Dolinsky retreated a step.
There was a terrific explosion overhead.
The air shook.
The lamp flame shot up.
The body of the Commander in Chief, all the limbs extended, flew up into the air....
Dolinsky was flung out of the window.
He found himself on the grass, white with lime, his lips trembling.
People came running up to him....
A doctor, squatting on his heels, was busying himself over the body of Kornilov, which lay on a stretcher, half-covered with a sheepskin cloak.
A short distance away stood a group of staff officers, and, close to the stretcher, Denikin, a peaked cap stuck awkwardly on his head.
A minute before Kornilov had been breathing.
There were no visible marks of injury on his body, except for a slight scratch on one temple.
The doctor was an insignificant individual, but at this moment he realized that the eyes of all were fixed upon him, and though he knew everything was over already he went on examining the body with an important air.
Then he rose to his feet unhurriedly, adjusted his glasses and shook his head, as if to say:
"Unfortunately medicine is powerless in this case...."
Denikin went up to him, and asked in a strangled voice:
"Can't you give us a word of comfort?"
"Hopeless!" the doctor threw out his hands.
"It's the end."
Denikin drew out his handkerchief with convulsive movements, pressed it to his eyes, his shoulders heaving.
His stout frame seemed to sag.
The group of officers went up to him, looking not at the corpse, but at him.
Dropping on to his knees, he made the sign of the cross over the yellow, waxen-coloured features of Kornilov, and kissed him on the forehead.
Two officers helped him to get up.
A third muttered nervously:
"Who will take over the command, gentlemen?"
"I will, of course. I will take it over," cried Denikin in a shrill, breaking voice.
"Lavr Georgievich left orders about it, we spoke about it only yesterday."
That same night the whole Volunteer Army silently abandoned its positions, and moved north with its infantry, cavalry, baggage carts, hospital units, and carts full of political supporters, towards the Gnachbau farmsteads, carrying with them two corpses—those of Kornilov and Nezhentsev.
Kornilov's campaign had failed.
Its principal leaders and half of those who had participated in it, had perished. lit looked as if future historians would be able to dismiss the whole affair in a few words.
In fact, however, Kornilov's "Frost Campaign" was of immense importance.
The Whites found in it their first individual expression, their traditions, their military terms—culminating in the newly-created White Order, a sword, and a crown of thorns, on a St. George ribbon.
Subsequently, during recruiting and mobilization, in unpleasant arguments with foreign powers, and misunderstandings with local populations, they advanced as their first and highest justification, the martyr's crown.
No objections could be raised against this: what if—to give an example—such and such a general did have the entire population of the district ramrodded (as the process was called).
Those who did it were martyrs themselves and martyrs should not be judged by ordinary standards.
Kornilov's campaign had been the opening scene of the tragedy, the moment when, following on the prologue, the curtain rises, and the scenes, each more hair-raising and catastrophic than the one before, pass before the spectators in agonizing profusion.
* IV *
Alexei Krasilnikov jumped off the footboard of the truck, lifted his brother in his arms as if he were a child, and set him on the platform.
Matryona was standing at the door of the station, beside the bell.
Semyon did not recognize her at first; she wore a town-made coat, and her shining black hair was covered with a clean white kerchief, bound round her head in the new Soviet fashion.
Her face, young, round, beautiful, wore a frightened expression, and her lips were pressed tightly together.
When Semyon, supported by his brother, approached her, his feet scarcely moving, Matryona's hazel eyes blinked, and a tremor passed over her face....
"My God!" she said softly. "How bad he looks!"
Semyon, with a gasp of pain, placed his hand on his wife's shoulder and touched her cool clean cheek with his lips.
Alexei took the whip out of her hand.
They all stood in silence.
At last Alexei said:
"Here's your husband back again!
They tried to kill him, but they couldn't quite.