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Updated: May 1, 2025
Half their purpose is already spoiled, for it's no longer secret.... They may break us by sheer weight, and I fancy the first shooting will be done by us. It's the windows I'm afraid of." Some tone in his quiet voice reached the girl in the wicker chair. She looked up wildly, saw him, and with a cry of "Alesha" ran to his arms.
As usual, in their spare time, they lit bonfires, steamed themselves before them naked; smoked, picked out and baked sprouting rotten potatoes, told and listened to stories of Potemkin's and Suvorov's campaigns, or to legends of Alesha the Sly, or the priest's laborer Mikolka. The officers, as usual, lived in twos and threes in the roofless, half-ruined houses.
The voice of Stepan rang out: "You must do it this way at first you must take each peasant aside and speak to him by himself for instance, to Makov Alesha, a lively man can read and write was wronged by the police; Shorin Sergey, also a sensible peasant; Knyazev, an honest, bold man, and that'll do to begin with. Then we'll get a group together, we look about us yes.
"I do not quite understand, Alesha. Those gallant little boys! They are youth, and youth is always full of strangeness. Mr. Heritage! He is youth, too, and poetry, perhaps, and a soldier's tradition. I think I know him.... But what about Dickson? He is the PETIT BOURGEOIS, the EPICIER, the class which the world ridicules. He is unbelievable.
The priest turns to us, the gold Cross is raised, we advance one by one: the generals, the colonels, the lieutenants, the Sisters, Semyonov, Nikitin, Goga, then the choir, then the sanitars, even to hunch-backed Alesha, who is always given the dirtiest work to do and is only half a human being; one by one we kiss the Cross, the candles are blown out, the ikon folded up and put away in a cardboard box, we are introduced to the generals, there is general conversation, and the stars and the moon come out "blown straight up, it seems, out of the bosom of the Nestor...."
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