... Prisoners, a group of trembling, terrified men. When they were led
out of the train the crowd gave a roar--the roar of an enormous savage
dog, whose chain is too short and not strong enough. The crowd gave a
roar and was silent, breathing deeply, while they advanced in a compact
group with their hands in their pockets, smiling with their white lips
as if currying favour, and stepping out in such a manner as if somebody
was just going to strike them with a long stick under their knees from
behind. But one of them walked at a short distance from the others,
calm, serious, without a smile, and when my eyes met his black ones I
saw bare open hatred in them. I saw clearly that he despised me and
thought me capable of anything; if I were to begin killing him, unarmed
as he was, he would not have cried out or tried to defend or right
himself--he considered me capable of anything.
I ran along together with the crowd, to meet his gaze once more, and
only succeeded as they were entering a house. He went in the last,
letting his companions pass before him, and glanced at me once more.
And then I saw such pain, such an abyss of horror and insanity in his
big black eyes, as if I had looked into the most wretched soul on earth.
"Who is that with the eyes?" I asked of a soldier of the escort.
"An officer--a madman. There are many such."
"What is his name?"
"He does not say. And his countrymen don't know him. A stranger they
picked up. He has been saved from hanging himself once already, but
what is there to be done!" ... and the soldier made a vague gesture and
disappeared in the door.
And now, this evening I am thinking of him. He is alone amidst the
enemy, who, in his opinion, are capable of doing anything with him, and
his own people do not know him. He keeps silence and waits patiently
for the moment when he will be able to go out of this world altogether.
I do not believe that he is mad, and he is no coward; he was the
only one who held himself with dignity in that group of trembling,
terrified men, whom apparently he does not regard as his own people.
What is he thinking about? What a depth of despair must be in the
soul of that man, who, dying, does not wish to name himself. Why give
his name? He has done with life and men, he has grasped their real
value and notices none around him, either his own people or strangers,
shout, rage and threaten as they will. I made inquiries about him. He
was taken in the last terrible battle, during which several tens of
thousands of men lost their lives, and he showed no resistance when he
was being taken prisoner; he was unarmed for some reason or other, and,
when the soldier, not having noticed it, struck him with his sword, he
did not get up or try to act in self-defence. But the wound, unhappily
for him, was a slight one.
But, maybe, he is really mad? The soldier said there were many such....