Fort. And that explains the

numberofinspections.Ageneraleveryfortnight.”Drogolaughedoutofpoliteness.HecouldnotmakeoutwhetherOrtizwasa

fool, whether he was hiding something or whether he simply talked like thatwithoutmeaningit.

“Excellent,”saidGiovanni,“I’mhungry!”“We’renearly therenow.Doyou see that hillockwith thepatchof gravel?

Well,itisjustbehindit.”Theysetoffagain; justbeyond thehillockwith thepatchofgravel the two

officers emerged on to the edge of a slightly sloping plateau and the Fortappearedafewhundredyardsaway.

Itdid indeedseemsmallcomparedwith thevisionof thepreviousevening.Fromthecentralfort,whichwaslikenothingsomuchasabarrackwithafewwindows,twolowturretedwallsranouttoconnectitwiththelateralredoubts,

twooneachside.Thusthewallsformedaweakbarrieracrossthewholewidthofthegap—somefivehundredyards—whichwasshutinontheflanksbyhighprecipitouscliffs.

Totheright,attheveryfootofthemountain,theplateaufellawayintoasortofsaddle;theretheoldroadranthroughthepassandcametoanendagainsttheramparts.

TheFortwassilent,sunkinthefullnoondaysun,shadowless.Itswalls—thefrontcouldnotbe seensince it facednorth—stretchedoutyellowandbare.Achimneygaveoutpalesmoke.Allalongtherampartsofthecentralbuilding,ofthecurtainwallsandoftheredoubts,dozensofsentriescouldbeseen,withriflesattheslope,walkingupanddownmethodically,eachonhisownlittlebeat.Likethemotionofapendulumtheymarkedoffthepassageoftimewithoutbreakingtheenchantmentoftheimmensesilence.

To right and left themountains stretched out as far as the eye could see inprecipitousandapparentlyinaccessibleranges.Theytoo—atleastatthattimeofday—hadaparched,yellowcolour.

Instinctively Giovanni Drogo stopped his horse. Looking slowly round, he

fixedhisgazeonthedarkwallswithoutbeingable toreadtheir truemeaning.He thoughtof aprison,he thoughtof anabandonedpalace.Aslightbreathofwindmade a flag,which before had hung limply entangledwith the flagstaff,billowoutovertheFort.Therewastheindistinctechoofatrumpet.Thesentrieswalkedslowlytoandfro.OnthesquarebeforethegateoftheFortthreeorfourmen—atthatdistanceitwasimpossibletomakeoutwhethertheyweresoldiersor not—were loading sacks on to a cart. But over everything there lay amysterioustorpor.

CaptainOrtiz,too,hadhaltedtolookatthebuilding.“Thereitis,”hesaid,althoughtherewasnoneedtosayso.Drogo thought: now he is going to ask me what I think of it, and was

embarrassed at the thought. But instead the captain said nothing. It was notimposing,FortBastiani,withitslowwalls,norwasitinanysensebeautiful,norpicturesquewith towers.andbastions—therewasnotonesingle thing tomakeup for itsbareness, tobring tomind the sweetsof life.Yetason thepreviousevening at the foot. of the defile Drogo looked at it as if hypnotized and aninexplicablefeelingofexcitemententeredhisheart.

And beyond it, on the other side, what was there?What world opened upbeyond that inhospitable building, beyond the ramparts, casemates andmagazineswhichshutoff theview?Whatdid thenorthernkingdomlook like,the stony desert no one had ever crossed? The map, Drogo recalled vaguely,

showed beyond the frontier a vast zone with scanty names—but from theeminenceoftheFortonewouldseesomevillage,pastures,ahouse;orwasthereonlythedesolationofanuninhabitedwaste?

Hefelthimselfsuddenlyalone,andhissoldier’shighspirits,whichhadcomesoeasilytillnow—aslongastheuneventfulgarrisonlifelasted,thecomfortsofhome,theconstantcompanyofgayfriends,atnightthelittleadventuresinthegardens—allhisself-assuranceweresuddenlygone.TheFortseemedtohimoneof those unknown worlds to which he had never seriously thought he mightbelong—not that they seemed unpleasant, but rather because they appearedinfinitely remote fromhis own life.Aworldwhichwouldmakemuchgreaterdemandsofhim,aworldwithoutsplendourunlessitwerethatofitsrigidlaws.

Ifonlyhecould turnback,notevencross the thresholdof theFortbut ridebackdowntotheplain,tohisowncity,tohisoldhabits.SuchwasDrogo’sfirstthought; and, however shameful such weakness in a soldier, he was ready toconfess to it, if necessary, provided they let him go at once. But from theinvisible north a thick cloudwas rising over the glacis and imperturbably thesentrieswalkedupanddownunderthehighsun.Drogo’shorsewhinnied.Thenthegreatsilencefelloncemore.

Giovanni at last looked away from the Fort and glanced to the side, at thecaptain,hopingforafriendlyword.Ortiz toohadremainedquitestillandwasgazing intently at the yellowwalls.He, too,who had lived there for eighteenyears,lookedatthemasifbewitched,asifoncemorehewitnessedamiracle.Itseemedhecouldnot tireof lookinguponthemonceagain,andavaguesmile,halfjoyful,halfsad,slowlylithisface.

T

III

HE first thing Drogo did was to report to the adjutant, Major Matti. Theorderly officer, an easy-going, friendly young man called Carlo Morel,accompaniedhimthroughtheheartofthefortress.Leavingtheentrancehall,

fromwhichonecaughtaglimpseofagreatemptycourtyard,thetwowentdownalongcorridorwhoseendwaslosttosight.Theceilingwashiddeninshadow;atintervalsalittlebeamoflightcameinthroughanarrowwindow.

It was not until they had climbed to the next floor that theymet a soldiercarrying a bundle of papers. From the damp and nakedwalls, the silence, thedim lighting, it seemed as if the inmates had forgotten that somewhere in theworld thereexistedflowers, laughingwomen,gayandhospitablehouses.Hereeverythingspokeofrenunciation,butforwhom,towhatmysteriousend?Nowtheyweretraversingthesecondflooralongacorridorexactlysimilartothefirst.From somewhere behind thewalls there came the distant echo of a laugh; toDrogoitseemedunreal.

MajorMattiwasplumpandsmiledwithanexcessofgoodnature.Hisofficewashuge, thedeskbig inproportionandcoveredwithorderlyheapsofpaper.Therewasacolouredprintoftheking,andthemajor’sswordhungonawoodenpegdriveninforthepurpose.

Drogocame toattentionand reported.Heproducedhispersonaldocumentsand began to explain that he had not made any request to be posted to thefortress—hewasdetermined tohavehimself transferredas soonaspossible—butMajorMattiinterruptedhim.

“Iknewyourfatheryearsago.Averyfinegentleman.Iamsureyouwillwishtoliveuptohismemory.APresidentoftheHighCourt,ifIrememberrightly?”

“No,sir,”saidDrogo,“hewasadoctor,myfather.”“Ah,yes, of course, Iwas forgetting, adoctor, of course, of course.”For a

momentMattiseemedtobeembarrassed,andDrogonotedhowhekeptraisinghis lefthand tohiscollaras if trying tohidearound,greasystain,evidentlyafreshone,onthebreastofhisuniform.

Themajorrecoveredhimselfquickly.“Iamverypleasedtoseeyou,”hesaid.“YouknowwhatHisMajestyPeter

IIIsaid?‘FortBastianitheguardianofmycrownImayaddthatitisanhonour

tobelongtoit.Don’tyouagree?”He said these things automatically, as if theywere a formula learned years

beforewhichhemustproduceoncertainsetoccasions.“Yes, sir,” saidGiovanni, “you are quite right, but Imust confess itwas a

surprisetome.Ihavemyfamilyinthecityandshouldpreferifpossibletostay...”

“Soyouwanttoleaveusbeforeyouarrive,doyou?ImustsayI’msorry,verysorry.”

“Itisn’tthatIwishto.Iwouldnotdreamofarguing.ImeanthatI...”“Iunderstand,”Saidthemajorandsighedasifthiswereanoldstoryandhe

could sympathise with it. “I understand. You had thought the Fort would bedifferentandnowyouareabitfrightened.Buttellmehonestly—howcanyouformanopinionofitifyouhaveonlyarrivedafewminutesago?”

“Ihaven’ttheslightestobjectiontotheFort,sir,”saidDrogo.“OnlyIshouldprefertostayinthecityoratleastnearit.Youunderstand?Iamtalkingtoyouinconfidence,because I seeyouunderstand these things. Iputmyself inyourhands.”

“Ofcourse,ofcourse,”exclaimedMattiwithashortlaugh.“That’swhatweare here for.We don’t want anyone here against his will—not even the leastimportantsentry.Still,I’msorry.Youseemagoodladtome.”

Themajorfellsilentamoment.as if toconsider thebestsolution. Itwasatthispoint,asheturnedhisheadalittletotheleft,thatDrogo’sglancefellonthewindow opening on to the inner courtyard. He could see the northern wall,yellowishliketheothersandsun-beatenlikethem,withhereandtheretheblackrectangleofawindow.Therewasaclockaswell,pointingtotwoo’clock,andonthetopmostterraceasentrywalkingtoandfrowithhisrifleattheslope.Butover theramparts, far, faraway, in theglareofnoon, there.rosearockycrest.Onlyitsextremetipcouldbeseenandinitselfitwasnothingoutoftheordinary.YetforGiovanniDrogothatfragmentofrockrepresentedthefirstvisiblelureofthenorthernterritory,thelegendarykingdomwhoseexistencehungheavilyovertheFort.Whatwastherestlike?hewondered.Fromittherecameadrowsylightshining through slow-moving smoky wisps of mist. Then the major began tospeakagain.

“Tell me,” he asked Drogo, “would you like to go back straight away orwoulditbethesametoyouifyouwaitedamonthortwo?Forus,Irepeat,itisall the same—from the official point of view, that is,” he added so as not tosounddiscourteous.

“SinceIhavetogoback,”saidGiovanni,pleasantlysurprisedatthelackofdifficulties,“sinceIhavetogobackitseemstomeIhadbettergoatonce.”

“Quiteright,quiteright,”saidthemajorsoothingly.“ButnowImusttellyousomething;Ifyouwanttogorightawaythebestthingisforyoutogosick.Yougointothesickbayunderobservationforadayortwoandthedoctorgivesyoua certificate. There are a lot of people in any casewho can’t stand up to thealtitude.”

“Do I really have to go sick?” asked Drogo, who did not like this sort offiction.

“Youdon’thaveto,butitmakeseverythingeasier.Otherwiseyouwouldhaveto make a written request for a posting. That has to be sent to the HighCommand, the High Command has to reply—that means at least a fortnight.Aboveall,thecolonelhastogointothematter,andthatIwouldprefertoavoid.Becausehedoesfindthesethingsunpleasant—theyhurthim,that’sit,theyhurthimjustasifyouweredoinganinjurytohisFort.Wellthen,ifIwereyou,ifyouwantmetobefrank,Iwouldtrytoavoidit.”

“But excuse me, sir,” said Drogo, “I didn’t know that. If my going awaymightcausemetroublethenit’sanothermatter.”

“Not at all, you have misunderstood me. In neither case will your careersuffer.Itisonlyacaseofa—ofashadeofmeaning.Ofcourse,andItoldyouthisrightaway,thecolonelwillnotbepleased.Butifyouhavereallymadeupyourmind....”

“No,no,”saidDrogo,“ifthingsareasyousayperhapsthemedicalcertificateisbetter.”

“Unless . . .” saidMattiwith ameaning smile and leaving his sentence inmid-air.

“Unless?”“Unlessyouweretoputupwithstayingherefourmonths—whichwouldbe

thebestsolution.”“Fourmonths?”askedDrogo, already somewhatdisappointed, sincehehad

thoughttobeleavingatonce.“Fourmonths,”Matticonfirmed.“Theprocedure ismuchmore regular that

way.I’llexplaintoyoudirect.Twiceayearthereisamedicalinspection—itislaiddown.Thenextwillbeinfourmonths’time.Thatseemstometobeyourbest opportunity. I give you my word that, if you like, your report will beadverse.Youcansetyourmindabsolutelyatrest.”

“Besides,”continuedthemajorafterapause,“besides,fourmonthsarefourmonths long enough for a personal report.You canbe certain that the colonelwilldooneonyou.Andyouknowhowimportant thatcanbeforyourcareer.Butletusgetthisquite,quiteclear—youareperfectlyfree...”

“Yes,sir,”saidDrogo,“Iunderstandperfectly.”

“Service here is not hard,” the major emphasized “almost always guardduties.AndtheNewRedoubt,whichdemandsmoreofone,willcertainlynotbeentrustedtoyoutobeginwith.Therewillbenohardtasks,don’tbeafraid—youwon’teverbebored.”

ButDrogowasscarcelylisteningtoMatti’sexplanations,forhisattentionwasstrangelyattractedby thepicture framed in thewindowwith that tinypieceofcragshowingabovethewall.Avaguefeelingtowhichhedidnothavethekeywasgraduallypenetratingintohisinmostbeing—astupidandabsurdfeeling,abaselessfancy.

Atthesametimehefeltsomewhatcalmer.Hewasstillanxioustogo,butnotsodesperatelyasbefore.Hewasalmostashamedatthefearshehadhadonhisarrival.Hecouldnotbelievethathewasnotasgoodamanasalltheothers.Ifhe left at once, he now thought, it might be looked upon as a confession ofinferiority.Thushisownconceitofhimselffoughtwithhislongingfortheoldfamiliarexistence.

“Sir,” saidDrogo, “thank you for your advice, but letme think it over tilltomorrow.”

“Very,well,”saidMattiwithevidentsatisfaction,“Andthisevening?Doyouwanttomeetthecolonelinthemessorwouldyouprefertoleavethingsintheair?”

“Idon’tknow,”answeredGiovanni,“itseemstomethere’snousemyhidingmyself,particularlyifIhavetostayfourmonths?”

“That’sbetter,”saidthemajor.“You’llgetconfidencethatway.Youwillseewhatnicepeopletheyareallfirst-classofficers.”

MattismiledandDrogosawthatthetimehadcometoleave.Butfirstofallheasked:

“Sir,”hisvoicewasapparentlycalm,“may I takeaquick look to thenorthandseewhatthereisbeyondthatwall?”

“Beyondthewall?Ididn’tknowyouwereinterestedinviews,”answeredthemajor.

“Justaglance,sir,merelyoutofcuriosity.I’veheardthereisadesertandI’veneverseenone.”

“Itisn’tworthit.Amonotonouslandscape—nobeautyinit.Takemyadvice—don’tthinkaboutit.”

“Iwon’t insist, sir,”saidDrogo.“Ididnot think therewasanythingagainstit.”

MajorMattiputthetipsofhisplumpfingerstogetheralmostasifinprayer.“You have asked me,” he said, “the one thing I can’t grant you. Only

personnelondutymaygoontotherampartsorintotheguardrooms;youneed

toknowthepassword.”“Butnotevenasaspecialexception—notevenforanofficer?”“Notevenforanofficer.Oh,Iknow—foryoupeoplefromthecityallthese

pettyrulesseemridiculous.Besidesdowntherethepasswordisnogreatsecret.Buthereitisdifferent.”

“Excuseme,ifIkeeponaboutit.”“Doplease,do.”“Iwantedtosay—isn’tthereevenaloophole,awindowfromwhichonecan

look?”“Onlyone.Onlyoneinthecolonel’soffice.Unfortunatelynoonethoughtof

abelvedere for the inquisitive.But it isn’tworth it, I repeat, a landscapewithnothing to recommend it. Youwill have plenty of that view if you decide tostay.”

“Thankyou,sir,willthatbeall?”Andcomingtoattention,hesaluted.Mattimadeafriendlygesturewithhishand.“Goodbye.Forgetaboutit—aworthlesslandscape,Iassureyou,anextremely

stupidlandscape.”But thateveningLieutenantMorel,whohadcomeofforderlyduty,secretly

ledDrogoontothetopofthewalltolethimsee.Animmenselylongcorridor,litbyinfrequentlamps,ranallthelengthofthe

wallsfromonesideofthepasstotheother.Everysooftentherewasadoor—storerooms,workshops,guardrooms.Theywalkedforaboutahundredandfiftyyardstotheentranceofthethirdredoubt.Anarmedsentrystoodbeforethedoor.MorelaskedtospeaktoLieutenantGrotta,whowascommanderoftheguard.

Thus theywereable toenter indefianceof the regulations.Giovanni foundhimselfintheentrancetoanarrowpassageway;ononewalltherewasaboardwiththenamesofthesoldiersonduty.

“Comeon,comethisway,”saidMoreltoDrogo,“wehadbetterhurry.”Drogofollowedhimupanarrowstairwhichcameoutintotheopenaironthe

rampartsof the redoubt.To the sentrywhopaced toand froLieutenantMorelmadeasignasiftosaytherewasnoneedforformalities.

Giovannisuddenlyfoundhimselflookingontotheouterbattlements;infrontofhimthevalleyfellaway,floodedwithmoonlight,andthesecretsofthenorthlayopenbeforehiseyes.

A kind of pallor came over Drogo’s face as he looked; hewas as rigid asstone. The nearby sentry had halted and an unbroken silence seemed to havedescendedthroughthediffusedhalf-light.ThenwithoutshiftinghisgazeDrogoasked:

“Andbeyond—beyond that rockwhat is it like?Does it go on and on likethis?”

“Ihaveneverseen it,” repliedMorel.“Youhave togo to theNewRedoubtthatonethereonthepeak.Fromthereyouseealltheplainbeyond.Theysay...”Andherehefellsilent.

“What do they say?” asked Drogo, and his voice trembled with unusualanxiety.

“Theysay it is all coveredwith stones—asortofdesert,withwhite stones,theysay—likesnow.”

“Allstones—andnothingelse?”“That’swhattheysay—andanoccasionalpatchofmarsh.”“Butrightover—inthenorththeymustseesomething.”“Usually there are mists on the horizon,” said Morel, who had lost his

previouswarmenthusiasm.“Therearemistswhichkeepyoufromseeing,”“Mists,”saidDrogoincredulously.“Theycan’talwaysbethere—thehorizon

mustclearnowandagain.”“Hardlyeverclear,noteven inwinter.Butsomepeoplesay theyhaveseen

things.”“Seen?Whatsortofthings?”“Theymeanthey’vedreamtthings.Yougoandhearwhatthesoldiershaveto

say.Onesaysonething,oneanother.Somesaytheyhaveseenwhitetowers,orelsetheysaythereisasmokingvolcanoandthatiswherethemistscomefrom.Even Ortiz, Captain Ortiz, maintains he saw something five years ago now.Accordingtohimthereisalongblackpatch—forestsprobably.”

Theywerebothsilent.Where,Drogoaskedhimself,hadheseen thisworldbefore?Hadhe lived there inhisdreamsorcreated itashe readsomeancienttale.Heseemedtomakesomethingsout—thelowcrumblingrocks,thewindingvalleyinwhichtherewereneithertreesnorverdure,thoseprecipitousslopesandfinally that triangle of desolate plain which the rocks before him could notconceal.Responses had been awakened in the very depth of his being and hecouldnotgraspthem.

At thismomentDrogowas looking at the northernworld—the uninhabitedlandacrosswhich,orsotheysaid,nomanhadevercome.Noenemyhadevercomeoutofit;therehadbeennobattles;nothinghadeverhappened.

“Well,”askedMorelattemptingtoassumeajovialtone,“youlikeit?”“Idon’tknow,”wasallDrogocouldsay.Withinhewasawhirlofconfused

desiresandfoolishfears.Therewasabuglecall,alowbuglecall,buthecouldnottellwhere.“Youhadbettergonow,”advisedMorel.ButGiovannididnotseemtohear,

intentashewasonsearchinghisthoughts.Theeveninglightwasfailingandthewind,re-awakenedbytheshadows,slidalongthegeometricalarchitectureoftheFort. Inorder tokeepwarmthesentryhadbegun towalkupanddownagain,gazingeverynowandthenatGiovanniDrogo,whomhedidnotknow.

“Youhadbettergonow,”repeatedMorel,takinghiscomradebythearm.

H

IV

Ehadoftenbeenalone;sometimesevenasachild,lostinthecountryside;onotheroccasions ithadbeen in thecityatnight, instreetswherecrimewascommonplace; then there was the night before when he had slept by the

wayside.Butnowitwasquitedifferent—nowthattheexcitementofthejourneywasoverandhisnewcomradeswerealreadysleepingandhesatinhisroomonhisbedby the lightof the lamp, sadand lost.Nowhe reallyunderstoodwhatsolitudemeant—(quite anice room, all panelledwithwood,with abigbed, atable,anuncomfortabledivanandawardrobe).Everyonehadbeennicetohim;inthemesstheyhadopenedabottleofwineinhishonour,butnowhedidnotcare,hadalreadycompletelyforgottenthem—abovethebedtherewasawoodencrucifix, opposite it an old printwith a text ofwhich the firstwords couldberead:HumanissimiViriFrancesciAngloisivirtutibus.Duringthewholenightnoonewouldcomeintogreethim;inalltheFortnoonewasthinkingofhimandnotonlyintheFort,probablyinthewholeworld,therewasnotasoulwhohadathoughtforDrogo;everyonehashisownworries,canbarelycopewithhimself—perhapsevenhismotheratthatmomenthadotherthingsonhermind,forhewasnotheronlychildandshehadthoughtaboutGiovanniallday;nowitwastheothers’turn.Thatwasmorethanfair,Drogoadmittedtohimselfwithouttheshadowof reproof, butmeantimehewas sitting on the edge of his bed in hisroomintheFort(therewas,henowsaw,cutintothepanelingandcolouredwithextraordinarypatienceafullscalesabre,whichatfirstglancealmostseemedreal—thepainstakingworkofsomeofficeryearsbefore),hewassittingontheedgeofhisbed,withhisheadbent forwarda little,hisbackbowed,hiseyesheavyanddull,andfelthimselfaloneasneverbeforeinhislife.

Suddenly he rose with an effort, opened the window and looked out. Thewindowgaveontothecourtyardandtherewasnothingelsetobeseen.SinceitlookedtowardsthesouthDrogosoughtinvaintodistinguishinthedarknessthemountainswhichhehadcrossedtoreachtheFort;buttheywerelowerthanhethoughtandhiddenbythewall.

Onlythreewindowswerelitbuttheywereinthesameblockashisownandsohecouldnotseein;thelighttheythrewoutandthatfromDrogo’sroomfellonthewalloppositewhereitseemedtobemagnified;ashadowwasmovingin

oneofthem—perhapsanofficerundressing.Drogo shut thewindow, undressed,went to bed and lay thinking for a few

minutes,lookingattheceiling;ittoowaslinedwithwood.Hehadforgottentobringanythingtoreadbut thatdidnotmatter,hefeltsosleepy.Heputout thelamp;littlebylittlethepalerectangleofthewindowemergedfromthedarkandDrogosawthestarsshining.

Hefeltasifasuddendrowsinessweredragginghimdownintosleep.Buthewas too conscious of it. A confusion of images, almost like the figures of adream, passed before his eyes and even began to form a story; then a fewsecondslaterhefoundthathewasstillawake.

Moreawakethanbefore,becausethevastnessofthesilencesuddenlystruckhim. From far, far away—or had he imagined it?—there came the sound of acough.Thenclosebyasoftdripofwatersoundedinthewall.Ifhelaystillhecouldseethatasmallgreenstar,whichinthecourseofitsjourneythroughthenight had reached the top of hiswindow,was on the point of disappearing; ittwinkled for amoment on the very edge of the darkwindow frame and thenfinallydisappeared.Drogowantedtofollowitalittlefurtherbyleaninghisheadforward.At thatmoment therewas another “plop” as if something had fallenintothewater.Woulditberepeatedagain?Helaywaitingforthenoise,suchasound as went with underground passages,marshes and deserted houses. Theminutesappearedtostandstill;completesilenceseemedatlasttobeundisputedmaster of the Fort. And oncemorewild images of the life he had left so farbehindcrowdedroundDrogo.

Thereitwasagain,thesoundhehated.Drogosatup.Soitwasanoisethatwentonandon;thelastsplashhadbeennolessloudthanthefirstsoitcouldnotbeadripwhichwouldatlastdieaway.Howcouldhesleep?Drogorememberedthattherewasacordhangingbythesideofthebed,perhapsabellcord.Hetriedpullingit;thecordansweredhispullandinsomeremoteandwindingcorridorofthebuildingabrieftinklingansweredalmostimperceptibly.Buthowstupiditwas,thoughtDrogo,tocallsomeoneforsuchatrifle.Andwhowouldcomeinanycase?

Soon after there was the sound of feet in the corridor outside; they drewcloserandsomeoneknockedatthedoor.“Comein,”saidDrogo.Asoldierwithalampinhishandappeared.“Yessir,”hesaid.

“It’s impossible to sleephere,damn it,” saidDrogobecomingcoldlyangry.“What is this wretched noise? There’s a pipe burst; see that you stop it—it’squiteimpossibletosleep.Allyouneedisaragunderit.”

“It’sthecistern,sir,”thesoldieransweredimmediatelyasifhewereusedtothewholeaffair.“It’sthecistern,sir,there’snothingwecandoaboutit.”

“Thecistern?”“Yes, sir,” explained the soldier. “The cistern—just behind that wall.

Everyone complains but no one has ever been able to do anything about it.CaptainFonzasoshoutsaboutiteverynowandagaintoo,butit’snogood.”

“Awayyougo then,”saidDrogo.Thedoorclosed, thefootstepsdiedaway,thesilencegrewagain,thestarsgleamedinthewindow.Giovannithoughtofthesentries walking up and down like automata a few yards from him, withoutpause.Scores ofmenwere awakewhile he lay in bed and everything seemedsunkinsleep.Scores—thoughtDrogo—butforwhomandwhy?ItseemedasifintheForttherigidlawsofarmylifehadreachedapitchofinsanity.Hundredsofmenguardingagapthroughwhichnoonewouldpass.Letmegetaway,getaway as soon as possible, thought Giovanni, get away from this atmosphere,fromthismysteriousmist.Hethoughtofhisownsimplehome:atthishourhismotherwouldbeasleep,allthelightsout—unlessshewerestillthinkingofhimforamoment,whichwasverylikely;heknewhersowellandhowfortheleastthingshewouldlieandworryallnightandturninherbed,unabletorest.

Oncemoretherewasthehollowoverflowofthecistern,anotherstarpassedoutof the frameof thewindowand its lightcontinued to reach theworld, thebreastworksoftheFort,thefeverisheyesofthesentries,butnotGiovanniDrogowholaywaitingforsleep,apreytosinisterthoughts.

SupposingallMatti’shair-splittingwasanactheputon?Suppose inactualfact theydidn’t lethimgoevenat theendof fourmonths?Suppose theykepthim from seeing the city again with excuses and quibbles about regulations?Supposehehadtostayupthereforyearsandyears,inthisroom,inthissolitarybed, supposehehad towaste all his youth?What absurd things to think, saidDrogo tohimself, realizing theirstupidity;yethedidnotsucceed indispellingthem,forsoonundercoverofthenighttheyreturned.

Thusheseemedtofeelspreadingaroundhimanobscureplottotrytoretainhim there. Probably not even Matti was concerned in it. Neither he nor thecolonel,noranyotherofficerwastheleastinterestedinhim;whetherhestayedor went was completely indifferent to them. Yet some unknown force wasworking against his return to the city—a force which perhaps without hisknowingithaditsoriginsinhisown.heart.

Thenhesawagreathall,ahorseonawhiteroad;heseemedtohearvoicescallinghimbynameandfellasleep.

T

V

WO evenings laterGiovanniDrogowasonduty in the third redoubt for thefirst time.At sixo’clock in theevening the sevenguards formedup in thecourtyard—threefortheFort,fourforthelateralredoubts.Theeighth—that

fortheNewRedoubt—hadleftearlier,forithadsomewaytogo.Sergeant-MajorTronk,anoldinhabitantoftheFort,hadbeeninchargeofthe

men for the third redoubt—twenty-eight of themwith a trumpeter whomadetwenty-nine. They were all from number two company—Captain Ortiz’company to which Giovanni had been posted. Drogo took command andunsheathedhissword.

Thesevenguardsweredrawnupinlinewithperfectdressing;inaccordancewithtradition,thecolonelwatchedfromawindow.Ontheyellowcourtyardtheymadeablackpatternwhichwasgoodtosee.

The last raysof thesunslantedacross thewallsandover themtheskywasbright,sweptclearbythewind.ASeptemberevening.Thesecond-in-command,Lieutenant-ColonelNicolosi,cameoutbythegreatdoorofthecommandpost,limpingfromanoldwoundandleaningonhissword.ThatdayitwasMonti’sturn to inspect the guard, an immense captain whose hoarse voice gave thecommandandalltogether,absolutelytogether,thesoldierspresentedarmswithagreatmetallicclash.Therewasatremendoussilence.

Thenonebyonethetrumpetersofthesevenguardssoundedthecalls.TheywerethefamoussilvertrumpetsofFortBastiani,withcordsofredandgoldsilkhungwithagreatcoatofarms.Theirpurenotefilledtheskyandthemotionlesshedge of bayonets resounded with it, like the low resonance of a bell. Thesoldierswereasmotionlessasstatues;theirfacesmilitaryandexpressionless.Itcouldnotbethattheywerepreparingformonotonousspellsofguardduty;withsuchheroicmientheymustsurelybegoingtofacetheenemy.

The lastcallhung in theair, repeatedby thedistant ramparts.Thebayonetsgleamedforanothersecond,brightagainst thedeepsky,only tobeswallowedupintheranks—allextinguishedtogether.Thecolonelhaddisappearedfromthewindow.The stepsof the sevenguards echoed as through the labyrinthof theForttheymarchedofftotheirrespectivestations.

AnhourlaterGiovanniDrogowasonthetopmostterraceofthethirdredoubt

on the very spot where the evening before he had looked towards the north.Yesterdayhehadcomesight-seeing likeapassingvisitor.Nowhewasmasterthere;fortwenty-fourhoursthewholeredoubtandahundredyardsofwallwereunder his sole command. Below him, in the interior of the fortification, twoartillerymenstoodbythetwocannonwhichcoveredtheendofthevalley.Threesentriesdividedbetweenthemtheperimeteroftheredoubt;fourothersweresetoutalongthewalltotherightatintervalsoftwenty-fiveyards.

The relief of the sentries coming off duty had taken placewithmeticulousprecisionunder theeyesofSergeant-MajorTronk,whowasanexpertonrulesandregulations.HehadbeenintheFortfortwenty-twoyearsandnowdidnotstirfromitevenonleave.Therewasnoonewhoknewashedideverycornerofthefortificationsandoftentheofficerscameonhimbynightmakingaroundofinspection,whenitwasasdarkaspitch,withouta lightofanykind.Whenhewasondutythesentriesdidnotlaydowntheirriflesevenforasecondnorleanagainst the ramparts—theywereevencarefulnot to stoppacingupanddown,forrestsweregrantedonlyexceptionally;Tronkdidnotsleepallnight,makingtheroundswithsilenttread,causingthesentriestostart.“Whogoesthere?Whogoesthere?”theychallenged,bringingtheirgunstotheirshoulders.

“Grotta,”repliedthesergeant-major.“Gregorio,”saidthesentry.The usual practice was for the officers and N.C.O.’s on duty to make the

roundsontheirownstretchofwallinformally;thesoldiersknewthemwellbysightand itwouldhaveseemedridiculous toexchangepasswords. ItwasonlywithTronkthatthesoldierscarriedouttheregulationstotheletter.

Hewassmallandthinwithanoldman’sfaceandashornhead;hespokelittleeven to his equals in rank and in his free time preferred to study music insolitude. That was his mania—so much so that the drum-major, Espina, wasperhapshisonly friend.Hehada fineaccordionwhichhehardlyeverplayed,althoughthestorywentthatheplayedwonderfully.Hestudiedharmonyandwassaidtohavewrittenanumberofmilitarymarches.Butnoonereallyknew.

When hewas on duty there was no risk of his beginning to whistle as heusually did when he was free. Mostly he made a round of the battlements,scanningthegreatvalleytothenorthasiflookingforsomething.NowhewasatDrogo’ssideandwasshowinghimthemule-pathwhichleadalongprecipitousslopestotheNewRedoubt.

“There is theguardwhichhas been relieved,” saidTronkpointingwithhisrighthand;butinthetwilightDrogocouldnotpickitout.Thesergeant—majorshookhishead...

“What’swrong?”askedDrogo.“Itwon’tworklikethis—I’vealwayssaidso—it’smad,”answeredTronk.

“Butwhathashappened?”“Itcan’tgoonlikethis,”Tronkrepeated,“theyshouldchangeitearlier, the

guardattheNewRedoubt.Butthecolonelwon’thearofit.”Giovanni lookedathim inamazement.DidTronk reallypermithimself the

libertyofcriticizingthecolonel?“The colonel,” the sergeant-major went on with the utmost gravity and

conviction and with not the least attempt to correct himself, “the colonel isperfectly right fromhispointofview.Butnoonehasexplained thedanger tohim.”

“Thedanger?”askedDrogo—whatdangercouldtherebeinmovingfromtheForttotheNewRedoubtalongthateasypathandinsuchadesertedspot?

“Thedanger?”repeatedTronk.“Soonerorlatersomethingwillhappeninthisdark.”

“Whatshouldtheydothen?”askedDrogooutofpoliteness,forhewasonlyverymildlyinterestedinthewholestory.

"Once upon a time,” said the sergeant-major, delighted to show off hisknowledge,“onceuponatimetheguardattheNewRedoubtwaschangedtwohoursbeforeitwasattheFort.Alwaysindaytime,eveninwinter;andthenthewholesystemofpasswordswassimpler.Theyneededone toget into theNewRedoubt;thentheyneededanothernewoneforthatday’sguardandforgettingback to theFort.Twowere enough.When theguardhaddismountedandwasbackintheFortthenewguardherehadnotyetbeenmountedandthepasswordwasstillvalid.”

“Isee,”saidDrogo,nolongertryingtofollow.“But then,”Tronkwenton,“theywereafraid. It’s risky, theysaid, to let so

many soldiers who know the password go about outside the Fort. You neverknow,theysaid,offiftysoldiersthereismorechanceofoneturningtraitorthanoneofficer.”

“So they thoughtonly theguardcommandershouldknowthepassword.Sonow they leave the Fort three-quarters of an hour before the changing of theguard.Take today.Guardmounting takes place at six.Theguard for theNewRedoubt lefthereatquarterpast fiveandgot thereat sixsharp.Theyneednopassword to leave the Fort being in column of march. To get into the NewRedoubt they needed yesterday’s password—and that only the officer knew.Once theguardat theRedoubthasbeen relieved today’spasswordcomes intoforce—that again only the officer knows. And so it goes on for twenty-fourhoursuntilthenewguardcomestotakeover.Thentomorroweveningwhenthesoldiers get back to the Fort—theymay get there at half past six, the road iseasiergoingback—thepasswordhaschangedagain.Soa thirdone isneeded.

Theofficerhastoknowthree—oneforthemarchout,oneforthetourofdutyand one for coming back. All these complications so that the soldiers won’tknowwhatitiswhileonthemarch.”

“And I say,” he went on without bothering whether Drogo was payingattentionornot,“Isay, ifonly theofficerknowsthepasswordandsupposeheturnsillontheway—whatdothesoldiersdo?Theycan’tmakehimspeak.Andtheycan’tgobackwheretheycamefrombecauseinthemeantimethewordhaschanged there. Haven’t they thought of that? And then if they want secrecy,don’t they see that thisway theyneed threepasswords insteadof twoand thethird,theoneforgettingbackintotheFort,isgivenoutmorethantwenty-fourhoursbefore?Whateverhappenstheymustenforceit,otherwisetheguardcan’tcomebackintotheFort.”

“But,” Drogo objected, “they know them perfectly well at the gate, don’tthey?theyshouldseethatitwastheguardcomingoffduty?”

Tronklookedatthelieutenantwithacertainairofsuperiority.“That’simpossible,sir.ThereisaruleattheFort.Noone,nomatterwhohe

is,maycomeintotheFortfromthenorthwithoutgivingthepass.”“But then,” said Drogo, whom this absurd inflexibility irritated, “but then

wouldn’t itbesimpler tohaveaspecialpasswordfor theNewRedoubt?Theycouldberelievedsoonerandthepasswordforcomingbackgiventotheofficeronly.Thatwaythesoldierswouldknownothing.”

“Ofcourse,”said thesergeant-majoras ifhehadbeenwaiting for thisveryargument,“itwouldperhapsbethebestsolution.Butyouwouldhavetochangethe regulations, you would need a new law. The regulations say” (he put adidactictoneintohisvoice)“Thepasswordshallremaininforcefortwenty-fourhours from one guardmounting to another; there shall be only one passwordcurrent in theFort and its outposts.’That’swhat they say—‘its outposts.’ It isquiteclear.There’snowayroundit.”

“Butonce,”saidDrogo,whohadnotbeen listeningat thebeginning,“oncethechangingoftheguardwascarriedoutearlierattheNewRedoubt?”

“That’s right,” saidTronk, thencorrectedhimself. “Yes, sir.Therehasonlybeenallthisbusinessfortwoyears.Beforeitwasmuchbetter.”

Thesergeant-majorfellsilent.Drogolookedathiminamazementandhorror.Aftertwenty-twoyearsintheFortwhatwasleftofthissoldier?DidTronkstillremember that somewhere there still existedmillionsofmen likehimselfwhowerenotinuniform?whomovedfreelyaboutthecityandatnightcouldgotobedor toaninnor to thetheatre,as theyliked?No,youcouldseeataglancethatTronkhadforgottenothermen—forhimnothingexistedbuttheFortanditshatefulregulations.Tronkhadforgottenthesweetsoundofgirls’voices,whata

gardenwaslike,orariveroranytreebutthestuntedbushesscatteredroundtheFort.Tronklookedtowardsthenorth,itwastrue,butnotwiththesamefeelingsinhisbreastasDrogo;hegazedattheroadtotheNewRedoubt,examinedthemoat and the glacis, scanned the possible approach routes but not the savagecrags,northattriangleofmysteriousplainnorthewhitecloudssailingthroughtheskywherenighthadalmostcome.

ThenasdarknessfellDrogooncemorebecameapreytohisdesiretoescape.Whyhadhenot left atonce?hekept askinghimself.Whyhadhegiven in toMatti’s smooth diplomacy?Now he had towait for fourmonths to pass, onehundredandtwentylong, longdays,halfof themspentonguardonthewalls.He felt that hewas amongmen of another race, in a foreign country, a hard,thankless world. He looked around him and saw Tronk standing motionlesswatchingthesentries.

N

VI

IGHT had fallen everywhere. Drogo was sitting in the bare room of theredoubt.Havingsentforpenandink“Dearmother,”hebegan,andatoncefeltashehadwhenachild.Hewasalone,sittingbythelightofalampin

theheartofanunfamiliarFort,hewasfarfromhome,fromallthegood,familiarthings,butatleasttherewasaconsolationinbeingabletounfoldhisheart.

Of coursewith the others,with his colleagues, he had to be aman, had tolaughwith themand tell swashbucklingstoriesaboutwomenand the soldier’slife.Buttowhomcouldhetellthetruthifnottohismother?Andthateveningthe truthasDrogosawitwasnotwhatyouwouldhaveexpectedfromagoodsoldier—probably it was unworthy of the austere Fort, and his companionswouldhavelaughedatit.Thetruthwasthathewastiredfromthejourney,thatthegloomywallsweigheduponhim,thathefeltcompletelyalone.

“Igotheretiredoutaftertwodays’travelling,”thatwaswhathewouldwrite,“andwhenIdidgethereI learnedthat ifIwantedIcouldgobackto thecity.The Fort is a melancholy place—there are no villages nearby, there are noamusementsandnofun.”Thatwaswhathewouldwrite.

“Dear mother,” his hand wrote, “I got here yesterday after an excellentjourney.TheFortiswonderful...”Ifonlyhecouldconveytoherthedinginessofthewalls,thevaguefeelingofpunishmentandofexile,theabsurdityoftheseforeign-seeming men. “The officers gave me an affectionate welcome,” hewrote.“EventheadjutantwasveryniceandleftmecompletelyfreetogobacktothecityifIwantedto.ButI...”

Perhapsatthatverymomenthismotherwasroamingabouthisemptyroom,openingadrawer,tidyingsomeofhisoldclothesorhisbooksorhisdesk;shehadputthemtorightsoftenbeforebutbydoingitsheseemedtohavehimwithheragain,asifhewereabouttocomehomeasusualforsupper.Heseemedtohear the familiar noise of her little, restless footstepswhich always seemed tosaythatshewasworriedaboutsomeone.Hewonderedhowhehadeverhadthecouragetocauseherbitterness.Ifhehadbeenwithher,inthesameroom,drawntogether in the light of the familiar lamp, thenGiovanniwould have told hereverythingandwould,nothavebeenabletobesadbecausehewasbesideherand the bad thingswere over and donewith. But how could he do it from a

distance, by letter? If he were sitting beside her in front of the fire, in thereassuringquietoftheoldhouse,thenhecouldhavespokenaboutMajorMattiandof his treacherous smoothness, ofTronk’smania.Hewould have told herhowstupidlyhehadagreedtostayforfourmonthsandprobablythetwoofthemwouldhavelaughedaboutit.Buthowcouldhedoitatthisdistance?

“However,”Drogowrote,“Ithoughtitbestbothformyselfandmycareertostayuphereawhile.Besidestheotherofficersareverypleasantandthedutieseasy and not tiring.” But what about his room, the noise of the cistern, themeeting with Captain Ortiz and the desolate northern territory? Hadn’t he toexplainabouttheironrulesoftheguardandthisbareredoubt?No,hecouldnotbefrankevenwithhismother—eventoherhecouldnotconfessthevaguefearswhichbesethim.

Nowat home, in the city, the clockswere striking ten, one after another invaried tones;as theychimed theglasses in thecupboards tinkleda little; fromthekitchentherecametheechooflaughter;fromacrosstheway,atuneonthepiano.FromwherehesatDrogocouldglance throughawindowsoextremelynarrow as to be almost a slit in thewall and see the valley to the north, thatmelancholyland;butatthismomenttherewasnothingtoseebutdarkness.Thepensqueakedalittle.Althoughthenightheldfullswaythewindbegantoblowthrough the crenellations bearing unknownmessages, and althoughwithin theredoubt the shadows piled up and the air was damp and unpleasant “on thewhole,”wroteGiovanniDrogo,“Iamveryhappyandamkeepingwell.”

Fromnine in the eveninguntil thedawn, abell rangeveryhalf-hour in thefourthredoubtontheextremerightofthepass,wherethewallsended.Alittlebellsoundedandatoncethefurthestsentrycalledhisneighbour;fromhimtothenextman and so on to the far end of thewalls the cry ran in the night, fromredoubttoredoubt,acrosstheFortandthroughthebastions:Standto,standto!

Thesentriesputnoenthusiasmintotheircall—theyrepeateditmechanicallywithastrangenoteintheirvoices.

Drogodidnot undress but stretchedhimself out onhis campbed; he felt agrowingdesiretosleepandheardthecrycomeatintervalsfromfaroff.“To,to,”was all that reached him. It grew louder and louder as it passed overhead, itreacheditspeak,thenmovedonintothedistancetodieawaylittlebylittleinthevoid.Twominuteslateritwasthereagain,sentfromthefurthestoutpostontheleft,checkingandrechecking.Drogohearditapproachoncemoreataslowandevenpace:“To,to,to.”Itwasonlywhenitwasabovehimandhisownsentriesrepeateditthathecoulddistinguishthewords.Butsoonthe“standto”becameblurredintoakindoflamentwhichdiedawayatlastwiththefurthestsentryatthebaseofthecrags.

Giovanniheardthecallpassfourtimesandrunbackalongtherampartsfourtimes to the point from which it had started. The fifth time only a vagueresonance penetrated his consciousness and made him start slightly. Herememberedthatitwasnotagoodthingfortheofficeroftheguardtosleep;theregulations allowed it on condition that he did not undress but almost all theyoungofficersintheFortstayedawakeallnightinamoodofelegantbravado,smokingcigars, visitingeachother against the rules andplayingcards.Tronk,whomGiovannihadaskedforguidance,hadledhimtounderstandthatitwasagoodplantostayawake.

As he lay stretched out on his camp bed beyond the circle of the oil lampdaydreaming over his own life Drogo was suddenly overcome by sleep.Meantime,thatverynight(hadhebutknownithemightperhapsnothavebeeninclinedtosleep)thatverynighttimebegantoslipbyhimbeyondrecall.

Uptothenhehadgoneforwardthroughtheheedlessseasonofearlyyouth—alongaroadwhichtochildrenseemsinfinite,wheretheyearsslippastslowlyand with quiet pace so that no one notices them go. We walk along calmly,lookingcuriouslyaroundus;thereisnottheleastneedtohurry,noonepushesus on from behind and no one is waiting for us; our comrades, too, walk onthoughtlessly,andoftenstoptojokeandplay.Fromthehouses,inthedoorways,the grown-up people greet us kindly and point to the horizon with anunderstandingsmile.Andsotheheartbeginstobeatwithdesiresatonceheroicand tender, we feel that we are on the threshold of the wonders awaiting usfurtheron.Asyetwedonotseethem,thatistrue—butitiscertain,absolutelycertainthatonedayweshallreachthem.

Isitfaryet?No,youhavetocrossthatriverdownthere,gooverthosegreenhills.Haven’twe perhaps arrived already?Aren’t these trees, thesemeadows,thiswhitehouseperhapswhatwewerelookingfor?Forafewsecondswefeelthattheyareandwewouldliketohaltthere.Thensomeonesaysthatitisbetterfurtheronandwemoveoffagainunhurriedly.

So the journey continues; we wait trustfully and the days are long andpeaceful.Thesunshineshighintheskyanditseemstohavenowishtoset.

Butatacertainpointweturnround,almostinstinctively,andseethatagatehasbeenboltedbehindus,barringourwayback.Thenwefeel thatsomethinghaschanged;thesunnolongerseemstobemotionlessbutmovesquicklyacrossthesky;thereisbarelytimetofinditwhenitisalreadyfallingheadlongtowardsthe farhorizon.Wenotice that the cloudsno longer liemotionless in thebluegulfsoftheskybutflee,piledoneabovetheother,suchistheirhaste.Thenweunderstandthattimeispassingandthatonedayoranothertheroadmustcometoanend.

Atacertainpointtheyshutagatebehindus,theylockitwithlightningspeedanditistoolatetoturnback.ButatthatmomentGiovanniDrogowassleeping,blissfullyunconscious,andsmilinginhissleeplikeachild.

Somedayswill passbeforeDrogounderstandswhat hashappened.Then itwillbelikeanawakening.Hewilllookaroundhimincredulously;thenhewillhearadinoffootstepsathisback,willseethosewhoawokebeforehimrunninghardtopasshimby,togettherefirst.Hewillfeelthepulseoftimegreedilybeatoutthemeasureoflife.Therewillbenomorelaughingfacesatthewindowsbutunmovedand indifferentones.And if he askshow far there is still togo theywill, it is true, still point to the horizon—but not good-naturedly, not joyfully.Meanwhile his companions will disappear from view. One gets left behind,exhausted;anotherhasoutstrippedtherestandisnownomorethanatinyspeckonthehorizon.

Another tenmiles—peoplewill say—over that river and youwill be there.Instead it never ends. The days grow shorter, the foot-travelers fewer; at thewindowsapatheticfiguresstandandshaketheirheads.

At last Drogo will be all alone and there on the horizon stretches ameasurelesssea,motionless,leaden.

Now he will be tired; nearly all the houses along the way will have theirwindowsshutandthefewpersonsheseeswillanswerhimwithasadgesture.The good things lay further back—far, far back and he has passed them bywithoutknowingit.Butitistoolatetoturnback;behindhimswellsthehumofthefollowingmultitudeurgedonby thesame illusionbutstill invisibleon thewhiteroad.

AtthismomentGiovanniDrogoissleepinginthethirdredoubt.Heissmilinginhisdreams.Forthelasttimetherecometohimbynightthesweetsightsofacompletelyhappyworld.It isaswellthathecannotseehimselfashewillonedaybe—thereat the endof the road, standingon the shoresof the leaden seaunder a grey,monotonous sky.And around him there is not a house, not onehumanbeing,notatree,notevenabladeofgrass.Andsoithasbeensincetimeimmemorial.

A

VII

TlastthetrunkwithLieutenantDrogo’skitarrivedfromthecity.Amongstitthere was a brand new cloak of extreme elegance. Drogo put it on andlooked at himself inch by inch in the little mirror in his, own room. It

seemedtohimtobealivinglinkwiththeworldhehadleftandhethoughtwithsatisfactionhoweveryonewould lookathim,sosplendidwas thematerial, soprouditsline.

Hedecidedthathemustnotspoilitonduty,duringthenightsspentonguardoramongthedampwalls.Itwasevenabadomentoputitonforthefirsttimeuphereasifadmittingthathewouldnothavebetteroccasions.Andyethewassorryhecouldnotshowitoffandalthoughitwasnotcoldhewantedtoputiton, at least to go as far as the regimental tailor fromwhomhewould buy anordinaryone.

So he left his room and set off down the stairs noting, when the lightpermitted,theeleganceofhisownshadow.Yetthefurtherhedescendedintotheheart of the Fort his cloak seemed somehow to lose its original splendour.Moreover he noticed that he did notmanage towear it naturally—as if thereweresomethingoddaboutit,somethingtooconspicuous.

Sohewasgladthatthestairsandcorridorswerealmostdeserted.Whenatlasthemetacaptain the latter returnedhis salutewithoutmore than thenecessaryglance.Nordidtheraresoldiersturntheireyestolookathim.

Hewentdownanarrowwindingstaircutoutoftheheartoftherampartsandhisfootstepsresoundedaboveandbelowhimasiftherewereothersthere.Therich folds of the cloak swung to and fro and struck the whitemildew on thewalls.

Thus Drogo arrived below ground; for the workshop of the tailor,Prosdocimo,wasaccommodated inacellar.When thedayswere finea rayoflightshonedownthroughalittlewindowlevelwiththeground,butthateveningtheyhadalreadylitthelights.

“Goodevening,sir,”saidProsdocimo,theregimentaltailor,wheneverhesawhimcomein.Onlyafewpatchesofthegreatroomwerelitup—atableatwhichanoldmanwaswriting,thebenchwherethethreeyoungassistantsworked.Allaroundscoresuponscoresofuniforms,greatcoatsandcloaks,hunglimplywith

thesinisterabandonofhangedmen.“Goodevening,”Drogoreplied,“Iwantacloak;afairlycheapcloakiswhatI

want—somethingtolastfourmonths.”“Letmesee,”saidthetailorwithasmileatonceinquisitiveandsuspicious,

takingthehemofDrogo’scloakanddrawingittowardsthelight.Hisrankwasthat of sergeant-major, but by virtue of being tailor he could apparently allowhimselfacertainironicalfamiliaritywithhissuperiors.

“Goodmaterial,very.Youwillhavepaida fineprice for it, I imagine, theydon’tdothingsbyhalvesdownthereinthecity.”

He looked it all over like a craftsman then shook his head so that his fullruddycheekstrembled.

“It’sapitythough,”hesaid.“What’sapity?”“It’sapitythecollarissolow,sounmilitary.”“That’showtheywearthemnowadays,”saidDrogowithsuperiorair.“Fashionwillhavethecollarlow,”saidthetailor,“butforussoldiersfashion

doesn’tcount.Fashionmustbeaccordingtotheregulationsandtheregulationssay ‘the collar of the cloakwill be tight, stand up and be three inches high.’Perhaps, sir, seeingme in this hole you think I am a very third class sort oftailor.”

“Why?”askedDrogo.“Onthecontrary,notabitofit.”“YouprobablythinkIamaverythird-classsortof tailor.Butmanyofficers

haveahighopinionofme—inthecity,too—importantofficers.Iamhereonamerely temporary basis,” and he measured out the syllables of the last threewordsasifitwereastatementofgreatimportance.

Drogodidnotknowwhattosay.“Iexpecttoleaveanyday,”Prosdocimowenton.“Butthatthecolonelwon’t

letmego....Butwhatareyoupeoplelaughingat?”Forintheshadowstheyhadheardthestifledlaughterofthethreeassistants.

Nowtheyhadtheirheadsbentandwereexaggeratedlyintentontheirwork.Theoldmanwentonwritingandkepttohimself.

“What is there to laugh at?” Prosdocimo repeated. “You’re a bit too smart,youpeople.You’llfindthatoutoneofthesedays.”

“Yes,”saidDrogo,“whatistheretolaughat?”“Theyarefools,”saidthetailor,“it’sbesttopaynoattentiontothem.”Here footsteps were heard coming down the stairs and a soldier appeared.

Prosdocimowaswantedup-stairsbythesergeant-majorinchargeoftheclothingstore.

“Excuseme,sir,”saidthetailor.

Drogo sat downandprepared towait.Now that theirmasterwasgone, thethree assistantshadbrokenoff theirwork.Theoldmanat last raisedhis eyesfromhispapers,rosetohisfeetandlimpedovertoDrogo.

“Did you hear?” he asked with a strange inflection, making a gesture toindicatethetailorwhohadlefttheroom.“Didyouhearhim?Doyouknow,sir,howlonghehasbeenintheFort?”

“I’venoidea.”“Fifteenyears, sir, fifteenaccursedyears, and stillhegoeson repeating the

samestory—Iamhereonatemporarybasis,Iexpecttogoanyday..."Attheassistants’tablesomeonemuttered.Thismustbetheirdailybutt.The

oldmanpaidnottheslightestattention.“But he will never move from here,” he said. “He and the commanding

officerandlotsofotherswillstayhere till they’redone—it’sakindof illness.You’re new, sir, watch out—you’re newly arrived; watch out while there istime.”

“Watchoutforwhat?”“Seethatyouleaveassoonaspossible,thatyoudon’tcatchtheirmadness.”“I am here for only four mouths,” said Drogo, “I haven’t the slightest

intentionofstaying.”“Watchoutallthesame,sir,”saidtheoldman.“ItwasColonelFilimorewho

beganit.Greateventsarecoming,hebegantotellme,Irememberverywell—itwill be eighteen years ago. ‘Events,’ that was what he said. These were hiswords. He got it into his head that the Fort is tremendously important, muchmoreimportantthanalltheothersandthatinthecitytheydon’tunderstand.”

Hespokeslowlysothattherewastimeforsilencetocomebetweenonewordandanother.

“He got it into his head that the Fort is tremendously important, thatsomethingwasboundtohappen.”

Drogosmiled.“Thatsomethingwouldhappen?Awaryoumean?”“Whoknows—perhapsevenawar.”“Awarfromacrossthesteppe.”“Yes,probablyfromthesteppe.”“Buttellme,whowouldcome?”“How should I know? Of course no one will come. But the colonel has

studiedthemaps,hesaystherearestillTartars,theremainsofanoldarmy,hesays,roamingupanddown.”

Fromtheshadowtherecametheidioticsarcasticlaughteroftheassistants.“Theyarestillwaitingforthem,”theoldmanwenton.“Takethecolonelor

CaptainStizioneorCaptainOrtizorthelieutenant-colonel—everyyeartheysaysomethingmusthappenandsoitwillgoonuntiltheyareretired.”Hebrokeoffandleanthisheadtoonesideasifhewerelistening.“IthoughtIheardsteps,”hesaid.Buttherewasnosoundofanyone.

“Ihearnothing,”saidDrogo.“Prosdocimo, too,” said the old man. “He’s only a sergeant-major—the

regimental tailor, but he has joined upwith them. For fifteen years he’s beenwaitingtoo.Butyoudon’tbelieveit,sir,Iseethat,youdon’tsayanythingandthinkitisnothingbutalotofstories.”

Almostimploringlyheadded:“Watch out,” he said, “you will let them convince you, you’ll end up by

stayingheretoo,Ihaveonlytolookintoyoureyes.”Drogowassilent; it seemed tohimbeneathhisdignity toconfide insucha

poorcreature.“Andyou,”hesaid,“whatdoyoudo?”“Me?”saidtheoldman.“Iamhisbrother,Iworkherewithhim.”“Hisbrother?Hiselderbrother?”“That’sright,”andtheoldmansmiled,“hiselderbrother.Iwasasoldiertoo,

once—thenIbrokealegandnowI’mreducedtothis.”TheninthesubterraneansilenceDrogofeltthethrobofhisownheart;ithad

beguntobeatstrongly.Soeventhisoldmanhiddenawayinhislairinthecellarcasting accounts—even this obscure and humble being looked forward to aheroicfate?Giovannilookedhimintheeyesandtheothershookhisheadalittlewithamixtureofsadnessandbitterness,asiftoindicatethattherewasindeednoremedy:“Thatishowwearemade,”heseemedtosay,“andweshallnevergetbetter.”

Perhapsbecauseadoorhadbeenopenedsomewhereonthestairsonecouldnow hear, filtering through the walls, distant voices coming from someindeterminablesource.Everynowandagaintheystoppedandtherewasabreak;soontheystartedagain,comingandgoingliketheslowbreathingoftheFort.

At last Drogo had understood. He gazed at the multiple shadows of theuniformshangingthere—shadowswhichtrembledwiththeflickerofthelightsandthoughtthatatthatprecisemoment,thecolonelinthesecrecyofhisstudyhadopenedthenorthwindow.Itwasquitecertain—atamomentlikethis,sosadwith darkness and autumn, the commandant of theFort lookednorth, towardstheblackgulfsofthevalley.

It was from the northern steppe that their fortune would come, theiradventure, the miraculous hour which once at least falls to each man’s lot.Because of this remote possibility which seemed to become more and more

uncertainastimewenton,grownmenlivedouttheirlivespointlesslyhereintheFort.

They had not come to terms with ordinary life, with the joys of commonpeople,withamediocredestiny; they livedsidebyside,with thesamehopes,neverspeakingofthembecausetheywerenotawareofthemorsimplybecausetheyweresoldierswhokepttothemselvestheintimaciesoftheirhearts.

Perhaps Tronk too—probably so. Tronk followed the clauses of theregulations, the mathematical discipline, knew the pride of painstakingresponsibilityanddeludedhimselfthatthatsufficed.Yetiftheyhadsaidtohim:“Itwillbelikethisallyourlife,alwaysthesametotheveryend,”evenhewouldhavewokenup.Impossible,hewouldsay.Somethingdifferentmustcomealong,somethingtrulyworthyofhim,sothathecouldsay:NowitisoverandIhavedonewhatIcould.

Drogohadunderstoodtheirsimplesecretandthoughtwithreliefthathewasanoutsider, anuncontaminated spectator. In fourmonths’ time, thankGod, hewould leave them for ever. The obscure attractions of the old fortress hadvanishedridiculously.Sohethought.Butwhydidtheoldmankeeponlookingathimwiththatambiguousexpression?WhydidDrogofeeladesiretowhistlesoftly, todrinksomewine, togo into theopenair?Was itperhaps toprove tohimselfthathewasreallyfree,reallycalm?

I

VIII

T is dead of night andDrogo’s new friends, Lieutenant CarloMorel, PietroAngustina, Franceseo Grotta and Max Lagorio are sitting with him in themess.Thereremainonlyanorderlyleaningagainstthelintelofadistantdoor

and the portraits of former colonels, deep in shadow, lining the walls. Eightbottlesstandoutdarklyagainst the tableclothamong thedisorderly remainsofthedinner.

Theyareallsomewhatexcited—partlybythewine,partlybythenight,andwhentheirvoicesfallsilentonecanheartherainoutside.

ThedinnerisinhonourofCountMaxLagoriowhoisleavingnextdayaftertwoyearsintheFort.

“Angustina,”saidLagorio,“ifyoucometoo,I’llwaitforyou.”Hesaiditinhisusualjokingwaybuttheyknewitwastrue.

Angustina, too, had completed his two years’ duty but he did not want toleave.Angustinawaspaleandsatwithhisusualairofdetachmentasifhewerequiteuninterestedinthemandweretherebypurechance.

“Angustina,” repeated Lagorio, almost shouting and on the verge ofintoxication,“ifyoucometooI’llwaitforyou—I’mwillingtowaitthreedays.”

LieutenantAngustinadidnotreplybutgaveafaintlong-sufferingsmile.Hisblue sun-bleached uniform stood out among the others with a certain fadedelegance.

Lagorioturnedtotheothers—toMorel,toGrotta,toDrogo.“You tell him, too,” andhe laidhis right handonAngustina’s shoulder. “It

woulddohimgoodtocometotown.”“Itwoulddomegood?”askedAngustina,asifhiscuriositywerearoused.“Youwouldfeelbetterinthecity.Allofthemwould,Ithink.”“I’mperfectlyallright,”saidAngustinadrily.“Idon’tneedanytreatment.”“Ididn’tsayyouneededtreatment.Isaiditwoulddoyougood.”These were Lagorio’s words and outside they heard the rain falling in the

courtyard. Angustina smoothed his moustache with two fingers—he wasobviouslybored.

“Don’t you ever think,”Lagoriowent on, “of yourmother, of your people.Imagineifyourmother...”

“Mymotherwill get used to it,” answeredAngustinawith an undertone ofbitterness.

Lagorionoticeditandchangedthesubject.“Listen, Angustina, think of it—the day after tomorrow you turn up at

Claudina’s.‘Ihaven’tseenyoufortwoyears’she’llsay.”“Claudina,”saidAngustinareluctantly.“Who’sshe?Idon’tremember.”“Ofcourseyoudon’tremember.It’simpossibletotalktoyouaboutanything

that’safact.There’snomysteryaboutit,isthere?Peoplesawyoutogethereveryday.”

“Ah,”saidAngustinaoutofpoliteness,“nowIremember.Yes,Claudina—doyouknowshewon’tevenrememberthatIexist.”

“Get awaywith you, we know they all gomad about you, don’t try to bemodestnow,”exclaimedGrottaandAngustinagazedathimwithoutmovinganeyelid,obviouslystruckbysuchbluntness.

Theyfellsilent.Outsidethesentriespacedtoandfrointheautumnrain.Thewaterhissedontheterraces,gurgledintheguttersandstreameddownthewalls.Outside the night lay deep;Angustina had a slight fit of coughing. It seemedstrangethatasoundsodisagreeableshouldproceedfromsucharefinedyoungman.But he coughedwith due restraint, lowering his head each time as if toindicatethathecouldnothelpit—thatitwasreallysomethinghehadnothingtodowithbutwhichhemustendure.Sohetransformedthecoughintoakindofwilfulhabitforotherstoimitate.

Yetapainfulsilencehadfallen;Drogofelthemustbreakit.“Tellme,Lagorio,”heasked,“whendoyouleavetomorrow?”“Aboutten,Ithink.IwantedtoleaveearlierbutIhavetosaygoodbyetothe

colonel.”“The colonel gets up at five, summer and winter, so he won’t waste your

time.”Lagoriolaughed.“ButIdon’tgetupatfive.OnmylastmorningatleastIwanttotakeiteasy.

Nooneisgoingtorushme.”“Soyouwillgettherethedayaftertomorrow,”Morelobservedenviously.“Itdoesn’tseempossibletome,Icanassureyou,”saidLagorio.“Whatdoesn’tseempossible?”“Tobeinthecityintwodays’time,”hepaused,“andforalways,too.”Angustinahadbecomepale;henolongersmoothedhismoustachebutgazed

intotheshadowbeforehim.Theroomwasheavywiththethoughtswhichcomebynight,whenfearsemergefromthecrumblingwallsandunhappinessissweettosavour,andoverhumanity,asitliessleeping,thesoulproudlybeatsitswings.

Theglassyeyesofthecolonelslookingoutofthegreatportraitsforetoldheroicdeeds.Andoutsideitstillrained.

“Canyouimagineit?”saidLagoriopitilesslytoAngustina.“TheeveningofthedayaftertomorrowIshallprobablybeatConsalvi’s.Thebestsociety,music,prettywomen.”

“Ifthatiswhatyoulike,”Angustinaansweredcontemptuously.“Orelse,”Lagoriocontinuedwiththebestof intentions,merelytopersuade

his friend, “Yes, perhaps that is better—I shall go to Tron’s, to your uncle’s;therearenicepeoplethereandtheyplaylikegentlemenasGiacomowouldsay.”

“That’sfine,too,”saidAngustina.“Inanycase,saidLagorio,“thedayaftertomorrowIshallbeenjoyingmyself

andyouwillbeonduty.Ishallbewalkingaboutthecity,”andhelaughedattheidea, “and the captain of the day will come up to you. ‘Nothing to report—PrivateMartiniisfeelingill.’Attwoo’clockthesergeantwillwakenyou:‘Timetoinspecttheguard,sir.’Hewillwakenyouattwo,youcantakeanoathonit,andatthatveryminuteIshallwithoutadoubtbeinbedwithRosaria.”

They were Lagorio’s usual silly, unintentional cruelties and everyone wasusedtothem.Butbehindhiswordstheimageofthedistantcityappearedtohiscomradeswithitspalacesanditsgreatchurches,itsairydomesandtheromanticavenuesalong the river.Now, they thought, therewouldbea thinmistover itandthestreetlampswouldgiveafaintyellowlight;thiswasthetimewhentherewerecouples in the lonely streets, thecriesof thecoachmenunder the lightedwindows of theOpera, echoes of violins and laughter,women’s voices in thegloomyentries to thewealthyhouses,and lightedwindows incrediblyhighupamong the labyrinthine roofs. It was the fascinating city of their youthfuldreams,theirstillunlivedadventures.

Without being aware of it everyonewas nowwatchingAngustina’s face; itwasheavywithawearinesstowhichhewouldnotadmit.TheyrealisedthattheywerenottheretosendoffLagoriobutinrealitytosaluteAngustinawhoalonewouldremain.OnebyoneafterLagorio,astheirturncame,theotherstoowouldgo—Grotta,MorelandevenbeforethatGiovanniDrogowhohadscarcelyfourmonths todo.ButAngustinawouldstayon—whytheydidnotknow,but theyperfectlyunderstood it.Andalthough they felt obscurely that on this occasiontoo hewas conforming to his ambitious style of life they could not find it inthemtoenvyhim;itseemedtobenothingmorethananabsurdmania.

ButwhyisAngustina,thatdamnedsnob,stillsmiling?Why,beingasillasheis, doesn’t he run and pack his kit and get ready to leave?Why is he staringinsteadintotheshadowsinfrontofhim?Whatishethinkingabout?WhatsecretpridekeepshimintheFortress?Isheanother?Lookathim,Lagorio,youarehis

friend,have agood lookat himwhileyou still have time, imprinthis faceonyourmemoryasitisthiseveningwithitsthinnose,thelack-lustreexpressionoftheeyes,itsunpleasantsmile;perhapsonedayyouwillunderstandwhyhedidnot want to follow you, will understand what was locked behind hisexpressionlessbrow.

Lagorio left next morning. His two horses were waiting for him with his

batmanatthegateoftheFort.Theskywasovercastbutitwasnotraining.Lagoriolookedhappy.Hehadlefthisroomwithoutsomuchasaglanceatit,

norwhenhewas in theopenairdidhe lookroundat theFort.Thewalls roseabove,gloomyandbeetling;thesentryatthegatewasmotionless;therewasnotalivingsoulonallthevastlevelspace.FromalittlebutwhichleantagainstthewalloftheForttherecametherhythmicbeatofahammer.

Angustinahadcomedowntosaygoodbyetohisfriend.Hestrokedthehorse.“It’sstillafinebeast,”hesaid.Lagoriowasgoingaway,goingdowntothecity,wherelifewaseasyandhappy.Buthewasstayingon;withexpressionlesseyeshewatchedhiscomradebusywiththehorsesandhetriedtosmile.

“Ican’tbelievethatIamleaving,”saidLagorio.“ThisFortresshadbecomeanobsession.”

“Go and see my people when you get there,” said Angustina, paying noattentiontohim.“TellmymotherIamwell.”

“Don’tworry,”repliedLagorio.Andafterapauseheadded:“I’msorryaboutyesterday evening, you know.We are quite different beings and I have neverreally understoodwhat youwere thinking.You seemed to have obsessions—Idon’tknow—perhapsyouwereright.”

“Ihad forgottenallabout it,” saidAngustina layinghishandon thehorse’sflankandlookingattheground.“OfcourseIwasn’tangry.”

Theywere twodifferentmenwithdifferent tastes, separatedby intelligenceand culture. It was an astonishing thing even to see them together such wasAngustina’ssuperiority.Andyettheywerefriends—ofthemallLagoriowastheonlyone tounderstandhim instinctively,buthe felt sorry forhiscomradeandwasalmostashamedtoleavebeforehimasifitwereunseemlyostentationandhecouldnotmakeuphismindtogo.

“IfyouseeClaudina,”Angustinawentonwithunalteredvoice,“givehermyregards—no,perhapsit’sbetterifyousaynothing.”

“ButifIseehershe’llaskme.Sheknowsthatyouarehere.”Angustinasaidnothing.“Well then,” said Lagorio, who with the help of his batman had finished

adjusting his saddle-bag, “perhaps I had better go, otherwise I shall be late.

Goodbye.”Heshookhisfriend’shandandleaptelegantlyintothesaddle.“Adieu,Lagorio,”exclaimedAngustina.“Bonvoyage.”Lagorio sat straight in his saddle and looked at him; he was not over

intelligent but something toldhimobscurely that perhaps theymight notmeetagain.

He struck in his spurs and the horsemovedoff.At thismomentAngustinaraised his right hand slightly as if to recall his companion, to ask him to stayanothermomentforhehadonelastthingtotellhim.Lagoriosawthegestureoutofthecornerofhiseyeandhaltedafewyardsaway.

“Whatisit?”heasked.“Didyouwantsomething?”ButAngustinaloweredhishandandresumedhispreviousindifferentpose.“Nothing,nothing,”hereplied.“Why?”“Oh,Ithought...”saidLagoriowithapuzzledairandherodeoffacrossthe

plateaurockinginhissaddle.

T

IX

HE terracesof theFortwerewhite—sotoowerethevalleytothesouthandthenortherndesert.Thesnowcovered thewholewidthof theglacis;alongthecrenellationsithadlaidarimofwhite;itplungedfromthegutterswitha

littlehollownoise;everynowandagainfornoapparentreasonitdetacheditselffromthesidesof theprecipicesand terriblemasses roaredsmokingdown intothegulfs.

Itwasnotthefirstsnowbutthethirdorfourthfall,andwasasignthatmanydayshadgoneby.“ItseemslikeyesterdaythatIarrivedattheFort,”saidDrogo,andsoitdidindeed.Itseemedlikeyesterdayandyettimehadslippedawaywithitsunvaryingrhythm,noslowerforthehappymannorquickerfortheunluckyonesofthisworld.

Another three months had passed—passed neither slowly nor quickly.Christmas had faded from sight in the distance and the NewYear had come,bringingmankindafewstrangelyhopefulminutes.GiovanniDrogowasalreadypreparing to depart. He still had to have themedical inspection whichMajorMattihadpromisedhimandthenhewouldbeabletogo.Hekepttellinghimselfthat this was a happy event, that in the city the life awaiting him was easy,amusingandperhapshappy,andyethewasnotpleased.

OnthemorningofthetenthofJanuaryheenteredthemedicalofficer’sroomonthe topfloorof theFort.ThedoctorwascalledFerdinandoRovina;hewasoverfiftywithaflabby,intelligentface,anairoftiredresignation,andworenota uniform but a long dark-jacket which made him look like some sort ofmagistrate.Hewassittingathistablewithvariousbooksandchartsbeforehim;hesatquitestillanditwasimpossibletotellwhathisthoughtswere.

Thewindowlookedoutontothecourtyardfromwhichthererosethesoundofregularpacingtoandfrobecauseitwaseveningalreadyandthechangingoftheguardwasabouttobegin.Fromthewindowonecaughtsightofapartoftheouter wall and the extraordinarily serene sky. The two officers saluted andGiovanniquicklysawthatthedoctorwasfullyinformedofhiscase.

“The ravensarenestingand the swallowsaregoing,” saidRovina jokingly,andheproducedfromadrawerasheetofpaperwithsomethingprintedonit.

“Perhaps youdo not know, doctor, that I camehere bymistake,” answered

Drogo."Mydear hey, everyone comes here bymistake,” said the doctor gloomily.

“Thatappliestoeveryonemoreorless—eventothosewhohavestayedon.”Drogodidnotquiteknowwhathemeantandconfinedhimselftoasmile.“Oh, I’m not blaming you. You are quite right, you young people, not to

moulderuphere,”Rovinawenton,“therearefarbetterchancesdowninthecity.SometimesIthinkmyselfthatifIcould...”

“Whynot?”askedDrogo,“couldn’tyougetatransfer?”Thedoctorwavedhishandasifhecouldnotbelievehisears.“Getatransfer?”andhelaughedheartily,“afterbeingupherefortwenty-five

years?It’stoolate,myboy,Ishouldhavethoughtofitsooner.”Perhaps he wanted Drogo to contradict him again, but since the lieutenant

saidnothinghebegan to talkbusiness.He invitedGiovanni tositdown,madehimgivehisnameandsurnamewhichhewrote in theprescribedplaceon theformaccordingtotheregulations.

“Well then,” he concluded, “you suffer from a cardiac disorder, don’t you?Yoursystemdoesn’tstanduptotheheight,isn’tthatit?Shallwesaythat?”

“Yes,let’ssaythat,”Drogoassented.“Youarethebestjudgeofthesethings.”“Shall we prescribe convalescent leavewhilewe’re at it?” said the doctor,

winking.“Thankyou,”saidDrogo,“butIdon’twanttooverdothings.”“Justasyoulike.Noleave.AtyourageIhadnosuchscruples.”InsteadofsittingdownGiovannihadgoneovertothewindowandeverynow

andthenlookeddownonthesoldiersdrawnuponthewhitesnow.Thesunhadbarelyset;ablueshadowhadspreadoverthewalls.“Afterthreeorfourmonths,more thanhalfofyoupeoplewant togetaway,” thedoctorwassayingwithacertainsadnessinhisvoice;hetoowasnowwrappedinshadowsothatitwasdifficult toseehowhecouldwrite.“IfIcouldhavemytimeagainIwoulddothesame.Yetit’sapity.”

Drogolistenedwithoutinterest,sointentwasheonlookingfromthewindow.Then he seemed to see the yellowing walls of the courtyard rise up into thecrystal sky,with above them, higher still, solitary towers, crooked battlementscrownedwithsnow,airyoutworksandredoubtswhichhehadneverseenbefore.Abrightlightfromtheweststill illuminatedthemandthustheyshonewithaninscrutable life. Never before had Drogo noticed that the Fort was socomplicatedandimmense.Atanalmostincredibleheighthesawawindow—orperhapsaloopholeopenontothevalley.Uptheretheremustbemenwhomhedid not know—perhaps even an officer like himself with whom he could befriends.Intheabyssbetweenbastionandbastionhesawgeometricalshadows,

frail bridges suspended among the rooftops, strange postern gates barred andflush with the walls, ancient machicolations now blocked up, long roof-treescurvedwiththeyears.

Against the dark blue background of the courtyard he saw in the light oflanterns and torches soldiers of great height and proud bearing unsheath theirbayonets.Onthebrightnessofthesnowtheyformedblack,immobilefiles,asifmade of iron. They were very beautiful to see and stood like stone while atrumpetbegantosound.Theblastsspread throughtheair,gleamingandalive,andstruckstraightintotheheart.

“Onebyoneyouallgoaway,”Rovinawasmurmuringinthedusk,“wewillendupbybeingleftbyourselves,weoldones.Thisyear...”

Downin thecourtyard the trumpetwascalling, thepuresoundofbrassandhuman voice together. It shook oncemore, warlike and dashing.When it fellsilentitlefteveninthedoctor’sofficeanenchantmentnowordscoulddescribe.Thesilencebecamesuchthatyoucouldhearsomeone’slongpacecrunchonthefrozen snow. The colonel had come down in person to take the salute. Threetrumpetcalls,ofextraordinarybeauty,cleftthesky.

“Whois thereofyou?” thedoctorcontinuedhisrecriminations.“LieutenantAngustinaistheonlyone.EvenMorel,Ibethewillhavetogodowntothecitynextyeartobelookedafter.Ibethefinishesbyfallingilltoo.”

“Morel?”Drogocouldnothelpreplyingifonlytoshowthathewaslistening.“Morelill?”heasked,withoutgraspingthelastwords.

“Ohno,”saidthedoctor.“It’samannerofspeaking.”Even through theclosedwindow theyheard the stepsof thecolonel. In the

duskthelinesofbayonetsweresilverbars.Fromimpossiblyfarofftherecamethe echo of trumpets—perhaps the first call sent back by the labyrinth of thewalls.

Thedoctorwassilent.Thenheroseandsaid:“Hereisthecertificate.I’llgonowandgetitsignedbythecommandant.”Hefoldedthepaperandputitinafile,tookdownhisgreatcoatandagreat

furcap.“Areyoucomingtoo?”heasked.“Whatonearthareyoulookingat?”ThenewguardsweremovingoffonebyonetothevariouspartsoftheFort.

Therhythmoftheirstepsmadeadullnoiseonthesnow,butoverheadflewthemusic of the fanfares. Then, strange as it might seem, the walls—alreadybeleagueredbythenight—roseslowlytowardsthezenithandfromtheirtopmostheight,framedwithpatchesofsnow,whitecloudsbegantoriselikegreatbirdssailingbetweenthestars.

ThememoryofhisnativecitypassedthroughDrogo’smind—avagueimage

ofnoisystreets in the rain,ofplasterstatues,ofdampbarracks, tunelessbells,tiredandmisshapenfaces,endlessafternoons,dirtydustyceilings.

Butherethedeepmountainnightwasapproachingwithcloudsflyingupoverthe Fort, harbingers ofwonders to come.And from the north, from the northinvisibletherebehindtheramparts,Drogofelttheonsetofhisowndestiny.

Thedoctorwasalreadyinthedoorway.“Doctor,doctor,”saidDrogo,almoststammering,“Iamallright.”“Iknow,”answeredthedoctor,“Whatdidyouthink?”“I’m all right,” Drogo repeated almost unable to recognise his own voice,

“I’mallrightandwanttostay.”“StayhereintheFort?Youdon’twanttoleaveanymore?Whathashappened

toyou?”“Idon’tknow,”saidGiovanni,“butIcan’tleave.”“Oh,”exclaimedRovinacomingup tohim,“ifyou’re serious then I assure

youIamglad.”“I’mquiteserious,”saidDrogowhofelthisstateofexaltationchangeintoa

strangepainwhichwasneartohappiness.“Doctor,throwawaythatform.”

I

X

Twasboundtocometothis—hadperhapsbeendestinedlongbeforeonthatdistantdaywhen,alongwithOrtiz,DrogofirstcameontotheplateauandtheFortappearedtohimundertheburdenofthebrightmidday.Drogohasdecidedtostay;whatkeepshimthereisalonging,butmorethan

that alone—for perhaps the heroic cast of his thoughts itself would not havesufficed. For the time being he thinks he has done something noble, and isgenuinelysurprisedtofindhimselfabettermanthanhehadthought.Onlymanymonths later, lookingaroundhim,will he recognise thepaltry tieswhichbindhimtotheFort.

Suppose the trumpets had sounded, suppose he had heard martial songs,supposedisturbingmessageshadcomefromthenorth—ifthathadbeenalltherewas to it Drogo would have left just the same; but he had within him dullsluggishness—born of habit, military vanity, love for the accustomed wallswhich were his home; Four months passing with the monotonous rhythm ofroutinedutieshadbeenenoughtoentrammelhim.

He had got used to guard duties,which the first few times had seemed anunbearableburden; littleby littlehehad learned the rules, the turnsofspeech,thewhimsofhissuperiors,thetopographyoftheredoubts,thesentry-posts,thecornersoutof thewind,what the trumpets said.Hederiveda specialpleasurefromhismasteryoftheroutineandsavouredthegrowingrespectofsoldiersandN.C.O.’s; evenTronkhadnoticed thatDrogowas serious andpainstakingand‘had'almostcometolikehim.

Hehadgotusedtohiscolleagues—henowknewthemsowellthateventheirmostsubtlehintsdidnottakehimunawares;andintheeveningtheysattogetherchattingaboutwhatwentoninthecity—ofeventswhichbytheirverydistancehad become of exaggerated importance. He had got used to the good andcomfortablemess,thewelcomingfireintheanteroomalwayslitdayandnight;theattentionsofhisbatman—agoodcreaturecalledGeronimo—whohadlittlebylittlelearnedhisparticularwishes.

HehadgotusedtothetripseverysooftenwithMoreltothenearestvillage,agoodtwohoursonhorsebackthroughanarrowvalleywhichbynowheknewbyheart—aninnwheretherewerenewfacestobe.seenatlast,lavishdinnersand

thefreshlaughterofgirlswithwhomonecouldmakelove.Hehadgotusedto thewildracesupanddownthe levelgroundbehindthe

Fort where on free afternoons he vied with his comrades in dashinghorsemanship, and to thepatientgamesof chess in theeveningswhichDrogooftenwon; but CaptainOrtiz told him: “It’s always like that, the new peoplealwayswintobeginwith.Ithappenstothemall—theythinktheyarereallygoodbutit’sreallyonlyaquestionofnovelty;thentheotherslearnoursystemtooandonefinedaywecandonothingrightanymore.”

Drogohadgotusedtohisroom,toreadingquietlyatnight,tothecrackintheceiling above his bedwhich looked like a Turk’s head, to the dripping of thecistern—become friendly with time—to the hollow his body moulded in themattress,totheblanketswhichintheearlydayshadseemedsoinhospitableandwere now gently expectant, to the movement now instinctive and preciselymeasuredbywhichheputouttheoillamporlaidhisbookonhislittletable.Henowknewhowtoplacehimselfinthemorningasheshavedbeforethemirrorsothat the lightwould fallonhis face from thecorrectangle,how topourwaterfromtheewerintothebasinwithoutspilling,howtoopenthewaywardlockofadrawerbyholdingthekeydownalittle.

Hehadgotusedtothecreakingofthedoorwhenitrained,tothepoint,wheremoonlightfellthroughthewindowanditsslowshiftingwiththepassageofthehours, to the hubbub every night in the room beneath his at half past onepreciselywhentheoldwoundinLieutenant-ColonelNicolosi’srightlegawokemysteriouslyandinterruptedhissleep.

Allthesethingshadnowbecomepartofhimselfanditwouldhavehurthimto leave them.ButDrogodidnot know,hedidnot suspect, that his departurewouldhavebeenaneffortnor that life in theFortwouldswallowup thedaysoneafteranother,oneexactlyliketheother,atagiddyspeed.Yesterdayandthedaybeforeitwerethesame;hecouldnolongerhavedistinguishedonefromtheother. Something which happened three days before or three weeks beforeseemedequallydistant.Thusunknowntohimtimefledonitsway.

Butfor thetimebeinghereheis,cocksureandheedless,ontherampartsofthefourthredoubtonapurefrostynight.Becauseof thecold thesentrieskeptpacingupanddownwithoutpauseandtheirstepscrunchedonthefrozensnow.Agreatmoonofextraordinarywhiteness lit theworld.TheFort, thecrags, therockyvalleytothenorthwerefloodedwithwonderfullight—eventhecurtainofmistwhichhungintheextremenorthshonewithit.

Downbelowintheroomsetasidefortheorderlyofficer,intheheartoftheredoubt,thelamphadbeenleftburning;theflameshookslightlyandrockedtheshadows.ShortlyDrogohadbegun towritea letter;hehad, to reply toMaria,

Vescovi’s sister, his friend’s sister,whomight one day be his bride. But aftercompleting two lines he had got up—even he did not knew why—and hadclimbedontotherooftolookout.

Thiswastheloweststretchofthefortificationscorrespondingtothedeepestpointinthedefile.Hereintherampartstherewasthegatethroughwhichthetwostates communicated with each other. From time immemorial the massive,ironshodportalshadnotbeenopened.AndtheguardfortheNewRedoubtwentoutandineverydaybyapostern,barelywideenoughforonemanandguardedbyasentry.

ItwasthefirsttimeDrogohadmountedguardinthefourthredoubt.Assoonashecameoutintotheopenhelookedattheoverhangingrockstotheright,allencrustedwithiceandgleaminginthemoonlight.

Gusts of wind began to bear little white clouds across the sky and shookDrogo’scloak,thenewcloakwhichmeantsomuchtohim.

Withoutmovinghegazedatthebarrierofrocksbeforehim,theimpenetrabledistancesofthenorth,andtheendsofhiscloakrustledlikeaflagandassumedwild forms. That night Drogo felt he possessed a proud and soldierly beauty,uprightontheedgeoftheterracewithhisfinecloakshakenbythewind.Tronkathisside,wrappedupinawidegreatcoat,seemednosoldieratall.

“Tellme,Tronk,”askedGiovanniwithanassumedairofconcern,“Isitonlyanimpressionoristhemoonbiggerthanusualtonight?”

“Idon’tthinkso,sir,”saidTronk,“ItalwaysgivesthatimpressionuphereattheFort!”

Theirvoicesechoedafarasiftheairweremadeofglass.Tronk,seeingthatthe lieutenant hadnothingmore to say,went off along the edgeof the terracebentasalwaysoncheckingtheroutine.

Drogo remained alone and felt almost happy. He relished with pride hisdetermination to remain, the bitter pleasure of leaving the little assuredhappinessesforsomethingwhicha longtimehencemightperhapsprove tobegoodandgreat—andunderneaththerewastheconsolingthoughtthattherewasalwaystimestilltoleave.

Apresentiment—orwasitonlyahope?—ofgreatandnobleeventshadmadehimstayuphere,butperhapshehadmerelypostponedthings;atbottomnothingwassettled.Hehadsomuchtimebeforehim.Allthegoodthingsoflifeseemedtoawaithim.Whatneedwastheretoexertonself?Evenwomen,thesestrangeand loveable creatures, he looked forward to as a certain happiness, formallypromisedhimbythenormalcourseoflife.

Howmuchtimetherewasbeforehim!Asingleyearseemedimmenselylongandthegoodyearshadbarelybegun—theyseemedtoformalong,longseriesof

whichitwasimpossibletoseetheend,atreasurestillintactandsogreatthatonemighttireofit.

Therewasnoonetosaytohim:“Watchout,GiovanniDrogo.”Lifeseemedto him to be inexhaustible—the illusion was obstinate although youth hadalreadybeguntofade.ButDrogohadnoknowledgeoftime.Evenifhehadhadbefore him hundreds and hundreds of years of youth that, too, would haveseemed no great thing to him. And instead he had at his disposal only anordinarysimplelife,ashorthumanyouth,amiserlygiftwhichcouldbecountedonthefingersoftwohandsandwhichwouldslipawaybeforehehadevengottoknowit.

Whatalongtimetherewasbeforehim,hethought.Andyet—sohehadheardtell—menexistwhoatacertainpoint,strangetosay,begintowaitfordeath—death, which everyone knows about but which is quite absurd and cannotpossiblyconcernthem.Drogosmiledtothinkofitandashedidso,urgedonbythecold,hebegantowalkupanddown.

At thatpoint the ramparts followed theslopeof thevalleyandso formeda

complicatedstaircaseofterracesandplatforms.Belowhim,pitch-blackagainstthe snow, Drogo saw the various sentries by the light of the moon; theirmethodicalpacingmadeacreakingnoiseonthefrozenground.

Thenearestofthem,onalowerterracetenyardsorsoaway,feelingthecoldlessthantheothers,stoodmotionlesswithhisshouldersleantagainstawallsothat it lookedas ifheweresleeping.ButDrogoheardhimsinginga lament tohimselfinalowvoice.

It was a succession of words, which Drogo could not make out, strungtogetherbyamonotonousandunendingtune.Speaking,andworsestill,singingondutywasseverelyforbidden.Giovannishouldhavepunishedhimbutinsteadtookpityonhim, thinkingof thecoldand the lonelinessof thenight.Thenhebegantodescendashortstaircasewhichleadontotheterraceandgaveaslightcoughtoputthesoldieronhisguard.

Thesentinel turnedhisheadandseeingtheofficercorrectedhisposturebutdid not interrupt his lament. Drogo was overcome with rage—did these menthinktheycouldmakeafoolofhim?Hewouldgivehimatasteofsomething.

The sentry at once remarkedDrogo’s threatening attitude and although theformality of giving thepassword, by an ancient tacit agreement,wasnot usedbetweensoldiersandtheguardcommanderhehadanexcessofscruple.Raisinghis riflehe askedwith thepeculiar accentused in theFort: “Whogoes there?Whogoesthere?”

Drogostoppedshort,thrownoffhisbalance.Intheclearlightofthemoonhe

couldsee thesoldier’s faceperfectlyclearlyperhaps less than fiveyardsawayandthemouthwasshut.Butthelamenthadnotbeeninterrupted.Wherediditcomefromthen,thatvoice?

Since the soldier stood there and waited, Giovanni, pondering the strangephenomenon,mechanicallygavethepassword:“Miracle.”“Misery,”repliedthesentryandstoodateaseagain.

There followed an immense silence inwhich themutteredwords and songdriftedmoreloudlythanbefore.AtlastDrogounderstoodandaslightshiverranalonghis spine. Itwaswater, thatwaswhat itwas—adistantcascadedashingdownthesteepsidesofthecrags.Thewindcausingthegreatjettoquiver,themysteriousplayoftheechoes,thevaryingsoundsofthestruckrocksmadeofitahumanvoicewhichspokeandspoke—spokeofour life inwordswhichonewaswithinahair’sbreadthofunderstandingbutneverdid.

So it was not the soldier who was singing under his breath, not a mansensitivetocold, topunishmentsandtolove,but thehostilemountain.Whataterriblemistake,thoughtDrogo,perhapseverythingislikethat—wethinkthereare beings like ourselves around us and instead there is nothing but ice andstonesspeakingastrangelanguage;weareonthepointofgreetingafriendbutourarmfalls inert, thesmilediesawaybecauseweseethatwearecompletelyalone.

Thewindblowsagainsttheofficer’ssplendidcloakandtheblueshadowonthesnowwaves,too,likeaflag.Thesentrystandsmotionless.Themoonmoveson and on, slowly but not losing a singlemoment, impatient for the dawn. InGiovanniDrogo’sbreasthisheartbeatshollowly.

A

XI

LMOSTtwoyearslaterGiovanniDrogowassleepingonenightinhisroominthe Fort. Twenty-two months had passed without bringing anything freshandhehadstayedtherewaiting,asiflifecouldnotbutbespeciallylenient

withhim.Yettwenty-twomonthsarealongtimeandalotofthingscanhappeninthem—thereistimefornewfamiliestobeformed,forbabiestobebornandevenbegintotalk,foragreathousetorisewhereoncetherewasonlyafield,forabeautifulwomantogrowoldandnoonedesireheranymore,foranillness—fora long illness—to ripen (yetmen liveonheedlessly), toconsume thebodyslowly, to recede for shortperiodsas if cured, to takeholdagainmoredeeplyanddrainawaythelasthopes;thereistimeforamantodieandbeburied,forhis son to be able to laugh again and in the evenings take the girls down theavenuesandpastthecemeterygateswithoutathought.

ButitseemedasifDrogo’sexistencehadcometoahalt.Thesameday,thesame things, had repeated themselves hundreds of timeswithout taking a stepforward. The river of time flowed over the Fort, crumbled the walls, sweptdown.dustandfragmentsofstone,woreawaythestairsandthechains,butoverDrogoitpassedinvain—ithadnotyetsucceededincatchinghim,bearinghimwithitasitflowed.

Andthisnight,too,wouldhavebeenlikealltheothersifDrogohadnothadadream.Hewasachildagain;itwasnightandhewasstandingatawindow.

Toonesidethehousefellawayandopposite,acrossthespacehesawinthemoonlightthefacadeofasumptuouspalace.AndtheattentionofthelittleboywhowasDrogowasallintentonahighnarrowwindowcrownedbyacopingofmarble.Themoon,shiningthroughtheglass,fellonatableonwhichtherewasarunner,avaseandafewivorystatuettes.Andthefewthingshecouldseemadehimimaginethatinthedark,behindthem,thereopenedouttheintimatesecretsofagreatsalon,thefirstofanunendingseries,fullofpreciousthings,andthatthewholepalacesleptthatprofoundintriguingsleepofbuildingswhoseownersare both rich andhappy.Howwonderful, thoughtDrogo, to be able to live inthesesalons,towanderthroughthemforhoursdiscoveringevernewtreasures.

Meanwhile between the windowwhere he stood and the wonderful palacethere was perhaps twenty yards between them frail apparations had begun to

float (somesortof fairycreatureperhaps) trailingbehind themtrainsofvelvetwhichgleamedinthemoon.

Inhisdreamthepresenceofsuchbeings,whichhehadneverseenintherealworld,didnotsurpriseGiovanni.Theyfloatedthroughtheair,whirlinggently,andreturnedagainandagaintobrushpastthenarrowwindow.

Bytheirnaturetheyseemedlogicallytobelongtothepalace,butthefactthattheypaidnottheslightestattentiontoDrogo,neveronceapproachedhishouse,mortified him. So the fairies, too, kept away from common children and hadtimeonlyforpeopleblessed:byfortune,whodidnotevenstandwatchingbutsleptindifferentlyundersilkenbaldachins.

“Hist,” saidDrogo twoor three times timidly to attract the attention of theapparations, althoughheknewquitewell inhisheart that itwouldbeuseless.Andindeednotoneofthemseemedtohear,noneofthemdrewevenafewfeetnearertohiswindow.

But suddenly one of these magic beings caught at the sill of the windowoppositewithwhatseemedtobe itsarmandknockedgentlyontheglassas ifcallingsomeone.

Only a fewminutes had passedwhen a slight figure—how small itwas incomparisonwith the immensewindow—appearedbehind thepanesandDrogorecognisedAngustina,whowasachildtoo.

Angustina,whowasstrikinglypale,worealittlevelvetdresswithacollarofwhitelaceandseemedfarfrompleasedwiththesilentserenade.

Drogothought that, ifonlyoutofcourtesy,hiscomradewouldhave invitedhim to play with the phantoms. But no. Angustina seemed not to notice hisfriend and did not even look round when Drogo called him: “Angustina!Angustina!”

Instead,witha tiredgesture,his friendopened thewindowand leantout tothespiritwhichclungtothesillasiftheykneweachotherandhehadsomethingtotellit.Thespiritmadeasignand,followingthedirectioninwhichitpointed,Drogo turned his gaze to a great square which stretched out in front of thehouses, completely deserted. Across this square a little procession of spiritsadvanced,somethirtyfeetabovetheground,bearingalitter.

Formed, apparently, from the same substance as themselves, the litteroverflowedwithveilsandplumes.WithhisusualexpressionofdetachmentandboredomAngustinawatcheditapproach;evidentlyitcameforhim.

The injustice of it struck Drogo to the heart. Why did Angustina geteverythingandhenothing?Withsomeone-elseitwouldnothavemattered—butwith Angustina who was always so proud and arrogant! Drogo looked at theotherwindowstoseewhetherthereweresomeonewhomightperhapsintervene

forhim—buthecouldseenoone.Atlastthelitterstopped,swayingdirectlyinfrontofthewindowandallthe

phantoms clustered around it suddenly in a wavering circle. All were turnedtowardsAngustina—nolongerobsequiouslybutwithavidandalmostmalignantcuriosity. Left abandoned, the litter remained inmid-air as if suspended frominvisiblethreads.

Suddenly Drogo felt all envy drain from him for he knew what washappening.HesawAngustinastandinguprightat thewindowandhiseyes fixthemselves on the litter. Yes, it was for him they had come tonight, the fairymessengers,butonwhatanerrand!Sothelitterhadtoserveforalongjourneyandwouldnotcomebackbeforethedawn,northenextnight,northenextnightagain, nor ever. The salons of the palace would await their master in vain, awoman’shandswouldcautiouslyclose thewindowwhich the fugitivehad leftopen and all the others too would be bolted to brood in the dark over thelamentinganddesolation.

So thephantoms,whichhadseemedso friendly,hadnotcome toplaywiththe moonbeams, they had not come like innocent creatures from scentedgardens,butderivedfromtheabyss.

Other children would have cried, would have called on their mothers, butAngustinawasnotafraidandtalkedcalmlywiththespiritsasiftoclearupsomepoints of ceremonial. Clustered round the window like a drift of foam, theyclimbedontopofeachother,pressingforwardtowardsthechildandnoddingtohimasiftosay:“Yes,yes,wequiteagree.”Atlastthespiritwhichhadbeenthefirsttoclingtothesill—perhapstheirleader—madeaslightimperiousgesture.Still with his air of boredom Angustina climbed over the window sill—heseemedalready tohavebecomeas lightas thephantoms—andsat in the litterlikeagreatgentleman,andcrossedhislegs.Theclusterofphantomsdissolvedinaflutteringofveils;theenchantedlittermovedgentlyoff.

A procession formed—the apparitions carried out a semicircular evolutionbetweenthewingsofthehousesbeforerisingintotheskytowardsthemoon.Astheywheeled in thesemicircle the litter, too,passedclose toDrogo’swindow;wavinghisarmhetriedtoshouthislastgreeting:“Angustina,Angustina.”

ThenatlasthisfriendturnedhisheadtowardsGiovanniandlookedathimforamomentortwo—andtoDrogoitseemedasifhecouldreadinhisglanceanexcessiveairofseriousnessforsuchasmallchild.ButslowlyAngustina’sfaceunfolded ina smileofcomplicityas ifheandDrogocouldunderstandagreatdeal the phantoms did not know—a last desire to make a joke, the finalopportunitytoshowthathe,Angustina,didnotneedanyone’spity.Thiswasanordinaryoccurrence,heseemedtosaytherewasnothingtobesurprisedat.

Asthelitterborehimoff,AngustinalookedawayfromDrogoandturnedhisheadtothefront,inthedirectionoftheprocession,withasortofcuriositywhichwasatonceamusedanddistrustful. Itwasas ifhewereexperimentingfor thefirst timewith a toywhich did not interest him in the slightest butwhich forappearancesakehecouldnothaverefused.

Thushewent off into the nightwith almost inhumannobility.Hegavenotoneglanceathispalace,noratthesquarebeforeitnorattheotherhousesnoratthecitywherehehadlived.Theprocessionwoundslowlythroughthesky,risinghigherandhigher; then itbecameaconfusedstreak, thenawispofmist, thennothing.

Thewindowhadremainedopen,theraysofthemoonstillilluminedthetable,the vase, the ivory statuettes,which had continued to sleep. Inside, in anotherroom,onabedby the trembling lightof the tapers, layperhapsa tiny lifelessbodywhose facewas likeAngustina’s; and itwouldbewearinga littlevelvetdress,abiglacecollarandasmilefrozenonthewhitelips.

N

XII

EXTdayGiovanniDrogowasguardcommanderintheNewRedoubt.Itwasanoutlyingfortressthree-quartersofanhourfromthemainfortsetontopofarockyconecommandingtheTartarsteppe.Itwasthemostimportantkeep,

was completely isolated and had the task of giving the alarm if any threatapproached.

Drogoleftthefortintheeveningincommandofsomeseventymen—allthatnumber of soldiers was needed because there were ten sentry posts withoutcountingthetwogunners.Itwasthefirsttimehehadsetfootbeyondthepass;toallintentsandpurposesthefrontierhadbeencrossed.

Giovanniwasthinkingoftheresponsibilitiesofhistask,butinparticularhewas pondering over his dream about Angustina. It was a dream which hadawakenedinhisheartsomethingthatwouldnotdieaway.Itseemedtohimthatthere must be some obscure link there with future events; yet he was notparticularlysuperstitious.

TheyenteredtheNewRedoubt;thesentrieswererelieved,thentheoldguardmarched off and at the edge of the parapetDrogo stoodwatching themmoveawayalongtheroughstonypath.FromtheretheFortlookedlikeanimmenselylong wall—a mere wall with nothing behind it. The sentries could not bedistinguished for theywere too far off. Only the flag could be seen now andagainwhenthewindshookit.

For twenty-fourhours the solecommander in the solitary redoubtwouldbeDrogo.Whateverhappenednoaidcouldbeaskedfor.Evenifenemycame,thefortresshad to lookafter itself.For twenty-fourhours thekinghimselfwasoflessaccountthanDrogo.

As hewaited for night to come,Giovanni stayed andwatched the northernsteppe.FromtheForthehadbeenabletoseeofitonlyalittletrianglebecauseofthemountainsinfront.Butnowhecouldseeitall,righttothelimitsofthehorizonwheretherehungtheusualbarrierofmist.Itwasasortofdesert,rock-covered,withhereandtherethicketsoflowdustybushes.Totheright,far,faraway,therewasadarkstripwhichmightwellhavebeenaforest.Oneitherflankharshchainsofmountains.Theywereimmenselybeautiful,someofthem,withsheerunendingrampartsandtheircrestswhitewiththefirstautumnsnows.And

yetnoone lookedat them;everyone—Drogoand thesoldiers—tended to lookinstinctivelytowardsthenorth,towardsthedesolatesteppe,whichhadmysterybutnomeaning.

Whether it was the thought of being completely alone in command of thefortress, or the sight of the uninhabited country or the memory of his dreamaboutAngustina,Drogobegantofeelaslightfeelingofanxietygrowuponhimasnightspread.

It was anOctober evening, theweather unsettled; with splashes of reddishlight scattered here and there on the ground, reflected from some unknownsourceandslowlyswallowedupbytheleadentwilight.

AsusualatsunsetakindofpoeticexcitementcameoverDrogo.Atthishourhewasalwaysfullofhopeandhebegantomeditateoncemoreupontheheroicfantasieshehadsooftenputtogetheronthelongspellsofguarddutyandeachday, adding new details, had made more perfect. Usually he imagined adesperate battle which he and a few men had joined against an innumerableenemy, as if that night the New Redoubt had been besieged by thousands ofTartars.Fordays anddaysheheldout.Almost all his comradesweredeadorwounded.He too had been struck by amissile—a seriouswound but not tooserious,onewhichallowedhimstilltoretaincommand.Butnowthecartridgesare running out—he attempts a sortie at the head of the last men—he has abandageroundhisbrow;thenatlastreinforcementsarrive;theenemydisbandsand turns to flight; he falls exhausted clutching his blood-stained sabre. Butsomeoneiscallinghim.

“LieutenantDrogo,LieutenantDrogo,”someonecallsandshakeshimbacktolife.AndDrogoslowlyopenshiseyes—theKing,theKing.inpersonisbendingoverhimandsays:“Welldone!”

Atthishourhewasalwaysfullofhopeandhethoughtovertheseheroictales,taleswhichprobablywouldnevercometruebutstillservedtomakelifeworthliving.Sometimeshewasmoreeasilysatisfied—hegaveuptheideaofbeingtheonlyhero,gaveupthewound,gaveuptheideathattheKingsaidtohim“Welldone.”Afterall itneedonlybeanordinarybattle—onesinglebattlebutarealone,sothathecouldchargeinfulluniformandsmileasherushedtowardstheinscrutablefacesoftheenemy.Onebattleandperhapsthenhewouldbehappyfortherestofhislife.

But that evening it was not easy to feel heroic. The world was alreadyshroudedinshadow;thenorthernplainhadlostallcolourbuthadnotyetfallenasleep—asifitweregivingbirthtosorrow.

ItwasalreadyeightintheeveningandtheskyhadfilledwithcloudswhenitseemedtoDrogothathecouldseealittleblackspotmovingintheplain,slightly

to his right and immediately below the redoubt. “My eyesmust be tired,” hethought, “I have been looking so long thatmy eyes are tired and I am seeingspecks.”Thesamethinghadhappenedtohimoncebeforewhenhewasaboyandwassittingupatnightstudying.

Hetriedkeepinghiseyelidsclosedforasecondortwothenlookedatthingsaroundhim;atabucketwhichmusthavebeenusedforwashingtheterrace,atanironhookinthewall,atasmallbenchwhichtheofficerondutybeforehimmusthavecarrieduptositon.Itwasonlyafterafewminutesthatheturnedtolookdown towherehehad first seemed tosee the tinyblackspot. Itwasstillthereandwasmovingalittle.

“Tronk,”Drogocalledinanexcitedvoice.“Sir?”herepliedimmediately,hisvoicesoclosethatitmadeDrogostart.“Ah,thereyouare,”saidDrogorecoveringhimself,“Tronk,Idon’twantto

make anymistake but it seems tome—it seems I can see somethingmovingdownthere.”

“Yes, sir,” Tronk replied in a regulation voice. “I have had it underobservationforsomeminutes.”

“What?”saidDrogo,“Youhaveseenittoo?Whatdoyousee?”“Thethingthatismovingabout,sir.”Drogo felt a surge of panic. This is it, at last, he thought, completely

forgettinghiswarlikefantasies,ithadtohappentome—nowsomethingterriblewillhappen.

“Soyouhaveseenit,too?”heaskedagainintheabsurdhopethattheotherwoulddenyit.

“Yes,sir,”saidTronk,“forabouttenminutes.IhadgonedowntoseethatthecannonwerecleanandwhenIcameupagainIsawit.”

Bothwere silent.Even forTronk itmusthave,been something strangeanddisturbing.

“Whatdoyousayitis,Tronk?”“Ican’tmakeout.Itmovestooslowly.”“Howdoyoumean,tooslowly?”“Well,Ithoughtitmightbethetuftsofthecanes.”“Canes,whatcanes?”“Thereisaclumpofcanesdownthereattheverybottom,”hepointedtohis

rightbutitwasuselessforinthedarknothingcouldbeseen.“Theyareakindthathaveblacktuftsatthistimeofyear.Sometimesthewindblowsthemaway,these tufts, and since they are light they fly off—they look like little puffs ofsmoke.But it can’t be that,” he added after a pause, “theywouldmovemorequickly.”

“Whatcanitbethen?”“Idon’tknow,”saidTronk.“Itwouldbeoddiftheyweremen.Theywould

come another way. And then it keeps on moving—that’s what I can’tunderstand.”

Atthatmomentasentrygavethealarm,thenanotherandanotheragain.Theytoo had seen the black speck. At once the soldiers who were off duty camerunning from within the redoubt. They crowded on the parapet, curious andslightlyafraid.

“Don’t you see it?” Said one. “But there it is, right under here, now it’sstandingstill.”

“Itwillbemist,”saidanother.“Sometimestherearegapsinthemistandyouseethroughit,seewhat’sbehindit.Itlooksasifitweresomeonemovinganditisonlygapsinthemist.”

“Yes,yes,nowIseeit,”theysaid.“There’sstillsomethingblackthere—it’sablackstone,that’swhatitis.”

“Of course it isn’t a stone. Don’t you see that it is still moving? Are youblind?”

“It’sastone,Itellyou.I’vealwaysseenitthere—ablackstonethatlookslikeanun.”

Someonelaughed.“Get out of here, get back inside,” Tronk interrupted taking the initiative,

sinceallthevoicesdrovethelieutenanttoapitchofexcitement.Reluctantlythesoldierswithdrewintotheredoubtandsilencefellagain.

“Tronk,”Drogosuddenlyasked,being incapableofdecidingalone. “Wouldyougivethealarm?”

“YoumeanthealarmtotheFort?Fireashotyoumean,sir?”“Oh,‘Idon’tknow.Doyouthinkit’sacaseforgivingthealarm?”Tronkshookhishead.“Iwouldwaittillwecanseebetter.Ifwefireashottheywillgetexcitedat

theFort.Thensupposethere’snothingthere?”“That’strue,”admittedDrogo.“Andthen,”Tronkadded,“itwouldbecontrary to theregulations, too.The

regulationssaythatthealarmmustbegivenonlyincaseofathreat,that’swhattheysay—inthecaseofathreatoroftheappearanceofarmedforcesandinallcasesinwhichsuspiciouspersonsapproachwithinahundredyardsoftheterraceorthewalls.’—that’swhattheregulationssay.”

“That’strue,”saidGiovanni,“andthat’smorethanahundredyards,isn’tit?”“Iwould say so too,” saidTronk approvingly. “And thenhowdoweknow

thatitisaperson?”

“What do you think it is, then? A ghost?” said Drogo with a touch ofannoyance.

Tronkdidnotreply.AsifsuspendedinthedepthofthenightDrogoandTronkstoodleaningon

theparapet,gazingdowntowheretheTartarsteppebegan.Theenigmaticpatchofdarkness seemed tobemotionless, as if itwere sleeping, and little by littleGiovannibegantothinkagainthattherereallywasnothingthere,onlyablackboulderlikeanun,andthathiseyeshadbeendeceived—atouchoffatigue,thatwas all, a silly hallucination.Now he felt a certain bitterness, a dark shadow,suchascomewhenmomentsofdestinypassusbywithouttouchingusandthenoiseof theirpassingdiesaway in thedistancewhileweremainaloneamidaswirl of dead leaves lamenting the great—and terrible—opportunity we havelost.

But thenas thenightwentonthebreathoffearbegantorisefromthedarkvalley.AsthenightwentonDrogofelthimselflittleandalone.Tronkwastoodifferentfromhimselftoserveasafriend.Ifonlyhehadhiscomradeswithhim,evenonlyoneofthem,thenitwouldhavebeendifferent.Hewouldevenhavefeltlikejokinganditwouldhavebeennohardshiptoawaitthedawn.

Meanwhiletonguesofmistwereformingonthesteppe,palearchipelagosontheblackocean.Oneofthemcametorestattheveryfootoftheredoubt,hidingthemysteriousobject.Theairhadbecomedamp,Drogo’smantlehungfromhisshoulderslimp.andheavy.

Whatalongnight.Drogohadalreadylosthopeofitseverendingwhentheskybegantopaleandcoldblastsannouncedthatthedawnwasnotfaroff.Itwasthen that sleep overtook him. As he stood leaning against the parapet, Drogotwicelethisheaddroop,twiceherighteditwithastart;atlastitfelloverinertlyandhiseyelidssurrenderedtotheweight.Thenewdaywasbeingborn.

Hewokebecause someonewas touchinghis arm.Slowlyhe emerged fromhisdreams,dazzledbythelight.Avoice,Tronk’svoice,wassayingtohim:“It’sahorse,sir.”

Thenherecalledhislife,theFort,theNewRedoubt,theenigmaoftheblackpatch. He looked quickly down, eager to know the answer, with a cowardlydesiretoseenothingbutstonesandbushes—nothingbutthesteppe,lonelyandemptyasithadalwaysbeen.

But thevoicekept repeating:“It’sahorse,sir.”AndDrogosawit, standingunbelievablyatthefootoftherocks.

Itwasahorse,notbigbut lowandplump,withastrangebeauty in its thinlegs and flowing mane. It was of an odd build but most remarkable for itscolouring—agleamingblackwhichwaslikeadarkstainonthelandscape.

Wherehaditcomefrom?Whosewasit?Foryearsandyearsnolivingthing,unless it were a raven or snake, had ventured there. But now a horse hadappearedandyoucouldseeatoncethatitwasnotawildone,butapickedbeast,arealcharger—exceptperhapsthatthelegswerealittletoothin.

Itwasextraordinaryandpuzzling.Drogo,Tronk, the sentries,and theothersoldiersat the loopholes in thefloorbeneathcouldnot take theireyesoff it. Itbroketherules,thishorse,andbroughtbackthelegendsofthenorth,ofTartarsandbattlesandfilledtheentiredesertwithitsillogicalpresence.

Byitselfitwasnotofgreatimportancebutyoucouldseethattheremustbesomethingelsebehind it. Its saddlewas inorder as if it hadbeen ridden littlebefore.Soheretherewasanunfinishedstory—whathaduptoyesterdayeveningbeen an absurd, a ridiculous superstitionmight be true then.Drogo seemed tofeel them, themysteriousTartars, lurkingamong thebushes, in thecrevicesoftherocks,motionlessandsilentwithclenchedteeth.Theywerewaitingforthedarktoattack.Andmeantimeotherswerearriving,athreateningswarmcomingslowly out of the northernmists. They had no hands nor songs, no gleamingswords,nofinebanners.Theirarmsweredullsoasnot toglint in thesunandtheirhorsesweretrainednottoneigh.

Butapony—thiswastheirimmediatethoughtintheNewRedoubt—aponyhadescapedfromtheenemy,hadrunontobetraythem.Probablytheyhadnotnoticed because the animal had run away from their encampment during thenight.

Sothehorsehadbroughtvaluableintelligence.Butwhatstartdidithaveontheenemy?DrogocouldnotinformtheFortuntileveningandinthemeantimetheTartarscouldmoveup.

Shouldhegivethealarmthen?Tronksaidno—afterallitwasonlyahorse,hesaid.Thefact that ithadreached thefootof theredoubtmightmean that ithad been left, perhaps its master was a solitary hunter who had venturedimprudently into the steppeandhad fallen ill ordied.Thehorse, left to itself,hadgoneinsearchofsafety,haddetectedthepresenceofmeninthedirectionoftheFortandwasnowwaitingforthemtobringitsomeforage.

This was what really made him have serious doubts that an army wasapproaching.Whatmotivecouldtheanimalhavehadforrunningawayfromanencampment insuchinhospitablecountry?Andthen,Tronksaid,hehadheardtellthattheTartars’horseswerealmostallwhite—eveninanoldpicturehunginoneoftheroomsintheForttheTartarsweremountedonwhitesteeds;butthisonewascoal-black.

SoDrogo; aftermanyhesitations, decided to await the evening.Meanwhiletheskyhadclearedandthesunshoneoverthelandscapeandwarmedthehearts

ofthesoldiers.EvenGiovannifelthimselftakeheartfromthebrightlight—hisfantasies about the Tartars became less solid, everything resumed its normalproportions, the horse was only a horse and one could find all sorts ofexplanationsforitspresencewithoutpostulatingenemyraids.Havingforgottenthefearsofthenight,hesuddenlyfelthimselfreadyforanyadventureandthepresentimentthathismomentofdestinywasatthegatesfilledhimwithjoy—ahappyfatewhichwouldraisehimaboveothermen.

Hetookpleasureinseeingpersonallytothesmallestdetailsofguarddutiesasif to show Tronk and the soldiers that the appearance of the horse, howeverstrangeandworrying,hadnotdisturbedhimintheleast.Thishefelttobeverymilitary.

The soldiers, to tell the truth,were not in the least afraid. They treated thehorseasagreat joke—theywouldhavedearly liked tobeable tocatch it andtakeitbacktotheFortasatrophy.Oneofthemevenaskedthesergeant-major’spermission,butthelattermerelygaveareprovingglanceasiftosaythatitwasnotpermissibletojokeaboutservicematters.

Onthefloorbeneath,however,wherethetwocannonwereinstalled,oneofthe gunners had become very excited at the sight of the horse.Hewas calledGiuseppeLazzari, ayoung fellowwhohad lately joinedup.Hesaid thehorsewas his—he recognised it perfectly, he could not possibly bemistaken. TheymusthaveletitescapewhentheanimalswentoutoftheForttobewatered.

“It’s Fiocco, my horse,” he kept on shouting as if it really were his ownpropertyandsomeonehadrobbedhimofit.

Tronk who had come up from further down in the redoubt stopped hisshoutingatonceandpointedoutsharplythatitwasimpossibleforhishorsetohave runaway—toget into thenorthernvalley itwouldhavehad to jump thewallsoftheFortorcrossthemountains.

Lazzari replied that therewas away across—or so he had heard—an easywayacrosstherocks,anoldunusedroadwhichnoonerememberedanymore.AndinfactthiswasoneofthemanylegendsattheFort.

Butitcouldonlybeacompleteinvention,forofthissecretwaynotracehadeverbeenfound.TorightandleftoftheFort,formilesandmiles,rosesavagemountains which had never been crossed. But the soldier would not beconvincedandfrettedattheideaofhavingtostayshutupintheredoubtwithoutbeingabletorecapturehishorse—halfanhourwouldhavebeenenoughtogetthereandback.

Meanwhilethehourspassed,thesuncontinueditsjourneytowardsthewest,the sentries relieved each other punctually, the steppe gleamed, more solitarythanever;theponystoodwhereithadstoodbefore—usuallywithoutmoving,as

if itwereasleep,orwanderedaboutlookingforabladeofgrass.Drogo’seyesprobedinto thedistancebut theycouldpickoutnothingnew—nothingbut thesameshelvingrocks,thebushes,themistsinthefarnorthwhichchangedcolourslowlyastheeveningdrewon.

Thenthenewguardcametorelievethem.Drogoandhismenlefttheredoubtand moved off across the stony path to return to the Fort through the violetshadows of the evening. When they had reached the walls Drogo gave thepasswordforhimselfandhismen,thedoorwasopened,theoldguarddrewupinasortof littlecourtyardandTronkbegan tocall the roll.MeanwhileDrogowentofftomakeareportaboutthemysterioushorse.

Aswas laid down,Drogo reported to the captain of the day and then theywent together in search of the colonel. Generally when anything out of theordinaryhappenedonehadmerelytogototheadjutant—butthistimeitmightbeseriousandtherewasnotimetolose.

MeanwhiletherumourhadrunlikelightningthroughtheFort.InthefurthestoffguardroomtherewerealreadymutteringsaboutwholesquadronsofTartarsencampedatthefootoftherocks.Thecolonel,whenheheardofit,merelysaid:“Somebodyshouldtrytocatchit;ifitissaddled—thishorse—perhapswewillbeabletofindoutwhereitisfrom.”

But therewasnopointnow, forPrivateGiuseppeLazzarihad succeeded—whiletheoldguardwasonitswaybacktotheFort—inhidinghimselfbehindaboulderwithoutbeingnoticed,thenhehadclimbeddownthescreesalone,hadreached thehorseandwasnow leading itback to theFort.Hehaddiscoveredwith astonishment that itwas not his own, but therewas nothing he could doaboutitnow.

ItwasonlywhenonthepointofenteringtheFortthatsomeofhiscomradesnoticed thathehaddisappeared. IfTronkgot toknowLazzariwouldbe in thecells for at least a couple of months. They had to save him. So when thesergeant-major called the roll and came to the name ‘Lazzari’ some replied‘Present’forhim.

AfewminuteslaterwhenthemenhadalreadybrokenrankstheyrememberedthatLazzarididnotknowthepassword.Itwasn’taquestionofprisonanylongerbutoflifeanddeath.Itwouldbeterribleifheappearedinfrontofthewalls—theywouldfireonhim.TwoorthreeofhisfriendswentofftolookforTronkinanattempttoremedythings.

Toolate.HoldingtheblackhorsebythebridleLazzariwasalreadyclosetothewalls.AndTronkwasonhisrounds,drawnbacktothebattlementsbysomevague foreboding. Immediately after he had called the roll he had becomeworried—why,hecouldnotdetermine,buthefeltthatsomethingwasnotright.

ReviewingtheincidentsofthedayhehadtracedthemasfarasthereturntotheFort without finding anything suspicious. Then he seemed to stumble onsomething.Yes, theremust have been somethingwrong at roll call and at thetime—asoftenhappensinsuchcases—hehadnotnoticedit.

Therewasasentryonguarddirectlyovertheposterngate.Intheduskhesawtwo figures approaching across the stony path. They would be a couple ofhundredyardsoff.Hetooknonotice,thinkinghewasseeingthings.Veryofteninlonelyplacesifyoustandwaitingfora longtimeyouendupeveninbroaddaylight by seeinghuman forms start fromamong the bushes and rocks—youfeelthatsomeoneiswatching,yougoandlookandthereisnothingthere.

Tobreakthemonotonythesentrylookedaroundhim,greetedacomrade—hewasthesentrythirtyyardsorsotohisright—withagesture,adjustedhisheavycap, which was tight over his brow, and then looked, to the left and sawSergeant-MajorTronkstandingabsolutelystillandgazingathimseverely.

The sentry shook himself, looked to the front oncemore, saw that the twoshadowswerenotadream,indeedtheywerenearernow,onlyseventyoddyardsaway: tobeprecise theywereasoldierandahorse.Thenhe levelledhisgun,cockeditandstiffenedinthegesturehehadrepeatedhundredsoftimesatdrill.Thenhecried:“Whogoesthere?Whogoesthere?”

Lazzarihadnotbeenasoldierlong—itneveroccurredtohimthatwithoutthepasswordhecouldnotgetinagain.Atthemosthewasfrightenedhemightbepunished for going offwithout permission.But you never knew—perhaps thecolonel would pardon him because he had brought in the horse. It was abeautifulanimal,ageneral’scharger.

Therewereonlyfortyoddyardsleft.Thehorse’sshoesrangonthestones.Itwas almost quite dark. Far off there was the sound of a trumpet. “Who goesthere?Whogoesthere?”repeatedthesentry.Hewouldcallagainthenhewouldhavetofire.

A sudden feeling of uneasiness had fallen uponLazzari at the sentry’s firstshout. It seemed so odd to him, now that hewas personally involved, to hearhimselfchallengedlikethatbyacomrade,butatthesecond“Whogoesthere?”he recognised the voice of a friend, someone from his own company whomamongthemselvestheycalledMoretto.

“It’sme,Lazzari,”heshouted.“Sendthesergeantoftheguardtoopenforme.I’vecaughtthehorse.Anddon’tletthemseeyouorthey’llputmeinside.”

Thesentrydidnotmove.Hestoodtherewithhisgunathisshouldertryingtodelay the third “Who goes there?” Perhaps if Lazzari had noticed the dangerhimselfhewouldhaveturnedback,couldhavejoinedupthenextdaywiththeguard from theNewRedoubt.But therewasTronk, a fewyards away,gazing

sternlyathim.Tronk did not say a word. He looked now at the sentry, now at Lazzari

becauseofwhomhewouldprobablybepunished.Whatdidhisglancesmean?Thesoldierandthehorsewerenomorethanthirtyyardsaway;itwouldhave

beensillytowaitanylonger.ThenearerLazzaricamethemoreeasilyhewouldbehit.

“Whogoes there?Whogoes there?” the sentry cried for the third time andthere was in his voice an undertone—a sort of private warning which wasagainsttheregulations.Hewastryingtosay:“Turnbackwhileyouhavetime,doyouwanttogetkilled?”

AtlastLazzariunderstood.InaflashherememberedtheironlawsoftheFortand felt himself lost. But—who knows why?—instead of running away hedroppedthehorse’sbridleandcameonalonecryingoutinashrillvoice:

“It’sme,Lazzari.Don’tyouseeme?Moretto,OhMoretto.It’sme.Whatareyoudoingwithyourgun?Areyoumad,Moretto?”

But thesentrywasno longerMoretto—hewassimplyasoldierwithahardfacewhonowwasslowlyraisinghisguntotakeaimattheenemy.Hehadlaidtheguntohisshoulderandwiththecornerofhiseyesquintedatthesergeant-majorsilentlyprayingthathemightsignaltostop.ButTronkstaredathimanddidnotmove.

Without turning round Lazzari drew back a few paces, stumbling on thestones.

“It’sme,Lazzari,”heshouted.“Don’tyouseeit’sme?Don’tfire,Moretto.”But the sentry was no longer theMoretto with whom his comrades joked

freely, he was only a sentry at the Fort in a dark blue uniform with a blackbandolier, absolutely identical with all the other sentries in the darkness—asentry like all the otherswho had taken aim and now pressed the trigger. Heheard a roaring in his ears and seemed to catch Tronk’s harsh voice: “Goodshot,”althoughTronkhadnotdrawnbreath.

Theriflegavealittleflash,atinycloudofsmoke,eventhereportatfirstdidnotseemmuch,butthenitwasmultipliedbytheechoes,thrownfromramparttorampart and for long hung in the air to die away in a distant muttering likethunder.

Nowthathisdutywasdonethesentryloweredhisrifle,leantovertheparapetandlookeddown,hopinghehadnothitthemark.AndinthedarknessitseemedindeedthatLazzarihadnotfallen.

No,Lazzariwasstillstandingandthehorsehadcomeuptohim.Theninthesilenceleftbytheshothisvoicewasheard—andhowdesperateitsounded:“Oh,Moretto,youhavekilledme.”

These were his words and he slouched slowly forward. Tronk with hisinscrutablefacehadnotmadeamovebutthroughthelabyrinthsoftheForttherespreadahumofwar.

T

XIII

HUSbeganthatmemorablewind-swepteveningwithitsswayinglanternsandunwontedtrumpetcalls,withpacingtoandfrointhecorridors,withcloudsrushingdown from thenorth, cloudswhichcaughton the rockypeaksand

thereleftwispsbehindthembuthadnotimetostop,sourgentwastheirerrand.Ithadneededonlyareport,amererifle-shot,andtheForthadawakened;For

yearstherehadbeensilence,yettheyhadalwayslookedtothenorthtohearthevoiceofapproachingwar—toolongasilence.Nowagunhadbeenfired,withitsregulationchargeofpowderandits leadball thirty-twogrammesinweight,andthemenhadlookedateachotherasifitwerethesignal.

Admittedly even this evening no one, unless it be one of the soldiers,pronounces the word which is in everyone’s mind. The officers prefer not toutter itbecause in it lies theirhope. It isbecauseof theTartars that theyhavebuilt thewalls of the Fort and there use up great stretches of their lives; it isbecause of the Tartars that the sentries pace up and down day and night likeclockwork.And some of them feed their hope everymorningwith new faith;otherskeepithiddeninthebottomoftheirhearts;othersagain—believingitlost—arenotevenconsciousofharbouringit.Butnoonehasthecouragetospeakabout it, that would perhaps mean bad luck, above all it would look likeconfessingone’sdearestthoughtsandofthatsoldiersareashamed.

Asyetthereisonlyadeadsoldierandahorsecomefromwhoknowswhere.Intheguardroomatthenortherngate,wheretheunfortunateincidentoccurred,thereisagreatstirand,althoughitisagainsttheregulations,Tronkistheretooand has no peace at the thought of the punishment which awaits him: theresponsibilityfallsonhim, itwashisduty tostopLazzari fromslippingoff; itwas his duty to notice at oncewhen they came back that the soldier had notansweredtherollcall.

AndnowMajorMattialsoappears,anxioustomakehisauthorityfeltandtoshowhispowers.Hehasastrangeandpuzzlingexpression—healmostgivestheimpression thathe issmiling.Evidentlyhe is fully informedofeverythingandordersLieutenantMentana,whoisondutyintheredoubt,torecoverthecorpseofthesoldier.

Mentanaisapale-facedofficer,theoldestlieutenantintheFort;ifhedidnot

have a large diamond ring and play good chess no one would notice hisexistence.Itisagreatjewelhewearsonhisring-fingerandtherearefewwhocanbeathimonthechessboard,but,inthepresenceofMajorMattiheliterallyshakesand loseshisheadoversuchasimplematterassendingafatiguepartyforthedeadman.

FortunatelyMajorMattihascaughtsightofSergeant-MajorTronkstandinginacornerandcallshim.

“Tronk,seeingyouhavenothingtodo,takecommandoftheparty.”He says this with the greatest possible naturalness as if Tronk were any

N.C.O. and had no personal connectionwith the occurrence; becauseMatti isincapableofadministeringadirectrebukeheusuallyendsupbybecomingwhitewithrageandcannotfindwords.Heprefersthemuchmoreterribleweaponofcourts of inquirywith phlegmatic interrogations andwritten documentswhichsucceed in monstrously magnifying the slightest shortcomings and almostalwaysleadtonotablepunishments.

Tronkdoesnotbataneyelid—“Yes,sir,”herepliesandhastensdownintothelittlecourtyard immediatelybehind theposterngate.Shortlyafterwardsa littleprocessionissuesfromtheFortbythelightofoneor twolanterns.Tronkisattheir head, then four soldiers with a stretcher, four more armed soldiers as aprecaution, and last of all.MajorMatti himselfwrapped in a faded cloak andtrailinghissabreonthestones.

TheyfindLazzariashedied,hisfacetothegroundandhisarmsstretchedoutinfrontofhim.Inhisfallhisslungriflehascaughtbetweentwostonesandnowstandsuprightwith thebutt uppermost—a strange sight.Ashe fell the soldierhascuthishandandbeforethebodycouldgrowcoldalittlebloodhashadtimetoflowandformastainonawhitestone.Themysterioushorsehasdisappeared.

Tronkleansoverthedeadmanasthoughtotakehimbytheshoulders,buthedrawsbacksuddenlyasifhehadcaughthimselfinfringingtheregulations.“Lifthimup,”heordersthesoldiersinalowandangryvoice,“butfirsttakeawayhisrifle.”

Asoldierstoopstounbuckletheslingandlaysdownthelanternrightbesidethe dead man. Lazzari has not had time to close his eyelids Completely andthroughtheaperturetheflamegleamsalittleonthewhite.

Then Major Matti, who has remained completely in the shadow calls:“Tronk.”

“Yes,sir,”answersTronkcomingtoattention;thesoldierstoostopwhatevertheyaredoing.

“What happened? ‘Where did he get away?” asks the major, drawling thewords as if he spoke fromamixture of boredomand curiosity. “Was it at the

fountain?Wherethosebigbouldersare?”“Yes,sir,attheboulders,”answersTronk,anddoesnotaddanotherword.“Andnoonesawhimescaping?”“No,sir,”saysTronk.“Atthefountain,eh?Wasitdark?”“Yes,sir,fairlydark.”Tronkremainsatattentionforafewmoments,thensinceMattiremainssilent

hegivesasign to thesoldiers tocarryon.Oneof themtries toundotherifle-slingbuttheclaspisstiffandhehasdifficulty.Whenhepullsonit thesoldierfeelstheweightofthedeadbody,aleadenweightoutofallproportiontowhatonewouldexpect.

Havinggotridoftherifle,thetwosoldiersdelicatelyturnthecorpseoverandputitfaceup.Nowtheycanseehiswholeface.Themouthisclosedandwithoutexpression—onlythehalf-openandmotionlesseyes,sincetheydonotrespondtothelightofthelantern,haveanairofdeath.

“Intheforehead?”asksMatti’svoice,forhehasatoncenoticedasortoflittlehollowjustabovethenose.

“Sir?”saysTronkwhodoesnotunderstand.“Isayhewashitintheforehead?”saysMatti,annoyedathavingtorepeatit.Tronk raises the lanternandshines it fullonLazzari’s face;he toosees the

littlehollowandinstinctivelyputsoutafingerasiftotouchit.Butsuddenlyhewithdrawsitinconfusion.

“Ithinkso,sir,rightthereinthemiddleoftheforehead.”(Butwhydoesn’thecomeandseethedeadmanforhimselfifheissointerested?Whatareallthesestupidquestionsfor?)

Thesoldiers,noticingTronk’sembarrassment,concentrateoftheirwork.Twolift up the corpse by the shoulders, two by the legs. The head, left withoutsupport, dangles horribly. The mouth, although it is frozen in death, almostbeginstoopen.

“Andwhowas it that fired?” asksMatti oncemore, stillmotionless in thedarkness.

But at this moment Tronk is not paying attention to him. Tronk is payingattentiononlytothedeadman.“Holduphishead,”hecommandswithdeep-feltangerasifhehimselfwerethedeadman.ThenherealisesthatMattihasspokenandspringstoattentionagain.

“Ibegyoupardon,sir,Iwas...”“I said,” Matti repeats and he measures out the words to show that if he

doesn’tlosehispatienceitisonlybecauseofthedeadman,“Isaid:‘Whowasitthatfired?’”

“Whatishisname,doyouknow?”Tronkaskedthesoldiersinalowvoice.“Martelli,”saysoneofthem,“GiovanniMartelli.”“Martelli,” themajor repeats tohimself. (Thenameseemsnotunfamiliar to

him—itmustbeoneof theprizewinnersat theshootingmatch.For it isMattihimselfwhorunsthemusketryschoolandheremembersthebestonesbyname.)“IsitbyanychancetheonetheycallMoretto?”

“Yes, sir,” saysTronk, standingmotionless at attention. “I believe they callhimMoretto.Youknow,sir,amongthemselves.”

Hesays thisalmostapologetically—asif toshowthatMartelli isnot inanywayresponsible,thatiftheycallhimMorettoitisn’thisfaultandthatthereisnoreasonwhatevertopunishhim.

But the major has not the slightest intention of punishing him—it doesn’tevenenterhishead.

“Ah,Moretto,”heexclaimswithoutconcealingacertainsatisfaction.Thesergeant-majorlookshardathimandunderstands.“Ofcourse,ofcourse,”hethinks,“givehimaprize,thebastard,becausehe

hasdonehiskillingwell.Awonderfulbull,isn’tit?”AtthismomentTronkhateshim.“Ofcourse,ofcourse, tellhimout loudthatyouarepleased,”he thinks,“if

Lazzariisdeadyoudon’tgiveadamn.CongratulatethisMorettoofyours.”Andthatiswhathappens—themajorwiththegreatestcalmnessexpresseshis

satisfactionaloud.“Ahyes,hedoesn’tmiss,Moretto,”heexclaimsasiftosay—‘Hewasasly

one,Lazzari,hethoughtMorettowouldmiss,hethoughthewouldhavehimon,Lazzaridid.Andsohelearntwhatsortofashothewas.AndwhataboutTronk?maybehehopedthatMorettowouldmiss(theneverythingwouldhavebeenputright, with a few days’ detention).’ “Of course, of course,” the major repeatsoncemore,completelyforgettingthatthedeadmanisinfrontofhim,“apickedshot,Moretto.”

Atlast,however,hestopsandthesergeant-majorcanturnroundandseehowtheyhave laid the corpse on the stretcher. It is already laid out decently; theyhavethrownanarmyblanketoveritsface;ofthenakedfleshonlythehandscanbeseen—twobigpeasant’shandswhichseemstillredwithlifeandwarmblood.

Tronknodshishead.Thesoldiersraisethestretcher.“Maywego,sir?”heasks.“Whoistheretowaitfor?”Mattianswersinahardvoice.Now,withgenuine

amazement, he has felt Tronk’s hatred and means to return it with interest,addingtoithiscontemptforaninferior.

“Forward,”ordersTronk.Forwardmarch,heshouldhavesaid,but it seems

almost a profanation. Only now did he look towards the walls of the Fort,towards the sentry on the skyline, vaguely lit by the gleam of the lanterns.BehindthesewallsinabarrackroomthereisLazzari’sbunk,hislittleboxwiththe things brought fromhome—aholy image, twoheads ofmaize, a steel forflint, some coloured handkerchiefs, four. silver buttons for his best suitwhichhadbelongedtohisgrandfatherandwouldneverbeofanyuseattheFort.

Perhaps the pillow still bears the imprint of his head, exactly as two daysbeforewhenheawoke.Thenthereisprobablyalittlebottleofink—Tronkaddsmentally,forevenhislonelythinkingismeticulous—alittlebottleofinkandapen.All thiswillbeput ina littleparcelandsenthomewitha letter from thecolonel.TheotherthingsissuedbytheGovernmentwillnaturallybehandedontosomeothersoldier,includinghisspareshirt.Butnothisfineuniformnoryethis gun; the gun and the uniformwill be buriedwith himbecause such is theancientruleoftheFort.

A

XIV

NDwhenthefirstdawnwasbreakingtheysawfromtheNewRedoubtathinblack lineon thenorthernplain.A thinmoving linewhich couldnotbe ahallucination.Thefirst toseeitwasasentrycalledAndronico, thenPietri,

thenSergeantBattawhohadlaughedatitatfirst,andthenLieutenantMadernatoo,thecommanderoftheredoubt.

A small black line was advancing from the north across the uninhabitedsteppe;itwasbothastonishingandabsurdalthoughevenduringthenightsomesortofpresentimenthadbeenabroad in theFort.Ataboutsix,Andronicowasthefirsttoshoutthealarm.Somethingwasapproachingfromthenorth,aneventsuch as had not happened in living memory. As the light grew stronger theadvancing body ofmen stood out clearly against thewhite background of thedesert.

Afewminuteslatertheregimentaltailor,Prosdocimo,ashehaddoneeverymorningsince timeimmemorial (once ithadbeenfrompurehopefulness, thenmerely from a sense of duty and now was almost solely from habit)—Prosdocimo, then, climbed up to look out from the roof of the Fort. In theguardroomstheylethimpassfromoldcustom;hewouldlookinandchatalittlewiththesergeantoftheguard,thengobackdownintohissubterraneanquarters.

Thismorninghecameuponto the sentry-walkand lookedat the triangularpatchofdesertandsaidtohimself:“Imustbedead.”Itseemedimpossiblethatitshould be a dream. In a dream there is always an element of absurdity andconfusion—one isneveraltogether freeof thevague feeling that everything isfalse, thatsoonerorlateroneisgoingtowakeup.Inadreamthingsarenevercrystalclearandreal, like thatdesolateplainoverwhichcolumnsofunknownmenwereadvancing.

Butitwassoextraordinary,solikecertainlongingsofhisyouth,thatitneverevenenteredProsdocimo’shead,thatitcouldbetrue;sohethoughthemustbedead.

HethoughthemustbedeadandthatGodhadpardonedhim.Hethoughthewasintheotherworld—aworldapparentlylikeourown,exceptthat therethegood thingsof lifewill come true according to our just desires andonce theyhave been satisfied one’s soul is at peace, not as in thisworldwhere there is

alwayssomethingtopoisonevenourhappiestdays.He thought hemust be dead, Prosdocimo, and did notmove thinking that,

beingdead,itwasnothisplacetomove,andthatsomemysteriouspowerwouldstirhimtoaction.Insteaditwasasergeant-majorwhorespectfullytouchedhisarm.

“Whatisit?”hesaid”tohim.“Aren’tyoufeelingwell?”ItwasonlythenthatProsdocimobegantounderstand.Almostas if inadream,onlybetter,mysteriousmenweredescendingfrom

theNorthernKingdom.Timepassedmorequickly,one'seyelidsnolongerevenblinkedasonegazedattheunusualsight;thesunwasalreadyshiningontheredrim of the horizon and little by little the foreign troops drew nearer, althoughwithextremeslowness.Somepeoplesaid that theywereonfootandonhorse,thattheywerecomingoninIndianfile,thattherewasaflagtoo.Sosomepeoplesaidandothersbelievedtheysawit,everybodygotitintotheirheadsthattheysawfootandhorse,theflag,thelongfile,althoughinrealitytheymadeoutonlyathin,black,slowly-movingline.

“TheTartars,”Andronicodaredtosayasifitwereagrimjoke,andhisfacehadbecomeaswhiteasdeath.HalfanhourlaterLieutenantMadernaattheNewRedoubtorderedthecannontofireoneround,awarningshot,aswaslaiddownintheeventofunknownarmedforcesbeingseentoapproach.

Itwasyearssinceacannonhadbeenheardupthere.Thewallsshookalittle.Thereportspreadwithaslowrumble;thenoiseofdestructionechoedamongthecrags.AndLieutenantMaderna’seyes turned to thesmoothprofileof theFortwatchingforsignsofexcitement.Butthenoiseoftheguncausednosurprise,forthestrangerswereadvancingoverthatverytriangleofplainwhichwasvisiblefrom the Fort and everyone knew about them already. Even in the remotestturret,where the left-hand bastion came to an end against the rocks, even thesentrystandingguardontheundergroundstoreroomwherethelanternsandthemason’sthingswerekept,eventhissentry,shutupinthegloomycellar,wherehecouldseenothing,hadheardthenews.Andhewasimpatientfortimetopasssothathetoocouldgoupontothesentry-walkandlook.

Everythingwentonasbefore—thesentriesremainedattheirposts,pacingupanddownintheprescribedspace,theclerkswentoncopyingtheirreportswithscreechingpensanddippedthemintheinkwiththeirusualrhythm;butfromthenorthmenwereapproachingwhomustbepresumedtobeenemies.Inthestablesthe soldiers cursed the horses, the cookhouse chimneys smoked calmly, threesoldierswere sweepingout the courtyard; but already therewas everywhere amarkedairofsolemnity,astateofextremesuspenseineveryone’smind,asifthegreathourhadcomeandnothingcouldnowholditback.

Officersandmendrewdeepbreathsof themorningair soas to feelwithinthemselves youth and life. The gunners began to get ready their guns, jokingamong themselves as theyworked at them, as if theywere beasts one had tokeepingoodcondition;yetatthesametimetheylookedatthemwithacertainapprehension.Perhapsaftersuchalongintervalthepiecescouldnolongerfire;perhapsinthepasttheyhadnotbeencleanedwithsufficientcare;inasense,itcouldonlybeamakeshiftforshortlyeverythingwouldbesettledonewayortheother.Neverbeforehadtheorderliesrunupthestairssoquickly,neverhadtheuniformsbeensotidy,thebayonetssogleaming,thebuglecallssomilitary.Sotheyhadnotwaitedinvain;theyearshadnotbeenwasted;theoldFortwould,afterall,beofsomeuse.

Now theywerewaiting for a, special bugle call, the signal for the “generalalarm” which the men had never had the good fortune to hear. During theirexercises—heldoutsidetheFortinasecludedvalley,wherethenoiseswouldnotreachtheFortandgiverisetomisunderstandings—thetrumpetershadofacalmsummer’s afternoon tried out the famous call, more from excess of zeal thananythingelse; certainlynooneever thought itwouldbeused.Now theyweresorrytheyhadnotpractiseditenough;itclimbedinonelongarpeggiotoahigh,highnoteandprobablytheywouldbringoutasoundthatwasnotquitetrue.

Only the commandantof theFort couldgive theorder for the signal and itwasofhimthateveryonethought—alreadythesoldierswerewaitingforhimtocome and inspect the walls from end to end, already they saw him advancetowardsthem,smilingproudly,andlookingeachmankeenlyintheeye.Itmustbeagreatdayforhim,forhadhenotspenthiswholelifewaitingforthisevent?

ButColonelFilimorewasinhisofficeandlookedoutofhiswindowto thenorth—towardsthelittletriangleofsteppenothiddenbythecrags;therehesawa line of small black dots moving like ants, moving towards him, and theyseemedindeedtobesoldiers.

Everynowandagainanofficercamein—Lieutenant-ColonelNicolosiorthecaptainofthedayoranorderlyofficer.Theycameinonvariouspretexts(theywereimpatientlyawaitinghisorders)andannouncedunimportantitemsofnews:that another supply waggon had arrived from the city, that the repairs to thebaker’s shopwere beginning thatmorning, that a dozen soldiers had finishedtheir leave, that the telescopehadbeen setupon the terraceof theFort if thecolonelwishedtoavailhimselfofit.

Theygavethesepiecesofnews,salutedwithaclickoftheirheels,andcouldnotunderstandwhythecolonelsattherewithoutsayingaword,withoutgivingthe commands everyone awaitedwith certainty.He had not yet reinforced theguards, nor doubled the number of rounds issued to eachman nor decided to

givethegeneralalarm.Almostasifhesufferedfromsomemysteriouslistlessnesshecoldlywatched

themcomein,neithercastdownnorglad,asifallthisdidnotconcernhim.TocrowneverythingitwasasplendidOctoberday,withclearsunlight,theair

fresh, theveryweatheronewoulddesire for abattle.Thewind shookout theflag on the roof of the Fort, the yellow earth of the court-yard shone and thesoldiersastheypassedacrossitleftclear-cutshadows.Alovelymorning,sir.

But thecommandant let itbeclearlyunderstood thathepreferred tobe leftaloneandwhentherewasnooneintheofficehewentfromdesktowindow,andfromwindow todesk,unable tomakeuphismind; forno reasonat allhe setrighthisgreymoustacheandgaveventtolongsighs;butasisthewaywitholdmenthesewereapurelyphysicalphenomenon.

Nowtheblackstreakmadebytheforeigntroopscouldnolongerbeseenonthelittletriangleofplainvisiblefromthewindow—whichmeantthattheyhadcomecloser,hadcomenearertothefrontier.Inthreeorfourhourstheywouldbeatthefootofthemountains.

But the colonel went on polishing the lenses of his spectacles with hishandkerchieffornoreasonatall;heturnedoverthepagesofthereportspiledonhistable;theordersofthedaytosign,arequestforleave,thedailyreportofthemedicalofficer,abillfromthesaddlerystores.

What areyouwaiting for, sir?The sun is alreadyhigh in the sky and evenMajorMatti,whocameinalittlewhileago,didnothideacertainapprehension—evenMajorMattiwhoneverbelievesanything.Atleastshowyourselftothesentries,takeaturnroundthewalls.CaptainFortewhohasbeentoinspecttheNewRedoubtsays that theforeignerscannowbedistinguishedseparatelyandareevidentlyarmed—theyarecarryingrifles;thereisnotimetolose.

But Filimorewants towait. All right, they are soldiers, but howmany arethere of them?One person says two hundred, another two hundred and fifty;theyhavealsopointedoutthatifthisistheadvanceguardthemainguardwillbeatleasttwothousandmen.Butthemainguardhasnotyetbeensighted,perhapsitdoesnotevenexist.

Themainguardhasnotbeen seenyet, sir,onlybecauseof themists to thenorth.Thesehavecomevery fardown thismorning, thewindfromacross thehillshasdriventhemdown,andsotheycoveragreatportionoftheplain.Thesetwohundredmenwouldnotmakesenseiftheydidnothavealargearmybehindthem;theotherswillcertainlycomeintosightbeforemidday.Infactthereisonesentrywhosayshesawsomethingmovingontheedgeofthemistsalittlewhileago.

Butthecommandantgoesupanddownfromwindowtodeskandbackagain

and absentmindedly turns the pages of the reports.Why should the foreignersassault the Fort? hewonders. Perhaps they are normalmanouevres to test thedifficulties of the desert. The time of theTartars is passed—they are nomorethanaremotelegend.Andwhoelsewouldbeinterestedinforcingthefrontier?Thereissomethingunconvincingaboutallthis.

Theymaynotbe theTartars, sir,but theyarecertainlysoldiers.Forseveralyearstherehavebeendeep-seatedquarrelswiththeNorthernKingdom—thatisnomysterytoanyone;morethanoncetherehasbeentalkofwar.Soldierstheycertainlyare.Therearebothhorseandfoot,probablytheartillerywillcomeupsoon,too.Withoutexaggerating,theywouldhaveplentyoftimetoattackbeforeevening—andthewallsoftheFortareold,theriflesareold,thecannonareold,everythingcompletelyoutofdateexcepttheheartsofthesoldiers.Don’tbetoosure,sir.

Don’tbetoosure!Heonlywisheshewerenotsure—thisiswhathehaslivedfor;hehasnotmanyyearslefttohimandifthisisnottherealthingtherewillprobablynotbeanotherchance.It isnotfear thatholdshimback, it isnot thethoughtofperhapsdying.Itdoesnotevenenterhishead.

Thefactisthatnow,towardstheendofhisdays,FilimorehassuddenlyseenFortune approach in silver armour andwith a blood-stained sword; he hardly'everthoughtofheranymore,yethenowsawherapproachinthisstrangeguiseandherfacewasfriendly.AndFilimore—thisisthetruth—didnotdaretogotomeether;hehadbeendeceivedtoooftenandnowhehadhadenough.

The others, the officers of the Fort, had gone running out to meet her, tocelebrateherarrival.Unlikehimtheyhadgoneforthconfidentlyandsavouredthestrongandbittersmellofbattlealmostasiftheyhadexperienceditbefore.Butthecolonelwaited.Untilthefairapparitionhadtouchedhimonthehandhewouldnotmove,asifoutofsuperstition.Perhapsatriflewouldmaketheimagedissolveinthevoid—asimplegestureofgreeting,anadmissionofdesire.

SoheconfinedhimselftoshakinghisheadnegativelyasiftosaythatFortunemustbemistaken.Andlookedaroundincredulously,lookedbehindwheretherewerepresumablyotherpeople,thepeopleFortunewasreallyseeking.Buttherewasnooneelsetobeseen—therewasnopossibilityofmistakenidentity,hehadtoadmitthatthisenviablefatewasreservedforhimself.

There hadbeen amoment at first lightwhen themysterious black line hadappearedtohimagainstthewhitenessofthedesert,amomentinwhichhishearthad leapt with joy. Then the vision in the silver armour and with the blood-stainedswordhadgrownalittlemoreindistinct—itwasmovingtowardshimbutdid not in fact make any progress, did not succeed in reducing the distancebetweenthem,ashortdistanceyetinfinite.

The reason is that Filimore has beenwaiting too long, and at a certain agehopeisveryexhausting;onedoesnotrediscoverthefaithonehadattwenty.Toolonghehaswaitedinvain;hiseyeshavereadtoomanyordersoftheday,ontoomanymorningshiseyeshaveseenthatwretchedsteppeandalwaysithasbeendeserted. And now that the foreign troops have appeared he has the distinctimpression that theremust be somemistake (itwould be toomuch of a goodthingotherwise)—theremustbesometerriblemistakesomewhere.

Meanwhiletheclockonthewalloppositethedeskcontinuedtoticklifeaway,

andthecolonel’sthinfingers,witheredwiththeyears,persistedincleaningthelensesofhisspectacleswithahandkerchiefalthoughtherewasnoneedtodoso.

The hands of the clock were approaching half-past ten when Major Matticame into the room to remind the colonel of his daily officers’ conference.Filimore had forgotten andwas disagreeably surprised; hewould have to talkaboutthestrangerswhohadappearedonthesteppe;hewouldnolongerbeabletoputoffadecision;hewouldhavetostateofficiallythattheywereenemies—or else make a joke of it, or perhaps take a middle course: give orders forsecuritymeasures and at the same time take up a sceptical attitude as if therewerenothingtogetexcitedabout.Butsomedecisionhadtobetakenandthathedidnotlike.Hewouldhavepreferredtokeeponwaiting,toremaincompletelymotionless—almostasifhewantedtoprovokefatetobreakloose.

MajorMattisaidtohimwithoneofhisambiguoussmiles:“Thislookslikeitthistime.”ColonelFilimoredidnotreply.Themajorsaid:“Youcanseemoreofthemcomingupnow.Therearethreecolumns,youcan

seethemfromhere.”The colonel lookedhim in the eyes and for amoment almost succeeded in

likinghim.“Yousaymoreofthemarecomingup?”“Youcanseethemfromhere,sir,thereareagoodmanyofthemnow.”Theywenttothewindowandsawmoreblacklinesmovingoverthetriangle

ofnorthernsteppe—nolongeroneasatdawn,butthreesidebyside,andtheendofthemwaslosttosight.

War,war,thoughtthecolonelandtriedinvaintodismissthethoughtasiftowishforitwereforbidden.AtMatti’swordshopehadre-awakenedinhimanditnowfilledhimwithexcitement.

His mind still in this whirl, the colonel suddenly found himself in theconference roomwith all the officers (except those on duty) drawn up beforehim.Abovethedarksplashoftheuniformsindividualfacesgleamedpalelybut

hehaddifficultyinrecognisingthem;freshorwizened, theyallsaidthesame,with feverish, gleaming eyes they avidly askedhim to announce formally thattheenemywasthere.Standingtoattentiontheyallstaredathim,demandingnottobedefrauded.

Inthegreatsilencewhichfilledthehallonlythedeepbreathingoftheofficerswastobeheard.Thecolonelsawthathemustsaysomething.Atthatmomenthewasfilledwithanunfamiliaranduncontrolledemotion.Tohisastonishment(forhe could discover no reason for it) Filimore was suddenly certain that theforeigners were indeed enemies determined to violate the frontier. He had noidea how the change had come about for up to the moment before he hadsuccessfully resisted the temptation to believe so.He felt himself being sweptalongbythetensionineveryone’sbreast;heknewthathewouldspeakwithoutreservations.“Gentlemen,”hewouldsay,“at last themomentwehaveawaitedforyearshascome.”

Thatwaswhathewouldsay,orsomethinglikeitandtheofficerswouldlistenwithgratitudetowhathesaid,tothetoneofauthoritywithwhichhepromisedthem glory. That was what he was about to say, but yet—in the innermostrecessesofhismind—avoicepersistedtothecontrary.Itisimpossible,colonel,said this voice, watch out while there is still time, there is some mistakesomewhere(itwouldbetoogoodtobetrueotherwise),watchoutbecausethereisaterriblemistakesomewhere.

Everynowandagainfromamongthewelteroftheemotionswhichinvadedhim this hostile voice emerged. But it was late; his delay was becomingembarassing.

Sothecoloneltookastepforward,raisinghisheadaswashiscustomwhenhewasabouttospeakandtheofficerssawhisfacesuddenlygrowred—yes,thecolonelwasblushing likeaboybecausehewasabout toconfess the jealouslyguardedsecretofhislife.

Hehadblusheddelicatelylikeachildandhislipswereabouttoutterthefirstsoundwhen thehostilevoice re-awoke in thedepthsofhismindandFilimoretrembled with suspense. At that moment he seemed to hear a hurried stepclimbingthestairs,approachingthehallwheretheyweregathered.Noneoftheofficers noticed it, for allwere intent on their commandant, but after all theseyearsFilimore’searhadbecometrainedtodistinguishtheslightestsoundsintheFort.

Therewasnodoubtaboutit,thestepwascomingnearerwithunusualhaste.It had a dull sound, a sound from another world, the sound of a routineinspection; it came, it seemed, straight from theworld of the plain.Thenoisenow reached the other officers clearly too and they felt their feelings rudely

bruised, but why they could not have said. At last the door opened and anunknown officer of the dragoons appeared, gasping with fatigue and coveredwithdust.

Hedrewhimselfuptoattention.“Lieutenant Fernandez,” he said, “of the 7thDragoons. I have brought this

messagefromthecity,fromHisExcellency,theChiefofStaff.”Bearinghistallheaddresselegantlyonhisarchedleftarmheapproachedthecolonelandhandedhimasealedenvelope.

Filimoreshookhishand.“Thankyou,” he said, “you look as if youhavehad a hard rideof it.Now

Santiherewilltakeyoutohavesomethingtoeatanddrink.”WithouttheleasttraceofanxietythecolonelmadeasigntoLieutenantSanti,

thefirsttocatchhiseye,andinvitedhimtodothehonoursoftheFort.Thetwoofficerswentoutandthedoorclosedagain.

“Excuseme,won’tyou?”Filimoreaskedwithaslightsmileandhelduptheenvelopeasasignthathepreferredtoreaditimmediately.Hishandscarefullyundidtheseals,toreoffastripofpaperandtookoutadoublepagecoveredwithwriting.

Ashereadtheofficersstaredathim,lookingforsomethingtoshowitselfinhis face. But there was nothing there. It was as if he had glanced over anewspaper after supper sitting by the fire on a lazywinter evening. Only theflushhaddisappearedfromthecommandant’sthinface.

Whenhehadfinishedreading,thecolonelfoldedthedoublepage,replaceditintheenvelope,puttheenvelopeinhispocketandraisedhisheadtoshowthathewasabouttospeak.Onecouldfeelitintheairthatsomethinghadhappened,thattheenchantmentofafewminutesbeforehadbeenshattered.

“Gentlemen,”hesaid,andhisvoicecamewithgreatdifficulty,“if Iamnotmistakentherehasthismorningbeenacertainexcitementamongthemen—andalso among yourselves—because of formations sighted on the so-calledTartarsteppe.”

Withdifficultyhiswordspiercedtheprofoundsilence.Aflybuzzedupanddowninthehall.

“These are,” hewent on, “these are units of the NorthernKingdomwhichhavebeengiventhetaskoftracingthefrontieraswedidmanyyearsback.TheywillnotcomeneartheFortinthecourseoftheirduties;itisprobablethattheywill spreadout in groups andmake theirwayup into themountains.So I aminformedofficiallyinthisletterbyHisExcellency,theChiefofStaff.”

As he spoke, Filimore gave vent to long sighs, sighs not of impatience orsorrow, but (as is thewaywith oldmen) a purely physical phenomenon; and

suddenlyhisvoiceseemedtohavebecomeanoldman’svoicewithcertainlimpandhollownotes, andhis eyes, anoldman’s eyes,hadbecomeyellowishandopaque.

He had felt it all along, Colonel Filimore. They could not be enemies, heknew it perfectly well; he was not born for glory. He had so often allowedhimself to be stupidly deluded.Why, he asked himself, why had he allowedhimselftobetakenin?Hehadfeltfromthefirstthatitwasboundtoendthus.

“Asyouknow,”hecontinuedinatonesoapatheticthatitcouldnotbutsoundextremelybitter,“theboundarystonesandotherdemarcationsignswerelaidbyusmanyyearsago.ButIaminformedbyHisExcellencythatthereisonestretchnotyetmarkedoff.Ishalldispatchacertainnumberofmenunderacaptainandasubaltern tocomplete thework. It isamountainousregionwith twoor threeparallelchains.Itisnotnecessarytomentionthatitwouldbewelltopushasfarforward as possible and secure the northern ridge. Not that it is strategicallyessential,ifyouunderstandme,becausenowarcouldeverdevelopuptherenorcoulditofferanypossibilitiesofmanoeuvre.”Hebrokeoffforamoment,lostinthought.“Possibilitiesofmanoeuvre—wherewasI?”

“Youweresayingthatoneshouldpushasfarforwardaspossible,”promptedMajorMattiwithasuspiciouslypenitentair.

“Yes, that’s right, Iwas sayingone shouldpush as far forward as possible.However it isnoteasy—bynowwehavebeenoutstrippedby theNortherners.However—well,we’lltalkaboutthatlater,”heconcluded,turningtoLieutenant-ColonelNicolosi.

He fell silent and seemed to be tired. As he spoke he had seen a veil ofdisappointmentfallovertheofficers’faces;hehadseenthembecomeoncemorenotwarriors eager for the fightbut colourlessgarrisonofficers.But theywereyoung,hethought,theywouldstillhavetime.

“Now,”went on the colonel, “I am sorry to have tomake a remarkwhichappliestoseveralofyou.Ihavenoticedmorethanoncethatatthechangingoftheguardsomeplatoonsparadeinthecourtyardwithouttheirrespectiveofficers.Theseofficersevidentlyconsiderthemselvesauthorisedtocomeonparadelater...”

The fly buzzed up and down the hall; the flag on the roof of the Fort haddrooped;thecolonelwastalkingaboutdisciplineandregulations;inthenorthernsteppes armed formations advanced, no longer enemies eager for battle butharmlesssoldierslikethemselves,advancednottowardsdestructionbuttocarryout a survey; their rifles were unloaded, their swords blunt. The inoffensivephantomarmy spreadsover thenorthernplain and in theFort everything fallsbackoncemoreintotherhythmoftheaccustomeddays.

T

XV

HEexpedition to trace theunexploredstretchof frontier left thenextdayatdawn.IncommandwasMonti,thehugecaptain,accompaniedbyLieutenantAngustina and a sergeant-major.Eachof the threehadbeen entrustedwith

the password for that day and for the four following days. It was highlyimprobable that all three of them would perish; in any case the most seniorsurvivingsoldierwouldhavehadpowerstoopenhissuperiorofficers’jackets,iftheyweredeadorhadfainted,tosearchinthelittleinsidepocketandtakefromitthesealedenvelopecontainingthesecretpassforre-enteringtheFort.

Asthesunrose,somefortyarmedmenemergedfromthewallsof theFort.CaptainMontiworeheavynailedboots like thoseofhismen.OnlyAngustinawore jackboots; before they left, the captain had looked at themwith extremecuriositybuthadsaidnothing.

Theydescendedahundredyardsorsooverthestonyroad,thenstruckacrosstotherighttowardsthemouthofanarrowrockyvalleywhichran,intotheheartofthemountain.

Theyhadbeenwalkingforhalfanhourwhenthecaptainsaid:“You’llhavehardgoingwiththese,”andpointedtoAngustina’sjackboots.Angustinasaidnothing.“Idon’twanttohavetostop,”thecaptainwentonafteralittle.“They’llhurt

you,you’llsee.”“It’stoolatenow,”repliedAngustina,“youcouldhavetoldmesooner,ifthat

isthecase.”“Eitherwayitwouldhavecometothesamething,”retortedMonti.“Iknow

you,Angustina,youwouldhaveputthemonjustthesame.”Monticouldnotstandhim.Withalltheairsyougiveyourself,hethought,I’ll

show you soon. And he forced the pace to the utmost even up the steepestslopes,knowingthatAngustinawasnotstrong.Meanwhiletheyhadcomeclosetothebaseofthecliffs.Theloosestoneshadgrownsmallerandtheirfeetsankintothemexhaustingly.

“Usuallythereisadevilishwindblowingdownthisgorge,”saidthecaptain.“Buttodayit’sfine.”

LieutenantAngustinasaidnothing.

“It’sagoodjobthere’snosun,”Montiwenton.“It’sgoodgoingtoday.”“Thenyouhavebeenherealready?”askedAngustina.“Once,”answeredMonti,“wehadtolookforadeserter.”Hebroke off the lastword because the noise of a stonefall had come from

highuponagreyoverhangingwallof rock.Theycouldhear thecrashof thebouldersexplodingagainstthecragsandreboundingwildlydownintotheabyssamidst clouds of dust. A crash of thunderwas thrown from cliff to cliff. Themysterious stonefall continued for someminutes in the heart of the crags, butdied away in the gullies before reaching the foot; only two or three stonesreachedthescreeswherethesoldierswereclimbing.

Allhadfallensilent.Intheroaringofthestonefalltheyhadfeltthepresenceofahostilepower.Monti lookedatAngustinawithavagueairofdistrust.Hehopedhewouldbeafraid,butnotatall.However the lieutenant seemed tobeexcessivelyheatedaftertheshortmarchandhiselegantuniformwassomewhatdisarrayed.

With all the airs you give yourself, you damned snob, thought Monti, I’llshowyou soon.He at once continued themarch, forcing the pace evenmore,andevery sooftenhe threwshortglancesbehind to lookatAngustina.Yes, itwasashehadhopedandforeseen,youcouldseethatthebootswerebeginningto torture his feet. Not that Angustina slackened pace or put on a painedexpression.Youcouldguessitonlyfromtherhythmofhismarching,fromtheexpressionofdeterminationonhisbrow.

“Ifeel Icouldgoonforsixhours today,”said thecaptain.“IfonlyIdidn’thave themen. It’sgoodgoing today,”hekeptonwithnaivemalice.“Howareyou?”

“Ibegyourpardon?”saidAngustina,“whatdidyousay?”“Nothing,”andhesmiledwickedly,“Iwasaskinghowyouweregettingon.”“Ahyes,thankyou,”saidAngustinaevasivelyandthenafterapausetohide

howhewaspantingfromtheclimb,“it’sapity.”“What’sapity?”askedMonti,hopingtheotherwouldconfesstobeingtired.“It’s a pity one can’t come up here oftener, it’s a wonderful spot,” and he

smiledwithhisdetachedair.MontiquickenedthepacestillmorebutAngustinakeptathisheels;hisface

wasnowpalewitheffort;tricklesofsweatrandownfromtherimofhisheavycapandeventhestuffofhisjackethadbecomesoakedthroughonhisback,buthedidnotsayawordnorloseground.

By now they were among the crags; terrible grey cliffs rose sharply allaround;itseemedthevalleymustrisetounimaginableheights.

Thesignsofnormallifeceasedandgavewaytothemotionlessdesolationof

themountains.EverynowandagainAngustinaraisedhiseyesinfascinationtothecrestspoisedoverhead.

“Wewillhaveahaltfurtheron,”saidMonti,whokeptacontinualwatchonhim. “You can’t see the place yet. But are you really not tired? Sometimes apersondoesn’tfeeluptoit.It’sbesttosaysoevenifyouriskgettingtheretoolate.”

“Let’sgeton,let’sgeton,”wasAngustina’sansweralmostasifhewerethesuperiorofficer.

“Ofcourse,youknowIwasonlysayingthatbecauseanyonecanhappennottofeeluptoit.ThatwastheonlyreasonwhyIsaidit.”

Angustinawaspale, tricklesofsweatranfromtherimofhiscap,hisjacketwassoakedthrough.Buthegrittedhisteethanddidnotgivein;hewouldhavedied sooner. Trying not to let the captain see it, he was in fact glancing uptowardstheheadofthevalley,seekingtheendofthehardgoing.

Meanwhilethesunhadrisenandlitthehighestpeaks,buttherewasnotthefreshnessofthefineautumnmornings.Aveilofmistwasspreadingslowlyoverthesky,treacherousandeven.

Nowhisbootsdidbegintohurtdamnably;theleatherbitintohisankle,andtojudgebythepaintheskinmustbealreadybroken.

Suddenly the screes ceased and the valley opened out on to a narrow shelflying at the foot of a circle of cliffs; itwas coveredwith stuntedgrowths.Onbothsidesthererose,inamazeoftowersandrock-chimneys,cliffwallswhoseheightitwashardtojudge.

Somewhat against hiswill CaptainMonti ordered a halt and gave thementimetoeat.Angustinasatcalmlydownonastone,butheshiveredatthewindwhichfrozethesweatonhisbody.Heandthecaptainsharedsomebread,asliceofmeat,apieceofcheeseandabottleofwine.

Angustinawascold;hewatchedthecaptainandthementoseeifoneofthemwouldunrollhiscloaksothathecoulddothesame.Butthemenseemednottofeel tiredandwere jokingamongthemselves.Thecaptainwaseatinghungrily,and enjoying it, betweenmouthfuls he lookedup at the precipitousmountainsabovethem.

“NowIsee,”hesaid.“NowIseewherewecangetup,”andhepointedtotheoverhangingcliffwhichendedonthedisputedcrest.

“Wemustgostraightupfromhere.We’refitforit,aren’twe?Whatdoyou.say,lieutenant?”

Angustina looked at the cliff face. To reach the frontier crest they wouldindeedhave togostraightupfromthereunless theywanted toget rounditbysome break in the rock. But that would takemuchmore time and theymust

hurry.TheNorthernerswere at an advantage for they had set out first and ontheirsidethegoingwasmucheasier.Itwasnecessarytogoforthecliffdirectlyinfront.

“Up here?” askedAngustina looking at the precipitous crags, and he notedthatahundredyardsorsotothelefttheascentwouldhavebeenmucheasier.

“Straightupfromhere,ofcourse,”repeatedthecaptain.“Whatdoyousaytoit?”

“Thewholepointistogettherebeforethem,”saidAngustina.Thecaptainlookedathimwithobviousdislike.“Allright,”hesaid.“Let’shaveaquickgame.”He produced a pack of cards from his pocket, spread his cloak over a flat

stone,invitedAngustinatoplayandthensaid:“These clouds. You keep looking at them in a funny way. But don’t be

frightened,they’renotbadweatherclouds.”Andhelaughedforsomereasonasifhehadmadeawittyjoke.

Sotheybegantoplay.Angustinafeltthewindchillhim.Whereasthecaptainhadsatdownbetweentwoshelteringrockshehimselfcaughtthewindfullinhisback.“ThistimeIshallfallill,”hethought.

“Listen, this is toomuch fromyou,” criedCaptainMontiwithoutwarning,literallyshoutingthewords.“Lettingmehaveanacelikethat,damnit.Where’syourhead?Youkeeplookingupthereandpaynoattentiontothecards.”

“NoIdon’t,” repliedAngustina.“Imadeamistake!”Andhe tried to laughwithoutsuccess.

“Tellthetruth,”saidMontitriumphantlyandwithsatisfaction.“Tellthetruth—thesethingsarehurtingyou,Icouldhavesworntheywouldfromthetimeweleft.

“Whatthings?”“Thesefinebootsofyours.Theyaren’tmeantformarcheslikethis,mydear

Angustina.Tellthetruth—they’rehurting.”“Theyareanuisance,”admittedAngustinawithanoteofcontempt,asif to

indicatethatitwasannoyingtodiscussthem.Thecaptainlaughedcontentedly.“Iknewit.It’sabadideatowearbootsupamongthescrees!”“Do you see that I have played a king of spades,” Angustina warned him

coldly.“Canyounotfollowsuit?”“Yes,ofcourse,Imadeamistake,”saidthecaptainwithunabatedjoy.“Ah,

yes,yourboots.”Truth to tellLieutenantAngustina’sbootsdidnotholdwellon the rocksof

the cliff face. They had no nails and tended to slip, whereas CaptainMonti’sheavy boots, like the men’s, took a solid grip of the footholds. But stillAngustinadidnotfallbehind;bymakingastillgreatereffort—althoughhewasalreadytiredandsufferingfromthesweatfrozenonhisbody—hecontrivedtokeepclosebehindthecaptainupthebrokenwallofrock.

Themountain turnedout to be less difficult and steep than it had appearedfrombelow.Itwasbrokenbychimneys,bydriftsandscree-coveredledges;therock-faceswerepittedwithinnumerableholdswhichtheyfoundwithease.Thecaptain, not being agile by nature, clambered up by brute force in a series ofspurts,lookingdowneverynowandagaininthehopethatAngustinamighthavefallen out. But Angustina held on; with the utmost skill he sought out thebroadest, the most secure holds and was almost amazed that he could pullhimselfupsonimblyalthoughhefeltcompletelyfinished.

Astheabyssopenedupbeneaththem,thelastcrestseemedtorecedebehindthe defences of a perpendicular face of yellow rock.And evening drew on atincreasingspeed,althougha thickceilingofgreycloudsmadeit impossible tojudgehowhighthesunstillstood.Itwasbeginningtobecold,too.Anevilwindrose from the valley and they could hear it sighing among the crevices of themountain.

Then they heard the sergeant who brought up the rear call from below:“Captain!”

Montistopped,Angustinastoppedandafterthemeachsoldierrightdowntheline.

“Whatisitnow?”askedthecaptainasifhehadenoughtoworryhimalready.“They’reonthecrestalready,theNortherners!”shoutedthesergeant.“You’remad.Wheredoyouseethem?”repliedMonti.“Totheleft,onthatlittlesaddle,immediatelytotheleftofthebitthatlooks

likeanose.”Theretheywere.Threetinyblackfiguresstoodoutagainstthegreysky.and

couldbeseenmovingabout.Itwasobviousthattheyhadalreadyoccupiedthelowerportionsofthecrestandwouldinallprobabilityreachthepeakfirst.

“Goddamnit,”saidthecaptainwithafuriousglancebelowhimasifthemenhadbeenresponsibleforthedelay.ThenheturnedtoAngustina.

“Wemustatleastoccupythecrest—there’snotwowaysaboutit—otherwisewe’reforitwiththecolonel.”

“Theywouldhavetostopforabit then,”saidAngustina.“Theywon’t takemorethananhourfromthesaddletothesummit.Iftheydon’tstopwe’reboundtoreachthereafterthem.”

Thenthecaptainsaid:“PerhapsIhadbettergoonwithfourmen—it’squicker

inasmallparty.Youcomeonwithouthurrying,orwaithereifyoufeeltired.”That’swhathewasgettingat, thebastard, thoughtAngustina,hewanted to

leavemebehindandbetheonlyonetocomewelloutofit.“Asyouwish,”hereplied.“ButIprefertocomeuptoo;ifwestayherewe’ll

freezetodeath.”Sothecaptainwithfourofthenimblestsoldierssetoffasanadvancedpatrol.

Angustinatookcommandoftheremainder,hopinginvaintobeabletokeepupwithMonti.Buthehad toomanymen; ifheforced thepace the linestretchedouttoomuch,sothatthoseattheendwerecompletelylosttoview.

SoAngustinasawthecaptain’slittlepatroldisappearabovehimbehindgreyledgesofrock.Foralittleheheardthelittlestonefallstheycausedinthegulliesandthennoteventhat.Eventheirvoicesatlastfadedinthedistance.

Butmeanwhile theskywasbecomingdark.Thesurroundingcrags, thepalerock-faces on the other side of the valley, the far end of the precipice had abluish tint.Little ravens flew along the high crests screeching, as if calling toeachotherbecauseofsomeimminentdanger.

“Sir,”saidthesoldierbehindAngustina.“Itwillrainsoon.”Angustina stopped and looked at him and said nothing.His bootswere no

longer hurting him, but hewas beginning to be extremely tired.Each yard heclimbed cost an extreme effort. Fortunatelyon this stretch the rockswere lesssteep andmore broken than before.Who knewwhere the captain had got to,thought Angustina, perhaps already to the summit, perhaps he had alreadyplantedthelittleflagandsetuptheboundarymark,perhapshewasalreadyonthewaydown.

Helookedupand,sawthatthecrestwasnotmuchfurtheroff.Buthecouldnotthinkhowtofindawayup,sosteepandsmoothwasthebastionbelowit.

At last he cameon to awidepebble-strewn ledge and foundhimself a fewyards from Captain Monti. The latter had climbed on to the shoulders of asoldier and was trying to scramble up a low but sheer cliff, not more than adozenyardshigh,butapparentlyunscaleable.ItwasevidentthatMontihadbeentryingpersistentlyforsomeminuteswithoutsucceedinginfindingaway.

Hegropedaboutthreeorfourtimes,seekingahold,andseemedtofindone;theyheardhimswearandsawhimlowerhimselfagainontotheshouldersofthesoldierwhoshookalloverwiththestrain.Atlasthegaveitupandwithaleapwasdownonthestonyledge.

Monti,whowasgaspingfromfatigue,lookedatAngustinawithahostileair.“Youcouldhavewaiteddownthere,”hesaid.“Certainlywecan’tallofusget

upthisway.ItwillbesomethingifIcangetupmyselfwithacoupleofsoldiers.Itwouldhavebeenbetterifyouhadwaiteddownthere.Nightiscomingonnow,

anditisgoingtobeaseriousjobtogetdown.”“Itwasyouwhosaidtodoit,”answeredAngustinawithouttheleastsignof

becomingembroiled.“YoutoldmetodoasIpreferred;eitherwaitthereorcomebehindyou.”

“Allright,”saidthecaptain.“Nowwehavetofindawayup—thereareonlythesefewyardsbetweenusandthetop.”

“What?Thecrestisjustupthere?”askedthelieutenantwithsuchindefinableironythatMontididnotevensuspectit.

“It’slessthantwelveyards,”saidthecaptainwithacurse.“Damnit,IwanttoseeifIcan’tmanage.Evenif...”

Hewas interruptedbyanarrogantcryfromoverhead.Above therimof thelowcliffthereappearedtwosmilingfaces.

“Goodevening,gentlemen,”shoutedoneofthem,perhapsanofficer.“You’llseethatthere’snowayuphere—youhavetocomeroundbythecrest.”

The two faces withdrew and only the confused voices of men consultingtogethercouldbeheard.

Monti was livid with rage. So there was nothing more to be done. TheNortheners had now occupied the peak as well. The captain sat down on aboulder,payingnoattentiontohismenwhocontinuedtoarrivefrombelow.

At that very moment it began to snow, thick, heavy snow, as if it weremidwinter. In a few seconds—it seemed hardly credible—the stones becamewhiteandthelightsuddenlyfaded.Nighthadfallen,althoughuptonownoonehadthoughtseriouslyofit.

Withoutshowing the leastalarm, thesoldiersunrolled theircloaksand tookcoverbeneaththem.

“Whatareyoudoing,damnit,”exclaimedthecaptain.“Rollupyourcloaksagainatonce.Youhaven’tgotitintoyourheadsthatyouaregoingtospendthenighthere,haveyou?Wemustgodownnow.”

“Ifyouwillallowme,”saidAngustina,“solongastheseotherpeopleareupontheridge...”

“What?Whatdoyouwanttosay?”askedthecaptainangrily.“That,inmyview,wecan’tturnbacksolongastheNorthernersareontheridge.Theygottherefirstandthere’snothingleftforustodohere—butwewouldlookremarkablysilly.”

Thecaptaindidnotreplybutwalkedupanddownthebroadledgeforafewmoments.Thenhesaid:“Butsoontheywillgoaway,too—withthisweatheritisevenworseonthecrestthanhere.”

“Gentlemen,”calledavoicefromaboveasfourorfiveheadsappearedovertheridgeofthecliff,“don’tstandonyourdignity,taketheseropesandcomeup

here—inthisdarkyouwon’tbeabletoclimbdownthecliff.”At thesame time tworopeswere throwndownfromaboveso that themen

fromtheFortcouldusethemtoscalethelowwall.“Thankyou,”saidCaptainMontiwithascornfulair.“Thankyouforthekind

thought,butwecanlookafterourselves.”“Just as youwish,” they shouted oncemore from the summit. “But in any

casewe’llleavethemhereincaseyoucoulddowiththem.”Therefollowedalongsilence—onlytherustleofthesnowcouldbeheardand

asoldiercoughing.Theirrangeofvisionwasreducedalmost tonothing—theycouldbarelydistinguishtherimofthecliffovertheirheads;fromit therenowshonetheredgleamofalantern.

Oneor twoof thesoldiers fromtheForthadputon theircloaksoncemoreandlitlanterns.Onewasbroughttothecaptainincasehemightneedit.

“Captain,”saidAngustinainatiredvoice.“Whatisitnow?”“Whatwouldyousaytoagame?”“To the devilwith the game,” repliedMontiwho knewperfectly that there

wasnoquestionofdescendingonsuchanight.Without saying a word Angustina produced the pack of cards from the

dispatch-case the captain had entrusted to a soldier.He spread a corner of hisowncloakoverastone,setthelanternbesideitandbegantoshufflethecards.

“Captain,”herepeated.“Listentomeevenifyoudon’tfeellikeit.”ThenMontisawwhatthelieutenantmeant—therewasnothingelsetodowith

theNortherners there,probablymaking funof them.Andwhile themencreptcloseintothefootofthecliff,takingadvantageofeveryhollow,orfelltoeatingwithjestsandlaughter,thetwoofficersbeganagameofcardsinthesnow.

“Yourtrick,yourtrick,”theyheardthemcalljestinglyfromabove.NeitherMontinorAngustinaraisedtheirheadsbutwentonplaying.Butthe

captainplayedwithan illwill, slamming thecardsdownon thecloak in rage.Angustinatriedinvaintomakelightofit.

“Wonderful, twoacesoneafteranother.ButI’mgoingtotakethisone.Tellmethetruth,youhadforgottenthatclub.”Andeverynowandthenhelaughed,andhislaughterseemedtoringtrue.

Overheadtheyheardthevoicesstartupagain,thenthenoiseofstonesbeingdislodged;probablytheywereabouttomoveoff.

“Good luck,” the samevoice asbefore calleddown to them. “Haveagoodgameanddon’tforgetthetworopes.”

NeitherthecaptainnorAngustinareplied.Theywentonplayingwithouttheleastsignofareply;theymadeagreatshowofconcentration.

The gleam of the lantern disappeared from the crest—evidently theNorthernersweregoingaway.Intheheavysnowthecardshadbecomesoakedanditwasonlywithdifficultythattheycouldmixthem.

“That’s enough,” said the captain throwing his down on the cloak. “That’senoughofthisfarce.”

Hewithdrewundertherocksandwrappedhimselfupcarefullyinhiscloak.“Toni,”hecried,“bringmemyknapsackandgetmesomedrinkingwater.”“Theycanstillseeus,”saidAngustina.“Theycanstillseeusfromthecrest.”

ButwhenhesawthatMontihadhadenoughhewentonhimself,pretendingthatthegamecontinued.

Meanwhileahorrible feelingofchillhadpenetratedhimto themarrow.Hefelt that probably he would no longer be able to move, nor even to stretchhimselfout;never thathecould rememberhadhe felt so ill.On thecrestonecouldstillseetheswayinglightoftheNortherners’lanternmovingfurtherandfurtheraway;theycouldstillseehim.(Andthereatthewindowofthewonderfulpalacewasa slender figure—hehimself,Angustina,asa child, strikinglypalewithanelegantvelvetdressandacollarofwhite lace.Witha tiredgestureheopenedthewindow,leaningforwardtowardsthewaveringspiritswhichclungtothesill,asifhewereathomewiththemandhadsomethingtotellthem.)

“My trick,my trick,”he tried to shoutoncemore to let the foreignershearhim, but his voice came hoarse and tired. “That’s the second time, damn it,captain.”

Wrapped up in his cloakMonti slowly chewed at something and gazed atAngustina,andashegazedhisangerlessened.

“That’s enough,” he said, “come into the shelter.TheNortherners are gonenow.”

“Youareamuchbetterplayerthanme,”Angustinakeptuphispretencebuthisvoicewasfailing,“butthiseveningyouhavenoluckatall.Whydoyoukeeponlookingup?Whyareyoulookingatthepeak?Areyoualittleworried?”

Then as the snow swirled down, the last soaked cards dropped fromLieutenantAngustina’shand,thehanditselffelldownlifelessandlaystretchedinertonthecloakinthewaveringlightofthelantern.

Hisshoulderstoastone,thelieutenantlethimselffallslowlyback;astrangesomnolencewasovercominghim.(Andthroughthenightasmallprocessionofotherspiritsadvancedtowardsthepalacebearinga.litterthroughtheair.)

“Lieutenant,comeoverhereandeatsomething.Youhavetoeatinthiscold.Youmust try even if you aren’t hungry.” That is what the captain called andthere was a hint of anxiety in his voice. “Come under here—the snow isstopping.”

Soitwas;quitesuddenlythewhiteswirlshadbecomelessthickandheavy,theairclearer;bythelightofthelanternsonecouldalreadypickoutrockstenortwentyyardsaway.

And suddenly through a rift in the tempest the lights of the Fort appeared,immeasurablydistant.Theyseemed tobe infinite innumber likeanenchantedcastle overwhich there lay all the gaiety of ancient carnivals. Angustina sawthemandathinsmileformedslowlyonhisfrost-swollenlips.

“Lieutenant,” the captain called again, for hewas beginning to graspwhatwashappening.“Lieutenant, throwawaythosecardsandcomeinhereandgetsomeshelterfromthewind.”

ButAngustinawaslookingatthelightsandintruthdidnotknowwhatlightstheywere,whetheroftheFortorofthedistantcityorofhisowncastlewherenooneawaitedhisreturn.

Perhapsatthatmomentasentry,lookingthroughtheembrasuresoftheFort,hadglancedcasuallyupagainst themountainandhadpickedout the lightsonthe crest; at thatdistance theunluckywall-facepresentednoobstacle at all, itmade no difference. And perhaps it was Drogo himself who was guardcommander.Drogo,who had hewished could also have set outwithCaptainMontiandAngustina.ButtoDrogoithadseemedstupid;nowthatthethreatoftheTartars hadbeendispelled, it had seemedmerely a boringduty; therewasnothing to begot out of it.But now,Drogo, too, saw the light of the lanternstrembleonthepeakandbegantoregretthathehadnotgone.Soitwasn’tonlyinwarthatonemightfindsomethingworthwhiledoing;andnowhewishedhetoo were up there in the heart of the night and the tempest. Too late—theopportunityhadpassedhimbyandhehadletitgo.

Dry andwell rested, wrapped in his warm cloak, Giovanni Drogo perhapslookedenviouslyatthedistantlightswhileAngustina,allencrustedwithsnow,laboriouslyputouthislaststrengthtosmoothhiswetmoustacheanddrapehiscloakwithcare—notsoastopullittightabouthimandbewarmer,butforhisownsecretends.FromhisshelterCaptainMontigazedathiminastonishmentandwonderedwhatAngustinawasdoingandwherehehadseensomethingthatlookedlikehim;buthecouldnotremember.

There was in a room in the Fort an old picture of the death of PrinceSebastian.Mortallywounded,PrinceSebastianlayintheheartoftheforestwithhisbackto thetrunkofa tree,hisheada little tooneside,hiscloakfallinginharmonious folds; there was in the picture none of the disagreeable physicalcrueltyofdeathandasonelookedatitonewasnotsurprisedthatthepainterhadcontrivedtopreservealltheprince’snobility,hisextremeelegance.

AndnowAngustina—not thathe thoughtof itofcourse—wasbeginning to

look likePrinceSebastian lyingwounded in theheartof the forest.Angustinadidnothavehisgleamingbreast-platenordidablood-stainedhelmetlieathisfeetnorabrokensword;hewasnot leaninghisbackona trunkbutonahardrock;itwasnotthelastrayofthesunwhichlithisforeheadbutmerelyaweaklantern.Andyettheresemblancewasgreat,thepositionofthelimbsthesame,thesamethewaythemantlefell,thesamehisexpressionofutterweariness.

Then, although they were much more vigorous and robust compared toAngustina, the captain, the sergeant and all themen seemed one and all rudeoafs.AndstrangeasitmayseemthereawokeinMonti’sheartamazementandenvy.

When the snow stopped, the wind lamented among the rocks, whirled thepowdered iceandshook the flameswithin theglassof the lanterns.Angustinaappearednottohearit;hesattheremotionless,leaningontheboulder,hiseyesgazingatthedistantlightsoftheFort.

“Lieutenant,” CaptainMonti tried again, “Lieutenant, make up your mind.Comeunderhere.Ifyoustaythereyouwon’tbeabletostandit.You’llendbyfreezingtodeath.Comeunderhere—Tonihasbuiltasortofwall.”

“Thank you, captain,” said Angustina with an effort, and finding it toodifficulttospeakheraisedonehandalittle,makingasignasiftosayitdidnotmatter,thatthesewerefoolishtrifles,mattersofnoimportance.(Atlastthechiefof thespiritsmadean imperiousgesture tohimandAngustina,withhisboredair, steppedover thewindowsill andgracefully tookhis seat in the litter.Thefairycarriagemovedgentlyoff.)

For someminutes therewas nothing to be heard but the hoarse cry of thewind.Eventhesoldiers,gatheredinclumpsundertherockstokeepwarm,hadlostalldesiretojokeandfoughtsilentlyagainstthecold.

Whenthewindfelloffforamoment,Angustinaagainraisedhisheadalittleandmovedhislipsslowlyasiftospeak;thereemergedonlythesethreewords:“Tomorrowweshould...”Thennothingmore.OnlythreewordsandthesesoweakthatnotevenCaptainMontinoticedthathehadspoken.

Three words and Angustina’s head fell forward, for there was no longeranything to support it.One of his hands laywhite and stiff in the fold of hiscloak,hismouthmanagedtoclose.Oncemoreathinsmilebegantoformonhislips.(Asthelitterborehimofhetookhiseyesofhisfriendandturnedhisheadtothefront,inthedirectionoftheprocession,withasortofcuriositywhichwasat once amused and distrustful. Thus he went off into the night with almostinhumannobility.Theprocessionwound slowly through the sky, risinghigherand higher, then it became a confused streak, then a little wisp of mist, thennothing.)

What were you trying to say, Angustina? What should we do tomorrow?CaptainMontihadatlastlefthisshelterandshookthelieutenantroughlybytheshouldertobringhimtolife;butthepityishesucceedsonlyindisarrangingthenoblefoldsofhissoldier’sshroud.Asyetnoneofthemenhasnoticedwhathashappened.

Monti swears and the only answer is the voice of thewind from the blackprecipice. What were you trying to say, Angustina? You went off withoutfinishingthesentence—perhapsitwassomethingquitetriteandstupid,perhapsanabsurdhope,perhapsnothingatall.

W

XVI

HENtheyhadburiedLieutenantAngustina,timebegantoflowovertheFortagainjustasbefore.“Howlonghaveyoubeenherenow?”MajorOrtizaskedDrogo.

Drogosaid:“Ihavebeenherefouryears.”Thewinterhadcomeunexpectedly,alongwinter.Snowwouldfall,atfirsta

coupleofinches,thenafterapauseadeeperlayerandthenanother,sooftenthatitseemedimpossibletokeepcountofthem;itwouldbealongtimebeforethespringcameagain. (Andyetoneday—muchsooner than theyexpected,muchsooner—theywillhear streamsofwatergushing from theedgeof the terracesandwinterwillinexplicablybeover.)

LieutenantAngustina’scoffin,wrapped ina flag, layunderground ina littlecompoundtoonesideoftheFort.Overittherewasacrossofwhitestonewithhis name on it. Further over there was a smaller cross in wood for PrivateLazzari.

“SometimesI think,”saidOrtiz,“wewantawar,wekeepwaitingforsomegreatchance,wecurseourluckbecausenothingeverhappens.Andyet there’sAngustina...”

“Youmean,” saidGiovanniDrogo, “youmean thatAngustinadidnot needluck?Thathewasagoodsoldierwithoutit?”

“Hewasnot strong—I thinkhemayevenhavebeen ill,” saidMajorOrtiz.“Hewasworseoffthananyofus,really.Likeushedidnotcomefacetofacewiththeenemy,hedidn’thaveawareither.Yethediedasifitwereinbattle.Doyouknowhowhedied?”

“Yes,”saidDrogo,“IwastheretoowhenMontitoldhowithappened.”The winter had come and the foreign troops had departed. Hope’s bright

standardswiththeirgleamthatmightbethegleamofbloodhadslowlydroopedandoncemoretherewascalminmen’shearts;buttheskywasleftemptyandinvaintheireyesstillsoughtsomethingonthefaredgeofthehorizon.

“Heknewtherightmomenttodie,that’safact,”saidMajorOrtiz.“justasifabullethadgothim.Ahero, that’swhathewas.Yetnoonefiredathim.Ofallthose whowere with him that day everyone had the same chance—he didn’thave any advantage, unless that itwas that he diedmore easily.But after all,

whatdidtheothersdo?Fortheothersitwasadaymoreorlessliketherest.”“Yes,”saidDrogo,“onlyabitcolder.”“Yes,abitcolder,”saidOrtiz.“Butyoucouldhavegonewiththemtoo—you

hadonlytoask.”Theyweresittingonawoodenbenchontheuppermostterraceofthefourth

redoubt.OrtizhadcomeinsearchofLieutenantDrogo,whowasonduty.Fromdaytodayafirmfriendshipwasgrowingbetweenthem.

Theyweresittingonabenchwrappedintheircloaks,theirgazeautomaticallyturned to the north where great shapeless clouds, heavy with snow, wereaccumulating.Fromtimetotimethenorthwindblewandchilledtheirclothing.Thehighrockypeakstorightandleftofthegaphadturnedblack.Drogosaid:“IthinkitwillsnowhereattheForttomorrow,too.”

“Probably,”answeredthemajorwithoutanyrealinterestandfellsilent.“Itwillsnow,”Drogowenton.“Theravensarestillflyingpast.”“It’sourownfault,”saidOrtizwhowaspursuinganobstinatelineofthought.

“Afterallwealwaysgetourdeserts.Angustina,forinstance,wasreadytopayahighprice—weweren’t.Perhapsthatisthewholepoint.Perhapsweexpecttoomuch.Afterallwegetourdeserts.”

“Well,”askedDrogo,“well,whatshouldwedo?”“Oh,Iwouldn’tdoanything,”saidOrtizwithasmile.“Ihavewaitedtoolong

now,butyou....”“Whataboutme?”“Go away while there is still time, go back down to the city, get used to

garrisonlife.Afterallyoudon’tseemtomethetypetodespisethepleasuresoflife.You’llhaveabettercareer there thanhere, that I’msureof.And thenwearen’tborntobeheroes.”

Drogosaidnothing.“You’ve let fouryears gopast already,” saidOrtiz, “youhavegot a certain

startinseniority—let’sadmitit—butthinkhowmuchgooditwouldhavedoneyoutobestationedinthecity.Youhavebeencutofffromtheworld,noonewillrememberyouanymore.Gobackwhilethereisstilltime.”

Giovannilistenedinsilencewithhiseyesfixedontheground.“I’ve seen others before you,” themajorwent on. “Little by little they got

accustomedtotheFort,remainedimprisonedinhereandcouldnolongermakeamove.Oldatthirty,thatwaswhattheywere.”

“Ibelieveyou,sir,”saidDrogo,“butatmyage...”"Youareyoung,”Ortizwenton,“andwillstillbeyoungforabit.That’strue.

ButIwouldn’tcounttoomuchonthat.Itonlyneedsanothertwoyearstopass—onlytwoyears—anditwouldbetoomuchofaneffortforyoutogoback.”

“Thankyou,”saidDrogo,whowasnotintheleastimpressed.“ButafterallhereattheFortonecanalwayshopeforbetterthings.Itmaybeabsurd,butevenyou—ifyouarefrank—willconfess...”

“Maybeso,”saidthemajor,“allofus,moreorless,persistinhoping.Butitisabsurd.You’veonlygottothinkalittle,”(andhepointedtothenorth).“Itwillneveragainbepossibleforawartocomefromthere.Andnow—afterwhathasjusthappened—whodoyouexpecttotakeitseriously?”

Ashespokehehadrisentohisfeet,alwayslookingtothenorthjustashehaddone on that distantmorningwhen theywere on the edge of the plateau, andDrogo had seen him stare as if spellbound at the enigmaticwalls of the Fort.Four years had passed since then, a fair slice of life, and nothing, absolutelynothing, had happened to justify such high hopes. The days had gone by oneafter another; soldiers, who might have been the enemy, had appeared onemorningon the rimof thenorthernplain, then theyhadwithdrawnafter someharmlessfrontierduties.Peacereignedover theworld, thesentriessoundednoalarm,nothinggaveanygroundsforthinkingthatlifemightchange.Asinpastyearswintercameonwiththeusualroutineandthewindfromthehillsblowingagainst thebayonetsproducedaweakwhistlingsound.And therehewasstill,MajorOrtiz,standingontheterraceofthefourthredoubt,notevenbelievinghisownwordsofwisdom,lookingoncemoreatthenorthernsteppeasifhealonehad the right to look at it, he alone the right to remain therewhatevermightcomeof it, andDrogo,on theotherhandwasagood fellow,butoutofplace,someonewhohadmiscalculatedandwouldhavedonewelltogobackwherehecamefrom.

A

XVII

Tlastthesnowontheterracesturnedsoftandone’sfeetsankintotheslush.The sweet sound of the streams came unexpectedly from the nearestmountains; here and there on the sides of the peaks one could see white

vertical stripes sparkling in the sun, and now and again the soldiers caughtthemselvessingingastheyhadnotdoneformonths.

Thesunnolongerracedawayasithadbeforeinitshastetoset,butbegantolingeralittleinthemidstofthesky,eatingawaytheheapedsnow,anditwasinvain that the clouds continued to rushdown from thenorthern ice-fields; theycouldnolongermakesnow—rainwasalltheycouldmanageandtherainmerelymeltedwhatlittlesnowremained.Thegoodweatherhadreturned.

Already in the mornings one could hear the voices of the birds whicheveryonethoughttohaveforgotten.OntheotherhandtheravensnolongersatgatheredontheplateaubeforetheFortwaitingforkitchenscrapsbutscatteredthroughthevalleysinsearchoffreshfood.

Atnightinthebarrackroomsthebeamswherethepackshang,therifle-racks,theverydoors,eventhefineheavywalnutfurnitureinthecolonel’sroom,allthetimberintheFort,includingtheoldestbits,creakedinthedarkness.Sometimesthereweresharpcrackslikepistolshots.Itseemedasifsomethingwereactuallyflying apart.Amanwouldwake inhis bunk and strainhis ears.But he couldhearnothingexceptothercreakingswhisperinginthenight.

This is the timewhen an obstinate lament from life re-awakens in the oldbeams.Many,manyyearsago inhappier times therehadbeenasurgeofheatandyouthfulstrengthandclustersofbudssprangfromtheboughs.Thenthetreehadbeencutdown.Andnow itis springand in eachof itsdismemberedpartstherestill awakensapulseof life,an infinitelyweakerpulse.Once therewereleavesandflowers;nowonlyadimmemory,enoughtomakeacrackingnoiseandthenitisoveruntilthenextyear.

This is the time when the men in the Fort begin to have strange, quiteunsoldierlythoughts.Thewallsarenolongerahospitableshelterbutfeellikeaprison.Theirbareness,theblackstreaksofthegutters,theobliqueanglesofthebastions, their yellow colouring, have nothing in common with their newfeelings.

Onespringmorninganofficer—fromthebackonecannottellwhoitisanditmightevenbeGiovanniDrogo—anofficer iswalking inboredomthrough thegreatroomwherethemenwash;atthishouritisdeserted.Hehasnoinspectionto make, nothing to check; he is wandering about to have an excuse for notstanding still.Besides, everything is inorder, thebasinsclean, the floor sweptandtherunningtapisnotthetroops'fault.Theofficerstopsandlooksupatoneof thewindows.Thepanesare shut—probably theyhavenotbeenwashed foryears—andspiders’webshanginthecorners.Thereisnothingtheretocomfortthehumanheart.Andyet,throughtheglass,itispossibletocatchaglimpseofsomethingwhichresemblesthesky.Thesamesky,theofficerperhapsthinks,thesamesun,isshiningatthismomentonthesqualidwash-placeandcertaindistantmeadows.

Themeadowsaregreenandnotlongsincelittleflowers—theywillbewhite—wereborn there.And the trees, too,as is rightandproper,haveputonnewleaves.Itwouldbefinetorideaimlesslythroughthecountryside.Andsupposeonanarrowwayaprettygirlcametomeethimthroughthehedgerowsandashepassedbyheronhorsebackheweretogiveherasmile.Butwhatfoolishness—anofficeratFortBastianiisneverallowedsuchstupidthoughts.

However strange itmay seem,onecaneven seeawhite,pleasingly shapedcloudthroughtheglass.Thesamesortofcloudissailingoverthedistantcityatthisverymoment.Nowandagainpeople lookat itas theystrollalong,happythatwinter is over; almost all of themarewearingnewclothes or refurbishedones,andtheyoungwomenwearfloweredhatsandcoloureddresses.Theyalllookhappy,asifatanymomenttheyexpectedsomethingpleasanttohappen.Atleast, once upon a time, it was like that—who knows whether things havechanged since. And if at a window there were a pretty girl and as he passedbeneath ithewere to saluteher, fornoparticular reason,would shegreethimlikeafriendwithapleasantsmile?Butallthisisnonsense,aschoolboy’sfolly.

Toonesidethroughthedirtyglassonecancatchsightofastretchofwall.Ittooisfloodedwithsunlightbuttheeffectitproducesisnotoneofhappiness.Itisthewallofabarracksandthewallisindifferenttowhetherthesunshinesorthemoon—allthatmattersisthatnothingshouldarisetoupsetthesmoothroundofduties.Abarrackwallandthatisthat.AndyetonedayinadistantmonthofSeptembertheofficerhadstoppedtogazeatitasiffascinated—thenthesewallshadseemedtoholdforhimasternbutenviablefate.Althoughhecouldnotfindthem beautiful, he had remained motionless for some minutes as if he foundhimselfconfrontedwithamiracle.

Anofficerwandersthroughtheemptywash-place—othersareondutyinthevariousredoubts,othersareridingonthestonyparadeground,othersaresitting

in theoffice.Noneof themunderstandsproperlywhathashappened,but theirfacesgetonhisnerves.Always thesamefaces,he thinks instinctively,alwaysthe same talk, the same duties, the same documents. Andmeanwhile there iswithinhimafermentoftenderlongings—itisdifficulttosaypreciselywhathedoeswant,certainlynotthesewalls,thosesoldiers,thosetrumpetcalls.

Sorun,horse,rundowntheroadtotheplain,runbeforeitistoolate.Don’tstopevenifyouaretiredbeforeyouseethegreenmeadows,thefamiliartrees,people’shouses,thechurchesandthebelfries.

And then farewell to the Fort—itwould be dangerous to stay longer.Yoursimplemysteryisgone.Thenorthernsteppewillalwaysremaindeserted,neveragain will the enemy come, never again will anyone come to assault yourcontemptiblewalls.Farewell,MajorOrtiz,melancholyfriend,whocannotbreakawayfromtheFortonthehilltops—andsomanymorelikeyou;youhavekeptonhopingtoolong, timehasbeentooquickforyouandyoucannotstartoveragain.ButGiovanniDrogocan.ThereisnothingmoretokeephimattheFort.Nowhe is goingback to theplain, he is going to rejoinhuman society—verylikelytheywillgivehimsomespecialduties,amissionabroad,say,withsomegeneral.OfcourseinthoseyearswhenhehasbeenintheFortlotsofwonderfulopportunitieshave.beenlost,butGiovanniisstillyoung,hehasallthetimeintheworldtomakeupforit.

So farewell, Fort, with your absurd redoubts, your patient soldiers, yourcolonel who every morning secretly scans the northern steppe through thetelescope.Butitisnouse,thereisnothingthere.AsalutetoAngustina’stomb—perhapshewastheluckiestofall.His,atleast,wasatruesoldier’sdeath—betteratall events than thedeath in thehospitalbedwhichweare likely tohave.Asalute tohisown room,after allDrogohas slept the sleepof the justhere forsomehundredsofnights.Anothersalutetothecourtyardwherethiseveningtoo,thenewguardwillbedrawnupwith theusual formalities.A lastsalute to thenorthernsteppewhichharboursnomoreillusions.Don’tthinkaboutitanymore,GiovanniDrogo,don’tturnbacknowthatyouhavereachedtheedgeoftheplateauandtheroadisabouttoplungeintothevalley.Itwouldbeapieceofstupidweakness.Youknowitstonebystone,onemightsay,FortBastiani,thereisnottheslightestriskofforgettingit.Thehorsetrotscheerfully,thedayisfine,theairwarmandmild,thereisalonglifebeforeyou—almostenoughtobeginoveragainfromthebeginning.Whatneedshouldtherebeofalastglanceatthewalls,atthecasemates,atthesentriesondutyontheparapetoftheredoubts?Soapageisslowlyturned,fallsovertojointheothers,theonesalreadyfinished.Itisstillonlyathinlayer.Thosestilltobereadareinexhaustibleincomparison,Butitisalwaysanotherpagefinished,aportion

ofyourlife.In fact Drogo does not turn. and look back from the edge of the plateau.

Withoutahintofhesitationhegivesspurtohishorse,ondownthehill.Hedoesnot show the least sign of turning his head even the fraction of an inch, hewhistlesatunewithafairattemptatcoolness.Butitisnoteasy.

T

XVIII

HEdoorof thehousewasopenandDrogoatoncesmelt the samesmellofhomeas inhis childhoodwhenhe cameback to the city after the summermonths in thecountry. Itwasa familiarand friendlysmellandyetafter so

longa time therewasabout ita faint suggestionofmeaner things.Thus itdidrecallpastyears, thesweetpleasuresofcertainSundays,happymeals,his lostchildhood, but it also spoke of closed windows, of school tasks, of morningchores,ofillnesses,ofquarrelsandofmice.

“Oh,sir,”criedthegoodGiovannaexultantlyassheopenedthedoortohim.Andatoncehismothercame—thankGodshehadnotchangedyet.

Ashesatinthedrawingroomandtriedtoansweralltheirquestionshefelthis happiness change against his will to sadness. The house seemed emptycomparedtoonceuponatime.Ofhisbrothersonewasabroad,anotheronhistravels somewhereand the third in thecountry.Onlyhismother remainedandafteralittleshe,too,hadtogoout,toattendaserviceinchurchwhereafriendwaitedforher.

Hisbedroomwas the sameasbefore, just ashehad left it; not a bookhadbeenmoved,yetitdidnotseemtobehis.Hesatintheeasychairandlistenedtothenoiseofthecartsinthestreetandtheintermittentsoundofvoicesfromthekitchen.Hesataloneinhisroom,hismotherwasprayinginchurch,hisbrotherswerefaraway—soalltheworldwentonlivingwithoutneedofGiovanniDrogo.Heopened awindow, saw thegreyhouses, roof above roof, thehazy sky.Helookedforhisoldschoolnotebooksinadrawer,adiaryhehadkeptforyears,someletters.Hewasamazedthathehadwrittenthem—hehadnorecollectionofthem, everything referred to strange forgotten incidents. He sat down at thepianoandtriedachord;thenheloweredthecoverofthekeyboard.Andnow?heaskedhimself.

Astranger, hewandered through the city seekingold friends; heheard that

they were deep in affairs, in great enterprises, in their political careers. Theytalked to him of serious and important matters, of factories, railroads andhospitals.Oneinvitedhimtodinner,anotherhadgotmarried,allhadgonetheirownwaysandinfouryearstheyhadalreadytravelledfarapart,howevermuchhetried—butperhapsevenhewasnolongerabletodoit—hecouldnotrevive

the conversations of another time, its jokes and expressions. He wanderedthroughthecityseekingoldfriends,andhehadhadmanyofthem,butheendedbyfindinghimselfaloneonthepavementwithhourafteremptyhourbeforehecouldmaketheeveningcome.

Atnighthestayedoutlate,determinedtofindamusement.Eachtimehewentout with the usual vague youthful hopes of love and each time he returneddisappointed.Oncemorehebegan tohate the road—theunchanging,desertedroadwhichbroughthimhomealone.

AboutthistimetherewasagreatballandDrogo,asheenteredthemansionincompanywithhis friendVescovi, theonly friendhehad found, felthimself inthebestof spirits.Although itwasalready spring thenightwouldbe long, analmostunlimitedstretch,oftime;beforethedawnsomuchmighthappen,whatpreciselyDrogocouldnotsay,butcertainlyseveralhoursofundilutedpleasure.Andinfacthehadbeguntojokewithagirlinavioletdressandstillmidnighthadnotsounded,whenthehostsummonedhimtoshowhimeachdetailofthehouse; he led him through labyrinths and subterranean passages, he held himprisoner in the library,hemadehimexamineacollectionofweaponspiecebypiece,spoketohimofquestionsofstrategy,ofmilitaryaffairs,toldstoriesaboutthe Royal House—and meanwhile time passed, the clocks had begun to racealarmingly. When Drogo contrived to free himself, longing to return to thedance, the rooms were already half empty, the girl in the violet dress haddisappeared;probablyshehadalreadygonehome.

InvainDrogotrieddrinking,invainhelaughedsenselessly—notevenwinecouldhelphimnow.Andthemusicoftheviolinsbecamethinner;thetimecamewhen theywere literallyplaying in avoid, fornoonewasdancing anymore.Drogo found himself among the trees of the garden with a bitter taste in hismouth;hecouldheartheuncertainechoesofawaltzandmeanwhilethemagicoftheballfadedandtheskyslowlypaledwiththeapproachingdawn.

Asthestarsset,Drogostayedonamongthedarkleafyshadowstowatchtheday break while one by one the gilded carriages drove away. Now even theplayerswere silent anda servantwent through the rooms, lowering the lights.Froma tree rightoverDrogo’shead therecame the freshsharp, trillofabird.The sky became paler and paler; everything slept silently in confidentexpectationofafineday.Bynow,thoughtDrogo, thefirstraysof thesunhadalreadyreachedthebastionsoftheFortandthechilledsentries.Hisearwaitedinvainforthesoundofatrumpet.

Hewalkedthroughthesleepingcity,itwasstilldeepinslumber,andopenedthehousedoorwithunnecessarynoise.Within,alittlelightwasalreadyfilteringthroughthecracksintheshutters.

“Goodnight,mother,”hesaidashepassedalongthecorridoranditseemedto him that, as in the old days when he came home late, a confused soundansweredhim fromherbedroom—avoiceheavywith sleep,buta lovingone.Andhewenton towardshisownroomfeelingalmostsoothed,whensuddenlyhenoticedthatshetoowasspeaking.“What’swrong,mother?”heaskedinthevastsilence.Atthesamemomentherealisedthathehadmistakentherumblingofadistantcarriageforherdearvoice.Infacthismotherhadnotreplied—herson’sfootstepsinthenightcouldnolongerawakeherasoncetheyhaddone;itwasasiftheynolongerconcernedher,havingchangedwiththepassingoftime.

Oncehisstepshadreachedherinhersleeplikeasignalagreedbetweenthetwo of them. None of the other noises of the night, even if they were muchlouder,couldwakeher,neitherthecartsinthestreetbelownorthecryingofachild,northehowlingofthedogs,northeowls,norabangingshutter,northewindinthegutters,northerainnorthecreakingofthefurniture.Onlyhisstepawoke her—not that it was loud, for Giovanni went on tiptoe. There was nospecialreasonforit,exceptthathewasherson.

Butnowitseemedhewashersonnomore.Hehadgreetedherasbeforewiththesameinflectioninhisvoice,certainthatatthefamiliarsoundofhisstepshewouldhaveawakened.Insteadtherehadbeennoreplyexcepttherumblingofadistantcarriage.Itisverysilly,hethought,aridiculouscoincidence,thesortofthing thatcouldeasilyhappen.Andyetwhilehegot ready forbed, it lefthimwithabitterfeeling,asiftheaffectiontheyoncehadforeachotherhadfaded,asiftimeanddistancehadslowlyspreadaveilbetweenthem.

L

XIX

ATER hewent to visitMaria, FrancescoVescovi’s sister. Their house had agardenandsinceitwasspringthetreesborenewleavesandbirdssanginthebranches.Mariamethimatthedoorwithasmile.Shehadknownthathewascoming

andhadputonabluedresswithanarrowwaistlikeonewhichhadpleasedhimlongago.

Drogohadthoughtthathewouldhavefeltdeepemotion,thathisheartwouldhavebeatenfaster.Butwhenhewasbesideherandsawhersmileagain,whenheheardhervoice saying: “At last,Giovanni” (sodifferent fromwhathehadimagined)herealisedhowmuchtimehadpassed.

Hewas,orsohethought, thesameasbefore,perhapsalittlebroaderintheshouldersandbrownedbythesunattheFort.Andshehadnotchangedeither.Butsomethinghadcomebetweenthem.

They went into the great drawing room because the sun was too brightoutside;theroomwasfullofsoftshadows,astreakofsunlightgleamedonthecarpetandsomewhereaclockticked.

They sat on a divan—sat sideways to be able to look at each other.Drogolookedintohereyeswithoutfindinganythingtosay,butshelookedvivaciouslyaround—aglance at him, at the furniture, at her turquoise braceletwhichwasapparentlyaquitenewone.

“Francescowill be here shortly,” saidMaria cheerfully. “You can keepmecompanyforalittle—youmusthavelotsofthingstotellme.”

“Oh,”saidDrogo,“nothingspecialreally.It’salways...”“Butwhyareyou lookingatme like that?”sheasked.“Doyou findmeso

changed?”No,Drogo did not find her changed—indeed it was surprising that in four

yearsagirlshouldnothavealteredvisiblyinanyway.Andyethehadavaguefeelingofdisappointmentandcoldness.Henolongersucceededinstrikingtheoldnoteofthedayswhentheyhadtalkedlikebrotherandsisterandcouldhavefun togetherwithouthurtingeachother.Whydidshesiton thesofasocalmlyand talksocharmingly?Heshouldhavecaughtherby thearmandsaid:“Areyoumad?What are yougetting at—pretending to be serious?”The chill spell

wouldhavebeenbroken.ButDrogodidnotfeelcapableofit.Hehadbeforehimanewanddifferent

personwhosethoughtshedidnotknow.Hehimselfperhapswasnolongerthesamepersonasbefore,andhehadstartedbystrikingafalsenote.

“Changed?”answeredDrogo.“No,no,notatall.”“Ah,you’resayingthatbecauseI’mnotasprettyasIwas,that’sit.Tellthe

truth.”Was it reallyMaria speaking?Wasn’t she joking?Giovanni listened to her,

scarcelybelievinghisears,hopingfromonemomenttoanotherthatshewouldcastoffherelegantsmile,hersmoothmannerandwouldlaughoutloudinstead.

“Ugly,ofcourseIthinkyou’reugly,”Giovanniwouldhaverepliedintheolddays,puttinganarm roundherwaist and shewouldhave leant against it.Butnow?Itwouldhavebeenabsurd,ajokeinbadtaste.

“Ofcoursenot,”Drogoreplied.“You’requiteunchanged,Iassureyou.”Shelookedathimwithanunconvincedsmileandchangedthesubject.“And

nowtellme,haveyoucomebackforgood?”Itwasaquestionhehadforeseen.(“Thatdependsonyou,”hehaddecidedto

reply—orsomethinglikethat.)Buthehadexpecteditsooner,atthemomentofmeeting,aswouldhavebeennaturalifitmeantanythingtoher.Nowinsteadithad almost taken him by surprise andwas so different, almost a conventionalquestionwithnosentimentalundertones.

There was a moment of silence; the room lay in the half-light, from thegardencamethebirdsongandfromadistantroomchordsonapiano,theslow,mechanicalchordsofsomeonepractising.

“Idon’tknow,Idon’tknowyet.Iamonlyonleave,”saidDrogo.“Leave—isthatall?”saidMariasuddenly,andtherewasinhervoiceaslight

quiverwhichmighthavebeenduetochanceordisappointmentoreventorealpain.Butsomethinghadindeedcomebetweenthem,anobscureindefinableveilwhichwould not dissolve. Perhaps it had risen slowly day by day during thelongseparation,dividingthemfromeachotherandneitherofthemknewit.

“Twomonths.Then perhaps I shall have to go back, or to another posting,perhaps here in the city,” Drogo explained. The conversation was becomingpainfultohim.Afeelingofindifferencehadenteredhisheart.

Both were silent. The afternoon hung heavily over the city, the birds hadbecomemute, only the distant chords of the pianowere to be heard, sad andpainstaking, rising and rising and rising, filling the whole house, and in thesoundtherewasasortofobstinateeffortasiftheyweretryingtosaysomethingverydifficultwhichcannotbesaidatall.

“It is theMicheli’s daughter, on the floor above,” saidMaria, noticing that

Giovanniwaslistening.“Youusedtoplaythatpiecetoo,didn’tyou?”Mariabentherheadgracefullyasifshewerelistening.“No,no,thatistoodifficult,youmusthavehearditelsewhere.”“Ithought,”saidDrogo.The piano played on with the same effort. Giovanni watched the strip of

sunlightonthecarpetandthoughtoftheFort,imaginingthemeltingsnow,thedrippingofwateron the terraces, thepoormountainspringwhichknowsonlytinyflowersonthegrassyhillsidesandthewindborneperfumeofpastures.

“Butnowyouwillaskforatransfer,won’tyou?”thegirlwenton.“Youwillhavearighttoit,surely,afterallthattime.Itmustbeterriblyboringupthere.”

ShespokethelastwordswithasuggestionofangerasifshehatedtheFort.“Perhapsabit,certainlyIprefertostayherewithyou.”ThispoorsentenceshotthroughDrogo’smind—itseemedachancetoshow

somecourage.Itwastritebutitmightdo.Butsuddenlyhelostalldesiretosayitand thought with disgust how ridiculous the words would have been comingfromhim.

“Ah,yes,”hewenton,“butthedaysgopastsoquickly.”Hecouldhearthesoundofthepianobutcouldnottellwhythechordsrose

higher and higherwithout ceasing. Severe and bare, they retoldwith resigneddetachmentanoldstory—oneofhisfavourites.Theyspokeofamistyeveningunderthelampsofthecityandofhowthetwoofthemwalkedunderthebaretrees along the deserted avenue, suddenly happy, holding hands like children,withoutknowingwhy.Thateveningtoo,heremembered,therehadbeenpianosplayinginthehousesandthenoteshadfloatedfromthelightedwindows.Andalthough theywere probably boring exercises,Giovanni andMaria had neverheardsuchsweet,suchhumanmusic.

“Ofcourse,”Drogoaddedjokingly,“therearen’tmanyamusementsupthere,butonehadgotusedtoitalittle.”

There was a scent of flowers in the drawing-room and their conversationseemed to be slowly acquiring a tone of poetic melancholy conducive todeclarationsof love.Whoknows, thoughtGiovanni,perhaps this firstmeetingafter so long a separation could not be otherwise—with timewemight cometogether again. I have two months’ time. You can’t tell right away like this,perhapsshestilllovesmeandIwon’tgobacktotheFort.Butthegirlsaid:

“Whatapity.InthreedaysIamleavingwithmammaandGiorgina—wewillbeawaysomemonths,Ithink.”Shebecamegayandlivelyatthethought.“WearegoingtoHolland.”

“ToHolland?”

Nowthegirlwasallexcitementasshetalkedofherjourney—ofthefriendsshe would travel with, of the gay times during carnival, of her life, of hercompanions, as ifDrogowerenot there.Nowshe felt entirelyather easeandseemedmorebeautiful.

“A wonderful idea,” said Drogo who felt bitterness grip his throat like anoose.“ThisisthebesttimeoftheyearforHolland,theytellme.Theysaythereareplainsallcoveredwithtulips.”

“Oh,yes,”agreedMaria,“itmustbelovely.”“They don’t grow grain, they grow roses,”Giovanniwent onwith a slight

quiverinhisvoice,“millionsandmillionsofrosesasfarastheeyecanseeandabovethemyouseethewindmills,allfreshlyandgailypainted.”

“Freshlypainted?”askedMaria,whowasbeginningtoseethejoke.“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Sotheysay,”Giovannireplied.“AndIhavereaditsomewheretoo.”The strip of sunlight had travelled over the whole carpet and was now

climbingslowlyoveran inlaidwritingdesk.Theafternoonwasalreadydying,thesoundofthepianohadfaded,outsideinthegardenasolitarybirdstruckupitssongagain.Drogogazedattheandironsonthehearth;theywereabsolutelyidenticalwith a pair at the Fort. The coincidence consoled him subtly as if itshowed that after allFort andcitybelonged to the sameworld,with the sameways of life. But apart from the andirons Drogo had not managed to findanythingelsetheyhadincommon.“Yes,itmustbelovely,”saidMarialoweringhereyes.“ButnowthatIamonthepointofleavingIdon’twanttoanymore.”

“That’ssilly,italwayshappensatthelastmoment—it’ssotiresomepacking,”saidDrogopurposely,asifhehadnotunderstoodher,undertoneoffeeling.

It needed a word, a simple phrase to tell her that he was sorry she wasleaving.ButDrogo did notwant to ask for anything—at thatmoment hewasreallynotcapableofit,hewouldhavefelthewaslying.Sohesaidnothingandgaveavaguesmile.

“Shall we go into the garden for a minute?” the girl proposed at last, notknowingwhattosay.“Thesunmustbelower.”

Theyrosefromthedivan.Shewassilent,expectingDrogotosaysomething;perhapsshewaslookingathimwithalastvestigeoflove.ButatthesightofthegardenGiovanni’sthoughtstookflighttothebaregrassyslopesaroundtheFort—upthere,too,theprimeoftheyearwasathand;hardyplantswerespringingupamongtherocks.Perhapsatthisverytimeofyear,centuriesago,theTartarshadcome.

“ItisverywarmforApril,”saidDrogo.“Itwillturntorain,you’llsee.”

ThatwaswhathesaidandMariagavealittledesolatesmile.“Yes, it is toowarm,” sheansweredwitha flat voice, andbothwere aware

thatitwasallover.Nowtheywerefarapartagain,agapwasopeningbetweenthem; in vain they stretched out their hands to touch each other. With eachminutethedistancebetweenthemgrewgreater.

DrogoknewthathestilllovedMariaandherworldbuthehadnorootsthereanymore,aworldofstrangerswherehisplacehadbeeneasilyfilled.Helookedat it fromwithout now, looked at it with regret; to go backwould have beenawkward—newfaces,differenthabits,newjokes,newexpressions,towhichhewasunaccustomed.Itwasnolongerhislife,hehadtakenanotherpath.Itwouldhavebeenstupidandpointlesstoturnback.

Since Francesco did not come, Drogo and Maria said goodbye withexaggerated cordiality, shuttingwithin themselves their secret thoughts.Mariagraspedhishandtightlyandlookedintohiseyes—perhapsshewasaskinghimnottoleavelikethis,topardonher,toattempttofindoncemoresomethingtheyhadlost.

Andhelookedathertooandsaid:“Goodbye,Ihopeweshallseeeachotherbeforeyouleave.”Thenhewalkedoffwithoutturningback,walkedtowardsthegatewithamilitarystep,andthegravelofthepathwaycrunchedinthesilence.

G

XX

ENERALLY four years at the Fort sufficed to give one the right to a newposting,butneverthelessDrogo,whowantedtoavoidsomeremotegarrisonandtostayinhisowncity,soughtapersonal interviewwiththedivisional

commander. In fact ithadbeenhismotherwho insistedon the interview—shesaidthatifyoudidn’twanttobeforgottenaboutyouhadtopushyourself.Ifhedidn’t do anything no one was going to look after his interests of their ownaccord.And so hewould probably get another dreary frontier posting.And itwas his mother who, through friends, pulled wires so that the general wouldreceivehersoninafavourableframeofmind.

Thegeneralwassittinginanimmensestudybehindalargetablesmokingacigar. There was nothing remarkable about the day—perhaps it was raining,perhapsmerelycloudy.ThegeneralwasgettingoninyearsandlookedbenignlyatDrogothroughhismonocle.

“I wanted to see you,” he began as if it were he who had requested theinterview,“Iwantedtoknowhowthingsaregoingupthere.Filimore—howishe?”

“WhenIsawhimlast,yourexcellency,thecolonelwasinexcellenthealth,”Drogoreplied.

The general was silent for aminute. Then he shook his head in a fatherlyfashion.“Ah,youhavebeenatroubletous,youpeopleupthereintheFort.Yes,yes,thataffairovertheboundary.There’snodoubtaboutit,thatstoryaboutthelieutenant—I’veforgottenhisname—displeasedHisHighnessverymuch.”

Drogokeptsilencenotknowingwhattosay.“Yes,thatlieutenant,”thegeneralwentontohimself.“Whatisthename?A

namelikeArduino,Ithink.”“Angustinawashisname,yourexcellency.”“Ah, yes, Angustina, a fine one he was. Endangering the boundary line

through a piece of stupid obstinacy. I don’t know how we. . . . Well, nevermind,”heconcludedabruptlyasiftoshowhismagnaminity.

“But, your excellency, allowme,”Drogo dared to observe. “ButAngustinawastheonewhodied.”

“May be, very possibly, you may be right—I don’t remember,” said the

generalasifitwereadetailwithouttheslightestimportance.“ButHisHighnesswasmostdispleased,verymuchdispleased.”

HesaidnomoreandlookedatDrogowithaquestioningair.“Soyouhavecome,”hesaid,andhisvoice,whichhadadiplomaticring,held

astronghint,“tobetransferredtothecity,haven’tyou?Youallhaveacrazeforthecity,anddon’trealisethatitisintheoutpoststhatonelearnstobeasoldier.”

“Yes,yourexcellency,”saidGiovanniDrogo,tryingtocontrolhiswordsandthetoneofhisvoice.“InfactIhavedonefouryearsalready.”

“Four years at your age! what are four years?” replied the general with alaugh. “However, I’m not reproaching you—I was merely saying that as ageneraltendencyitisnotperhapsthemostlikelytobuildupthemoraleofthoseinpositionsofcommand.”

Hebrokeoffas ifhehadlost thethread.Heconcentratedforasecondthenbeganagain:

“However,mydear sir, I shall try tomeetyourwishes.Nowweshallhaveyourfilebroughtin.”

Astheywaitedforthedocumentsthegeneralreopenedtheconversation.“TheFort,”hesaid,“FortBastiani, let’ssee—doyouknowtheweaknessof

FortBastiani?”“I am not sure, your excellency,” said Drogo. “Perhaps it is a little too

isolated.”Thegeneralgaveabriefpityingsmile.“Whatoddideasyou,youngpeoplehave,”hesaid.“A little too isolated. Imust confess Iwould not have thought of that.The

weaknessoftheFort—doyouwantmetotellyouwhatitis?Itisthattherearetoomanymenthere,toomanymen.”

“Toomanymen?”“Andthatiswhy,”thegeneralwentonwithoutremarkingonthelieutenant’s

interruption,“that iswhyithasbeendecidedtoalter theregulations.Whataretheysayingaboutit,thepeopleintheFort?”

“Aboutwhat,yourexcellency?Excuseme.”“Whatweare talkingabout,ofcourse.Thenewregulation, I toldyou,” the

generalrepeatedwithannoyance.“Ihaven’theardaboutit,reallyIhavenot,”Drogorepliedinastonishment.“Ah,yes,perhapstheofficialannouncementhasnotbeenmade,”thegeneral

admittedmoregoodnaturedly. “But I thoughtyouwouldhaveknown just thesame.Usuallysoldiersareexpertsatknownthingsbeforeotherpeople.”

“Anewregulation,yourexcellency?”Drogoaskedcuriously.“A reduction in strength, the garrison out almost by half,” said the other

brusquely.“Toomanymen,Ialwayssaidso.Itneededthinning,thatFort.”At that moment the adjutant entered with a big bundle of files. Spreading

themonatablehetookoneout,GiovanniDrogo’s,andhandedittothegeneralwhoranapractisedeyeoverit.

“Everything inorder,”hesaid.“But therequest for transferdoesn’tseemtobehere.”

“The request for transfer?” askedDrogo, “I did not think it was necessaryafterfouryears.”

“Notusually,”saidthegeneral,evidentlyannoyedathavingtoexplainthingstoasubaltern.“Butsincethistimethereissuchalargereductioninstrengthandeveryonewantstoleave,wemusttaketheminorder.”

“Butnooneknowsat theFort,yourexcellency,noonehasputinarequestyet.”

Thegeneralturnedtotheadjutant.“ArethereanyrequestsfortransferfromFortBastiani?”heaskedhim.“Aboutascore,Ithink,yourexcellency,”repliedtheadjutant.What a joke, thought Drogo completely overcome. His comrades had

obviouslykeptitasecretsoastostealamarchonhim.HadevenOrtizdeceivedhimsobasely?

“Excuseme,yourexcellency,ifIcomebacktothesamepoint,”Drogofoundcouragetosay,knowinghowmuchdependedonit,“butitseemstomethatthefactofhavingdonefouryears’unbrokenserviceshouldstandmemoreinsteadthanamerequestionofformalprecedence.”

“Yourfouryearsdonotcountforanything,mydearyoungman,”repliedthegeneral coldly, and he seemed somewhat offended, “they do not count at allcomparedwithmanyotherswhohavebeenuptherealltheirlives.Icanconsideryourcasewiththeutmostgoodwill,Icanfurtheryourlegitimateambitions,butIcannotdolessthanjustice.Andtheneachcasemustbetakenonitsmerits.”

GiovanniDrogohadturnedpale.“Butthen,yourexcellency,”heaskedalmoststammering,“thenIruntherisk

ofstayingupthereallmylife."“Mustbetakenonitsmerits,”theothercontinuedimperturbably,andhewent

onturningoverDrogo’sdocuments.“Iseehereforexample,itisrightbeforemyeyes, a reprimand. Now a reprimand is nothing very serious” (he went onreading)“buthereissomethingratherunpleasant,itseemstome,asentrykilledbymistake.”

“Unfortunately,yourexcellency,Ididnot...”“I cannot listen to your excuses, you know that quitewell,my dear young

man,” thegeneral interruptedhim.“Iamonly readingwhat iswrittenonyour

report, I evenadmit that itmayhavebeenpureaccident, it caneasilyhappen.Butthereareyourcolleagueswhohavemanagedtokeepclearofsuchthings.IamwillingtodowhateverIcan,Ihaveconsentedtoreceive,youpersonally,asyousee,butnow.. . .Ifonlyyouhadmadetherequestamonthago.Oddthatyoudidn’tknow.Averyconsiderabledisadvantage.”

The good natured note struck at the beginning of the interview haddisappeared. Now the general spokewith a slight suggestion of boredom andinsolence,makinghisvoiceriseandfall.Drogosawthathehadmadeafoolofhimself,sawthathiscomradeshadfooledhim,thatthegeneralmusthaveaverymediocreimpressionofhimandthattherewasnothingmoretobedoneaboutit.The injusticeof itgavehimaburningsensation inhisbreast,overhisheart. Icouldgoaway,resignmycommission,hethought,afterallIwon’tdieofhungerandIamstillyoung.

Thegeneralmadeafriendlygesturewithhishand.“Well,goodbye,lieutenant,andcheerup.”Drogocametoattention,clickedhisheels,steppedbackwardstothedoorand

onthethresholdgavealastsalute.

A

XXI

HORSE climbs up through the lonely valley and the noise of its hoovesawakensagreatechointhesilenceoftheravines.Thebusheshighupontherocksaremotionless,theyellowgrassesdonotmove,eventhecloudspass

throughtheskywithunusualslowness.Thehorseslowlyclimbsthewhiteroad—itisGiovanniDrogoreturning.

Thereisnomistakinghim—nowthathehascomecloseryoucanrecognisehimeasilyandthereisnoparticularsignofsufferinginhisface.Sohehasnotrebelled,hehasnotresignedhiscommission,hehasswallowedtheinjusticeandisgoingbacktohisoldpost.Atthebottomofhisheartheisevenpleasedinafaint-heartedwayathavingavoidedsuddenchangesinhismodeoflife,atbeingable to go back, as hewas, to his old habits.He deludes himself, thisDrogo,withthedreamofawonderfulrevengeatsomeremotedate—hebelievesthathestillhasanimmensityoftimeathisdisposal.Sohegivesupthepettystruggleofthedaytodayexistence.Thedaywillcome,hethinks,whenallaccountswillbepaid with interest. But in the meantime the others are overtaking him, theycontend keenlywith each other, they outstrip Drogo and have no thought forhim. They leave him behind. He watches them disappear into the distance,perplexed, a prey to his usual doubts: perhaps he really hasmade amistake?Perhapsheisanordinarymortalforwhomonlyamediocrefateisreserved?

GiovanniwasclimbinguptothesolitaryFortasonthatSeptemberday,thatdistantday.OnlythistimetherewasnootherofficercominguptheothersideofthevalleyandCaptainOrtizwasnotridingtomeethimatthebridge,wherethetworoadsjoined.

ThistimeDrogorodeonaloneandmeditatedonlife.HewasgoingbacktotheForttoremainthereforwhatmightbealongtimeattheverymomentwhenmany of his comradeswere leaving it for ever. His comrades had beenmorewide awake, thoughtDrogo, but then theymight also be better officers—that,toomightbetheexplanation.

With the passage of time the Fort had lost its importance.Long ago it hadperhaps been a key position or at leastwas considered such.Now, reduced tohalfstrength,itwasmerelyaroadblock,andassuchnotconsideredofstrategicimportanceinanyplanofCampaign.Itwasmaintainedsolelysoasnottoleave

thefrontierunmanned.Thepossibilityofathreatfromthenorthernsteppewasnot admitted—at most some nomad caravan might arrive at the pass. Whatwouldexistencebelikeupthere?

Meditatingthus,inthecourseoftheafternoonDrogoreachedtheedgeofthehighest plateau and found himself face to face with the Fort. It no longercontainedthesamedisquieteningsecretsasithadthefirsttime.Inrealityitwasnomorethanaborderbarracks,aridiculousfortress,thewallswouldstanduptogunsofrecentmakeforonlyafewhours.Withtimeitwouldbeallowedtogotoruin—alreadyapieceofparapethad fallenhereand there, andaplatformhadbrokenaway,yetnoonehaditmended.

Such were Drogo’s thoughts as he halted on the edge of the plateau andwatchedtheusualsentriesgoupanddownonthetopofthewalls.Theflagontheroofhunglimply,noneofthechimneyssmoked,therewasnotasoultobeseenonthebareexpanse.

Whataboring life itwasgoing tobe.ProbablyMorel,whowasacheerfulsoul,wouldbeamong the first togoandDrogowouldbe leftwithout friends.Thentherewouldbetheusualguardduties,theusualgamesatcards,theusualjauntstothenearestvillagetodrinkandmakeunexcitinglove.Whatawretchedexistence, thought Drogo. And yet a last trace of enchantment hung over theoutlineoftheyellowredoubts,somemysterypersistedupthere,intheanglesoftheearthworks,intheshadowofthecasemates,forebodingssuchascouldnotbeexpressedinwords.

AttheForthefoundmuchchanged.Withsomanydeparturesathandthere

wasgreatexcitementeverywhere.Theydidnotknowyetwhoweredue togoandtheofficers—almostallofthemhadaskedforatransfer—livedinastateofanxious expectancy and forgot their former cares. Even Filimore, this wasknownforcertain,wastoleavetheFortandthishelpedtodisturbtherhythmofroutineduties.Thefeelingofrestlessnesshadevenspreadtothesoldierssincealargecontingent, itwasnotyet fixedhowmany,was togodown to theplain.Guarddutieswerecarriedoutwithanillwillandwhenthetimecameforguardmountingtheywereoftennotready;ineveryonetheconvictionhadgrownthattotakesomanyprecautionswasbothstupidanduseless.

It seemed obvious that their former hopes, their war-like dreams, theirconstantwaitingfortheenemyhadbeennomorethanapretexttogivelifesomesignificance. Now that it was possible to go back to human society all theseseemedchildishfanciesandnoonewaswillingtoadmitthathehadbelievedinthem,noonehesitated to laugh loudand longover them.The important thingwas to leave the Fort. Each of Drogo’s. colleagues had used influential

friendships so as to be among those chosen; each one, in his heart, wasconvincedhehadbeensuccessful.

“What about you?” they asked Giovanni with vague sympathy, thosecomradeswhohadkeptthegreatnewsfromhimsoastostealamarchonhimandhaveonerivalless.“Whataboutyou?”theyasked.

“Ishallprobablyhavetostayhereforamonthortwo,”repliedDrogo.Andthe others hastened to encourage him—of course hewould be transferred too,thatwasonlyjust,hemustn’tbesopessimistic,andsoon.

OfthemallonlyOrtizseemedtobeunchanged.Ortizhadnotaskedtoleave;forsomeyearshehadtakennofurtherinterestinthesubjectandthenewsthatthegarrisonwasbeingreducedreachedhimlast;thatwaswhyhehadnotbeenabletowarnDrogo.Ortizwatchedthenewwaveofexcitementindifferently—hedevotedhimselftotheaffairsoftheFortwithhisusualzeal.

At last the departures began in real earnest. In the courtyard there was acontinual rumble of waggons loading stores and one by one the companiesparaded to say farewell. Each time the colonel came down from his office toinspectthem,hesaidafewpartingwordstothemen;hisvoicewasunmovingandlifeless.

Officerswho had lived up there for years,who had gone on searching thesolitaryplacesofthenorthfromtheembrasuresoftheredoubts,whohadbeenwont to carry on interminable discussions on whether there would be anunexpectedenemyattackornot—manyoftheseofficerswentoffwithahappylook on their faces, waving insolently to those of their comrades who hadremainedbehind.So theyrodeoff towards thevalley,smartandupright in thesaddleattheheadoftheirtroops,anddidnoteventurntheirheadstotakealastlookattheirFort.

ButtherewasMorelwho,ashedrewuphisplatoonbeforethecolonelinthecentre of the courtyard one sunnymorning and lowered his sabre in salute—therewasMorelwhoseeyesshonewithtearsandwhosevoicetrembled;buthewastheonlyone.Leaningagainstawall,Drogowatchedthesceneandgaveafriendly smile to his comrade as he rode past towards the gate. Perhaps theywereseeingeachotherforthelasttimeandGiovanniraisedhisrighthandtothepeakofhiscapintheregulationsalute.

ThenhewentbackintothepassagesoftheFort,whicheveninsummerwerecold and eachdaywere becomingmore andmore deserted.At the thought ofMorel’s departure the wound of the injustice he had suffered had reopenedunexpectedlyandcausedhimpain.GiovanniwentinsearchofOrtizandfoundhimcomingoutofhisofficewithabundleofpapers.Drogocaughtupwithhimandwalkedathisside:“Goodmorning,sir.”

“Good morning, Drogo,” answered Major Ortiz and he halted. “Is theresomethingnew?Doyouwantanything?”

Hewantedtoaskhimsomething.Solelyasamatterofinterest,buttherewasnourgencyaboutit;yetithadbeenonhismindforsomedays.

“Pardonme,sir,”hesaid.“Youremember,whenIarrivedattheFort,fourandahalfyearsago,MajorMatti toldme thatonlyvolunteersstayedhere.That ifany one wanted to leave he was free to do so. You remember I told you?AccordingtoMattiallIhadtodowastoasktobemedicallyinspected—simplytohaveaformalexcuse—buthesaiditwouldhaveannoyedthecolonelabit.”

“Yes, I remember vaguely,” said Ortiz with a very faint suggestion ofdispleasure.“Butyoumustexcuseme,mydearDrogo,I...”

“One minute, sir. You remember that not to cause any unpleasantness Iresignedmyselftostayingfourmonths?ButifIwantedIcouldleave,couldn’tI?”

“Iknow,mydearDrogo,”saidOrtiz,“butyou’renottheonlyone.”“Then,”Giovanniinterruptedhimexcitedly,“thenthesewereallstories?then

itisnottruethatIcouldgoawayifIwantedto?Allstoriestokeepmequiet.”“Oh,”saidthe:major.“Idon’tthinkso.Youmustn’tgetthatintoyourhead.”“Don’tdenyit,sir,”Giovannireplied.“DoyoumeantotellmethatMattiwas

tellingthetruth?”“Moreor less thesame thinghappened tome,”saidOrtiz, lookingdownin

hisembarrassment.“Iusedtohaveideasaboutabrilliantcareertoo.”Theywere standing in oneof the long corridors and their voices re-echoed

sadlyalongthewalls,fortheplacewasemptyandbare.“Soitisnottruethatalltheofficerscameattheirownrequest?Theyallhad

tostayherejustlikeme,isthatnotthecase?”Ortiz saidnothing and idlypoked thepoint of his sabre into a crack in the

floor.“Soitwasallnonsensewhentheysaid,someofthem,thattheywanted.tostayhere?”Drogoinsisted.“Butwhydidnoonehavethecouragetosayso?”

“Perhapsitisnotquiteasyousay,”answeredOrtiz.“Therewereoneortwowhoreallypreferredtostayone—few,Iadmit,butthereweresome.”

“Who?Tellmewho?”criedDrogo, thenhebrokeoffsuddenly.“Ibegyourpardon, sir,” he added, “Iwas naturally not thinking of you—you knowwhathappenswhenoneistalking.”

Ortizsmiled.“So,youdidn’tmeanme?ProbablyIstayedheretoobecauseitismyjob.”Thetwomovedon,walkingsidebyside,andpassedthelittlebarredoblongs

of thewindows; through them they saw the bare plateau behind the Fort, themountainsofthesouth,theheavymistsofthevalley.

“So,” Drogo went on after a silence, “so all that excitement, these storiesabouttheTartars?Sonoonereallyhopedtheyweretrue?”

“Theynotonlyhoped!”saidOrtiz.“Theyreallybelieved.”Drogoshookhishead.

“Idon’tunderstand,IassureyouIdon’t.”“WhatcanIsay?”saidthemajor.“It’sabitcomplicated.It’sakindofexile

up here—but you have to find some sort of outlet, you have to hope forsomething. Someone began thinking about it, then they began to talk aboutTartars—whoknows,whowasthefirst?”

“Perhaps the place has something to do with it,” said Drogo, “seeing thatdesert.”

“Yes, the place, too, of course. That desert, the mists in the distance, themountains,youcan’tdenyit.Yes,theplacehassomethingtodowithittoo.”

He was silent for a moment, thinking, then he resumed as if talking tohimself.

“TheTartars,theTartars.Atfirstitsoundsnonsense,naturally,thenyouendupbybelievingityourself—atleastalotofpeoplehave,that’safact.”

“Butsir,excuseme,doyou...”“It’sdifferentwithme,”saidOrtiz,“Ibelongtoanothergeneration.Ihaveno

ideasaboutacareer.Aquietjobisenoughforme.Butyou,lieutenant,youhaveall your life before you. In a year, a year and a half at themost, youwill betransferred.”

“There’sMorel, luckyman,”exclaimedDrogostoppingatawindow.Therethey saw the platoon marching off across the plateau. The soldiers stood outclearly against thebare, sunbeatenground.Theywere ladenwithheavypacksyettheymarchedwithaspringintheirstep.

T

XXII

HE last company to leave was drawn up in the courtyard. Everybody wasthinkingthatnextdaytheywouldbegintosettledowntothenewlifewiththe reducedgarrison.Therewasasortof impatience tobedonewith these

eternalgoodbyes,theangeratseeingothersleave.Thecompanyhadbeendrawnup and they were waiting for Lieutenant-Colonel Nicolosi to inspect it whenGiovanniDrogo,whowas looking on, sawLieutenant Simeoni appearwith astrangelookonhisface.

LieutenantSimeonihadbeenat theFort for threeyearsandseemedagoodfellow,alittleheavy,respectfulofauthorityandfondofphysicalexercises.Headvanced into the courtyard and looked about him with apparent anxiety,searching for someone to tell something to. Probably one personwould do aswellasanotherforhehadnospecialfriends.

HesawDrogowatchinghimandcameuptohim.“Comeandseethis,”heaskedinalowvoice,“Comequicklyandsee.”“Seewhat?”askedDrogo.“Iamondutyonthethirdredoubt—Ihavecomedownforamoment.Come

up as soon as you are free. There’s something I don’t understand.” And hepantedalittleasifhehadbeenrunning.

“Where?Whatdidyousee?”askedDrogo,hisinterestawakened.“Waitamoment,”saidSimeoni,“waittillthecompanyhasmovedoff.”Atthatmomentatrumpetblewthreenotesandthesoldierscametoattention,

for the colonel had arrived—the colonel of a fort which had been reduced inrank.

“Waituntiltheyaregone,”saidSimeonioncemore,forDrogowasbecomingimpatient at what appeared a pointless mystery. “I want to see them leave atleast. I’ve beenwanting to tell someone for five days but first they all had toleave.”

Finally, after Nicolosi’s few words and the last fanfares, the companymarchedheavilyoutoftheFortinfullkitandmadetowardsthevalley.ItwasaSeptemberday—theskywasgreyandsad.

Then Simeoni dragged Drogo through the long solitary corridors to theentranceofthethirdredoubt.Theypassedthroughtheguardroomandcameout

ontothesentry-walk.Lieutenant Simeoni pulled out a telescope and asked Drogo to look at the

littletriangleofplainthemountainsdisclosed.“Whatisit?”askedDrogo.“Takealookfirst—Idon’twanttomakeamistake.Youlookfirstandtellme

ifyouseeanything.”Leaning his elbows on the parapet Drogo looked carefully at the desert

through the telescope—it was Simeoni’s own—and clearly distinguished thestones,thefoldsintheground,thethinclumpsofarbutus,althoughtheywereallexceedinglyfaroff.

BitbybitDrogosweptthetriangleofthedesertandwasabouttosayno,thathecouldn’tseeanything,whenintheextremedistance,whereeverythingfadedintothecurtainofmist,heseemedtoseealittleblackdotmoving.

Hewas still leaningon theparapetwithhis elbowand looking through thetelescopewhensuddenlyhefelthisheartbeatfuriously.Liketwoyearsbefore,hethought,whentheybelievedtheenemyhadarrived.

“Isitthatlittlespeckyoumean?”askedDrogo,“I’veseenitforfivedaysbutIdidn’twanttotellanyone.”“Why?”saidDrogo,“whatwereyoufrightenedof?”“IfIsaidanythingtheymighthavestoppedthemfromleaving.Andso,after

playing a dirty trick on us, Morel and the others would have stayed on andexploitedthesituation.Thefewerweare,thebetter.”

“What situation? What do you think it is? It will be like last time—areconnaissancepatrolorshepherdsmaybeorsimplyananimal.”

“I’vebeenwatchingitforfivedays,”saidSimeoni,“iftheywereshepherdsthey would have gone away and the same if they were animals. There issomethingmoving,butitstaysmoreorlessinthesamespot.”

“Well,whatdoyouthinkitis?”Simeoni looked at Drogo with a smile as if wondering whether he could

revealthesecrettohim.Thenhesaid:“I think they aremaking a road, amilitary road.This is the real thing this

time.Twoyearsagotheycametostudytheground.Nowtheyarecominginrealearnest.”

Drogolaughedheartily.“Butwhatsortofaroaddoyouthinktheyaremaking?Youdon’treallythink

anyoneisgoingtocomethatwayagain?Didn’tyouseeenoughlasttime?”“Perhaps you are a little short-sighted,” said Simeoni. “Perhaps your eyes

aren’tverygood,butIcanpickthingsoutverywell—theyhavebeguntolaythefoundationsoftheroad.Youcouldseeitquiteclearlyyesterdaywhentherewas

sun.”Drogoshookhishead,amazedat suchobstinacy.Washe reallynot tiredof

waiting,Simeoni?Washereallyfrightenedtodisclosehisdiscoveryasifitwereatreasure?Washereallyafraidtheywouldtakeitfromhim?

“Once,”saidDrogo,“onceIwouldhavebelievedittoo.Butnowitlookstome,asifyouwerevictimofanillusion.IfIwereyouIshouldkeepquietaboutit;they’llendupbylaughingatyoubehindyourback.”

“Theyaremakingaroad,”retortedSimeoni,lookingatDrogopityingly.“Ofcoursetheywilltakemonths,butthistimetheymeanbusiness.”

“Butsupposeitweretrue,”saidDrogo,“supposeitwereasyousay,doyouthinkthatifaroadwerereallybeingbuilttobringgunsdownfromthenorth—doyouthinktheywouldhavelefttheFortstripped?TheHighCommandwouldknowatonce,theywouldhaveknownforyears.”

“TheHighCommandnevertakesFortBastianiseriously.Noonewillbelieveanyofthesestoriesuntilithasbeenbombarded.Theywillallowthemselvestobeconvincedtoolate.”

“Saywhatyoulike,”repeatedDrogo,“ifthatroadwerereallybeingbuilttheHighCommandwouldknowallaboutit,youcanbesureofthat.”

“TheHighCommandhas a thousand sources of information—butonlyoneout of a thousand is any good, so they do not believe any of them. Besidesthere’snopointinarguing,you’llseethatitwillcomeaboutasIamsaying.”

Theywerealoneontheedgeofthesentry-walk.Thesentries,theyweremuchfurtherapart thanonceuponatime,werewalkingupanddownontheirbeats.Drogolookedoncemore towards thenorth—therocks, thedesert, themists inthedistance,seemedsenselesstohim.

Later, speaking to Ortiz, Drogo learned that Lieutenant Simeoni’s famous

secret was known to practically everyone. But no one had attached anyimportancetoit.InfactmanypeoplewereamazedthataseriousyoungmanlikeSimeonishouldputaboutthesenewrumours.

In these days there were other things to think about. The reduction in thegarrison’sstrengthobligedthemtospreadouttheforcesattheirdisposalalongthetopofthewalls;theykeptonexperimentinginordertoobtain,withsmallerforces, a security systemalmostaseffectiveasbefore.Someguardshad tobeabandoned altogether, others had to be givenmore equipment, the companieshadtobereformedanddistributeddifferentlyinthebarrackrooms.

For the first timesince itwasbuilt certainplaces in theFortwere shutandbolted.Thetailor,Prosdocimo,hadtogetridofthreeassistantsbecausehehadnot sufficient work left. Every now and then one might walk into rooms or

officeswhichwerecompletelyempty,withwhitepatchesonthewalls toshowwherefurnitureandpictureshadbeenremoved.

Thelittleblackspeckmovingaboutontheverylimitsoftheplaincontinuedtoberegardedasajoke.TherewerenotmanypeoplewhoallowedSimeonitolendthemthetelescopesothattheycouldseeitandthosefewsaidtheyhadseennothing. Simeoni himself, since no one took him seriously, avoided speakingabouthisdiscoveryandtookcaretolaughaboutithimselfandnottakeoffence.

ThenoneeveningSimeonicametoDrogo’sroomandcalledhim.Nighthadalready fallenand theguardhadbeenchanged.The forlornhopehad returnedfromtheNewRedoubtandtheFortwaspreparingforthenightwatch—anothernightuselesslywasted.

“Come and see this—you don’t believe it—but come and see this,” saidSimeoni.“EitherIamhavinghallucinationsorIcanseealight.”

Theywenttoseewhatitwas.Theyclimbedtothetopofthefourthredoubt.Drogo’scompanionhandedhimthetelescopeinthedarknessandinvitedhimtolook.

“Butit’sdark,”saidGiovanni,“Ican’tseeanythinginthedark.”“LookItellyou,”Simeoniinsisted,“ItoldyouIhopeitisn’tahallucination.

LookwhereIpointedtolasttimeandtellmeifyouseeanything.”Drogoraisedthetelescopetohisrighteyeandpointedittowardstheextreme

north;inthedarknesshesawasmalllightwhichappearedtogleamattheedgeofthemists.

“A light,” exclaimed Drogo. “I see a small light—wait” (and he went onadjusting the telescope), “I can’t make out whether there is more than one—sometimesthereseemtobetwoofthem.”

“Yousee?”saidSimeonitriumphantly.“SoI’mafool,amI?”“Whathas thatgot todowith it?” retortedDrogowithoutmuchconviction.

“If there is a light what does it mean? It could be a gipsy encampment—orshepherds.”

“It’s the light of the store shed,” saidSimeoni, “the store shed for the newroad,you’llseethatI’mright.”

Strangelyenoughthelightcouldnotbedistinguishedwiththenakedeye.Noteven the sentries—and there were some wonderful ones among them, greathunters—couldseeanything.

Drogolevelledthetelescopeagain,soughtthedistantlight,stayedwatchingitforsomemomentsthenraisedtheinstrumentandbeganidlytoobservethestars.Endlessinnumbertheyfilledeverypartofthesky,asightofrarebeauty.Butintheeast theyweremuchmore thinlyscattered, for themoonwasabout to riseandadiffusedlightprecededit.

“Simeoni,”criedDrogo,forhecouldnolongerseehiscompanionathisside.But the other did not reply—he must have gone down by a narrow stair toinspecttheramparts.

Drogolookedabouthim.Inthedarknesshecouldseeonlytheemptysentry-walk, the profile of the fortifications, the dark shadow of themountains. Theclock struck once or twice. At this moment the sentry on the extreme rightshould have given his nocturnal cry and the soundwould have run along therampartsfromsoldiertosoldier.“Standto,standto,”Thenthecallwouldhaveturnedbackonitself,wouldhavediedawayatthefootofthegreatcliffs.Nowthat the sentry posts were halved in number, thought Drogo, the call, beingrepeated less often, would havemade the whole journeymuchmore quickly.Insteadthesilenceremainedunbroken.

Then suddenly there came to Drogo’smind thoughts of a distant desirableworld: of a villa, for example, by the seashore on a soft summer night withcharmingandbeautifulwomensittingbyhissidewhilehelistenedtomusic—imagesofhappinesswhichyouthallowedonetodwelluponwithimpunity;andmeantimeintheeastthedistantrimoftheseawouldgrowblackandgleamingandtheskypalewiththeapproachingdawn.Tobeabletosquanderthenightsthusandnottakerefugeinsleep,tohavenofearofbeingleftbehind,toletthesunriseandsavourthethoughtofaninfinityoftimebeforeone,thethoughtthattherewasnoneedtobemiserlywithit.AmongallthewonderfulthingsofthisworldGiovanniDrogopersistedindesiringthisimprobablemansionbythesea,themusic,thecarelesssquanderingoftime,thewaitingforthedawn.Howeverstupiditmightappear,tohimitseemedtoexpressmoreintenselythananythingelse thepeacehehad lost.Because forsome timeanagginganxietywhichhecouldnotcomprehend,hadbeenceaselesslypursuinghim,thefeeling,namely,thathewasbeingleftbehind,thatsomethingimportantwouldhappenandtakehimunawares.

His talkwith thegeneraldownin thecityhad lefthimwithfewhopesofatransfer andabrilliant career,butGiovanniknewhecouldnot staywithin thewallsoftheFortallhislife.Soonerorlaterhewouldhavetomakeuphismind.Then the old habits caught him up again with the old rhythm and Drogo nolongerthoughtoftheothers,ofthecomradeswhohadescapedintime,ofhisoldfriendsgrownrichandfamous;heconsoledhimselfwiththesightoftheofficerswhosharedhisexile;itneveroccurredtohimthattheymightbetheweakones,theoneswhohadbeenbeaten,thelastpeopletotakeasanexample.

FromdaytodayDrogopostponedthedecision;besides,hefelthimselfyoungstill, newly twenty-five. Yet the subtle, worrying thought pursued himincessantly; and now there was the story of the light in the northern steppe,

Simeonimightevenberight.Hardly anyone talked about it in the Fort, as if it were a matter of no

importance, onewhich could not concern them.Their disappointment that thewarhadfailedtobreakoutwasstilltoonear,althoughnoonewouldhavehadthecouragetoconfessit.Toofreshalsowastheirdisappointmentatseeingtheircompanionsdepart,atbeingleft,aforgottenhandful,toguardtheuselesswalls.The reduction in the strength of the garrison had proved clearly that theHighCommand attached no further importance to FortBastiani. The dreamswhichonce had come so readily and had been so eagerly desired were now angrilyrejected.Simeoni,ratherthanbemocked,preferredtokeepsilence.

Besides, on the succeeding nights themysterious lightwas no longer to beseennorwasanymovementtobedistinguishedbydayontheedgeoftheplain.MajorMatti,whohadclimbeduptothetapofthetoweroutofcuriosity,madeSimeonigivehimthetelescopeandsweptthedesertinvain.

“Keepyour telescope,”hesaid toSimeoni inan indifferentvoice.“Itmightbe a good idea if instead ofwearing out your eyes uselessly youwere to paysame attention to yourmen. I have seen a sentrywithout a bandolier.Go andhavealook.Itmustbethatonedownthere.”

WithMattitherewasLieutenantMadernawholatertoldthestoryinthemessamidst roarsof laughter.Nowadays theironly thoughtwas topass thedaysaspleasantlyaspossibleandthewholestoryofthenorthwasforgotten.

Itwas onlywithDrogo that Simeoni continued to discuss themystery. Forfourdaysindeedtherehadbeennosignoflightsormovingspecks,butonthefifth they reappeared. The northern mists—this was Simeoni’s explanation atleast—spread and withdrew according to the time of year, the wind and thetemperature;inthelastfourdaystheyhadcomefurthersouth,engulfingwhathetooktobetheworkshop.

NotonlydidthelightreappearbutaboutaweeklaterSimeoniclaimedthatithadmoved,advancedtowardstheFort.ThistimeDrogoobjected—howwasitpossibleinthedarkandwithoutanypointofreferencetodemonstratethattherehadbeenamovementofthekind,evensupposingithadreallytakenplace?

“Thereyou are,” saidSimeoni obstinately, “you admit then that if the lighthadmoveditcouldnotbedefinitelyproved.SoIhaveasmuchrighttosaythatithasmovedasyoutosaythatithasstoodstill.Inanycaseyou’llsee.I’mgoingtowatchthesetinymovingspeckseveryday.You’llseethatlittlebylittletheyarecomingnearer.”

Thenextday theybegan towatch together, taking turnsat the telescope. Inactual fact all they saw were three or four tiny dots moving with extreme

slowness.Itwasdifficulteventoseewhethertheyweremoving.Onehadtotaketwoorthreepointsofreference,theshadowofaboulder,thebrowofalittlehill,andworkout thedistancesbetweenthem.Inafewminutestimetheysawthatthe proportions had altered. Which meant that the little speck had changedposition.

ItwasextraordinarythatSimeonihadbeenabletospotitthefirsttime.Norwasitoutofthequestionthatthephenomenonhadbeengoingonforyearsorcenturies—theremight be a village there or awell besidewhich the caravanswaited; and up to now no one at the Fort had used a telescope as strong asSimeoni’s.

Themovement of the speckswas almost always to and fro along the sameline.Simeonithoughttheywerecartscarryingstonesorgravel;themen,hesaid,wouldbetoosmalltobeseenatthatdistance.

Usuallyonly threeor four littlespeckswere tobeseenmovingat thesametime. Supposing they were carts, Simeoni argued, if there were threemovingtheremust be at least six standing still, loading and unloading, and these sixcouldnotbepickedoutbecausetheymergedwiththethousandotherunmovingdots on the landscape. So on that stretch alone they were working with tenvehicles,probablywithfourhorseseach,whichwasnormalforheavyhauls.Thenumberofmen,inproportion,mustrunintohundreds.

Suchremarks,madeatfirstalmostasasortofwagerorasajoke,becametheonly thing of interest in Drogo’s life. Although Simeoni was not particularlyagreeable, being completely lacking in high spirits and pedantic in hisconversation,inhisfreetimeGiovanniwasalmostalwaysinhiscompanyandintheeveningthetwosatuplatearguingintheanterooms.

Simeoni had alreadymade an estimate. Even supposing the work went onvery gradually and the distance was greater than was usually admitted, sixmonthswouldbeenough,hesaid,tobringtheroadwithingunshotoftheFort.In all probability, he thought, the enemywould halt on the reverse slope of aridgewhichranacrossthedesert.

Usuallythisridgemergedwiththerestofthesteppe,beingidenticalincolour,butsometimestheeveningshadowsorthebanksofmistsrevealeditspresence.Itfellawaytothenorth,whethersteeplyorhowfarnooneknew.ThestretchofdesertithidfromanyonelookingfromtheNewRedoubtwasunknownfromthewalls of the Fort the ridge could not be seen because of the interveningmountains.

From the summit of the ridge to the foot of themountainswhere theNewRedoubtroseonitsrockycomthedesertstretcheduniformandflat,interruptedonlybyanoccasionalfissure,byheapsofdetritus,bynarrowpatchesofcane.

Whentheyhadbroughttheroadasfarastheridge,Simeonianticipated,theenemy would be able to finish the remaining stretch almost in one spurt bytaking advantage of amisty night. The groundwas level and firm enough toallowevenartillerytoadvancecomfortably.

The six months he had allowed, the lieutenant added, could, of course,becomesevenoreightorevenmanymoreaccordingtocircumstances.AndhereSimeoni went over the possible reasons for delay—the existence, of otherintervening valleys invisible from the New Redoubt, which would make theworklongerandmoredifficult;agradualfallingoffinthepaceoftheworkasthe Northerners get further away from their supply base; complications of apoliticalnaturewhichmightmakeitadvisabletosuspendtheworkforacertainperiod; the snow,whichmight halt thework and even bring it to a completestandstill for twomonthsormore; the rains transforming theplain intomarsh.Such were the principal obstacles. Simeoni insisted on going over each onemeticulouslytoshowthathehadanopenmind.

And supposing the road served no aggressive ends? Suppose itwere beingbuiltforsomeagriculturalproject,inordertocultivatethevaststeppewhichuptonowhadremainedsterileanduninhabited?Ortheworkweresimplytostopaftertwoorthreemiles?askedDrogo.

Simeonishookhishead.Thedesertwastoostonytobecultivated,hereplied.Besides,theNorthernKingdomhadimmensedesertedgrasslandswhichservedonly forpasture;buton this sideof thedesert,hewenton, the landwouldbeconsiderablymoresuitableforsuchanundertaking.

Butwasitcertainthattheywerereallymakingaroad?Simeoniassuredhimthat on certain clear days, towards sunset, when the shadows were graduallylengthening,hehadbeenabletomakeoutthestraightstretchofcauseway.ButDrogohadnotseenit,althoughhehadtriedhardenough.Whocouldswearthatthat straight linewas notmerely a fold in the ground? Themovement of themysteriousblackspecksandthelightatnightwerenoproofatall—perhapstheyhad always been there and in previous years perhaps no one had seen thembecausetheyhadbeenhiddenbymist,not tospeakof theshortcomingsof theoldtelescopesusedintheFortuptothen.

While Drogo and Simeoni were arguing thus one day it began to snow.

Summer isn’toveryet,wasGiovanni’s first thought,andhere thebadweatherhascomealready.Foritseemedhardlyanytimesincehehadcomebackfromthe city, that he had not even had time to settle down as before.And yet thecalendarsaidthetwenty-fifthofNovember—wholemonthshadgoneby.

Thick, thick snow fell from the skyand layon the terraces andmade them

white.Ashe lookedat itDrogo felthisoldworrymoreacutely thaneverandsoughtinvaintodispelitbythinkingofhisyouthfulness,ofthenumberofyearsthatlaybeforehim.Forsomeinexplicablereasontimehadbeguntopassmoreandmorequicklyandengulfedthedaysoneafteranother.Youhadbarelytimetolookaboutandthenightwasfalling,thesunwastravellingbelowthehorizonandwouldreappearintheoppositedirectiontoilluminatethesnow-cladworld.

Theothers,hiscompanions,didnotseemtonoticeit.Theycarriedouttheirusualdutieswithoutenthusiasm—infacttheybecamemorecheerfulwhenanewmonth appeared at the top of routine orders, they becamemore cheerful as ifsomething had been gained. All the less time to pass at Fort Bastiani, theycalculated. Thus they had a goal of their own, never mind whether petty orglorious,andtheywerecontentwithit.

Major Ortiz himself, who was already getting on for fifty, apatheticallywatchedtheweeksandmonthsracepast.Bynowhehadgivenuphavinggreathopes.“Anothertenyearsorso,”hesaid,“thenIgoonpension.”Hewouldgobackhome toanoldprovincial town,heexplained,where someofhispeoplelived.Drogolookedathimwithsympathybutwithoutbeingabletounderstandhim.WhatwouldOrtizdodownthereamongthetownspeople,withnothingtolivefor,alone?

“Ihavelearnttoacceptthings,”saidthemajor,guessingGiovanni’sthoughts.“YearbyyearIhavelearnedtowantless.IfIamluckyIshallgohomewiththerankofcolonel.”

“Andthen?”askedDrogo.“Andthenthatisenough,”saidOrtizwitharesignedsmile.“ThenIshallwait

alittlelongercontenttohavedonemyduty,”headdedjokingly.“Buthere,attheFort,inthesetenyears,don’tyouthinkthat—”“Thatawarmightcome?Areyoustillthinkingaboutawar?Haven’twehad

enoughofthat?”Onthenorthernplaintherewasnolongeranythingsuspicioustobeseenon

the fringeof the eternalmists; even the light hadgoneout.AndSimeoniwasdelightedabout it.Thisproved thathewas right—itwasn’tavillagenoryetagipsy encampment, but merely some work in progress and the snow hadinterruptedit.

I

XXIII

T was already some days since winter had descended on the Fort whensomethingstrangewastobereadontheorderofthedayhanginginitslittleframeonawallofthecourtyard.“Deplorablealarmistreportsandfalserumours,”itran,“Actinguponprecise

instructionsoftheHighCommand,IrecommendN.C.O.’sandmennottogivecredenceto,repeat,orotherwisediffuse,alarmistrumoursconcerningwhathavebeenpresumedtobethreatsofaggressionagainstourborders.Suchrumoursareentirely without foundation. Theymay, besides being undesirable for obviousreasonsofdiscipline,disturbnormalgoodrelationswithourneighbouringstateandspreadamongstthetroopsanunnecessarystateoftensionwhichisharmfultotheservice.Itismywishthatviliganceonthepartofthesentriesbeexercisedby the normal methods and that above all no recourse be made to opticalinstruments not contemplated in the regulations andwhich, ifmuch used andused without judgment, easily give rise to errors and false conclusions. Anypersoninpossessionofsuchinstrumentsmustreporttohisunitcommanderwhowilltakestepstowithdrawtheinstrumentsandkeepthemincustody.”

Therefollowedthenormalordersforthedailyguarddutiesandthesignatureofthecommandant,Lieutenant-ColonelNicolosi.

Itwasclearthattheorderoftheday,althoughformallyaddressedtothemen,was actually aimed at the officers.Nicolosi had thus achieved two things—hehadhurt noone’s feelings andhe had informed thewholeFort.Obviously noofficerwouldanylongerdaretobeseenbythesentriesscanningthedesertwithtelescopes not of the regulation pattern. The instruments issued to the variousredoubtswereold,practicallyunusable;somehadevenbeenlost.

Who had informed on them?Who had warned the High Command downthere in the city? They all instinctively thought ofMatti—it could only havebeenhe, themanwhoalwayshad the regulations tohand tokillanypleasure,anyattemptatrelaxation.

Mostlytheofficerslaughedaboutit.TheHighCommand,theysaid,wasupto itsusual form, twoyears late. In anycasewhogavea thought to invasionsfrom thenorth?Ah, yes,Drogo andSimeoni—theyhad forgotten about them.Yet it seemed incredible that the order should have been put up specially for

those two. A good chap like Drogo, they thought, was certainly incapable ofendangeringanyoneevenifhespentthewholedaywithatelescopeinhishand.Simeoni,too,wasjudgedtobeharmless.

ButGiovanniwas instinctivelyconvinced that the lieutenant-colonel’sorderwasaimedathimpersonally.Oncemorethingswereworkingagainsthim.Whatharm was there if he stayed an hour or two watching the desert? When hethought of it he felt a deep-seated anger grow within him. He was alreadyprepared to await the spring. Once the snow had melted, he hoped themysterious light would reappear in the extreme north, the little black speckswouldoncemorebegintomovetoandfro;faithwouldbereborn.

ForallhisemotionswerecentredroundthathopeandthistimeonlySimeoniwasonhisside—theothersdidnotgiveitathought,notevenOrtiz,noryettheregimental tailor, Prosdocimo. It was fine now to be so alone, to guard theirsecrets jealously, not as in the days beforeAngustina diedwhen they had alllookedateachotherlikeconspiratorswithakindofeagerrivalry.

But now the telescope had been forbidden.Being as scrupulous as hewas,Simeoniwouldcertainlyno longerdare touse it.Even if the lightburnsoncemoreontheedgeoftheeternalmists,evenifthelittlespecksbegintocomeandgooncemore,theywillnotknow—noonecouldmakeitoutwiththenakedeye,not even the best sentries, famous hunterswho can see a raven almost amileaway.

ThatdayDrogowasanxioustohearwhatSimeonithoughtofthings,buthewaited until the evening so as not to attract attention; for someone wouldcertainlyhavereportedthemimmediately.BesidesSimeonihadnotcometothemessatmiddayandGiovannihadnotseenhimelsewhere.

At dinner Simeoni appeared, but later than usual,whenDrogo had alreadybegunhismeal.Heateatgreatspeed,rosebeforeGiovanniandwentstraightofftothegamingtable.WasheperhapsafraidtofindhimselfalonewithDrogo?

Neitherofthemwasondutythatevening.Giovannisatinanarmchairbesidethedoorof theanteroomsoas tocatchhiscompanionashewentout.Andhenotedhow,duringthegame,Simeonicastfleetingsidelongglancesathimandtriednottoshowit.

Simeoniplayedlate,muchlaterthanusual;whichhehadneverdonebefore.He continued to throwglances towards the door and hoped thatDrogowouldhavegottiredofwaiting.Atlast,whenalltheothershadgone,hetoohadtoriseandmovetowardsthedoor.Drogocameuptohim.

“Hello,Drogo,”saidSimeoniwithanembarrassedsmile.“Ihadnotseenyou,wherewereyou?”

Theyhadbeguntowalkalongoneoftheinnumerabledingycorridorswhich

ranlengthwaysthroughtheFort.“Iwassittingreading,”saidDrogo,“Ididn’tnoticeitwassolate.”They walked in silence for a little in the light of the rare lanterns hung

symmetricallyon thewalls.Theotherofficershadalreadygoneoff together—theyheardtheirvoicescomeconfusedlyoutofthefarshadows.Itwaslateandcold.

“Didyou readorders?” saidDrogo suddenly. “Didyou see that about falsealarms?Iwonderwhy.Andwhodoyouthinkplayedinformer?”

“HowshouldIknow?”Simeonirepliedalmostrudely,stoppingatthefootofaflightofstairs.“Areyoucomingupthisway?”

“Andthetelescope?”Drogoinsisted.“Wewon’tbeabletouseyourtelescopeanymoreunless...”

“I’vealreadyhandeditin,”interruptedSimeonisolemnly.“Itseemedthebestthingtodo.Speciallysincetheyhadtheireyeonus.”

“Ithinkyoucouldhavewaitedabit.InthreemonthswhenthesnowhasgoneIdon’tsupposeanyonewillgiveitathought.Wecouldwatchagain.Theroadyoutalkabout—howwillweseeitwithoutlookingthroughyourtelescope?”

“Ah, the road,” and therewas a trace of feeling inSimeoni’s voice. “But Iendedupbybeingconvincedthatyouwereright.”

“ThatIwasright—how?”“Thattheyaren’tmakingaroad,itmustbesomevillageorotheroragipsy

encampmentasyousaid.”ThenSimeoniwassoafraidthathedeniedeverything?Forfearoftroublehe

didnotevendaretospeaktohim,toDrogo.Giovannilookedhiscompanionintheface.Thecorridorwasnowcompletelydeserted,novoicewastobeheard;thewaveringshadowsofthetwoofficerswereprojectedmonstrouslyoneitherside.

“Soyoudon’tbelieveinitanymore?”askedDrogo.“Doyoureallythinkyouweremistaken?Andwhataboutallyourcalculations?”

“Theywereonly topass the time,” saidSimeoni, trying to turn it all intoajoke.“Ihopeyoudidn’ttakemeseriously.”

“Tellthetruth—you’refrightened,”saidDrogowithanangryvoice.“Tellthetruth—itwasonOrdersandnowyoudon’tdare.”

“I don’t knowwhat’swrongwith you this evening,” answered Simeoni. “Idon’tknowwhat to say toyou. It’s impossible tohavea jokewithyou, that’swhat it is, you take everything seriously—you’re like a child, that’swhat youare.”

Drogo said nothing and stood looking at him. They remained for a fewsecondswithoutspeaking,aloneinthegloomycorridor;butthesilencewastoo

muchforthem.“Well,I’mgoingtobed,”saidSimeonifinally,“goodnight.”Andhewentoffupthestairswhichwerelitoneachlandingbyadimlantern.

Simeoniclimbedthefirstflightanddisappearedroundacorner;onlyhisshadowwastobeseenonthewall,thennoteventhat.Whatalouse,thoughtDrogo.

M

XXIV

EANWHILE time was slipping past, beating life out silently and with everincreasingspeed;thereisnotimetohaltevenforasecond,notevenforaglance behind. “Stop, stop,” one feels like crying, but then one sees it is

useless.Everythinggoesby—men, theseasons, theclouds,andthere isnouseclinging to the stones, no use fighting it out on some rock inmid-stream; thetired fingersopen, thearms fallback inertlyandyouarestilldragged into theriver,theriverwhichseemstoflowsoslowlyyetneverstops.

FromdaytodayDrogofeltthemysteriousfloodgrowstrongerandsoughtinvaintoholditback.Hehadnopointsofreferenceintheunvaryinglifeof theFortandthehoursslippedawayfromhimbeforehecouldcountthem.

Then there was the secret hope whereby Drogo looked forward to whatshouldbethebestpartofhislife.Inordertonurseithesacrificedmonthuponmonth without a thought; yet that was still not enough. The winter, the longwinterattheFort,wasonlyasortofmortgageonhishopes.ThewinterendedandDrogostillwaited.

When the good weather came, he thought, the Northerners would resumeworkon the road.But therewasno longerSimeoni’s telescope forhim to seethemwith.Yet as theworkwenton—butwhoknewhow long thatwouldyettake?—theNorthernerswouldbedrawingnearerandonefinedaywouldcomewithinrangeoftheoldtelescopeswhichwerestillissuedtosomeoftheguards.

SoDrogohadnotfixedthetermofhiswaitinginthespringbutsomemonthslater,alwaysassumingthataroadwasindeedbeingbuilt.Andallsuchthoughtshe had to brood over in secret, for Simeoni, being afraid of unpleasantnesses,wantedtohearnomoreofthem;hisothercomradeswouldhavemadeajokeofitandhissuperiorsfrownedonsuchfantasies.

AtthebeginningofMay,howevermuchbescannedtheplainwiththebestofthe regulation telescopes,Giovannididnot succeed indiscoveringany signofhumanactivity,not even the light in thedark, andyethoweasily fires canbeseen even at immense distances; Little by little his hopes grew fainter. It isdifficulttobelieveinathingwhenoneisaloneandthereisnoonetospeakto.Itwas at this period that Drogo realised how far apart men are whatever theiraffectionforeachother,thatifyousufferthepainisyoursandyoursalone,no

oneelsecantakeuponhimselftheleastpartofit;thatifyousufferitdoesnotmeanthatothersfeelpaineventhoughtheirloveisgreat:hencethelonelinessoflife.

HopebegantowaneandimpatiencegrewinDrogoasheheardthestrokesoftheclockcrowduponeachother.Hehadalreadyreachedthepointwhereheletwholedaysgopastwithoutevenglancingto thenorth,althoughsometimeshelikedtopretendtohimselfthathehadforgotten,whereasinrealityhediditonpurposesothatnexttimehischancesmightbeashadebetter.

Atlastoneevening—butwhatalongtimeithadbeen—alittletremblinglightappearedin the lensof the telescope,aweak, lightwhichseemedtoflickeronthe point of death but which must be, if you worked out the distance, of arespectablesize.

It was the night of the seventh of July. For years Drogo remembered themarvellous joywhich floodedhisheartandhisdesire to runandshout so thateveryonemightknowofitandthepridewithwhichhestruggledtotellnoonebecauseofasuperstitiousfearthatthelightmightdie.

EveryeveningDrogostoodandwaitedonthetopofthewalls,everyevening

the light appeared to comea little nearer andgrowbigger.Often itmust havebeenanillusionbornofhislongingbutatothertimestherewasarealadvance,untilatlastasentrydescrieditwithhisnakedeye.

Then even by day they began to see against thewhitish background of thedesertamovementof littleblackspecks, justas theyearbefore,onlynowthetelescope was less powerful and so the Northerners must have drawn muchnearer.

InSeptemberthelightofwhattheytooktobetheworkshopwaspickedouton clear nights even by people with average sight. Little by little among thegarrisonthetalkbeganoncemoreofthenorthernsteppe,oftheforeigntroops,of the strange movements and the lights by night.Many of them said that itreallywasaroad—althoughtheycouldnotsaywhatitwasfor—thetheorythatit was a military undertaking seemed absurd. Besides the work seemed toproceedwithextraordinaryslownesscomparedwiththehugedistancestilltobecovered.

Yetoneevening therewasvague talkofwarandstrangehopesbeganoncemoretoeddytoandfrowithinthewallsoftheFort.

L

XXV

ITTLEmore than half amile from the Fort a stake has been planted on thecrestoftheescarpmentwhichrunsacrossthenorthernsteppe.Fromtherethedesert stretches to the rocky cone of theNewRedoubt, even and compact

enough for the artillery to advance freely. A stake has been thrust into thesummitofthefeature—astrangesignofhumanactivity—easilyvisiblewiththenakedeyefromthesummitoftheNewRedoubt.

ThatisthepointtheNorthernershavereachedwiththeirroad.Thegreatworkis finishedat last,butatwhata terribleprice.LieutenantSimeonihadmadeaforecast, had said six months. But six months had not been enough for thebuildingofit,notsixmonthsnoryeteightnorten.Nowtheroadisfinishedandthe enemyconvoys candescend from thenorth at thegallop and so reach thewallsoftheFort;afterthatthereisonlythelaststretchtocross,afewhundredsofyardsofsmoothandeasygoing,butithasallcostthemdearly.Fifteenyearsittook—fifteenlong,longyears,andyettheyhavepassedlikeadream.

A glance around one and nothing seems changed. The mountains areunchanged;on,thewallsintheFortthesamestainsaretobeseem—therewillbeafewnewonesbutnotofanysize.Theskyisthesame,thesametheTartarsteppe (if one disregards that dark stake on the edge of the escarpment and alongstraightstripwhichonecanorcannotseeaccordingtothelight—andthatisthefamousroad).

Fifteen years havemeant less than nothing to the mountains and have notevendonemuchharmtothebastionsoftheFort.Butforthemenithasbeenalongroadalthoughtheydonotquiteunderstandhowitpassedsoquickly.Thefaces are still the same—more or less; the customs have not changed nor theguarddutiesnorthethingstheofficerstalkabouteveryevening.

Andyetifonelookscloselythemarksoftheyearscanbeseenintheirfaces.Andthenthegarrisonhasbeenstillfurtherreducedinnumbers—longstretchesof wall are no longer occupied and one can come up to them without anypassword.Thegroupsofsentriesaredistributedonlyamongtheessentialpoints;it has even been decided to close down theNewRedoubt and only to send apicket thereevery tendaysona tourof inspection.Sosmall is the importancetheHighCommandnowattachestoFortBastiani.

Indeedtheconstructionoftheroadonthenorthernplainhasnotbeentakenseriously by the General Staff. Some people say that it is one of the usualeccentricitiesofmilitaryheadquarters;otherssaythatinthecapitaltheymustbebetter informed, obviously the evidence goes to show that the road serves noaggressiveaims.Besides there isnootherexplanation tohandeven if it isnotveryconvincing.

Life at the Fort has become more monotonous and solitary; Lieutenant-Colonel Nicolosi, Major Monti, Lieutenant-Colonel Matti have retired onpension.Thegarrison is nowcommandedbyLieutenant-ColonelOrtiz and allthe others, too, except the regimental tailor, Prosdocimo,who has remained asergeant-major,haveriseninrank.

One wonderful morning—it is September once more—Drogo, CaptainGiovanniDrogo, isridingupthesteeproadwhichleadsfromtheplaintoFortBastiani.Hehashadamonth’sleave,butheiscomingbackaftertwentydays;the city has by now become completely foreign to him—his old friends havemadecareersforthemselves,occupyimportantpositionsandgreethimhastilyasifhewereanofficerlikeanyother.Evenhishouse,whichDrogostillloves,fillshimwith an indefinable pain each time he returns to it. The house is almostalwaysdeserted,hismother’sroomisemptyforever,hisbrothersareconstantlyawayfromhome;onehasmarriedandlivesinanothercity,anotherstilltravels;there are no more signs of family life in the living rooms, voices re-echoabsurdlyand it isnotenoughtoopen thewindowsand let in thesun.SooncemoreDrogoisclimbingupthevalleytotheFortandhehasfifteenyearsfewertolive.Yethedoesnotfeelthathehaschangedparticularly;timehasslippedbyso quickly that his heart has not had a chance to grow old.And although themysterioustumultof thepassinghoursgrowswitheachday,Drogoperseveresin his illusion that the really important things of life are still before him.Giovannipatientlyawaitshishour,thehourwhichhasnevercome;hedoesnotseethat thefuturehasgrownterriblyshort, that it isnolongerlikeinthedayswhen time to come could seem an immense period, an inexhaustible fund ofrichestobesquanderedwithoutrisk.

Andyetonedayhenoticedthathenolongerwentridingonthelevelgroundbehind the Fort. In fact he noticed that he had no desire to do so and that inrecentmonths—butsincewhenexactly—henolongerranupthestairstwoatatime.Thisissilly,hethought;physicallyhefelthimselfunchanged,everythingwasgoingtomakeafreshstart,ofthattherewasnottheleastdoubt.Itwasquiteunnecessaryandridiculoustorequireproofofit.

No, physically Drogo has not deteriorated. If he started riding again andrunningupthestairstwoatatimehecouldeasilydoit—butthatisnotwhatis

important.Theseriousthingis thathenolongerfeelsanydesire todoso, thatafter lunchheprefers tostaydozing in thesunrather thangallopabouton thestonyplateau.That iswhatmatters, that is theonly signof thepassageof theyears.

Ifonlyhehadthoughtofitthefirsteveninghetookthestairsoneatatime.Hefeltalittletired,it istrue;thereseemedtobeanironbandroundhishead,andhehadnodesirefortheusualgameofcards;besides,onpreviousoccasions,too, he had refrained from running up the stairs because of some passingailment. He had not the slightest suspicion that that evening was a very sadoccasionforhim, thatontheseverystairs,at thatverymoment,hisyouthwasending,thatthenextday,fornoparticularreason,hewouldnotgobacktotheoldwaysnorthedayafter,noryetlateron.Never.

And now as Drogo rides up in the sunlight and meditates, and the horse,

alreadyalittletired,goesatawalk,avoicecallshimfromtheothersideofthevalley.

“Captain,” he hears it call and turning round sees on the other side of thegorgeayoungofficeronhorseback.Hedidnotrecognisehimbutheseemedtomake out the badges of rank of a lieutenant and thought it must be anotherofficerfromtheFortreturninglikehimselffromleave.

“Whatisit?”askedGiovanni,andstopped;butfirst,asregulationsrequired,hereturnedtheother’ssalute.Whatreasoncouldthatlieutenanthaveforcallinghiminthissomewhateasy-goingmanner.

Theotherdidnotreply,and“What is it?”Drogorepeatedmore loudly; thistimewithatraceofannoyance.

Uprightinhissaddletheunknownlieutenantputhishandstohismouth,andrepliedwiththefullforceofhislungs:

“Nothing,Iwantedtosay‘Goodday’toyou.”ToGiovanni itseemedastupidexplanation,almostoffensiveandsavouring

ofajoke.Halfanhour’sridetothebridgeandthenthetworoadsmet.Sowhatneedwasthereforthisunmilitarydisplayofspirits?

“Whoareyou?”Drogocalledback.“LieutenantMoro,”was the reply, or rather suchwas the name the captain

seemed to hear. LieutenantMoro? he asked himself. Therewas no one at theFortwithanamelikethat.Wasitperhapsanewsubalterncomingtotakeuphisduties?

Itwasonlythenthatitstruckhim,awakeningsorrowfulchordsinhisheart—thememoryof that fardistantdaywhenhehadclimbedup to theFort for thefirsttime,ofhismeetingwithCaptainOrtizattheverysamepointinthevalley,

of his urge to speakwith some friendly person, of the embarrassing dialogueacrosstheravine.

Exactlyason thatday,he thought—with thisdifference, that theroleswerechangedandnowitwashe,Drogo,theoldcaptainwhorodeuptoFortBastianiforthehundredthtimewhilethenewlieutenantwasacertainMoro,someonehedidnotknow.ThenDrogorealisedthatinthemeantimeanentiregenerationhadbeen used up, that he had nowpassed the peak of life, belongedwith the oldmen, where it had seemed to him Ortiz belonged on that distant day. AndGiovanni—pastforty,havingdonenothingremarkable,withnochildren,reallyaloneintheworld—Giovannilookedaroundindismayandfeltthathisdestinywasrunningout.

He saw boulders encrusted with bushes, wet watercourses, distant nakedcrestspiledoneabovetheotherinthesky,theimpassiblefaceofthemountains—and on the other side of the valley that new lieutenant, timid and far fromhome,whodeludedhimself that hewouldof coursenot stay at theFortmorethan a few months and dreamt of a brilliant career, glorious feats of arms,romanticloves.

Heclappedhishorse’sneckwithonehandandtheanimalturneditsheadinafriendlyway,butcouldnotnaturallyunderstandhim.Anoose tightened roundDrogo’sheart—farewell to thedreamsof those faroffdays, farewell thegoodthingsoflife.Brightandfriendlythesunshoneuponmankind,aninvigoratingbreezecamedownthevalley,themeadowsgaveoffasweetsmell,thevoicesofthe birds accompanied themusic of the torrent. A day for happiness, thoughtDrogo, and was amazed that there was no apparent difference from certainwonderful mornings in his youth. The horse set off again. Half an hour laterDrogosawthebridgewheretheroadsmet,thoughtthatsoonhewouldhavetobegintospeaktothenewlieutenantandthethoughthurthim.

W

XXVI

HY,nowthattheroadwasfinished,hadtheNorthernersdisappeared?Whyhadmen,horsesandwagonsgonebackacrossthegreatplain,backintothemists of the north? Was all that work for nothing? Yet the squads of

pioneers were seen going off one by one until once more they became tinyspecksvisibleonlythroughthetelescopeastheyhadbeenfifteenyearsbefore.Theway lay open for the fightingmen, should the army now advance to theassaultonFortBastiani.

Buttherewasnosignoftheadvancingarmy.Thereremainedonlythestretchof road running across the Tartar steppe—a strange man-made mark in theancientwilderness.Thearmydidnotcomeontotheassault;everythingseemedleftinsuspense;butwhoknewforhowlong?

Thustheplainremainedunaltered,thenorthernmistsdidnotshiftandthelifeof the Fort stayed as beforewith all its regulations; the sentries still went onpacing out the samenumber of steps fromone point to another of the sentry-walk,themen’ssoupwasthesame,onedayidenticalwithanother,repeatingthesamethingownandoveragainlikeasoldiermarkingtime.Andyetthewindsoftime were blowing; heedless of mankind they blew to and fro in the worldpreyinguponbeauty;andnoonecouldescapethem,notevenchildrensonewlybornastobestillunnamed.

Giovanni’sface,too,begantobecoveredwithwrinkles,hishairbecamegrey,hisstepheavier;thetorrentoflifehadnowthrownhimtooneside,towardstheswirling backwaters, although he was after all only fifty. Naturally Drogo nolonger did guard duty, but he had an office in headquarters company next toLieutenant-ColonelOrtiz.

Whendarknessfell thescantnumberofmenonguardnolongersufficedtopreventthenightfrombecomingmasteroftheFort.Hugestretchesofwallwereunwatchedandthere the thoughts thatcomewith thedark, thesad thoughtsoflonely men, made their breach. For the old Fort was like a lonely islandsurroundedbyuninhabitedwastes—torightandleftwerethemountains,tothesouththelonguninhabitedvalleyandintheoppositedirectiontheTartarsteppe.Strangenoises,noisesneverheardbefore,re-echoedatdeadofnightthroughthelabyrinthsof theFortand thesentries’heartsbegan tobeat.Thecryof“Stand

to!”stillranfromoneendofthewallstotheother,butthesoldiershadtomakeagreatefforttopassiton,sofarapartwerethey.

AboutthistimeDrogowasaspectatorofLieutenantMoro’sfirsttroubles—itwas likea faithful reproductionofhisownyouth.Moro, too,hadat firstbeenterrified,hadgonetoMajorSimeoni(who,as itwere, tookMatti’splace),hadbeenpersuaded tostayfor fourmonthsandhadfinally remainedcaught likealimedbird.Moro,too,hadbeguntolooktoofixedlytowardsthenorthandthenew unused road along which his soldier’s hopes came marching on. Drogowould have liked to speak to him, to tell him to be on his guard, to go awaywhiletherewasstilltime;allthemoresosinceMorowasanice,conscientiousboy.But something stupidalways intervenedandprevented them from talkinganditwouldinanycaseprobablyhavebeenpointless.

One after another the pages turned—the grey pages of the days, the blackpagesof thenights, andbothDrogoandOrtiz (andperhaps someof theothersenior officers) felt a growing anxiety that theymight no longer have enoughtimeleft.InsensibletothewastingpoweroftheyearstheNorthernersmadenomove, as if theywere immortal and itmeantnothing to them if theygambledawaywholeseasons.But theFortcontainedpoormortalmen,withnodefenceagainst the work of time and their final term was upon them. Points in timewhichhadonceseemedunreal,sodistantwerethey,nowsuddenlyappearedonthenearbyhorizonandbroughttomindhowruthlesslytimestrikesitsbalances.Each time, ifonewere togoon,onehad toworkoutanewsystem, findnewtermsofreference,consoleoneselfwiththethoughtofothersstillworseoff.

At lastevenOrtizhad to retireonpensionandon thenorthernsteppe therewasnot the leastsignof life,notyet the tiniest light.Lieutenant-ColonelOrtizhanded over to Simeoni, the new commandant, paraded the troops in thecourtyard—except of course the detachments on guard duties—got through aspeechwithdifficulty,mountedontohisownhorsewiththehelpofhisbatmanand rode out of the gate of the Fort. A lieutenant and two soldiers were hisescort.

Drogoaccompaniedhimtotheedgeoftheplateauwheretheysaidgoodbye.Itwasthemorningofalongfinesummer’sday;thecloudspassingthroughtheskymadea strangepatternon the landscape.OrtizdismountedandstoodwithDrogo a little apart from theothers; neither spoke for theydidnot knowhowthey should say farewell. Then forced and banalwords came to their lips, sodifferentfromwhatwasintheirheartsandsomuchpoorer.

“Lifewillbedifferentformenow,”saidDrogo.“IalmostwishIwasleaving.Ialmostfeellikeresigningmycommission.”

“Youarestillyoung,”saidOrtiz.“Itwouldbeasilly thing todo—youstill

havetime.”“Timeforwhat?”“Timeforthewar.You’llsee—itwon’tbemorethantwoyears.”Sohesaid,

but in his heart he hoped itmight not be so; in actual fact he hoped that likehimselfDrogowouldleavewithouthavinghadthatgreatgoodfortune.Itwouldhaveseemedaninjustice.AndyethecountedDrogohisfriendandwishedhimwell.

ButGiovannididnotsayanything.“You’llseeitwon’tbemorethantwoyears, that’safact,”Ortizinsisted,in

thehopeofbeingcontradicted.“Two years!” said Drogo at last. “Centuries will pass and it will still not

come.Theroadhasbeenabandonedandnoonewillevercomefromthenorth.”Butalthoughthiswaswhathesaid,thevoiceinhisheartspokedifferently;fortherestilllivedonwithinhimthatdeep-rootedpresentimentofgreatevents,anobscureconvictionthattheprimeoflifewasstilltocome,arelicofhisyouth,absurdandundauntedbytheyears.

They fell silent again, for they saw that the subject was raising a barrierbetween them. But what could they say, they who had lived together almostthirty years between the samewalls andwith the same dreams?After all thatwaytogethertheirtworoadswerenowgoingapart—oneinonedirection,oneinanother—leadingontounknownterritories.

“Whatwonderfulsunshine,”saidOrtiz,andlookedatthewallsofhisFort,oftheForthewasleavingforever;hiseyeswerea littledimmedwithage.Theyseemedtobeunchanged,thewallsofthesameyellowishcolour,withthesameromantic aspect. Ortiz looked at them intensely and only Drogo could haveguessedhowmuchhesuffered.

“Yes,itishot,”repliedGiovanni,andrememberedMariaVescovi,thatfaroffconversation in the drawing room and the melancholy falling chords of thepiano.

“Ahotday, that’safact,”addedOrtiz,andthe twosmiledtoeachother,aninstinctive sign of understanding as if to say that they knew perfectly themeaningofthesestupidwords.Nowacloudhadtouchedthemwithitsshadowandforaminuteor two thewholeplateauwasdarkened; theFort, incontrast,stilllayinthesunandgleamedwithsinistersplendour.Twogreatbirdswheeledover the first redoubt. Far off, almost imperceptible, therewas the sound of atrumpet.

“Didyouhear?thetrumpet,”saidtheoldofficer.“No, I didn’t hear,” Drogo lied in reply with a vague feeling that he was

therebypleasinghisfriend.

“PerhapsI’mmistaken.Infactwearetoofaroff,”Ortizadmitted,hisvoicetrembling,thenheaddedwithdifficulty:“Doyourememberthefirsttime,whenyouarrivedhereandyouwereafraid?Youdidn’twanttostay,youremember?”

“Alongtimeago,”wasallDrogocouldsay,forastrangeknothadtightenedroundhisthroat.

ThenOrtiz,whohadbeenfollowinghisownthoughts,saidsomethingelse:“Whoknows?”hesaid,“perhapsImightbesomeuseiftherewasawar.MaybeIwouldn’t.Perhapsinawar—butotherwisenouseatall;thatwehaveallseen.”

The cloud had passed over, had passed over the Fort and nowwas slidingacrossthedesolationof theTartarSteppe,movingsilentlynorth.Twentyyardsoff the horses ofOrtiz and his escort beat their hooves on the stones to showtheirimpatience.

A

XXVII

NOTHERpageturns,themonthsandtheyearsgoby.Drogo’sschoolmatesarealmost tired of work, they have grey square-cut beards, they walkcomposedlythroughthecityandpeoplesalutethemrespectfully.Theirsons

aregrownmen;someofthemaregrandfathers.Drogo’sfriendsliketolingeratthedoorof thehouses theyhavebuilt themselvesand,contentwith thecareertheyhavemade,towatchtheriveroflife;theyamusethemselvesbypickingouttheir sons among the whirling multitude and encouraging them to hurry, tooutstrip theothers,andarrive firstat thegoal.ButGiovanniDrogostillwaits,althoughhopegrowsfeeblerfrommomenttomoment.

Now he has changed at last. He is fifty-four, has the rank ofmajor and issecondincommandofthescantygarrisonoftheFort.Uptoalittletimeagohehadnotchangedmuch,hemightstillbecalledyoung.Everynowandagainherodeaboutalittleforhishealth’ssakeontheplateau;butitwasaneffort.

Then he began to grow thinner, his face became a sad yellow colour, themusclesslackened.Livertrouble,saidDoctorRovina,whoisnowexceedinglyoldanddeterminedtoendhislifeupthere.ButRovina’spowdershadnoeffect.InthemorningGiovanniawokewithadishearteningfeelingoffatigue;thenhesatinhisofficeandcouldscarcelywaitfortheeveningtoarrivesothathemightthrowhimself intoaneasychairoron tohisbed.Liver troubleaggravatedbygeneralexhaustion, said themedicalofficer,butexhaustionwasveryoddwiththe life Giovanni led. However, it was something that would pass off, andcommonatthatage—saidRovina—alittletediousperhapsbutwithnodangerofcomplications.

Thusa further reason forwaitingbecameengraftedon toDrogo’s life—hishope of recovery. Otherwise he showed no sign of impatience. The northernsteppewasstillempty;nothingpointedtoapossibleenemyadvance.

“You are looking better,” his colleagues told him almost every day, but inreality Drogo did not feel the slightest improvement. Admittedly the earlierheadachesandpainfulattacksofdiarrhoeahaddisappeared.Nospecificailmenttorturedhim.Butingeneralhisenergieswereflagging.

Simeoni,thecommandantoftheFort,saidtohim:“Takesomeleave.Havearest. Itwoulddoyougood togo to somewhereby the sea.”And sinceDrogo

saidno,hefeltbetteralready,hepreferredtostayon,Simeoniwouldshakehishead reprovingly as if Giovanni were ungratefully refusing valuable advice,advicewhichnotonlywasinthespiritoftheregulationsbuttohisownpersonaladvantage and in the interests of the efficient running of the garrison. ForSimeonimadehis ownvirtuousperfection such aburden to theothers that hehadcontrivedtomakethemlamentMatti’sgoing.

Whateverthetopic,whathesaid,anditwassuperficiallyextremelycordial,hadalwaysavagueflavourofreproof,asifheweretheonlyonetodohisdutytothelast,theonlysupportoftheFort,theonlyonewhothoughtofdealingwiththe innumerable troubles which would otherwise have brought everything towrack and ruin. Matti too, in his day, had been a little like this, but lesshypocritical;Matti hadmadeno secret of thebarrennessof his ownheart andsomeofhispitilesscoarsenesshadbeennotunpleasingtothemen.

FortunatelyDrogo had struck up a friendshipwithDoctor Rovina and hadgainedhiscomplicityinhisefforttostayon.Avaguesuperstitiousfeelingtoldhim that if henow left theFortbecauseof illnesshewouldnever return.Thethoughtpainedhim.Admittedlythirtyyearsagohehadwantedtoleave,totakehis place in the smooth and brilliant life of the garrison towns with summermanoeuvres, musketry practice, horse racing, theatres, social events, beautifulwomen.Butnowwhatwouldbeleftforhim?Therewereonlyafewyearstogountilhewasretiredonpension,hiscareerwasfinished,atthemosttheymightgivehimajobonsomeheadquarterssothathecouldserveouthistime.Hehadonlyafewyearsleft—hislastreserve—andperhapsbeforetheycametoanendthelonghoped-foreventmightcome.Hehadthrownawaythegoodyears,nowheatleastwantedtowaitonuntilthelast.

TohastenhisrecoveryRovinaadvisedDrogotospendalldayinbedandtohaveanythinghehadtoattendtobroughttohisroom.ThishappenedonecoldandrainyMarchwhichbroughtwithitgreatandunusualavalanchesamongthemountains; whole peaks crumbled for reasons unknown and shatteredthemselvesintheabysses;forhouruponhoursadvoicesresoundedthroughthenight.

At lastwithextremeslowness thegoodweatherbegan toappear.Thesnowhadmelted in thepassbutwetmists lingeredover theFort. Itneededastrongsun to dispel them, for the air of the valleyswas heavy from thewinter.But,wakingonemorning,Drogosawafinestripofsunlightglowingonthefloorandfeltthatspringhadcome.

He gave himself up to the hope that with the fine days there would be acorrespondingquickeninginhimself.Evenintheancientbeamsthereawokeinspring-time a vestige of life—hence the innumerable creakings which fill the

springnights.Everythingseemstobeginanew—arushofhealthandjoyfloodstheworld.

Drogodweltonthethoughtintensely,recallingtomindwhatgreatwritershadsaidon the subjectandso sought toconvincehimself.Rising fromhisbedhewalkedswayingtothewindow.Hisheadbegantowhirlbutheconsoledhimselfwiththethoughtthatitalwayshappenssowhenonegetsupaftermanydaysinbed,evenifoneisquitebetter.AndinfactthegiddinessdisappearedandDrogocouldlookoutuponthebrillianceofthesun.

Limitless joy seemed to be radiated throughout theworld.Drogo could notconfirmthisdirectlybecausetherewasawallinfrontofhim;buthecouldeasilyguess it.Even theoldwalls, the reddishearthof thecourtyard, thebenchesofdiscolouredwood, an empty crate, a soldierwalking slowly past—all of themseemedhappy.Sowhatmustitbelikeoutthere,beyondthewalls?

Hewastemptedtogetdressed,tositintheopeninaneasy-chairandtakethesun,butabarelyperceptibleshiverfrightenedhimandhintedthatheshouldgoback to bed. “But I’m feelingbetter today, really better,” he thought, andwasconvincedthathewasbeinghonestwithhimself.

Quietly, overwhelmingly, the spring morning came on and the streak ofsunlightmovedacrossthefloor.Drogowatcheditfromtimetotimeandhadnoinclinationtoexaminethenotebookspileduponthetablebyhisbed.Therewasbesidesanextraordinarysilencewhichwasimmunetotheinfrequentbuglecallsandthedrippinginthecistern.Evenafterhispromotiontomajor,Drogohadnotfelt likechanginghis room—healmostseemed tobeafraid that itwouldhavebroughthimbadluck;butbynowthesighingofthecisternhadbecomeadeeprootedhabitandnolongerdisturbedhim.

Drogowaswatchingaflywhichhadcometorestonthegroundrightonthe

streakofsunlight,anoddthingtoseeatthattimeofyear,makinghimwonderhowithadsurvivedthewinter.Hewaswatchingitwalkcautiouslyaboutwhensomeoneknockedatthedoor.

Itwasnottheusualknock,Giovanninoted.Itcertainlywasnothisbatman,norCaptainCorradiwho always asked permission to come in, nor any of theotherregularvisitors.“Comein,”saidDrogo.

Thedooropenedandincametheoldregimental tailor,Prosdocimo;hewasall bent now andwore a strange garbwhichmust once have been a sergeant-major’suniform.Hecameforward,pantinga little,andwith thefirst fingerofhisrighthandpointedtosomethingbeyondthewall.

“Theyarecoming,theyarecoming,”hewhisperedloudly,asifitwereagreatsecret.

“Whoare coming?” saidDrogo, astonished to see the tailor sopossessed. Imustwatchout,hethought,thischapwillbegintotalkandtalkandhe’llgoonforanhouratleast.

“They’recomingalongtheroad,Godwilling,alongtheroadfromthenorth.”“Alongtheroadfromthenorth?Soldiers?”“Battalions of them, whole battalions,” the old man shouted, quite beside

himselfandclenchinghisfists.“Thistimethereisnomistake,andthenaletterhas come from the High Command to advise us that they are sendingreinforcements. It iswar, it iswar,” hekept on crying, and itwashard to tellwhetherhewasnotalittleafraid.

“Canyouseethemalready?”askedDrogo.“Canyouseethemevenwithoutatelescope?”Hehadsatupinbedandagreatuneasinesshadcomeoverhim.

“By God you can. You can see the guns—they have counted eighteen ofthem.”

“Andwhenwilltheybeabletoattack?Howlongwilltheytake?”“Ah,with theroad theywon’t take long—Isay they’llbehere in twodays,

two days at themost.”Damn this bed, saidDrogo to himself, here I am tieddown bymy illness. It had never even entered his head that Prosdocimo hadinventedit;hehadsuddenlyfeltthatitwasalltrue,hehadnoticedthateventheairseemeddifferent,theairandthelightofthesun.

“Prosdocimo,”hesaid,breathingheavily,“goandcallmybatman,Luca,forme.There’snouseringingthebell,hemustbedownintheseniorofficers’messwaitingforpapers.Bequick,please.”

“Rightaway,sir,”saidProsdocimoeagerly,ashewentoff.“Forgetaboutyourailments,comeuponthewalls,too,andsee.”

Hewent out rapidly, forgetting to close the door; his steps could be hearddisappearingalongthecorridorandthenthesilencereturned.

DearGod,makemefeelbetter, Ientreatyou, ifonlyforaweek,whisperedDrogo,unabletostemthewaveofexcitement.Hewantedtogetupatonce,atallcosts.Togorightoutontothewalls,showhimselftoSimeoniandmakehimunderstandthathewasthere, thathewasathispost, thathewouldresumehisresponsibilitiesasusualasifhehadneverbeenill.

Therewasabang—adraughtinthecorridorslammedthedoorto.InthegreatsilencethenoisehadaloudandsinisterecholikeananswertoDrogo’sprayer.WhywasLucanotcoming,howlongwouldthatdolttaketoclimbtwoflightsofstairs?

WithoutwaitingforhimDrogogotoutofbedandwasseizedbyawaveofgiddiness; but slowly it passed away. Now hewas in front of themirror andlookedwithhorrorathisownyellow,wornface.Itismybeardthatmakesme

looklikethis,hetriedtotellhimself;andwithuncertainsteps,stillinhisnight-gown,hewanderedround theroomlookingfora razor.ButwhydidLucanotmakeuphismindtocome?

The wind banged the door once more. The devil take it, said Drogo, andmovedtoshutit.Atthatmomentheheardhisbatman’sstepdrawingnear.

Shavedanddressedwithcare—but theuniformwas toobigforhimandhe

seemedtoswayaboutwithinit—MajorDrogolefthisroomandstartedoffalongthe corridor; it seemedmuch longer than usual. Luca was at his side, a littlebehindhim, ready tosupporthimbecausehesaw that theofficercouldbarelystandonhisfeet.Nowthewavesofgiddinessreturnedsuddenlyandirregularly;each timeDrogohad to stopand leanagainst thewall. I am tooexcited, I amstrungupasusual,hethought,butonthewholeIfeelbetter.

AndinfactthegiddinesspassedandDrogoreachedtheuppermostterraceoftheFortwhere,throughthetelescope,variousofficerswerescanningthetriangleof steppe left exposed by the mountains. Giovanni was dazzled by the fullbrightness of the sun, for he was no longer used to it and replied in someconfusion to thegreetingsof theofficers. Itseemedtohim,butperhaps itwasmerelyhisownsourinterpretation,thatthesubalternssalutedhimwithacertaincasualnessasifhewerenolongertheirdirectsuperior,inasensethearbiteroftheirdailylives.Didtheythinkhewasalreadywrittenoffthestrength?

Theunpleasantthoughtlastedonlyforamoment,forhismainpreoccupationreturned:theideaofwar.FirstofallDrogosawathincolumnofsmokerisingfromthesummitoftheNewRedoubt,sotheguardhadbeenpostedthereoncemore, emergencymeasures had alreadybeen taken, the commandwas alreadyfunctioning—butnoonehadconsultedhimwhowassecondincommand.Theyhadnotevengivenhimwarning—onthecontrary.IfProsdocimohadnotcometocallhimonhisowninitiativeDrogowouldstillhavebeeninbed,unconsciousofthethreat.

Hehadafitofburning,bitteranger;aveilcameoverhiseyes;hehadtoleanontheparapetoftheterraceand,ashedidso,grippedhimselfwithallhispowerso that the others should not see the state to which he was reduced. He feltterribly alone, among enemies. Of course there were one or two younglieutenantslikeMorowhowerefondofhim,butwhatusewastheirsupporttohim?

Atthatmomentheheardavoicecallingthemtoattention.WithhastystepsColonelSimeoniwalkedthroughthem,hisfacered.

“Ihavebeenlookingforyoueverywhereforhalfanhour,”heexclaimedtoDrogo.“Iwasatmywits’end.Wemustmakesomedecisions.”

Heapproachedhimwithexcessivecordiality,knittinghisbrows,asifhewereextremely worried and anxious for Drogo’s advice. Giovanni felt himselfdisarmed,hisangerwassuddenlyextinguished,althoughhewasfullyawarethatSimeoniwasdeceivinghim.SimeonihadimaginedthatDrogocouldnotmoveanymore,hadpaidnomoreattention tohim,had takendecisionsonhisown,althoughofcoursehewouldtellhimwheneverythinghadbeendone.ThentheyhadtoldhimthatDrogowaswalkingabouttheFortandhehadrunlookingforhim,eagertoprovehisgoodfaith.

“Ihaveamessagehere fromGeneralStazzi,” saidSimeoni, anticipatingallDrogo’squestionsanddrawinghimasidesothattheotherscouldnothear.“Tworegimentsarearriving,doyouunderstand?AndwhereshallIputthem?”

“Tworegimentsofreinforcements,”saidDrogoinamazement.Simeoni gave him the message. The general announced that as a security

measure, since possible provocations were feared, two regiments, the 17th ofFoottogetherwithanotherwhichwasforming,andagroupoflightartilleryhadbeensenttoreinforcethegarrisonattheearliestpossiblemoment;guarddutiesshouldbe resumed at theold strength,makinguse, that is, of thewhole forceavailable; quarters should be prepared for the officers andmen. Part of themwouldnaturallybeundercanvas.

“InthemeantimeIhavesentaplatoontotheNewRedoubt—thatwasright,wasn’tit?”addedSimeoni,withoutgivingDrogotimetoreply.“Haveyouseenthemyet?”

“Yes,yes, thatwasright,” repliedGiovanniwithaneffort.Simeoni’swordsstruck his ears as unreal, disconnected; things around him swayed to and frodisagreeably.Drogofeltill,acruelfeelingofexhaustionhadsuddenlyovercomehim;allhiswillpowerwasconcentratedinthesingleefforttostayonhisfeet.OhGod,ohGod,heprayedmentally,givemesomehelp.

To conceal his collapse he asked for a telescope—it was the famous onebelonging to Simeoni—and began to look north, leaning his elbows on theparapet,whichhelpedhimtokeeponhisfeet. Ifonly theenemyhadwaitedalittle, aweekwouldhavebeenenough forhim to recover; theyhadwaited somanyyears,couldtheynothavewaitedanotherfewdays,onlyafewdays?

Throughthetelescopehelookedatthevisibletriangleofdesert;hehopedhemightnotseeanything,thattheroadwouldbedeserted,thattherewouldbenosignoflife.ThatwaswhatDrogohopedforafterwastinghiswholelifewaitingfortheenemy.

Hehopedhewouldnotseeanything,and insteadablack lineranobliquelyacross thewhitish background of the plain and that linewasmoving, a densemassofmenandconveyscomingontowardstheFort.Thesewerenotthesame

scanty files as in the days when they hadmarked off the frontier. It was theNorthernarmyatlast,andperhaps—

At this point Drogo saw the image in the telescope begin to rotate like avortex,growdarkeranddarkerandthenplungeintonight.Ashefaintedhefelllimply on to the parapet like a puppet. Simeoni caught him in time; as hesupported the body—life seemed to have drained from it—he felt through thecloththeleanframeworkofthebones.

A

XXVIII

DAY and a night passed andMajorDrogo lay in bed; nowand again therereached him the rhythmic drip of the cistern but no other noise, althoughthroughouttheFortanxietyandexcitementgrewfromminutetominute.Cut

off from everything, Drogo lay and listened to his own body, trying to hearwhetherhisloststrengthwouldeverreturn.Rovinahadtoldhimthatitwouldbeaquestionofonlyafewdays.Butofhowmany?Whentheenemyarrivedwouldhebeabletogetontohisfeetatleast,dress,draghimselfontotheroofoftheFort?Nowandagainherosefromhisbed;eachtimeheseemedtofeelalittlebetter,hewalkedwithoutsupportasfarasthemirror,butherethesinisterimageofhisownface, itwasgrowingmoreandmoreashenandgaunt,extinguishedhisnewhopes.His head swirled and amist roseupbeforehim, thenhewentswayingbacktohisbed,cursingthedoctorfornotcuringhim.

Thestreakofsunlightonthefloorhadalreadyswungfarround—itmustbeeleven at least; unusual voiceswere rising from the courtyard andDrogowaslyingmotionlesswhen Lieutenant-Colonel Simeoni, Commandant of the Fort,entered.

“Howareyou?”heaskedinacheerfulvoice.“Abitbetter?Butyou’reverypale,youknow.”

“Iknow,”saidDrogocoldly.“Havetheyadvancedfromthenorth?”“I should say so,” said Simeoni. “The artillery is on the crest of the ridge

alreadyandnowtheyaresitingtheguns.Youmustforgivemefornotcoming,but it has become an inferno here. This afternoon the first reinforcements arearriving—I’veonlyhadfiveminutesfreenow.”

“TomorrowIhope togetup,”saidDrogo,andwasamazedtohearhisownvoicetremble,“Ishallbeabletohelpyoualittle.”

“Ohno,no,youmustn’tthinkofit.Thinkaboutgettingbetteranddon’tthinkI have forgotten you. In fact I have good news for you—today a wonderfulcarriagewill comeand fetchyou.Warornowarone’s friendscome first,”hedaredtosay.

“Acarriagetofetchme?Whytofetchme?”“To come and take you away, of course. You don’t want to stay in this

wretched room for ever. In the city they’ll look after you better—in amonth

you’ll be yourself again. And don’t worry about us here, everything is readynow.”

AgreatfloodofangerchokedDrogo’sbreast.Weretheygoingtochasehimawaynowthatthewarwascomingatlast,afterhehadthrownawaythebestoflifewaiting for the enemy, after he had lived on that one hope formore thanthirtyyears?

“Youmight at least have askedme,” he repliedwith a voice shakingwithanger.“Iwon’tmove,Iwant tostayhere—I’mnotas illasyouthink—Ishallgetuptomorrow.”

“Forgoodness’ sakedon’tget excited—wewon’tdoanything. Ifyoumakeyourself excitedyouwillgetworse still,” saidSimeoniwitha forced smileofcomprehension. “It was only that tome it seemed better, and Rovina says sotoo.”

“WhataboutRovina?DidRovinatellyoutosendforthecarriage?”“No,no,noonesaidanythingtoRovinaaboutthecarriage.Buthesaysyou

coulddowithachangeofair.”ThenDrogothoughthewouldspeaktoSimeoniasatruefriend,andopenhis

hearttohimashewouldhavedonetoOrtiz;afterallSimeoniwasamantoo.“Listen, Simeoni,” he began tentatively, changing tone, “you know that up

hereattheFortweallstayedoninthehope—it’sdifficulttosay,butyouknowwhatImean,”hesimplycouldnotexpresshimself,forhowcanyoumakeamanlikethatunderstandcertainthings?“Iftherehadnotbeenthatchance...”

“Idon’tunderstand,”saidSimeoniwithobviousdistaste.(WasDrogogoingtobecomesentimentalintothebargain?hethought.Hadtheillnessbroughthimdowntothatextent?)

“Butyoumustunderstand,”Giovanniinsisted.“Ihavebeenwaitinghereformore than thirtyyears, Ihave let a lotofchancesgoby.Thirtyyears is a fairtime,allspentwaitingfortheenemy.Youcan’ttrytotellmenow—youcan’ttrytotellmenowtogoaway,youcan’tdoit—itseemstomeIhaveacertainrighttostay.”

“Allright,”respondedSimeoniwithirritation.“I thoughtIwasdoingyouafavour and you answer me like that. I shouldn’t have bothered. I sent twodespatchridersonpurpose.Ispeciallyheldupatroopofgunstoletthecarriagepast.”

“But I’mnotblamingyouatall,” saidDrogo.“I’mgrateful toyou, Iknowyoumeantitwell.”(Ohhowithurt,hethought,tohavetokeepongoodtermswiththisfellow.)“Besides,thecarriagecanstayhere—atpresentI’mnoteveninaconditiontomakeajourneylikethat,”headdedincautiously.

“Alittlewhileagoyouweresayingyouwouldgetuptomorrow,andnowyou

sayyoucan’t evenget intoacarriage. I’msorry,butyoudon’tknowyourselfwhatyouwant.”

Drogotriedtoputthingsright.“Notatall.Ajourneylikethatandawalktotheendofthesentry’sbeatare

quite different things. I can have a bench brought out and sit down if I feelweak,”hewasgoing tosay‘achair’but thatmighthavesoundedsilly.“FromthereIcankeepaneyeonthemen,Icanatleastsee.”

“Allright,staythen,”saidSimeoni,asifhewereclosingthediscussion,“butI don’t knowwhere I am going tomake the officers sleep, the oneswho aregoingtoarrive;Ican’tputtheminthecorridorsor,inthecellars.Therecouldbethreebedsinthisroom.”

Drogo looked at him icily. So that was what Simeoni was getting at? Hewantedtosendhimawaytohavearoomfree.Wasthatall?Andthenhetalkedofsolicitudeandfriendship.Ishouldhaveseenthatfromthebeginning,thoughtDrogo,itwaswhatyouwouldexpectfromabastardlikethat.

SeeingthatDrogosaidnothingSimeonitookheartandwenton:“Therecouldbe threebeds in this roomeasily.Twoalongthatwalland the

thirdinthecorner.Yousee?Drogo,ifyoulistentome,”hewentonveryclearlyand distinctly butwithout the least human feeling, “if you listen tome you’llmake things easier forme,while if you stay here—don’tmind if I say so—Idon’tseewhatuseyoucanbeinthestateyouarein.”

“Allright,”interruptedGiovanni,“Iunderstand.That’senough,forgoodness’sake,Ihaveasorehead.”

“I’msorry,”saidtheother,“I’msorrytokeeponbutIwanttosettlethisrightaway.Thecarriageisonitsway.Rovinathinksyoushouldgo.Heretherewouldbearoomfree.Youwillgetbettermorequickly,andthen—ifIkeepyouhere,asickman, I am taking a fine responsibility onmyself if anything unfortunatehappens. You are obliging me to assume a fine responsibility, I tell you thatfrankly.”

“Listen,” replied Drogo, although he saw how absurd it was to fight on;meantimehegazedatthestreakofsunlightwhichwasclimbingupthewoodenwainscotting,andas itclimbed it slantedandstretchedout.“I’msorry if Isayno.But Iprefer tostayhere.Youwon’thaveany trouble, Iassureyou; ifyoulike I shall make a written statement. Go on, Simeoni, leave me in peace—perhapsIhaven’tlongtolive,letmestayhere.Ihavebeensleepinginthisroomformorethanthirtyyears.”

Theother saidnothing foramoment;he lookedcontemptuouslyathis sickcolleague,gaveanunpleasantsmileandthenaskedwithadifferentvoice:“AndsupposeIaskyouasyoursuperiorofficer?IfitwereanorderIwasgivingyou,

whatwouldyousaythen?”andherehemadeapauseasifrelishingtheeffecthehad produced. “This time, my dear Drogo, you are not showing your usualmilitary spirit, I’msorry tohave to tellyou,but in theendyou’llgoawayallright.Thereisnotellingwhatthechangewilldoforyou.Icanseethatyoudon’tlikeit,butyoucan’thaveeverythinginthislife,youhavetolistentoreason—nowIshallsendyouyourbatmantogetyourthingsready.Thecarriageshouldbeherebytwo.I’llseeyouagainlater.”

Withthesewordshehurriedoff,deliberatelysoasnottogiveDrogoachancetomakefurtherobjections.Heshutthedooringreathasteandwalkedquicklyawayalongthecorridorasifhewerepleasedwithhimselfandcompletemasterofthesituation.

The silence which remained was oppressive. There was a noise of waterdripping in the cisternbehind thewall.Then in the roomone couldonlyhearDrogo’sheavybreathing;itsoundedalmostlikeasob.Andoutsidethedaywasin its prime; even the stonesweregrowingwarm; from faroff there came theunvaryingnoiseofthewatersfallingovertheprecipitouscliff-faces;theenemywasmassingbehindthelastridgeinfullviewoftheFortwhilealongtheroadover thesteppe troopsand transportstillcameon.On therampartsof theForteverythingisready;theammunitionasitshouldbe,themenwellprepared,thearmsseento.Alleyesareturnedtowardsthenorth,eveniftheycanseenothingbecauseoftheinterveningmountains;foritisonlyfromtheNewRedoubtthateverything can be seen. Thus once more as in the far off days when theNorthernersarrivedtomarkoffthefrontierthereisthesamestateofsuspension,betweengustsoffearandjoy.ButnoonehasthetimetorememberDrogowhoisdressingwithLuca’shelpandpreparingtoleave.

I

XXIX

T had tobeadmitted that itwasahandsomecarriage, even toomuch so forthosecountryroads.Butfortheregimentalcoat-of-armsonthedoorsitmighthavebeentakenforthecarriageofsomerichgentleman.Ontoptheresattwo

soldiers,thecoachmanandDrogo’sbatman.In the midst of all the confusion at the Fort (the first detachments of

reinforcements were already arriving) no one paid much attention to a thinofficerwithadrawnandyellowishfacewhocameslowlydownthestairsand,makingtowardsthedoor,wentouttowherethecarriagestood.

At thatmoment a long columnof troops,mules andhorseswas to be seencoming from the valley and advancingover the sun-lit plateau.Although theywere tired with their forced march, the soldiers quickened their pace as theycamenearer to theFort,andtheband,at theheadof thecolumn,wereseentodrawthegreyclothcoveringsfromtheirinstrumentsasiftheywerepreparingtoplay.

Meanwhileoneor twopeoplesalutedDrogo,butnotmany,andnotas theyhadusedtodo.ApparentlytheyallknewthathewasonthepointofleavingandthatfromnowonhecountedfornothinginthehierarchyoftheFort.LieutenantMoro andoneor twoothers came towishhimagood journey, but itwas thebriefestofsalutationswiththatvague,undefinedaffectionwhichtheyounghavefor the older generation. One of them said that Lieutenant-Colonel Simeonibeggedhim todelayhisdeparture;hewasextremelyoccupiedat themoment;wouldMajorDrogobesogoodastowaitforaminuteortwo—thecommandantwouldcomewithoutfail.

Butwhenhehadclimbed into thecarriageDrogoatoncegave theorder todriveoff.Hehadmade themlower thehood to lethimbreathebetterandhadwrappedroundhislegstwoorthreedark-colouredblanketsonwhichhissabregleamed.

Rocking on the stones the carriage went off across the stony plateau; thusDrogo’sroadtookitslastturning.Sittingsidewaysontheseat,hisheadnoddingwitheachjoltofthewheels,DrogogazedattheyellowwallsoftheFortandsawthemsinklowerandlower.

Uptherehehadlivedhislife,cutofffromtheworld;hehadundergonethirty

yearsoftorturemerelywaitingfortheenemy,andnowthattheywerearrivinghewasbeingchasedaway.Buthiscomrades,theothersdownthereinthecity,hadhadaneasy,happylife;nowwithaprouddisdainfulsmiletheyhadreachedthegoalandreapedtherewardsofglory.

Drogo’s eyes gazed as never before at the yellowishwalls of the Fort, thegeometricaloutlinesofthecasematesandmagazines.Slow,bitter,bittertearsrandown over his wrinkled skin; everything was ending miserably; there wasnothingfurthertobesaid.

There was nothing, nothing at all in Drogo’s favour; he was alone in theworld,sick,andtheyhadchasedhimawaylikealeper.Hecursedthemoverandoveragain.Butitwasbettertoletthingsgo,nottothinkanymore;otherwiseanunbearablefloodofangerswelledinhisbreast.

Thesunwasalreadyonitsdownwardpathalthoughithadstillsomewaytogo; thetwosoldiersonthebootwerechattingquietly, indifferentwhether theystayedorwent.Theyhadtakenlifeasitcamewithoutworryingthemselveswithstupid thoughts. The carriage—it was wonderfully built, a real sick man’scarriage—swayedlikeadelicatebalanceateachpothole.AndtheFort(andwithit the whole panorama) grew smaller and lower, although its walls gleamedstrangelyinthatspringafternoon.

Thelasttimeverylikely,thoughtDrogowhenthecarriagereachedtheedgeoftheplateauwheretheroadbegantodipdownintothevalley.Goodbye,FortBastiani,hesaidtohimself.ButDrogowasalittledazedanddidnotevenhavethecouragetostopthehorsestogiveanotherlookattheoldkeep,whichafterallthesecenturieswasonlynowabouttobeginitstruelife.

Foramomentlongertheimageoftheyellowishwalls,theslantingbastions,themysteriousredoubts,thecliffsoneithersideblackwiththethaw,remainedinDrogo’seyes.ItseemedtoGiovanni—butitwasforaninfinitelyshortinstantoftime—that thewalls suddenly soaredup towards the sky, gleamingwith light;then everything was brutally hidden as the road plunged between the grass-grownrocks.

Towards fiveo’clock they reacheda little innwhere the road ran along the

side of the ravine. Overhead there rose, like amirage, chaotic crests coveredwithgrassandredearth,desolatehillswherenomanhadperhapseverbeen.Inthedepthsranthestream.

The carriagedrewupon the little spacebefore the inn at theverymomentwhen a rifle battalionwaspassing.Drogo sawon either sideyoung faces, redwith sweat and exertion, their eyes gazing at him in astonishment. Only theofficerssalutedhim.Heheardavoicecomingfromthosewhohadpassed:“He

travelsincomfort, theoldboy.”Butnolaughterfollowed.Whiletheywentonintobattlehewentdownto the ingloriousplain.Whatafoolofanofficer, thesoldiersprobablythought—butperhapstheyhadreadinhisfacethathetoowasgoingtohisdeath.

Hecouldnotshakeoffaslightsensationofdullness,asortofmist;perhapsithad been the swaying of the carriage, perhaps his illness, perhaps simply hissufferingatseeinghislifeendsomiserably.Nothingmatteredanymoretohim,absolutely nothing. The idea of going back to his city, of wandering withdraggingstepsthroughtheolddesertedhouseoroflyinginbedforlongboring,solitarymonthsfrightenedhim.Hewasinnohurrytoarrive.Hedecidedtopassthenightintheinn.

Hewaiteduntil thewholebattalionhadpassed,until thedust raisedby thesoldiershadsettledbehindthemagain,andtherumbleoftheirwagonshadbeendrownedbythevoiceofthestream.Thenheclimbedslowlyoutofthecarriage,leaningonLuca’sshoulder.

Therewasawomansittingonthedoorstepbusywithherknitting;atherfeetachildsleptinarudecradle.Drogolookedwithastonishmentatthatwonderfulsleep,sodifferentfromthatofgrownmen,solightandsodeep.Inthisbeingnodisturbeddreamshadyetcometo life, its littlesoulwenton itswaywithoutacare,withoutdesiresorremorse,andtheairwaspureandverystill.Drogostoodmotionlessgazingat thesleepingchild;anacutefeelingofsadnessenteredhisheart.Hetriedtoimaginehimselfdeepinsleep,astrangeDrogowhomhehadnever known; He tried to imagine how his own body looked, sleeping like abeast,worn by obscure exertions, his breathing heavy, hismouth falling half-open.Andyetonedayhehadslept like thatchild,he toohadbeena thingofgraceandinnocence,andperhapsanold,sickofficerhadstoppedtolookathimwithbitterastonishment.PoorDrogo,hesaidtohimself,andrealisedhowweakhewas;butheafterallwasaloneandnoonelovedhimexcepthimself.

H

XXX

E was sitting in his bedroom in a wide easy-chair; it was an evening sosplendid that it brought in at the window a perfumed air. Drogo lookedlistlesslyattheskywhichwasbecomingmoreandmoreblue,attheviolet

shadowsinthedeepvalley,atthecrestsstillbathedinsunlight.TheFortwasalongwayoff,eventhemountainsarounditcouldnolongerbeseen.

Itmusthavebeenahappyeveningevenformenofmoderategoodfortune.Giovanni thoughtof thecity in thedusk, the sweetunrestsof thenewseason,youngcouplesintheavenuesalongtheriver,thewindowsalreadylitandissuingfromthemthechordsofapiano,thewhistleofadistanttrain.Heimaginedthebivouacfiresoftheenemyintheheartofthenorthernsteppe,thelanternsoftheFort swaying in the wind, the wonderful sleepless night before the battle.Himselfexcepted,everyonehadsomereasonforhope,howeversmall.

Belowhiminthecommonroomamanhadbeguntosingandanotherjoinedhim,singinga folksongof somesortabout love. In thezenith,where thebluewasdeepest,shonethreeorfourstars.Drogowasaloneintheroom,thebatmanhad gone down to drink a glass; suspicious shadows began to gather in thecornersandunderthefurniture.ForamomentGiovanniseemedtogiveway—afterallnoonecouldseehim,nooneintheworldwouldknow;foraninstantMajorDrogofeltthatthegreatloadonhisheartwasabouttodissolveintears.

Itwas then that from somewheredeepdown there emerged a new thought,clearandterrible:thethoughtofdeath.

Hefeltasiftheflightoftimehadstopped,asthoughaspellhadbeenbroken.

Latelythewhirlingmotionhadgrown; thensuddenlyitsteppedaltogether; theworldlayhorizontal,listless,apathetic,andthewatchesranvainlyon.Drogo’sroad had come to its end; there he is now on the lonely shore of a grey,monotonous sea, and around him there is neither house nor tree nor humanbeingsandsoithasbeensincetimeimmemorial.

Fromthefurthesthorizonhefeltashadowadvanceuponhim,growingdarkeras itcame,closingaroundhim;perhaps itwasaquestionofweeksormonths,butevenweeksormonthsareasnothingwhentheyseparateusfromdeath.Solifehadbeenreducedtoakindofgame;everythinghadbeenlostforabetmadeina.momentofpride.

Outside, the skyhadbecome intenselyblue,but in thewestabandof lightremainedabovethevioletoutlinesofthemountains.Andthedarkhadcomeintotheroom;onecoulddistinguishonlythethreateningoutlinesofthefurniture,thewhiteness of the bed, Drogo’s gleaming sabre. He would, he realised, nevermovefromhere.

As he sat thus, surrounded by the dark (below they sang on sweetly to thechordsofaguitar)GiovanniDrogofeltalasthopecometolifewithinhim.Thisman,sickandalone in theworld, rejected fromtheFortasa tiresomeburden,this man who had been outstripped by everyone, timid and weak as he was,dared to imagine that everything was not finished, because perhaps his greatmoment had come, the decisive battle which might make his whole lifeworthwhile.

Yes, the last enemy was advancing against Giovanni Drogo. Not men likehimselfandlikehimtorturedbydesiresandsufferings,withfleshthatonecouldwound, with faces one could look into, but a being at once malignant andomnipotent;therewouldbenofightingontherampartsamongthenoiseoftheexplosionsandhuzzaswithabluespringskyoverhead,nofriendsathissidesothat, seeing them, his heart would be cheered, no bitter reek of powder andgunshot,nopromisesofglory.Itwillhappeninaroominanunknowninn,bythelightofacandle,inthebleakestsolitude.Thisisnotafightfromwhichonereturnsonesunnymorning,crownedwithflowersamidsmilinggirls.Thereisnoonetowatch;noonetosay:Welldone.

Ohthisisamuchharderbattlethantheoneheoncehopedfor.Evenveteranswouldprefernottoventureonit.Becauseitmaybefinetodieintheopen,withone’sbodystillyoungandhealthyamidst thetriumphantechoesofthebugles;butitisasadderfatetodieofwoundsinahospitalwardafterlongsufferings,and it ismoremelancholy still tomeet one’s end in one’s bed at home in themidst of fond laments, dim lights and medicine bottles. But nothing is moredifficultthantodieinsomestrange,indifferentspot,inthecharacterlessbedofaninn,todiethereoldandwornandleavenoonebehindintheworld.

Bebrave,Drogo, this is the last card—goon todeath likea soldier and letyourbungledlifeatleasthaveagoodend.Takeyourrevengeatlastonfate—noonewillsingyourpraises,noonewillcallyouherooranythingofthekind;butforonceitisworththeeffort.Stepacrosstheshadowlinewithafirmstep,erectas ifonparadeandevensmile, ifyoucan.Afterall,yourconsciencedoesnotweighonyoutoomuchandGodwilldoubtlesspardonyou.

SoGiovannisaidtohimself,inakindofprayer,andhefeltthelastcircleoflifedraw in aroundhim.And from thebitterdepthsof thepast, ofhisbrokendesires,oftheinjurieshehadsuffered,therearosesuchstrengthashewouldnot

have dared to hope for.With inexpressible joyGiovanniDrogo suddenlywasawarethathewasabsolutelycalm,almosteagertoputhimselfoncemoretothetest.Soyoucannotexpecteverythingfromlife?Sothatwasit,Simeoni?NowDrogowillshowyou.

Bebrave,Drogo.Andhetriedtomakeaneffort,toholdout,tojestwiththeterriblethought.Heputhiswholeheartintoit,withadesperaterecklessness,asif he were advancing to the assault alone against an army. And suddenly theancient terrors fell away, the nightmares faded, death lost its icy aspect andbecamesomethingsimpleandnatural.MajorGiovanniDrogo,wornwithillnessandtheyears,apoormortal,thrustagainstthegreatblackgatewayandsawthedoorsfallapartleavingthewaycleartothelight.

ThenhesawhowunimportantithadbeentowearhimselfoutontherampartsoftheFort,toscanthedesolatenorthernsteppe,tostriveafteracareer,towaitsuch long years. There was no need even to envy Angustina. AdmittedlyAngustinahaddiedonamountaincrestintheheartofthetempestandhadgoneonhiswaytruetohimself,andwithgreatstyleindeed.Butitwasmuchhardertodieahero’sdeathinDrogo’sstate,eatenbydisease,exiledfromstrangers.

Onethingonlymadehimunhappy—thatheshouldhave todepartwith thismiserable body of his, with its protruding bones, its sallow, flaccid skin.Angustinahaddiedwithhisbodystillintact,thoughtGiovanni,andhisimage,inspiteoftheyears,hadremainedthatofatall,delicateyouth,withahandsomefacepleasingtowomen:thatwashisprivilege.Butoncethedarkthresholdwascrossed,mightnotDrogo,too,becomeashehadbeenbefore:nothandsome,forhandsome he had never been, but fresh with the freshness of youth. Howwonderful, saidDrogo to himself as he thought of it—like a child, for he feltstrangelyfreeandhappy.

Butthenitcrossedhismindtoask:supposeitwerealladeception?supposehiscouragewasonlyakindofintoxication?supposeithadmerelysomethingtodowiththewonderfulsunset,thescentedair,thetemporaryrelieffromphysicalpain,thesingingonthefloorbelow?andsupposeinafewminutes,inanhour,hewereoncemoretobetheotherDrogo,weakandbeaten?

No,don’tthinkaboutit,Drogo,don’ttortureyourselfanymore;theworstisover now. Even if pain assails you oncemore, even if therewill be nomoremusictocomfortyouandinsteadofthisfinestofeveningsnoisomemistsarise,itwillcometothesameintheend.Theworstisoverandtheycannotcheatyouanymore.

Theroomhasfilledwithdarkness;onlywithdifficultycanoneseethewhiteofthebedandalltherestisblack.Soonthemoonshouldrise.

WillDrogomanagetoseeitorwillhehavetogobeforethen?Thedoorof

theroomshakesandcreaksslightly.Perhapsitisabreathofwind,merelytheairswirlinga littleas itdoeson these restless springnights.Butperhaps it is shewho has come in with her silent step and now is standing by Drogo’s chair.Giovannimakesaneffortandstraightenshisshouldersalittle;heputsrightthecollarofhisuniformwithonehandandtakesonemorelookoutofthewindow,the briefest of glances, his last share of the stars. Then in the dark he smiles,althoughthereisnoonetoseehim.