White flags had been hung out from our bastion, and from the trenches
of the French, and in the blooming valley between them lay disfigured
corpses, shoeless, in garments of gray or blue, which laborers were
engaged in carrying off and heaping upon carts. The odor of the dead
bodies filled the air. Throngs of people had poured out of Sevastopol,
and from the French camp, to gaze upon this spectacle, and they pressed
one after the other with eager and benevolent curiosity.
Listen to what these people are saying.
Here, in a group of Russians and French who have come together, is a
young officer, who speaks French badly, but well enough to make himself
understood, examining a cartridge-box of the guards.
“And what is this bird here for?” says he.
“Because it is a cartridge-box belonging to a regiment of the guards,
Monsieur, and bears the Imperial eagle.”
“And do you belong to the guard?”
“Pardon, Monsieur, I belong to the sixth regiment of the line.”
“And this—bought where?” asks the officer, pointing to a cigar-holder
of yellow wood, in which the Frenchman was smoking his cigarette.
“At Balaklava, Monsieur. It is very plain, of palm-wood.”
“Pretty!” says the officer, guided in his conversation not so much by
his own wishes as by the words which he knows.
“If you will have the kindness to keep it as a souvenir of this
meeting, you will confer an obligation on me.”
And the polite Frenchman blows out the cigarette, and hands the holder
over to the officer with a little bow. The officer gives him his, and
all the members of the group, Frenchmen as well as Russians, appear
very much pleased and smile.
Then a bold infantryman, in a pink shirt, with his cloak thrown over
his shoulders, accompanied by two other soldiers, who, with their
hands behind their backs, were standing behind him, with merry, curious
countenances, stepped up to a Frenchman, and requested a light for his
pipe. The Frenchman brightened his fire, stirred up his short pipe, and
shook out a light for the Russian.
“Tobacco good!” said the soldier in the pink shirt; and the spectators
smile.
“Yes, good tobacco, Turkish tobacco,” says the Frenchman. “And your
tobacco—Russian?—good?”
“Russian, good,” says the soldier in the pink shirt: whereupon
those present shake with laughter. “The French not good—_bon jour,
Monsieur_,” says the soldier in the pink shirt, letting fly his entire
charge of knowledge in the language at once, as he laughs and taps the
Frenchman on the stomach. The French join in the laugh.
“They are not handsome, these beasts of Russians,” says a zouave, amid
the crowd of Frenchmen.
“What are they laughing about?” says another black-complexioned one,
with an Italian accent, approaching our men.
“Caftan good,” says the audacious soldier, staring at the zouave's
embroidered coat-skirts, and then there is another laugh.
“Don't leave your lines; back to your places, _sacré nom_!” shouts a
French corporal, and the soldiers disperse with evident reluctance.
In the meantime, our young cavalry officer is making the tour of the
French officers. The conversation turns on some Count Sazonoff, “with
whom I was very well acquainted, Monsieur,” says a French officer, with
one epaulet—“he is one of those real Russian counts, of whom we are so
fond.”
“There is a Sazonoff with whom I am acquainted,” said the cavalry
officer, “but he is not a count, so far as I know, at least; a little
dark-complexioned man, of about your age.”
“Exactly, Monsieur, that is the man. Oh, how I should like to see that
dear count! If you see him, pray, present my compliments to him—Captain
Latour,” says he, bowing.
“Isn't this a terrible business that we are conducting here? It was
hot work last night, wasn't it?” says the cavalry officer, wishing to
continue the conversation, and pointing to the dead bodies.
“Oh, frightful, Monsieur! But what brave fellows your soldiers are—what
brave fellows! It is a pleasure to fight with such valiant fellows.”
“It must be admitted that your men do not hang back, either,” says the
cavalry-man, with a bow, and the conviction that he is very amiable.
But enough of this.
Let us rather observe this lad of ten, clad in an ancient cap, his
father's probably, shoes worn on bare feet, and nankeen breeches, held
up by a single suspender, who had climbed over the wall at the very
beginning of the truce, and has been roaming about the ravine, staring
with dull curiosity at the French, and at the bodies which are lying
on the earth, and plucking the blue wild-flowers with which the valley
is studded. On his way home with a large bouquet, he held his nose
because of the odor which the wind wafted to him, and paused beside
a pile of corpses, which had been carried off the field, and stared
long at one terrible headless body, which chanced to be the nearest to
him. After standing there for a long while, he stepped up closer, and
touched with his foot the stiffened arm of the corpse which protruded.
The arm swayed a little. He touched it again, and with more vigor.
The arm swung back, and then fell into place again. And at once the
boy uttered a shriek, hid his face in the flowers, and ran off to the
fortifications as fast as he could go.
Yes, white flags are hung out from the bastion and the trenches, the
flowery vale is filled with dead bodies, the splendid sun sinks into
the blue sea, and the blue sea undulates and glitters in the golden
rays of the sun. Thousands of people congregate, gaze, talk, and smile
at each other. And why do not Christian people, who profess the one
great law of love and self-sacrifice, when they behold what they have
wrought, fall in repentance upon their knees before Him who, when he
gave them life, implanted in the soul of each of them, together with a
fear of death, a love of the good and the beautiful, and, with tears
of joy and happiness, embrace each other like brothers? No! But it
is a comfort to think that it was not we who began this war, that we
are only defending our own country, our father-land. The white flags
have been hauled in, and again the weapons of death and suffering are
shrieking; again innocent blood is shed, and groans and curses are
audible.
* * * * *
I have now said all that I wish to say at this time. But a heavy
thought overmasters me. Perhaps it should not have been said;
perhaps what I have said belongs to one of those evil truths which,
unconsciously concealed in the soul of each man, should not be uttered,
lest they become pernicious, as a cask of wine should not be shaken,
lest it be thereby spoiled.
Where is the expression of evil which should be avoided? Where is the
expression of good which should be imitated in this sketch? Who is the
villain, who the hero? All are good, and all are evil.
Neither Kalugin, with his brilliant bravery—_bravoure de
gentilhomme_—and his vanity, the instigator of all his deeds; nor
Praskukhin, the empty-headed, harmless man, though he fell in battle
for the faith, the throne, and his native land; nor Mikhaïloff,
with his shyness; nor Pesth, a child with no firm convictions or
principles, can be either the heroes or the villains of the tale.
The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the strength of my soul, whom
I have tried to set forth in all his beauty, and who has always been,
is, and always will be most beautiful, is—the truth.