Sevastopol, p.1
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       Sevastopol, p.1

           graf Leo Tolstoy
 
Sevastopol


  Produced by Goncalo Silva, Shaun Pinder and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

  _COUNT TOLSTOI'S WORKS._

  ANNA KARENINA $1.75 CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD, AND YOUTH 1.50 IVAN ILYITCH 1.25 MY RELIGION 1.00 MY CONFESSION 1.00 WHAT TO DO? 1.25 THE INVADERS 1.25 A RUSSIAN PROPRIETOR 1.50 NAPOLEON'S RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN 1.00 THE LONG EXILE 1.25 LIFE 1.25 SEVASTOPOL 1.00 THE COSSACKS 1.00 POWER AND LIBERTY .75 WHAT MEN LIVE BY (BOOKLET) .30 THE TWO PILGRIMS (BOOKLET) .30 WHERE LOVE IS (BOOKLET) .30

  THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., PUBLISHERS, 13 ASTOR PLACE, NEW YORK.

  SEVASTOPOL

  BY COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI

  _TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN_ BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

  AUTHORIZED EDITION.

  NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 13 ASTOR PLACE

  COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

  CONTENTS.

  PAGE SEVASTOPOL IN DECEMBER, 1854 5

  SEVASTOPOL IN MAY, 1855 37

  SEVASTOPOL IN AUGUST, 1855 123

  SEVASTOPOL.

  SEVASTOPOL IN DECEMBER, 1854.

  The flush of morning has but just begun to tinge the sky above SapunMountain; the dark blue surface of the sea has already cast aside theshades of night and awaits the first ray to begin a play of merrygleams; cold and mist are wafted from the bay; there is no snow--all isblack, but the morning frost pinches the face and crackles underfoot,and the far-off, unceasing roar of the sea, broken now and then by thethunder of the firing in Sevastopol, alone disturbs the calm of themorning. It is dark on board the ships; it has just struck eight bells.

  Toward the north the activity of the day begins gradually to replacethe nocturnal quiet; here the relief guard has passed clanking theirarms, there the doctor is already hastening to the hospital, further onthe soldier has crept out of his earth hut and is washing his sunburntface in ice-encrusted water, and, turning towards the crimsoning east,crosses himself quickly as he prays to God; here a tall and heavycamel-wagon has dragged creaking to the cemetery, to bury the bloodydead, with whom it is laden nearly to the top. You go to the wharf--apeculiar odor of coal, manure, dampness, and of beef strikes you;thousands of objects of all sorts--wood, meat, gabions, flour, iron, andso forth--lie in heaps about the wharf; soldiers of various regiments,with knapsacks and muskets, without knapsacks and without muskets,throng thither, smoke, quarrel, drag weights aboard the steamer whichlies smoking beside the quay; unattached two-oared boats, filled withall sorts of people,--soldiers, sailors, merchants, women,--land at andleave the wharf.

  "To the Grafsky, Your Excellency? be so good." Two or three retiredsailors rise in their boats and offer you their services.

  You select the one who is nearest to you, you step over thehalf-decomposed carcass of a brown horse, which lies there in the mudbeside the boat, and reach the stern. You quit the shore. All aboutyou is the sea, already glittering in the morning sun, in front of youis an aged sailor, in a camel's-hair coat, and a young, white-headedboy, who work zealously and in silence at the oars. You gaze at themotley vastness of the vessels, scattered far and near over the bay,and at the small black dots of boats moving about on the shiningazure expanse, and at the bright and beautiful buildings of the city,tinted with the rosy rays of the morning sun, which are visible in onedirection, and at the foaming white line of the quay, and the sunkenships from which black tips of masts rise sadly here and there, andat the distant fleet of the enemy faintly visible as they rock on thecrystal horizon of the sea, and at the streaks of foam on which leapsalt bubbles beaten up by the oars; you listen to the monotonous soundof voices which fly to you over the water, and the grand sounds offiring, which, as it seems to you, is increasing in Sevastopol.

  It cannot be that, at the thought that you too are in Sevastopol, acertain feeling of manliness, of pride, has not penetrated your soul,and that the blood has not begun to flow more swiftly through yourveins.

  "Your Excellency! you are steering straight into the Kistentin,"[A]says your old sailor to you as he turns round to make sure of thedirection which you are imparting to the boat, with the rudder to theright.

  [A] The vessel Constantine.

  "And all the cannon are still on it," remarks the white-headed boy,casting a glance over the ship as we pass.

  "Of course; it's new. Korniloff lived on board of it," said the oldman, also glancing at the ship.

  "See where it has burst!" says the boy, after a long silence, lookingat a white cloud of spreading smoke which has suddenly appeared highover the South Bay, accompanied by the sharp report of an explodingbomb.

  "_He_ is firing to-day with his new battery," adds the old man, calmlyspitting on his hands. "Now, give way, Mishka! we'll overtake thebarge." And your boat moves forward more swiftly over the broad swellsof the bay, and you actually do overtake the heavy barge, upon whichsome bags are piled, and which is rowed by awkward soldiers, and ittouches the Grafsky wharf amid a multitude of boats of every sort whichare landing.

  Throngs of gray soldiers, black sailors, and women of various colorsmove noisily along the shore. The women are selling rolls, Russianpeasants with samovars are crying _hot sbiten_;[B] and here upon thefirst steps are strewn rusted cannon-balls, bombs, grape-shot, andcast-iron cannon of various calibers; a little further on is a largesquare, upon which lie huge beams, gun-carriages, sleeping soldiers;there stand horses, wagons, green guns, ammunition-chests, and stacksof arms; soldiers, sailors, officers, women, children, and merchantsare moving about; carts are arriving with hay, bags, and casks; hereand there Cossacks make their way through, or officers on horseback,or a general in a drosky. To the right, the street is hemmed in by abarricade, in whose embrasures stand some small cannon, and besidethese sits a sailor smoking his pipe. On the left a handsome housewith Roman ciphers on the pediment, beneath which stand soldiers andblood-stained litters--everywhere you behold the unpleasant signs ofa war encampment. Your first impression is inevitably of the mostdisagreeable sort. The strange mixture of camp and town life, of abeautiful city and a dirty bivouac, is not only not beautiful, butseems repulsive disorder; it even seems to you that every one isthoroughly frightened, and is fussing about without knowing what heis doing. But look more closely at the faces of these people who aremoving about you, and you will gain an entirely different idea. Look atthis little soldier from the provinces, for example, who is leading atroika of brown horses to water, and is purring something to himself socomposedly that he evidently will not go astray in this motley crowd,which does not exist for him; but he is fulfilling his duty, whateverthat may be,--watering the horses or carrying arms,--with just as muchcomposure, self-confidence, and equanimity as though it were takingplace in Tula or Saransk. You will read the same expression on the faceof this officer who passes by in immaculate white gloves, and in theface of the sailor who is smoking as he sits on the barricade, and inthe faces of the working soldiers, waiting with their litters on thesteps of the former club, and in the face of yonder girl, who, fearingto wet her pink gown, skips across the street on the little stones.

  [B] A drink made of water, molasses, laurel-leaves or salvia, which isdrunk like tea, especially by the lower classes.

  Yes! disenchantment certainly awaits you, if you are enteringSevastopol for the first time. In vain will you seek, on even asingle countenance, for traces of anxiety, discomposure, or even ofenthusiasm
, readiness for death, decision,--there is nothing of thesort. You will see the tradespeople quietly engaged in the dutiesof their callings, so that, possibly, you may reproach yourself forsuperfluous raptures, you may entertain some doubt as to the justiceof the ideas regarding the heroism of the defenders of Sevastopolwhich you have formed from stories, descriptions, and the sightsand sounds on the northern side. But, before you doubt, go upon thebastions, observe the defenders of Sevastopol on the very scene ofthe defence, or, better still, go straight across into that house,which was formerly the Sevastopol Assembly House, and upon whose roofstand soldiers with litters,--there you will behold the defendersof Sevastopol, there you will behold frightful and sad, great andlaughable, but wonderful sights, which elevate the soul.

  You enter the great Hall of Assembly. You have but just opened the doorwhen the sight and smell of forty or fifty seriously wounded men andof those who have undergone amputation--some in hammocks, the majorityupon the floor--suddenly strike
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