[2] All numerals relate to the stories herein told--not to the chapters
in the book.
"THE WAY OF THE CROSS"--A TRAGEDY OF THE RUSSIANS
_The Millions Who Have Become Beggars_
_Told by V. Doroshevitch, Famous Russian Journalist_
This is probably the first piece of Russian War literature translated
into English. It presents the terrible picture of the Russian and
Polish fugitives flying from the German invasion in the autumn
of 1915. The narrator is a famous Russian journalist, who first
contributed his experiences to the _Russkol Slovl_. He went from
Moscow to meet the incoming flood of refugees and then passed through
to the rear of the Russian Army. At first he met the survivors who
were forced ahead in the procession; afterwards they came thicker and
thicker until they were a moving wall. He tells how they camped in
the forests, how they died by the way, how they put up their crosses
by the side of the road, how they sold their horses and abandoned
their carts, how they starved, how they suffered. His articles have
been collected by Stephen Graham and published in book form by _G. P.
Putnam's Sons_: Copyright 1916. These breathless, desperate stories
breathe a tender love. The style is typically Slavic and has been
preserved in the excellent translations. A single typical story
is here told of "The Desolation of Roslavl" by permission of the
publishers.
In 1812 Moscow made a funeral pyre for herself, and burned--for
Russia's sake. A hundred years have passed. And the red glare of
Moscow's fire has paled. The Moscow of those days! A wooden city. The
burning of it was appalling. The ground burned under the feet of the
Napoleonic soldiers: even the roadways of Moscow were made of wood at
that time.
But now! More than ten provinces have been laid waste by the enemy.
Millions of people have become beggars. And have fled. From the places
of their birth to the far centre of Russia stretches the way of the
Cross for these people.
And on this way, as on that other way--of Golgotha, are places, where
the people faint under the burden of the Cross: Bobruisk! Dovsk!
Roslavl! These are names full of affliction. Especially: The memory of
Roslavl is terrible.
* * * * *
[3] I--STORY OF DESOLATION OF ROSLAVL
Roslavl, on the River Oster, is a quiet little town in the province
of Smolensk. Ordinarily, when you drive along the high-road coming
from the West, in Rogachef, in Cherikof, in Propoisk, in Krichef, they
will tell you that Roslavl is the first Russian town. From here to the
eastward, Great Russia begins.
When you arrive at Roslavl you will be awakened in the morning by the
soft yet powerful baritone of its marvellous bell, sounding from the
height of the Transfiguration monastery on the hill.
And you will hear this, like music--for the first time on the whole of
your journey from the West up till then.
* * * * *
Now Roslavl is choked and drowned. There is neither sugar nor salt in
the town. In the streets fugitives stop you and ask,
"Friend, where can I buy any salt here? I've been trying to get some
all day."
"Little father, where can we get any sugar? Even if it's only half a
pound or a quarter of a pound."
You go into a baker's shop and ask:
"Have you any white bread?"
The shopman looks at you in wonder.
"We bake no white. Only black, and even that's all taken for the
fugitives."
"The fugitives will eat us up," says Roslavl in terror.
But the wave of fugitives comes on and on, and a stench is given forth
from it. Here the great river stops, and its waters turn round and
round, like a whirlpool. Roslavl is overwhelmed; the tide rises above
its head.
The reason?--the railway. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of
thousands of people will remember with horror the desolation of
Roslavl. Here is enacted a dreadful scene: "The completion of the
process"--the fugitives giving up their horses. First they were as
"gipsies," but now they have turned into a Khitrof market.[4] Numbers
of the fugitives, the great majority of them, having exhausted their
last strength and reached the railway.
Have the last thing to do as peasants. They sell their horses. And
thence go onward--in the train. Waiting in an open-air camp in
Roslavl for a week or so, until they are given places. And with what
desperation do they cling to the possession of their horses.