White flags are flying on our fortifications and in the French
intrenchments. In the blossom-covered valley mutilated bodies, clothed
in blue or in gray, with bare feet, lie in heaps, and the men are
carrying them off to place them in carts. The air is poisoned by the
odor of the corpses. Crowds of people pour out of Sebastopol and out of
the French camp to witness this spectacle. The different sides meet each
other on this ground with eager and kindly curiosity.
Listen to the words exchanged between them. On this side, in a small
group of French and Russians, a young officer is examining a
cartridge-box. Although he speaks bad French, he can make himself
understood.
“And why that--that bird?” he asks.
“Because it is the cartridge-box of a regiment of the guard, sir. It is
ornamented with the imperial eagle.”
“And you--you belong to the guard?”
“Pardon, sir, to the sixth regiment of the line.”
“And this--where was this bought?” The officer points to the little
wooden mouth-piece which holds the Frenchman’s cigarette.
“At Balaklava, sir. It is only palm-wood.”
“Pretty,” replies the officer, obliged to make use of the few words he
knew, and which, _nolens volens,_ intruded themselves into the
conversation.
“You will oblige me if you will keep that as a souvenir of this
meeting.”
The Frenchman throws away his cigarette, blows in the mouth-piece, and
politely presents it to the officer with a salute. The latter gives him
his in exchange. All the French and Russian by-standers smile and seem
delighted.
Here comes a shrewd-looking infantryman in a red shirt, his overcoat
thrown over his shoulders. His face is full of good spirits and
curiosity. Accompanied by two comrades, their hands behind their backs,
he approaches and asks a Frenchman for a light. The latter blows into
his pipe, shakes it, and offers a light to the Russian.
“_Tabac bonn!_” says the soldier in the red shirt, and the by-standers
smile.
“Yes, good tobacco--Turkish tobacco!” answers the Frenchman; “and with
you Russian tobacco good?”
“_Rouss bonn!_” repeats the soldier in the red shirt, and this time the
spectators burst out laughing.
“_Français pas bonn, bonn jour, mousiou!_” continues the soldier, making
a show of all he knew in French, laughing, and tapping on the stomach of
the man who was talking with him. The Frenchmen also laugh.
“They are not pretty, these Russian B----,” said a Zouave.
“What are they laughing at?” asks another, with an Italian accent.
“_Le caftan bonn!_” the bold soldier begins again, examining the
embroidered uniform of the Zouave.
“To your places, _sacré nom_!” shouts a French corporal at this instant.
The soldiers sulkily disperse.
Nevertheless, our young cavalry lieutenant is strutting in a group of
the enemy’s officers.
“I knew Count Sasonoff well,” says one of the latter. “He is one of the
true Russian counts, such as we like.”
“I also knew a Sasonoff,” replies the cavalry officer, “but he wasn’t a
count, as far as I know. He is a small, dark man about your age.”
“That’s it, sir--that’s he. Oh, how I would like to see the dear count!
If you see him, give him my regards. Captain Latour,” he adds, bowing.
“What a miserable business we are carrying on! It was hot last night,
wasn’t it?” continues the cavalry officer, anxious to keep up the
conversation, and pointing to the corpses.
“Oh, sir, it is frightful. But what fine fellows your soldiers are! It
is a pleasure to fight with fine fellows like that.”
“It must be confessed that your fellows are up to snuff also,” replies
the Russian horseman, with a salute, satisfied that he has given him a
good answer.
But enough on this subject. Let us watch that ten-year-old boy, with an
old worn cap on his head which doubtless belonged to his father, and
with naked legs and large shoes on his feet, dressed in a pair of cotton
trousers, held up by a single brace. He came out of the fortifications
at the beginning of the truce. He has been walking about ever since on
the low ground, examining with stupid curiosity the French soldiers and
the dead bodies lying on the ground. He is gathering the little blue
field-flowers with which the valley is strewn. He retraces his steps
with a great bouquet, holding his nose so as not to smell the fetid odor
that comes on the wind. Stopping near a heap of corpses, he looks a long
time at a headless, hideous, dead man. After an examination, he goes
near and touches with his foot the arm stretched stiffly in the air. As
he presses harder on it the arm moves and falls into place. The boy
gives a cry, hides his face in the flowers, and enters the
fortifications, running at full speed.
Yes, flags of truce float over the bastions and on the intrenchments;
the brilliantly shining sun is setting into the blue sea, which ripples
and sparkles under the golden rays. Thousands of people assemble, look
at each other, chat, laugh. These people, who are Christians, who
profess to obey the great law of love and devotion, are looking at their
work without throwing themselves down in repentance at the knees of Him
who gave them life, and with life the fear of death, the love of the
good and the beautiful. They do not embrace each other like brothers,
and shed tears of joy and happiness! We must at least take consolation
in the thought that we did not begin the war, that we are only defending
our country, our native land. The white flags are lowered; the engines
of death and of suffering thunder once more; again a flood of innocent
blood is shed, and groans and curses can be heard.
I have said what I have wanted to say for this time at least, but a
painful doubt overwhelms me. It would have been better, perhaps, to have
kept silent, for possibly what I have uttered is among those pernicious
truths obscurely hidden away in every one’s soul, and which, in order to
remain harmless, must not be expressed; just as old wine must not be
disturbed lest the sediment rise and make the liquid turbid. Where,
then, in my tale do we see the evil we must avoid, and the good towards
which we must strive to go? Where is the traitor? Where is the hero? All
are good and all are bad. It is not Kalouguine with his brilliant
courage, his gentlemanly bravado, and his vanity--the chief motive power
of all his actions; it is not Praskoukine, an inoffensive cipher,
although he fell on the battle-field for his faith, his ruler, and his
country; nor timid Mikhaïloff; nor Pesth, that child with no conviction
and no moral sense, who can pass for traitors or for heroes.
No; the hero of my tale, the one I love with all the power of my soul,
the one I have tried to reproduce in all his beauty, just as he has
been, is, and always will be beautiful, is Truth.
_SEBASTOPOL IN AUGUST, 1855._