the peasant cease to be a peasant. What then?
The last thing that connects him with the past, the last thing that binds him to life.
Along the main street of Roslavl from earliest morning till the darkness of night without interruption, without ceasing, go two processions, one one way, the other the other.
On one side of the road come an endless series of grey carts, one after another endlessly—and pass away towards that stretch of the road where yesterday we saw innumerable camp bonfires.
On the other side coming from that place come refugees on horseback, some astride, some sitting sideways, on little worn-out horses. They go to the bazaar.
Betwixt the two processions is the long empty alley of the middle of the street.
On both sides there is silence
