The Deserted Mine

VIII

Half an hour passed in this way. Half-suffocated, some of the miners lay down flat on the ground. Many of them hid their faces as though unwilling to see death face to face—death which seemed so horrible in this black hole so far from the earth’s surface. The pickaxes and shovels which were at work on the wall which barred their progress moved but slowly. Finally, the last batch who were working stopped, having no longer the strength to continue. In vain were their chests expanded to take deeper breaths—they were stifled, their throats were contracted, blood rushed to their heads; the air was failing them. The horrible consciousness of certain death was weighing upon them. But in any case the unfortunate men would not have had the strength to escape from this grim cul-de-sac. Their torches, flung to the earth, burnt no longer, but filled with smoke the gloom in which they were plunged.

The chief miner had an attack of vertigo. At his side a young miner began to bleed copiously at the mouth; another was struggling on the ground in an epileptic fit. Some began cursing and quarrelling or accusing old Ivan and the chief miner. One man uttered a cry, for another stretched at his side, had, in his frenzy, seized him by the throat. The chief miner thought he saw red streaks in the black darkness and felt as though something damp and slimy glided over his face. He collected all his remaining strength, rose with difficulty and took up his pickaxe again. His legs tottered. Several times he buried the pick in the black mass of earth which scattered and crumbled beneath his blows; his tool sank under the projecting rock and fragments of damp earth fell with a dull sound. He felt his arms grow numb and threaten to drop the tool.

“Can any of you help me?” he murmured, but he perceived with terror that he was voiceless, for although he thought he had spoken aloud, no one had heard him. It was like a struggle in a nightmare when the dreamer sees some terrible sight, e.g., an assassin creeping towards his bed, and tries to cry but in vain, for he is dumb. He makes a fresh effort as fruitless as the last and sees the assassin’s knife come nearer. A fiendish face bends over him. He collects his last strength; it seems to him that his cry must wake the whole house and be heard in the street, yet the sleeping cat curled up on his bed does not hear the feeble groan which escapes from his labouring chest, “Come and help me!”

Well, it was the end. There was nothing more to hope for. Mechanically his hand again thrust the pick under the projecting rock. He felt a shock of surprise; the pick passed right through it; a shudder thrilled him; he clenched his teeth, made a superhuman effort, buried his pick still more deeply, throwing as much weight into it as he could, and then fell prostrate, his face towards the ground. His pickaxe had escaped from his hand and fallen through to the other side.

Through the opening thus formed there rushed a gust of refreshing air which at once increased in strength. The smoking torches which had been flung on the ground were spontaneously re-kindled. Their flame licked the walls. The miners began to breathe heavily; those who had half swooned revived a little and began to move. Many raised their heads, drinking in the air with such avidity that they became sick. The chief miner crept with difficulty through the opening and began to breathe with deep gasps the vivifying air.

“It is there … there!” repeated old Ivan dreamily.

“Yes, old man, it is there, you are right,” the miners answered, suddenly recovering their courage.

All the men who had been half-insane a moment before were now convinced that they were saved. In any case, it was a respite; they would not die yet. Death had been left behind in the race once more; they would be able to wrestle with it, and they must profit by this respite to get out of this place. If they had to die after all, well, they would die, but elsewhere, not in this cramped black hole. They set to work again, and this time so zealously that in a short time they succeeded in clearing away the mass of earth which obstructed the opening into the neighbouring gallery. To judge from the quantity of air which came from below they guessed it must be much larger than the narrow passage in which they were working. They hastened to work at this outlet which promised deliverance. The pickaxes struck the rocks violently, and the shovels dug deeply. They disputed with each other the right to work, and he who could clear away the most won; they nearly came to blows in order to dig near the opening in order to reach the new passage. The opening grew larger every moment. Old Ivan glanced at it and his face grew radiant with joy, because he saw beyond it the white Apparition waiting.

“Here I am, Lord, here I am!” he murmured, and if his comrades had not prevented him, he would have tried to pass through the opening at the risk of blocking it up.

After another half-hour of work they could pass through the opening, although they had to stoop very low. The chief miner went first followed by all the rest. Once he was in the new gallery, old Ivan lifted his torch as high as before.

“I have never seen this gallery!” exclaimed the chief miner. He turned towards Ivan, but at the sight of him the words died in his throat, and he could only stammer, “What is the matter?”

Great tears were running down the old man’s wrinkled cheeks; he was contemplating with an expression of profound grief the dark entrance of a side gallery.

“Well, old man! What is the matter?” the miners asked, surrounding him. He continued to gaze in the same direction. “Does this place remind you of something?” asked the chief miner. They all listened eagerly for his answer.

“It is here that my mother was buried in a landslip. Yes, here on this side.”

“Comrades!” the chief miner exclaimed joyfully. “There is no doubt about it! We are in the Znamensky mine!”

So true is it that one man’s grief is another man’s happiness.

Old Ivan himself was forgotten. They saw that he had guided them all to the old mine, which had been long abandoned, but which he remembered from his childhood. As the mine had been dug in the rock itself, the shaft was undamaged, but they had to find the entrance to it.

The old man remained motionless where he was, his eyes fixed on the place where his mother had perished. The chief miner, who had recovered his collectedness of mind, approached him.

“Well, old man, has Jesus gone without you?”

“No … He is there…. He waits for me. Here I am, Lord, here I am.”

He resumed his march, and the miners followed him cheerfully.