The flame of
the soldiers' fire grew faint, white mists rose in the fields, the
cannon in the forest ceased and the birds began.
I sat up on the cart, looked at my sleeping companions, and thought
how unpleasant they looked. Semyonov like a dead man, Andrey
Vassilievitch like a happy pig, Trenchard like a child who slept
after a scolding. I felt intense loneliness. I wanted some one to
comfort me, to reassure me against life which seemed to me suddenly
now perilous and remorseless; moreover some one seemed to be reviewing
my life for me and displaying it to me, laying bare all its
uselessness and insignificance.
"But I'm in no way a fine fellow," I could fancy myself crying. "I'm
sleepy and cold and hungry. If you'll remove Andrey Vassilievitch's
boots for me I'll lie flat on this wagon and you can let loose every
shrapnel in the world over my head and I'll never stir. I thought I
was interested in your war, and I'm not.... I thought no discomfort
mattered to me, but I find that I dislike so much being cold and
hungry that it outweighs all heroism, all sense of danger .
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