21. The Read Handkerchief

Maroussia bent down to hear the sound of Tchetchevik’s footsteps as long as possible. If her ears could hear him, even though her eyes were not able to follow him, she would be less anxious. As long as she could hear him, she felt as if he was still there. But soon all crackling of branches, all rustling of leaves ceased, Maroussia let her two wreaths drop down, her pretty head drooped, and without suspecting it, she began to think, yes, to think.

Subjects for thought were not wanting.

She had seen so many startling things, so many mysterious and terrible things, and the last had been so distressing! The defenders of Ukraine, at first so glorious, everything giving way before them, now crushed and dispersed. “I know very well that my good friend is going to make a last effort. It is hopeless, perhaps. But what does it matter?

He will do it. Ought he to stop in his duty?” She had felt during this long-forced journey, that each step hid a danger. “Well then, afterward? Tchetchevik and herself, the true Ukrainians, could they survive Ukraine? Would it not be better to disappear with those we love?”

She puzzled her head in trying to explain why men, instead of loving each other, which seemed so easy to her, endeavored to destroy each other. “Did my father ever seek to quarrel with his neighbors? Did he ever have the thought of wishing to take another man’s farm and house, although he had often seen many fine farms and beautiful houses? Why do they wish to take our Ukraine from us? It is a very fruitful country, one of the best in the world, is that a reason for driving away those to whom it belongs?”

From time to time, tired with asking herself questions which the greatest minds are unable to answer, she would raise her head and with her sincere eyes looking toward heaven say: “Heavenly Father, when will men be good?”

The calmness and deep silence of the forest, its shade and fresh air, would have benefited very much her sorely tired body, if her anxious mind had allowed her to rest, instead of worrying about everything about her as the time grew longer.

The forest became dark, gradually an invisible hand drew a gigantic black veil over these masses of verdure. This recalled to her mind the forest in her story of the brigands, and the flight of the poor wife, which she had related to Tchetchevik the first time she had seen him. “She was not more unhappy than I am,” thought Maroussia, “but I prefer my trouble to hers.”

The last rays of light which had penetrated through the foliage were fading away on the trunks of the trees. They disappeared altogether and night came suddenly. Maroussia, surprised, arose. All the anxiety of the past was as nothing to the agony of the present.

“He said to me: ‘ I will return for you very soon, I leave you for a few moments,— remain at your post.’ I am at my post,” said the child, “many moments have passed by, he does not come, and there is no sound, even in the distance, of his return.”