Peasant Tales of Russia

by Vasilii Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko

"Can any of you help me?" he murmured, but he perceived with terror that he was voiceless, for although he thought he had spoken aloud, no one had heard him. It was like a struggle in a nightmare when the dreamer sees some terrible sight, e.g., an assassin creeping towards his bed, and tries to cry but in vain, for he is dumb. He makes a fresh effort as fruitless as the last and sees the assassin's knife come nearer. A fiendish face bends over him. He collects his last strength; it seems to him that his cry must wake the whole house and be heard in the street, yet the sleeping cat curled up on his bed does not hear the feeble groan which escapes from his labouring chest, "Come and help me!"

Well, it was the end. There was nothing more to hope for. Mechanically his hand again thrust the pick under the projecting rock. He felt a shock of surprise; the pick passed right through it; a shudder thrilled him; he clenched his teeth, made a superhuman effort, buried his pick still more deeply, throwing as much weight into it as he could, and then fell prostrate, his face towards the ground. His pickaxe had escaped from his hand and fallen through to the other side.

Through the opening thus formed there rushed a gust of refreshing air which at once increased in strength. The smoking torches which had been flung on the ground were spontaneously re-kindled. Their flame licked the walls. The miners began to breathe heavily; those who had half swooned revived a little and began to move. Many raised their heads, drinking in the air with such avidity that they became sick. The chief miner crept with difficulty through the opening and began to breathe with deep gasps the vivifying air.

"It is there ... there!" repeated old Ivan dreamily.

"Yes, old man, it is there, you are right," the miners answered, suddenly recovering their courage.

All the men who had been half-insane a moment before were now convinced that they were saved. In any case, it was a respite; they would not die yet. Death had been left behind in the race once more; they would be able to wrestle with it, and they must profit by this respite to get out of this place. If they had to die after all, well, they would die, but elsewhere, not in this cramped black hole. They set to work again, and this time so zealously that in a short time they succeeded in clearing away the mass of earth which obstructed the opening into the neighbouring gallery. To judge from the quantity of air which came from below they guessed it must be much larger than the narrow passage in which they were working. They hastened to work at this outlet which promised deliverance. The pickaxes struck the rocks violently, and the shovels dug deeply. They disputed with each other the right to work, and he who could clear away the most won; they nearly came to blows in order to dig near the opening in order to reach the new passage. The opening grew larger every moment. Old Ivan glanced at it and his face grew radiant with joy, because he saw beyond it the white Apparition waiting.

"Here I am, Lord, here I am!" he murmured, and if his comrades had not prevented him, he would have tried to pass through the opening at the risk of blocking it up.

After another half-hour of work they could pass through the opening, although they had to stoop very low. The chief miner went first followed by all the rest. Once he was in the new gallery, old Ivan lifted his torch as high as before.

"I have never seen this gallery!" exclaimed the chief miner. He turned towards Ivan, but at the sight of him the words died in his throat, and he could only stammer, "What is the matter?"

Great tears were running down the old man's wrinkled cheeks; he was contemplating with an expression of profound grief the dark entrance of a side gallery.