12. Conversation and Music

At twilight, the old minstrel and his young companion found themselves in sight of the Russian camp, whose tents, pitched on a hill, were arranged in rows, one above the other, on the flowery slopes until they reached the very top.

The shades of evening began to spread over the earth; some streaks of red still brightened the horizon.

The camp was quiet. The fatigue of the last battle had subdued all noise. The sentinels, gilded by the last rays of the setting sun, were so motionless at their posts that they might have been mistaken for statues. A few soldiers, still coming and going, wandered over the side of the hill; silent groups, more numerous than one would have thought, some seated, others lying down, could hardly be distinguished from the undulations of the ground itself.

Although the evening was not far advanced, they could see in a tent the pale glimmering of a lamp, whose light pierced the canvas walls. As they approached, slight noises could be heard, a weapon removed, groaning, stifled laughter or fragments of sentences.

A sentinel challenged the old minstrel and his companion. A little disturbance occurred. Instead of allowing himself to be frightened by the “ Who goes there? ” which met him, by the sight of all the warriors, and retracing his steps, as many another would have done in his place, the old minstrel walked directly into camp.

He was, without doubt, an old man who wished to see everything, and closely too; who certainly liked soldiers, and probably had been one himself, otherwise he would not have advanced with so much confidence. This boldness produced a good effect. When one braves a danger so needlessly, it is because one has nothing to fear. Having respectfully saluted a group of officers, who, seated or half-lying down, were discussing their doings, he asked them, innocently, if it would be agreeable to them for him to give them a little music, or even sing a song for them.

Any diversion is welcome in certain hours of life. His offer was accepted with pleasure.

They decided at the first notes, that he knew his art and listened with delight. Music has the gift of withdrawing the mind from the cares of the present, and of bearing it far away from its troubles.

Conversation ceased very soon, and the glances cast into space attested that each one, letting his thoughts run backward, was recalling to mind some dear remembrance, father or mother, wife or child, from whom war had separated him. Some soldiers, whose heads were bound by bloody bandages, raised themselves on their elbows to hear better. The minstrel sang of the family, of childhood and of youth. All was so far away! They were thankful to his song for revealing to them, in the midst of this day’s shelter, the houses where they were born, and their firesides, for recalling to each one that war is not the whole of life.

The dead of yesterday were no longer there to say, “Yes, war takes the whole life,” and the dying, the dead of tomorrow, had not strength enough to protest.

More than one savage eye softened. The old man’s success was so great, that, when he stopped singing, many hands had drawn from their pockets small pieces of money to give him.