Gut Health

[...] Six months have already passed since the first cannon-ball whistled from the bastions of Sevastopol, and ploughed the earth in the works of the enemy, and since that day thousands of bombs, cannon-balls, and rifle-balls have been flying incessantly from the bastions into the trenches and from the trenches into the bastions, and the angel of death has never ceased to hover over them.

Thousands of men have been disappointed in satisfying their ambition; thousands have succeeded in satisfying theirs, in becoming swollen with pride; thousands repose in the embrace of death. How many red coffins and canvas canopies there have been! And still the same sounds are echoed from the bastions, and still on clear evenings the French peer from their camp, with involuntary tremor, at the yellow, furrowed bastions of Sevastopol, at the black forms of our sailors moving about upon them, and count the embrasures and the iron cannon which project angrily from them; the under officer still gazes through his telescope, from the heights of the telegraph station, at the dark figures of the French at their batteries, at their tents, at the columns moving over the green hill, and at the puffs of smoke which issue forth from the trenches,—and a crowd of men, formed of divers races, still streams in throngs from various quarters, with the same ardor as ever, and with desires differing even more greatly than their races, towards this fateful spot. And the question, unsolved by the diplomats, has still not been solved by powder and blood.

On the boulevard of the besieged city of Sevastopol, not far from the pavilion, the regimental band was playing, and throngs of military men and of women moved gayly through the streets. The brilliant sun of spring had risen in the morning over the works of the English, had passed over the bastions, then over the city, over the Nikolaevsky barracks, and, illuminating all with equal cheer, had now sunk into the blue and distant sea, which was lighted with a silvery gleam as it heaved in peace.

A tall, rather bent infantry officer, who was drawing upon his hand a glove which was presentable, if not entirely white, came out of one of the small naval huts, built on the left side of the Morskaya street, and, staring thoughtfully at the ground, took his way up the slope to the boulevard.

The expression of this officer's homely countenance did not indicate any great mental capacity, but rather simplicity, judgment, honor, and a tendency to solid worth. He was badly built, not graceful, and he seemed to be constrained in his movements. He was dressed in a little worn cap, a cloak of a rather peculiar shade of lilac, from beneath whose edge the gold of a watch-chain was visible; in trousers with straps, and brilliantly polished calfskin boots. He must have been either a German—but his features clearly indicate his purely Russian descent—or an adjutant, or a regimental quartermaster, only in that case he would have had spurs, or an officer who had exchanged from the cavalry for the period of the campaign, or possibly from the Guards. He was, in fact, an officer who had exchanged from the cavalry, and as he ascended the boulevard, at the present moment, he was meditating upon a letter which he had just received from a former comrade, now a retired land-owner in the Government of T., and his wife, pale, blue-eyed Natasha, his great friend.[...]

Leo Tolstoy - Sevastopol (1855)

[...] Perdeu-se mais e mais a procurá-la, conta Sandrinha. E não a encontrou. Lançava o seu chamado. Lançava o seu chamado, que era um uivo, por sobre o óleo e a vegetação. Tocando nas folhagens viscosas, farejava-as para tentar reconhecer o cheiro do sangue, do seu sangue, supondo que a menina o levava no rosto e no vestido. 

Entregou-se depois à fome e à infecção, que nunca ao medo, ao medo não, afirma. Passou-lhe a febre da paixão por Natalina quando a tomou a febre física, a do pus, que falava mais alto a sua fala do puro egoísmo, da sobrevivência. Delirou.

Felizmente para ela, o corpo tinha registado essa premência de caminhar, e ia caminhando. A verdade é que estava bem longe da Levada quando a acharam e a recolheram.

Trataram-na com pressa e com desvelo porque, diz ela, era uma presa valiosa, capaz de fornecer informações. Conta Sandrinha que a espreitavam através das cortinas franzidas de uma tenda e que, apesar de estarem cumprindo o seu papel, esperando que ela se recompusesse, não ocultavam a sofreguidão.

Queriam ouvir a sua voz.

Conta Sandrinha.

Mas, se repararem, muito tivemos de arranjar sem ela. De forma que lhe damos voz, pois sim, porém com alguma reserva de critérios. Omitiremos o que nos parece excessivo tom, sobranceria do autor. Porque ela começou a ser ouvida e não mais quis parar, por muito inútil que, passado algum tempo, se tornasse, já que falava sobre sentimentos quando eram factos o que lhe pediam. E de pouco valia o testemunho de tudo o que ocorrera na Levada, e era...

O que era?

Perguntava Sandrinha, interrompendo-se. 

O que era?

Devolviam, num eco, os salvadores.

Desconfiavam da informação, de toda a espécie de informação que lhes chegava pelos meios habituais. E a única maneira de destrinçar a falsidade da certeza era espreitar directamente, ao pé das coisas, estando presente o observador. Sandrinha vira com seus próprios olhos. 

Vira o quê? Ela contava, mas conseguia apenas enervá-los. Contra vontade, provocava nos seus rostos uma vermelhidão de impaciência. Achava-os semelhantes uns aos outros. Com igual tique iam esfregando a nuca que concentrava o escorrimento do suor.

Sandrinha relatou o episódio dos falsos mortos do Moinho-Dó.

«E como sabe que eram falsos?»

Não sabia. Tinha sido a ideia de uma velha.

«Pois sim». disseram eles. Era evidente que estavam muito fatigados e que já nada tinham do entusiasmo inicial. Mas Sandrinha falava. rebuscando a memória de toda a sua vida, pondo na mesa os dias, as pessoas, as crises de loucura da Levada. Nada que se pudesse aproveitar. 

Um deles, era mulher, mudou de posição quando ela se referiu a Natalina. Mas logo pareceu desinteressar-se. 

E, ouvindo realmente a sua própria voz dar conta da chegada da menina e de tudo o que havia depois acontecido, Sandrinha percebeu que aquilo não tinha a mínima importância para ninguém.

FIM

Hélia Correia - Insânia (1996)