Bobruisk
137
women, road menders, police, soldiers,—all in one great mass.
And dust, dust like a wall.
Dust in which nothing is seen.
In which you travel as in smoke, as in a dense fog.
And when we drove out at last on the shore of the River Berezina, tortured, overwhelmed by all that we had seen, suffocating with dust, from the heat of the road,—I for the first time since Rogachef, took a full breath.
And down below, on the lower shore, look where you would, there burned in the setting twilight and kindled redder and more red—bonfires.
And a multitude of carts over the extent of which you could not throw the eyes.
Bobruisk—that is the first stopping-place where the oncoming crowds of people stumble under the burden of the Cross.
