Peasant Tales of Russia

The prisoner's bed was placed in the same room with the Colonel and the Major.

Soon all was silent. From time to time came the noise of single cannon-shots, deadened by the fog. It was the Turks who would not be quiet, but continued to fire at the Russians. But as the latter did not reply, they also finally ceased. Night now reigned alone over the world, wrapping everything in darkness and dampness – both the snow-covered summits of the mountains and their peaceable defiles covered with Turkish villages abandoned by their inhabitants as though a plague had been raging.

In the valley below lay thousands of corpses with fixed eyes widely open gazing at the dark mysterious heavens. Their intent gaze seemed to wish to penetrate the darkness as though obstinately asking heaven whither had passed that something which had animated their bodies that very morning, and what had become of the last sigh which escaped from their bayonet-pierced or bullet-riddled breasts. But the dark inaccessible sky regarded them sadly from above, letting fall now and then cold tears on these disfigured faces.

The Major could not get to sleep. He turned and turned again under the felt cloak which served him as a blanket, throwing it aside and pulling it over himself again, recommencing for the tenth time to read a newspaper and letting it fall, casting furtive glances at the slumbering Turk, and hearing the vague words which escaped him in his uneasy sleep. Weary with his restlessness, the Major tried to oblige himself to think of something else, but his thoughts always returned to the same point.

Even when he had finally closed his eyes and his breath had become more equal, when night had cast its soft spell over the room, his thoughts continued without change to work in the same direction. He dreamt of children, not the prisoner's unfortunate brats, but of his own surrounded by all the care of a mother and sheltered from danger in the midst of the profound quiet of the steppe which surrounded the little Russian town where his family dwelt. His thoughts flew to them over thousands of versts.

All else had vanished; nothing of the present remained, neither the battles, nor the innumerable corpses, nor that ocean of disasters which for a long time had been rolling its blood-stained waves under the Major's eyes.

This is what he saw – a moderately-sized room with a sacred icon[1 - Saint's picture.] in one corner. A night-light burns softly before the icon as though intimidated by the constant sight of the saint's austere face, whose expression appears still more sombre in contrast with the silver ornaments of the frame in which it is set. The feeble rays of this pale light show in the shadow the outlines of two little beds with very white curtains from behind which proceeds the sound of equable breathing. The Major lifts one of these curtains; the little girl in this bed is too hot; she has pushed off her coverlet, and all rosy with sleep, she slumbers without dreaming, her little plump legs gathered up close to her body, and her pulpy mouth half-open. The little monkey is tired with running about the whole day. She has rolled down ice-slopes, she has teased her favourite fowls and her cock, she has fed the pigeons, and among other things she has fought with her little brother. Now she slips her little fat hand under her head. She seems about to open her eyes and close them again, smiling at the sight of her father's face as he hangs over her. He takes a long look at her.

"Sleep, my darling, sleep, my angel," he murmurs, making the sign of the cross above her.

Then he turns to the other little bed. Do you see this brat? He is not yet two years old, but he is already covered with scratches because he does nothing but fight, sometimes with the cat, and sometimes with his little sister, whom he torments. Accordingly, his cheek is marked all over by the cat's claws, who, however, appears at present to have made a truce with her enemy, for there she lies rolled up, looking like a ball of grey wool. Isn't he fat and sturdy, the Major's rascal? He is so fat that his pretty hands, his little feet and his neck look as though they were encircled with a thread, as those of quite young infants do. And what red and chubby cheeks, so chubby that they have almost extinguished the nose, which appears between them only like a little button! His round head is covered with hair so blond that it is almost white, and there is a dimple in his elbow. Suppose he were to kiss the dimple? But no – the child might wake up. Good! Good! Let him sleep. And the father makes the sign of the cross over the spoilt child. Then he approaches the night-lamp. Its wick is charred and he turns it up a little, so that the room is better lighted.

In a corner snores the old nurse; it sounds like the purring of a cat. The Major goes on tip-toe towards the next room. His eldest son is there who looks down on his little sister and his brat of a brother with profound disdain. In the absence of his father he sleeps in his mother's bed, where he is rolled up like a ball. The languid light of a lamp covered with a blue shade falls on both of them. By the bed-side is a little round table. The Major's wife must have been reading newspapers before going to sleep, for there are some on the table, open at the page where his detachment is spoken of. On the wall there is a portrait of him, and there are others on the table. His memory seems to pervade the place; he has certainly not been forgotten. Full of gratitude, he leans over the sleepers, he touches softly and carefully the half-open lips of his wife, he kisses gently her forehead and her closed eyes. She seems to him to have grown thinner. Her nightdress is open at her neck, on which the light of the lamp directly falls. It is quite natural that she should have grown thinner through anxiety on account of her husband. She has put one arm round the neck of her boy, who sleeps cosily, his curly head resting on his mother's shoulder, his mouth a little open. What teeth he has! And one eye is blackened!

What peace reigns here! It seems as though a spirit of purity brooded in the atmosphere. Everything here breathes of love, calm and serenity. It is as though an angel's prayer hovered over these two rooms, protecting these dear heads from all evil thoughts, from despair and hatred.

If any one at this moment had watched the face of the Major as he lay asleep, he would have seen a happy smile pass over the lips of this thin tall man – so happy that the old Turk who lay not far from him could not have supported the sight of it.

The latter was, all the night long, tormented by painful thoughts; he turned uneasily on his couch, and now and then a scalding tear rolled down his face. The night herself seemed struck by the contrast. She sent him a mysterious vision, and as soon as the sleeper perceived it, his expression changed immediately. His contracted muscles relaxed, his mouth, almost invisible before under the great nose, showed a smile. The tears on his cheeks dried; the prisoner was evidently dreaming of something happy. The night hung over him, her visage veiled in black; she murmured beloved names in his ear, and sent him only dreams of happiness; then, softly and gently, she glided towards the Major.

What is the matter with him? He seems to be having a trembling-fit. Night hangs over him and covers him with her black veil. Any one who watched him just now would be struck with the sudden change in his expression. His features betray astonishment and terror. He tries to rise, to shake off the heavy chains of sleep, but night holds him in her grasp. She has placed her hand on his chest. He sees a thing so strange and extravagant that his blood turns to ice in his veins. The quiet rooms of his home seem to be filled with a strange murmur. The children rise in their beds and fix their eyes, dilated with terror, on a black menacing cloud which hovers slowly above their heads. The father looks at it. What is there in the cloud which so alarms his children? His heart beats violently.

The cloud continues to descend. The children jump down from their beds. The little boy who was sleeping in the next room runs hither. They call their nurse – she has disappeared; there is nothing but a heap of old rags in the place where she was lying. The children call to their mother, but the black cloud hides her from their eyes. There they are alone, face to face with it. It sinks slowly on the ground as though it were descending into the waves of the ocean. Its vague fluctuating outlines assume distinctness. The Major and his children at last perceive what it contained. What they see is a body of enormous length stretched out; round it are standing four little children with great black eyes full of anguish and distress. The children weep bitterly, and their tears fall on the corpse which they surround. The Major's children approach them and begin to examine the body whose grey head, with its large nose, the scar on the forehead, and the grey bristling moustaches, leave no doubt in the Major's mind as to its identity. The body is that of Mahmoud Bey. Everything is there – the fresh wound on the shoulder, the clotted blood on the ragged cloak, the stiffened feet wrapped in rags.

"But who … who has done that?" asks the Major's little girl, a moment before flushed with sleep, becoming suddenly pale.

"Who has killed him?" asks the little boy of six with the black eye. The youngest of the children is holding him by the shirt-sleeve.

The Turk's children, the black-eyed brats of a tawny tint, turn towards the Major and point at him.

"It is he who has killed our father. Yes, it is he. He has cast us on the street and reduced us to poverty and helplessness."

The Major tries to speak or cry. His heart is nearly bursting with agony; his tongue feels paralysed; his voice is choked in his throat. This father sees his children turn from him with horror. The youngest even lifts her little hand as though to shield herself. He tries to approach her, but she runs away, her features convulsed with terror. She points to his hands and cries, "Blood! Blood!"

The Major looks at his hands; the little girl is right; they are covered with blood. Then he tries to speak, but he cannot articulate a word; he feels as though some one had seized him by the throat, and were trying to choke him. He struggles desperately, makes a final effort and … awakes.

Throwing away the cloak which covers him, he rises. The Turk was not asleep; he was sitting at table with the Colonel.

"Well, Major, it seems to me that you have had a good sleep for the New Year."

"Yes … and I have had a dream."

"You too?" said the Colonel in an embarrassed tone.

"Why do you say, 'You too'?"

"Yes. You can't imagine what absurd dreams I have been having. I had never believed myself so sentimental."

"Had your dream anything to do with the prisoner?"

"Naturally. You remember my Volodia?"

"A curious question, as I am his godfather."

"Indeed you are right. My head is decidedly queer. Well, I have had that rascal at my heels the whole night. He insisted obstinately that I should give the Turk up to him. 'Why?' I asked. And he answered, 'He also has little Volodia's, and I will let him free to go and find them.' Yet, my friend, I don't think we drank more than usual last night."

"Certainly not." The Major looked fixedly at the Colonel.

"But think what I have dreamt; it is much more serious."

"Not really."

"Yes, indeed."

The Major related his dream.

"We are becoming superstitious," said the Colonel. "Come what will, we must make up our minds. I will send this Turk to the General as quickly as possible. May God look after him! The General must decide his fate. If we keep him here, we shall end by going mad."

"In that case I have a favour to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"I wish to go myself to the General."

"You?"

"Yes; allow me to conduct Mahmoud Bey to him."

The Colonel gave a side-glance in order to preserve a serious expression, and finally said, without looking at the Major:

"There is nothing against it. But you will need a horse."

"It is easy to find one. Have we not taken enough from the Turks?"

"True. Very well, there is no obstacle. Hand the prisoner over to the General," added the Colonel, in the tone of a superior officer giving an order.

Walking slowly and accompanied by Mahmoud Bey, who looked as melancholy as ever, the Major arrived at the Russian advance-posts.

A Cossack on horseback emerged from the fog. It was a sentinel. Two other Cossacks lay stretched on the ground. Their horses, attached to pickets, munched a bundle of hay. At the sight of the officer, the Cossacks rose quickly.

"Where does this trench lead, my good fellows?" asked the Major, pointing to a very deep one close to where they stood.

"Straight to the enemy, Major."