love!

can one credit the romanticists that—across the seas and hills and years—there is so strange a thing as a single-hearted love, an all- conquering, all-subduing, all-renovating love?

in the train at budslav—where the staff-officers were billeted—it was known that lieutenant agrenev had such a single, overmastering, life-long love.

a wife—the woman, the maiden who loves only once—to whom love is the most beautiful and only thing in life, will do heroic deeds to get past all the army ordinances, the enemy's reconnaissance, and reach her beloved. to her there is but one huge heart in the world and nothing more.

lieutenant agrenev's quarters were in a distant carriage, number 30- 35.

the staff officers' train stood under cover. no one was allowed to strike a light there. in the evening, after curtaining the windows with blankets, the officers gathered together in the carriage of the general commanding the xxth corps, to play cards and drink cognac. someone cynically remarked that there was a close resemblance between life at the front and life in a monastery, in as much as in both the chief topic of conversation was women: there was no reason, therefore, why monks should not be sent to the front for fasting and prayer.

while they were playing cards, the guard, pan ponyatsky, came in and spoke to the cavalry-captain kremnev. he told him of a woman, young and very beautiful. the captain's knees began to tremble; he sat helplessly on the step of the carriage, and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. pan ponyatsky warned him that he must not strike a light. in the distance could be heard the roar of cannon, like an approaching midnight storm. kremnev had never felt such a throbbing joy as he felt now, sitting on the carriage step. pan ponyatsky repeated that she was a beauty, and waiting—that the captain must not delay; and led him through the dark corridor of the train.

the carriage smelt of men and leather; behind the doors of the compartments echoed a sound of laughter from those who were playing cards. the two men walked half the length of the train.

as they passed from one waggon to another they saw the flare of a rocket in the distance, and in its baleful green light the number of carriage—30-35—loomed in faint outline.

pan ponyatsky unlocked the door and whispered:

"here. only mind, be quiet."

the pan closed the door after kremnev. it was an officer's compartment; there was a smell of perfume, and on one of the lower bunks was a woman—sleeping. kremnev threw off his cloak and sat down by the sleeping figure.

the door opened; pan ponyatsky thrust in his head and whispered:

"don't worry about her, sir; she is all right, only a little quieter now." then the head disappeared.

love! love over the seas and hills and years!

it had become known that a woman was to visit agrenev, and forthwith he was ordered away for twenty-four hours on detachment. who then would ever know what guard had opened the door, what officer had wrought the deed? would a woman dare scream, having come where she had no right to be? or would she dare tell … to a husband or a lover? no, not to a husband, nor a lover, nor to anyone! and pan ponyatsky? why should he not earn an odd fifty roubles? who was he to know of love across the seas and hills?

yesterday, the day before, and again to-day, continuous fighting and retreating. the staff-train moved off, but the officers went on foot. a wide array of men, wagons, horses, cannon, ordinance. all in a vast confusion. none could hear the rattling fire of the machine-guns and rifles. all was lost in a torrential downpour of rain. towards evening there was a halt. all were eager to rest. no one noticed the approaching dawn. then a russian battery commenced to thunder. they were ordered to counter-attack. they trudged back through the rain, no one knew why—agrenev, kremnev, the brethren—three women.