"Yes, Petko, I must go. There is plenty of work in these days for a
Christian woman to do. Surely I should go mad if I were to remain idle.
You have work here, I have none, therefore I must go. Nurses are
wanted in the ambulance corps of our--our--deliverers."
There was no sarcasm in poor Marika's heart or tone, but the slight
hesitation in her speech was in itself sarcasm enough. With the aid of
her friend Petko, the poor bereaved, heart-stricken woman succeeded in
making her way to Russian headquarters, where her sad tale, and the
memory of her heroic husband, at once obtained for her employment as a
nurse in the large hospital where I had already spent a portion of my
time--namely, that of Sistova.
Here, although horrified and almost overwhelmed, at first, at the sight
of so much and so terrible suffering, she gradually attained to a more
resigned and tranquil frame of mind. Her sympathetic tenderness of
heart conduced much to this, for she learned in some degree to forget
her own sorrows in the contemplation of those of others. She found a
measure of sad comfort, too, while thus ministering to the wants of
worn, shattered, and dying young men, in the thought that they had
fought like lions on the battle-field, as Dobri had fought, and had lain
bleeding, crushed, and helpless there, as Dobri had lain.
Some weeks after her arrival there was a slight change made in the
arrangements of the hospital. The particular room in which she served
was selected as being more airy and suited for those of the patients
who, from their enfeebled condition, required unusual care and nursing.
The evening after the change was effected, Marika, being on what may be
called the night-shift, was required to assist the surgeons of the ward
on their rounds. They came to a bed on which lay a man who seemed in
the last stage of exhaustion.
"No bones broken," said one surgeon in a low tone to another, to whom he
was explaining the cases, "but blood almost entirely drained out of him.
Very doubtful his recovery. Will require the most careful nursing."
Marika stood behind the surgeons. On hearing what they said she drew
nearer and looked sadly at the man.
He was gaunt, cadaverous, and careworn, as if from long and severe
suffering, yet, living skeleton though he was, it was obvious that his
frame had been huge and powerful.
Marika's first sad glance changed into a stare of wild surprise, then
the building rang with a cry of joy so loud, so jubilant, that even
those whose blood had almost ceased to flow were roused by it.
She sprang forward and leaped into the man's outstretched arms.
Ay, it was Dobri Petroff himself--or rather his attenuated shadow,--with
apparently nothing but skin and sinew left to hold his bones together,
and not a symptom of blood in his whole body. The little blood left,
however, rushed to his face, and he found sufficient energy to exclaim
"Thank the Lord!" ere his senses left him.
It is said that joy never kills. Certainly it failed to do so on this
occasion. Dobri soon recovered consciousness, and then, little by
little, with many a pause for breath, and in tones that were woefully
unlike to those of the bold, lion-like scout of former days, he told how
he had fainted and fallen on the breast of his master, how he had lain
all night on the battle-field among the dead and dying, how he had been
stripped and left for dead by the ruffian followers of the camp, and how
at last he had been found and rescued by one of the ambulance-wagons of
the Red Cross.
When Marika told him of the death of their two children he was not so
much overwhelmed as she had anticipated.
"I'm not so sure that you are right, Marika," he said, after a long sad
pause. "That our darling boy is now in heaven I doubt not, for you saw
him killed. But you did not see Ivanka killed, and what you call her
death-shriek may not have been her last. We must not be too ready to
believe the worst. If I had not believed you and them to have been all
murdered together, I would not have sought death so recklessly. I will
not give up hope in that God who has brought _you_ back, and saved _me_
from death. I _think_ that darling Ivanka is still alive."
Marika was only too glad to grasp at and hold on to the hope thus held
out--feeble though the ground was on which it rested, and it need
scarcely be said that she went about her hospital duties after that with
a lightness and joy of heart which she had not felt for many a day.
Dobri Petroff's recovery was now no longer doubtful. Day by day his
strength returned, until at last he was dismissed cured.
But it must not be supposed that Dobri was "himself again." He stood as
erect, indeed, and became as sturdy in appearance as he used to be, but
there was many a deep-seated injury in his powerful frame which damaged
its lithe and graceful motions, and robbed it of its youthful spring.
Returning to the village of Venilik at the conclusion of the armistice,
the childless couple proceeded to rebuild their ruined home.
The news of the bold blacksmith's recovery, and return with his wife to
the old desolated home, reached me at a very interesting period of our
family history--my sister Bella's wedding day.
It came through my eccentric friend U. Biquitous, who, after going
through the Russo-Turkish war as correspondent of the _Evergreen Isle_,
had proceeded in the same capacity to Greece. After detailing a good
many of his adventures, and referring me to the pages of the _EI_ for
the remainder of his opinions on things in general, he went on, "By the
way, in passing through Bulgaria lately, I fell in with your friend
Dobri Petroff, the celebrated scout of the Balkan army. He and his
pretty wife send their love, and all sorts of kind messages which I
totally forget. Dobri said he supposed you would think he was dead, but
he isn't, and I can assure you looks as if he didn't mean to die for
some time to come. They are both very low, however, about the loss of
their children, though they still cling fondly to the belief that their
little girl Ivanka has not been killed."
Here, then, was a piece of news for my mother and family!--for we had
regularly adopted Ivanka, and the dear child was to act that very day as
one of Bella's bridesmaids.
I immediately told my mother, but resolved to say nothing to Ivanka,
Nicholas, or Bella, till the ceremony was over.
It was inexpressibly sad to see Nicholas Naranovitsch that day, for,
despite the fact that by means of a cork foot he could walk slowly to
the church without the aid of a crutch, his empty sleeve, marred visage,
and slightly stooping gait, but poorly represented the handsome young
soldier of former days.
But my sister saw none of the blemishes--only the beauties--of the man.
"You've only got quarter of a husband, Bella," he said with a sad smile
when the ceremony was over.
"You were unnecessarily large before," retorted Bella. "You could stand
reducing; besides, you are doubled to-day, which makes you equal to two
quarters, and as the wife is proverbially the better half, that brings
you up nearly to three quarters, so don't talk any more nonsense, sir.
With good nursing I shall manage, perhaps, to make a whole of you once
more."
"So be it," said Nicholas, kissing her. When they had left us, my
mother called me--
"Jeff," she said, with a look of decision in her meek face which I have
not often observed there, "I have made up my mind that you must go back
to Turkey."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, Jeff. You had no right, my dear boy, to bring that child away
from her home in such a hurry."
"But," said I remonstratively, "her home at the time I carried her off
was destroyed--indeed, most of the village was a smoking ruin, and
liable at any moment to be replundered by the irregular troops of both
sides, while Ivanka's parents were reported dead--what could I do?"
"I don't know what you could do in those circumstances, but I know what
you can do now, and that is, pack your portmanteau and prepare to take
Ivanka to Venilik. The child must be at once restored to her parents.
I cannot bear to think of their remaining in ignorance of her being
alive. Very likely Nicholas and Bella will be persuaded to extend their
honeymoon to two, or even three, months, and join you in a tour through
the south of Europe, after which you will all come home strong and well
to spend the winter with me."
"Agreed, mother; your programme shall be carried out to the letter, if I
can manage it."
"When," asked my mother, "did your friend say he passed through that
village?"
I opened his letter to ascertain, when my eye fell on a postscript which
had escaped me on the first perusal. It ran thus--
"P.S. I see no reason why I should not ask you to wish me joy. I'm
going to be married, my boy, to Blue-eyes! I could not forget her. I
had no hope whatever of discovering her. I had settled in my mind to
live and die an old bachelor, when I suddenly met her. It was in
Piccadilly, when I was home, some months ago, in reference to an
increase of my nominal salary from the _EI_ (which by the way came to
nothing--its original figure). I entered a 'bus and ran my head
against that of a lady who was coming out. I looked up to apologise,
and was struck dumb. It was Blue-eyes! I assisted her to alight, and
stammered, I know not what, something like--`A thousand pardons--
surely we have met--excuse me--a mistake--_Thunderer_--captain, great
guns, torpedoes, and blazes--' in the midst of which she smiled,
bowed, and moved on. I moved after her. I traced her (reverentially)
to a house. It was that of a personal friend! I visited that friend,
I became particularly intimate with that friend, I positively bored
that friend until he detested me. At last I met her at the house of
that friend and--but why go on? I am now `captain' of the Blue-eyes,
and would not exchange places with any officer in the Royal Navy; we
are to be married on my return, if I'm not shot, assassinated, or
hanged in the meantime. U.B."
"Ah, Jeff," said my mother, "how I wish that you would--"
She stopped.
"I know what you're going to say," I returned, with a smile; "and there
_is_ a charming little--"
"Well, Jeff, why don't you go on?"
"Well, I don't see why I should not tell you, mother, that there _is_ a
charming little woman--the very best woman in the world--who has
expressed herself willing to--you understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
Reader, I would gladly make a confidant of yourself in this matter, and
tell you all about this charming little woman, if it were not for the
fact that she is standing at my elbow at this very minute, causing me to
make blots, and telling me not to write nonsense!
Before dismissing U. Biquitous, I may as well introduce here the last
meeting I had with him. It was a considerable time after the war was
over--after the "Congress" had closed its labours, and my friend had
settled--if such a term could be applied to one who never settled--near
London. Nicholas and I were sitting in a bower at the end of our
garden, conversing on the war which had been happily brought to a close.
Bella and my mother were seated opposite to us, the latter knitting a
piece of worsted-work, the size of whose stitches and needles was suited
to the weakness of her eyes, and the former busy with a pencil sketch of
the superb view of undulating woodland which stretched away for miles in
front of our house.
"No doubt it is as you state, Jeff," said Nicholas, in reply to my last
remark; "war is a miserable method of settling a dispute, quite unworthy
of civilised, to say nothing of Christian, men; but, then, how are we to
get along without it? It's of no use saying that an evil must be put
down--put a stop to--until you are able to show _how_ it is to be
stopped."
"That does not follow," said I, quickly; "it may be quite possible for
me to see, point out, and condemn an evil although I cannot suggest a
remedy and my earnest remonstrances regarding it may be useful in the
way of helping to raise a general outcry of condemnation, which may have
the effect of turning more capable minds than my own to the devising of
a remedy. Sea-sickness is a horrible malady; I perceive it, I know it
to be so. I loudly draw attention to the fact; I won't be silenced.
Hundreds, thousands, of other miserables take heart and join me. We
can't stand it! we shan't! is the general cry. The attention of an able
engineer is attracted by the noise we make, and the _Calais-Douvre_
steamboat springs into being, a vessel which is supposed to render
sea-sickness an impossibility. Whether it accomplishes this end or not
is beside the question. The point is, that, by the vigorous use of our
tongues and pens in condemnation of an admitted evil, we have drawn
forth a vigorous _attempt_ to get the better of it."
"But you don't expect to do away with war altogether?" said Nicholas.
"Certainly not; I am not mad, I am only hopeful. As long as sin reigns
in this world we shall have more or less of war, and I don't expect
universal peace until the Prince of Peace reigns. Nevertheless, it is
my duty to `seek peace,' and in every way to promote it."
"Come, now, let us have this matter out," said Nicholas, lighting a
cigar.
"You are as fond of argument as a Scotsman, Nic," murmured Bella,
putting a powerful touch in the foreground of her sketch.
"Suppose, now," continued Nicholas, "that you had the power to influence
nations, what would you suggest instead of war?"
"Arbitration," said I, promptly; "I would have the nations of Europe to
band together and agree _never_ to fight but _always_ to appeal to
reason, in the settlement of disputes. I would have them reduce
standing armies to the condition of peace establishments--that is, just
enough to garrison our strongholds, and be ready to back up our police
in keeping ruffians in order. This small army would form a nucleus
round which the young men of the nation would rally in the event of
_unavoidable_ war."
"Ha!" exclaimed Nicholas, with a smile of sarcasm, "you would then have
us all disarm, beat our swords into reaping-hooks, and melt our bayonets
and cannon into pots and pans. A charming idea! Now, suppose there was
one of the nations--say Russia or Turkey--that declined to join this
peaceful alliance, and, when she saw England in her disarmed condition,
took it into her head to pay off old scores, and sent ironclads and
thousands of well-trained and well-appointed troops to invade you, what
would you do?"
"Defend myself," said I.
"What! with your peace-nucleus, surrounded by your rabble of untrained
young men?"
"Nicholas," said my mother, in a mild voice, pausing in her work, "you
may be as fond of argument as a Scotsman, but you are not quite as fair.
You have put into Jeff's mouth sentiments which he did not express, and
made assumptions which his words do not warrant. He made no reference
to swords, reaping-hooks, bayonets, cannon, pots or pans, and did not
recommend that the young men of nations should remain untrained."
"Bravo! mother; thank you," said I, as the dear old creature dropped her
mild eyes once more on her work; "you have done me nothing but justice.
There is one point, however, on which I and those who are opposed to me
coincide exactly; it is this, that the best way to maintain peace is to
make yourself thoroughly capable and ready for war."
"With your peculiar views, that would be rather difficult, I should
fancy," said Nicholas, with a puzzled look.
"You fancy so, because you misunderstand my views," said I; "besides, I
have not yet fully explained them--but here comes one who will explain
them better than I can do myself."
As I spoke a man was seen to approach, with a smart free-and-easy air.
"It is my friend U. Biquitous," said I, rising and hastening to meet
him.
"Ah, Jeff, my boy, glad I've found you all together," cried my friend,
wringing my hand and raising his hat to the ladies. "Just come over to
say good-bye. I'm engaged again on the _Evergreen Isle_--same salary
and privileges as before--freer scope, if possible, than ever."
"And where are you going to, Mr Biquitous?" asked my mother.
"To Cyprus, madam,--the land of the--of the--the something or other; not
got coached up yet, but you shall have it all _in extenso_ ere long in
the _Evergreen_, with sketches of the scenery and natives. I'll order a
copy to be sent you."
"Very kind, thank you," said my mother; "you are fond of travelling, I
think?"
"Fond of it!" exclaimed my friend; "yes, but that feebly expresses my
sentiments,--I _revel_ in travelling, I am mad about it. To roam over
the world, by land and sea, gathering information, recording it,
collating it, extending it, condensing it, and publishing it, for the
benefit of the readers of the _Evergreen Isle_, is my chief terrestrial
joy."
"Why, Mr Biquitous," said Bella, looking up from her drawing, with a
slight elevation of the eyebrows, "I thought you were a married man."
"Ah! Mrs Naranovitsch, I understand your reproofs; but _that_, madam,
I call a celestial joy. Looking into my wife's blue eyes is what I call
star-gazing, and that is a celestial, not a terrestrial, occupation.
Next to making the stars twinkle, I take pleasure in travelling--flying
through space,--
"Crashing on the railroads,
Skimming on the seas,
Bounding on the mountain-tops,
Battling with the breeze.
Roaming through the forest,
Scampering on the plain,
Never stopping, always going,
Round and round again."
"How very beautiful,--so poetical!" said Bella.
"So suggestively peaceful," murmured Nicholas.
"Your own composition?" asked my mother.
"A mere _morceau_," replied my friend, modestly, "tossed off to fill up
a gap in the _Evergreen_."
"You should write poetry," said I.
"Think so? Well, I've had some notion at times, of trying my hand at an
ode, or an epic, but, man, I find too many difficulties in the way. As
to `feet,' now, I can't manage feet in poetry. If it were inches or
yards, one might get along, but feet are neither one thing nor another.
Then, rhyme bothers me. I've often to run over every letter in the
alphabet to get hold of a rhyme--click, thick, pick, rick, chick,
brick--that sort of thing, you know. Sentiment, too, is very
troublesome. Either I put too much or too little sentiment into my
verses; sometimes they are all sentiment together; not unfrequently they
have none at all; or the sentiment is false, which spoils them, you
know. Yes, much though I should like to be a poet, I must content
myself with prose. Just fancy, now, my attempting a poem on Cyprus!
What rhymes with Cyprus? Fyprus, gyprus, highprus, kyprus, lyprus,
tryprus, and so on to the end. It's all the same; nothing will do. No
doubt Hook would have managed it; Theodore could do anything in that
way, but _I_ can't."
"Most unfortunate! But for these difficulties you might have been a
second Milton. You leave your wife behind, I suppose," said Bella,
completing her sketch and shutting the book.
"What!" exclaimed my volatile friend, becoming suddenly grave, "leave
Blue-eyes behind me! leave the mitigator of my woes, the doubler of my
joys, the light of my life behind me! No, Mrs Naranovitsch, Blue-eyes
is necessary to my existence; she inspires my pen and corrects my
spelling; she lifts my soul, when required, above the petty cares of
life, and enables me to take flights of genius, which, without her, were
impossible, and you know that flights of genius are required,
occasionally, of the correspondent of a weekly--at least of an Irish
weekly. Yes, Blue-eyes goes with me. We shall levant together."
"Are bad puns allowed in the _Evergreen_?" I asked.
"Not unless excessively bad," returned my friend; "they won't tolerate
anything lukewarm."
"Well, now, Biquitous," said I, "sit down and give Nicholas, who is hard
to convince, your opinion as to the mode in which this and other
countries ought to prepare for self-defence."
"In earnest, do you mean?"
"In earnest," said I.
"Well, then," said my friend, "if I were in power I would make every man
in Great Britain a trained soldier."
"Humph!" said Nicholas, "that has been tried by other nations without
giving satisfaction."
"But," continued U. Biquitous, impressively, "I would do so without
taking a single man away from his home, or interfering with his duties
as a civilian. I would have all the males of the land trained to arms
in boyhood--during school-days--at that period of life when boys are
best fitted to receive such instruction, when they would `go in' for
military drill, as they now go in for foot-ball, cricket, or
gymnastics--at that period when they have a good deal of leisure time,
when they would regard the thing more as play than work--when their
memories are strong and powerfully retentive, and when the principles
and practice of military drill would be as thoroughly implanted in them
as the power to swim or skate, so that, once acquired, they'd never
quite lose it. I speak from experience, for I learned to skate and swim
when a boy, and I feel that nothing--no amount of disuse--can ever rob
me of these attainments. Still further, in early manhood I joined the
great volunteer movement, and, though I have now been out of the force
for many years, I know that I could `fall in' and behave tolerably well
at a moment's notice, while a week's drill would brush me up into as
good a soldier as I ever was or am likely to be. Remember, I speak only
of rank and file, and the power to carry arms and use them
intelligently. I would compel boys to undergo this training, but would
make it easy, on doctor's certificate, or otherwise, for anxious parents
to get off the duty, feeling assured that the fraction of trained men
thus lost to the nation would be quite insignificant. Afterwards, a few
days of drill each year would keep men well up to the mark; and even in
regard to this brushing-up drill I would make things very easy, and
would readily accept every reasonable excuse for absence, in the firm
belief that the willing men would be amply sufficient to maintain our
`reserve force.' As to the volunteers, I would encourage them as
heretofore, and give them more honour and privileges than they possess
at present. Thus would an army be ever ready to spring into being at a
day's notice, and be _thoroughly_ capable of defending hearths and homes
in a few weeks.
"For our colonies and our authority at home, I would have a very small,
_well-paid_, and thoroughly efficient standing army, which would form a
perfect model in military matters, and a splendid skeleton on which the
muscle and sinew of the land might wind itself if invasion threatened.
For the rest, I would keep my bayonets and artillery in serviceable
condition, and my `powder dry.' If all Europe acted thus, she would be
not less ready for war than she is now, and would have all her vigorous
men turned into producers instead of consumers, to the immense advantage
of the States' coffers, to the great comfort of the women and children,
to the lessening of crime and poverty, and to the general well-being of
the world at large."
"My dear sir," said Nicholas, with a laugh, "you were born before your
time."
"It may be so," returned the other, lightly, "nevertheless I will live
in the hope of seeing the interests of peace more intelligently advanced
than they have been of late; and if the system which I suggest is not
found to be the best, I will rejoice to hear of a better, and will do my
best to advocate it in the _Evergreen Isle_. But now I must go;
Blue-eyes and Cyprus await me. Farewell."
U. Biquitous shook hands heartily, and walked rapidly away down the
avenue, where he was eventually hidden from our view by a bush of
laurel.
To return from this digression.
It is not difficult in these days to "put a girdle round the world."
Ivanka and I soon reached the village of Venilik.
It was a sad spectacle of ruin and desolation, but we found Dobri
Petroff and Marika in the old home, which had been partially rebuilt.
The blacksmith's anvil was ringing as merrily as ever when we
approached, and his blows appeared to fall as heavily as in days gone
by, but I noticed, when he looked up, that his countenance was lined and
very sad, while his raven locks were prematurely tinged with grey.
Shall I describe the meeting of Ivanka with her parents? I think not.
The imagination is more correct and powerful than the pen in such cases.
New life seemed from that moment to be infused into the much-tried
pair. Marika had never lost her trust in God through all her woes, and
even in her darkest hours had refused to murmur. She had kissed the rod
that smote her, and now she praised Him with a strong and joyful heart.
Alas! there were many others in that village, and thousands of others
throughout that blood-soaked land, who had no such gleam of sunshine
sent into the dark recesses of their woe-worn hearts--poor innocent
souls these, who had lost their joy, their possessions, their hope,
their all in this life, because of the mad, unreasonable superstition
that it is necessary for men at times to arrange their differences by
war!
War! what is it? A monster which periodically crushes the energies,
desolates the homes, swallows thousands of the young lives, and sweeps
away millions of the money of mankind. It bids Christianity stand aside
for a time. It legalises wholesale murder and robbery. It affords a
safe opportunity to villainy to work its diabolic will, so that some of
the fairest scenes of earth are converted into human shambles. It
destroys the labour of busy generations, past and present, and saddles
heavy national debt on those that are yet unborn. It has been estimated
that the national debts of Europe now amount to nearly 3000 millions
sterling, more than three-fourths of which have been required for war
and warlike preparations, and that about 600 millions are annually taken
from the capital and industry of nations for the expense of past, and
the preparation for future wars. War tramples gallantry in the dust,
leaves women at the mercy of a brutal soldiery, slaughters old men, and
tosses babes on bayonet-points. All this it does, and a great deal
more, in the way of mischief; what does it accomplish in the way of
good? What has mankind gained by the wars of Napoleon the First, which
cost, it is said, two million of lives, to say nothing of the
maimed-for-life and the bereaved? Will the gain or the loss of Alsace
and Lorraine mitigate or increase in any appreciable degree the woe of
French and Prussian widows? Will the revenues of these provinces pay
for the loss consequent on the stagnation of trade and industry? What
has been gained by the Crimean war, which cost us thousands of lives and
millions in money? Nothing whatever! The treaties which were to secure
what had been gained have been violated, and the empire for which we
fought has been finally crushed.
When waged in self-defence war is a sad, a horrible necessity. When
entered into with a view to national aggrandisement, or for an _idea_,
it is the greatest of crimes. The man who creeps into your house at
night, and cuts your throat while you are asleep in bed, is a sneaking
monster, but the man who sits "at home at ease," safe from the
tremendous "dogs" which he is about to let loose, and, with diplomatic
pen, signs away the peace of society and the lives of multitudes without
serious cause, is a callous monster. Of the two the sneak is the less
objectionable, because less destructive.
During this visit to Venilik, I spent some time in renewing my inquiries
as to the fate of my yacht's crew, but without success, and I was forced
to the sad conclusion that they must either have been drowned or
captured, and, it may be, killed after reaching the land. Long
afterwards, however, I heard it rumoured that Mr Whitlaw had escaped
and returned to his native country. There is, therefore, some reason to
hope that that sturdy and true-hearted American still lives to relate,
among his other stirring narratives, an account of that memorable night
when he was torpedoed on the Danube.
Before finally bidding adieu to the Petroff family, I had many a talk
with Dobri on the subject of war as we wandered sadly about the ruined
village. The signs of the fearful hurricane by which it had been swept
were still fresh upon it, and when I looked on the burnt homesteads, the
trampled crops, and neglected fields, the crowds of new-made graves, the
curs that quarrelled over unburied human bones, the blood-stained walls
and door-posts, the wan, almost bloodless, faces of the few who had
escaped the wrath of man, and reflected that all this had been brought
about by a "Christian" nation, fighting in the interests of the Prince
of Peace, I could not help the fervent utterance of the prayer: "O God,
scatter thou the people that delight in war!"