h surrounded the little
Russian town where his family dwelt. His thoughts flew to them over
thousands of versts.

All else had vanished; nothing of the present remained, neither the
battles, nor the innumerable corpses, nor that ocean of disasters which
for a long time had been rolling its blood-stained waves under the
Major's eyes.

This is what he saw--a moderately-sized room with a sacred icon[1] in
one corner. A night-light burns softly before the icon as though
intimidated by the constant sight of the saint's austere face, whose
expression appears still more sombre in contrast with the silver
ornaments of the frame in which it is set. The feeble rays of this pale
light show in the shadow the outlines of two little beds with very white
curtains from behind which proceeds the sound of equable breathing. The
Major lifts one of these curtains; the little girl in this bed is too
hot; she has pushed off her coverlet, and all rosy with sleep, she
slumbers without dreaming, her little plump legs gathered up close to
her body, and her pulpy mouth half-open. The little monkey is tired with
running about the whole day. She has rolled down ice-slopes, she has
teased her favourite fowls and her cock, she has fed the pigeons, and
among other things she has fought with her little brother. Now she slips
her little fat hand under her head. She seems about to open her eyes and
close them again, smiling at the sight of her father's face as he hangs
over her. He takes a long look at her.

[Footnote 1: Saint's picture.]

"Sleep, my darling, sleep, my angel," he murmurs, making the sign of the
cross above her.

Then he turns to the other little bed. Do you see this brat? He is not
yet two years old, but he is already covered with scratches because he
does nothing but fight, sometimes with the cat, and sometimes with his
little sister, whom he torments. Accordingly, his cheek is marked all
over by the cat's claws, who, however, appears at present to have made
a truce with her enemy, for there she lies rolled up, looking like a
ball of grey wool. Isn't he fat and sturdy, the Major's rascal? He is so
fat that his pretty hands, his little feet and his neck look as though
they were encircled with a thread, as those of quite young infants do.
And what red and chubby cheeks, so chubby that they have almost
extinguished the nose, which appears between them only like a little
button! His round head is covered with hair so blond that it is