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The Revolutionist

by Mikhail P. Artsybashev



There were seventeen of them, fifteen soldiers, a subaltern and a
young beardless officer. The officer lay in front of the fire looking
intently into the flames. The soldiers were tinkering with the
firearms in the wagon.

Their grey figures moved about quietly on the black thawing ground,
and occasionally stumbled across the logs sticking out from the
blazing fire.

Gabriel Andersen, wearing an overcoat and carrying his cane behind his
back, approached them. The subaltern, a stout fellow with a moustache,
jumped up, turned from the fire, and looked at him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked excitedly. From his tone it
was evident that the soldiers feared everybody in that district,
through which they went scattering death, destruction and torture.

"Officer," he said, "there is a man here I don't know."

The officer looked at Andersen without speaking.

"Officer," said Andersen in a thin, strained voice, "my name is
Michelson. I am a business man here, and I am going to the village on
business. I was afraid I might be mistaken for some one else—you

"Then what are you nosing about here for?" the officer said angrily,
and turned away.

"A business man," sneered a soldier. "He ought to be searched, this
business man ought, so as not to be knocking about at night. A good
one in the jaw is what he needs."

"He's a suspicious character, officer," said the subaltern. "Don't you
think we'd better arrest him, what?"

"Don't," answered the officer lazily. "I'm sick of them, damn 'em."

Gabriel Andersen stood there without saying anything. His eyes flashed
strangely in the dark by the firelight. And it was strange to see his
short, substantial, clean, neat figure in the field at night among the
soldiers, with his overcoat and cane and glasses glistening in the

The soldiers left him and walked away. Gabriel Andersen remained
standing for a while. Then he turned and left, rapidly disappearing in
the darkness.

The night was drawing to a close. The air turned chilly, and the tops
of the bushes defined themselves more clearly in the dark. Gabriel
Andersen went again to the military post. But this time he hid,
crouching low as he made his way under the cover of the bushes. Behind
him people moved about quietly and carefully, bending the bushes,
silent as shadows. Next to Gabriel, on his right, walked a tall man
with a revolver in his hand.

The figure of a soldier on the hill outlined itself strangely,
unexpectedly, not where they had been looking for it. It was faintly
illumined by the gleam from the dying fire. Gabriel Andersen
recognised the soldier. It was the one who had proposed that he should
be searched. Nothing stirred in Andersen's heart. His face was cold
and motionless, as of a man who is asleep. Round the fire the soldiers
lay stretched out sleeping, all except the subaltern, who sat with his
head drooping over his knees.

The tall thin man on Andersen's right raised the revolver and pulled
the trigger. A momentary blinding flash, a deafening report.

Andersen saw the guard lift his hands and then sit down on the ground
clasping his bosom. From all directions short, crackling sparks
flashed up which combined into one riving roar. The subaltern jumped
up and dropped straight into the fire. Grey soldiers' figures moved
about in all directions like apparitions, throwing up their hands and
falling and writhing on the black earth. The young officer ran past
Andersen, fluttering his hands like some strange, frightened bird.
Andersen, as if he were thinking of something else, raised his cane.
With all his strength he hit the officer on the head, each blow
descending with a dull, ugly thud. The officer reeled in a circle,
struck a bush, and sat down after the second blow, covering his head
with both hands, as children do. Some one ran up and discharged a
revolver as if from Andersen's own hand. The officer sank together in
a heap and lunged with great force head foremost on the ground. His
legs twitched for a while, then he curled up quietly.

The shots ceased. Black men with white faces, ghostly grey in the
dark, moved about the dead bodies of the soldiers, taking away their
arms and ammunition.

Andersen watched all this with a cold, attentive stare. When all was
over, he went up, took hold of the burned subaltern's legs, and tried
to remove the body from the fire. But it was too heavy for him, and he
let it go.

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