The Desolation of Roslavl
101
mense marshy meadow, and there, what a wild, what a strange picture . . .
At that point I thought of the late V. V. Verestchagin.
Only he with his grey tones could have painted the grey horror of this life, only he could have painted the dreadful picture in all its horror.
For several acres the whole meadow was covered with abandoned and broken carts.
The iron parts had been unloosed and taken away, wheels lay separately, tilts separately.
How many were there there?
Tens of thousands.
The whole plain was grey with carts, with wheels, with shafts and single shafts.
Having sold their horses for cash, the fugitives abandoned their carts here, only taking with them the iron parts they could unfasten.
