XI
Just then we heard the voice of the commander of the battalion outside, addressing Bolhov.
“Who is with you, Nicholas Fedorovich?”
Bolhov gave him my name, and then three officers scrambled into the hut—Major Kirsanov; the adjutant of his battalion; and Captain Trosenko.
Kirsanov was not tall but stout, he had black moustaches, rosy cheeks, and oily little eyes. These eyes were his most remarkable feature. When he laughed, nothing remained of them but two tiny moist stars, and these little stars, together with his wide-stretched lips and outstretched neck, often gave him an extraordinarily senseless look. In the regiment Kirsanov behaved himself and bore himself better than anyone else; his subordinates did not complain of him, and his superiors respected him—though the general opinion was that he was very limited. He knew the service, was exact and zealous, always had ready money, kept a carriage and a man-cook, and knew how to make an admirable pretence of being proud.
“What were you talking about, Nicholas Fedorovich?”
“Why, about the attractions of the service here.”
But just then Kirsanov noticed me, a cadet, and to impress me with his importance he paid no attention to Bolhov’s reply, but looked at the drum and said—
“Are you tired, Nicholas Fedorovich?”
“No, you see we—” Bolhov began.
But again the dignity of the commander of the battalion seemed to make it necessary to interrupt, and to ask another question.
“That was a famous affair today, was it not?”
The adjutant of the battalion was a young ensign recently promoted from being a cadet, a modest, quiet lad with a bashful and kindly-pleasant face. I had met him at Bolhov’s before. The lad would often come to Bolhov’s, bow, sit down in a corner, and remain silent for hours making cigarettes and smoking them; then he would rise, bow, and go away. He was the type of a poor Russian nobleman’s son, who had chosen the military career as the only one possible to him with his education, and who esteemed his position as an officer above everything else in the world—a simple-minded and lovable type, notwithstanding the comical appurtenances inseparable from it: the tobacco-pouch, dressing-gown, guitar, and little moustache-brush we are accustomed to associate with it. It was told of him in the regiment, that he bragged about being just but strict with his orderly, and that he used to say, “I punish seldom, but when I am compelled to do it, it’s no joke,” and that when his tipsy orderly robbed him outrageously and even began to insult him, he, the master, took him to the guardhouse and ordered everything to be prepared for a flogging, but was so upset at the sight of the preparations that he could only say, “There now, you see, I could—” and, becoming quite disconcerted, ran home in great confusion, and was henceforth afraid to look his man Chernov in the eyes. His comrades gave the simple-minded boy no rest, but teased him continually about this episode, and more than once I heard how he defended himself, and, blushing to the tips of his ears, assured them that it was not true, but just the contrary.
The third visitor, Captain Trosenko, was a thoroughgoing old Caucasian—that is, a man for whom the company he commanded had become his family; the fortress where the staff was, his home; and the soldiers’ singing his only pleasure in life. He was a man for whom everything unconnected with the Caucasus was contemptible and scarcely worthy of being considered probable, and everything connected with the Caucasus was divided into two halves: ours and not ours. The first he loved, the second he hated with all the power of his soul; but above all he was a man of steeled, calm courage, wonderfully kind in his behaviour to his comrades and subordinates, and desperately frank and even rude, to aides-de-camp and “Bonjourists,” for whom, for some reason, he had a great dislike. On entering the hut he nearly caved the roof in with his head, then suddenly sank down and sat on the ground.
“Well?” he said, and then suddenly remarking me, whom he did not know, he stopped and gazed at me with a dull, fixed look.
“Well, and what have you been conversing about?” asked the Major, taking out his watch and looking at it, though I am perfectly certain he had no need to.
“Why, I’ve been asked my reasons for serving here—”
“Of course. Nicholas Fedorovich wishes to distinguish himself here, and then to return home,” said the Major.
“Well, and you, Abram Ilyich,” said Bolhov, addressing Kirsanov, “tell me why you are serving in the Caucasus.”
“I serve because, in the first place, as you know, it is everyone’s duty to serve. … What?” he then added, though no one had spoken. “I had a letter from Russia yesterday, Nicholas Fedorovich,” he continued, evidently wishing to change the subject; “they write that … they ask such strange questions.”
“What questions?” asked Bolhov.
The Major began laughing.
“Very queer questions. … They ask, can jealousy exist where there is no love. … What?” he asked, turning round and glancing at us all.
“Dear me!” said Bolhov, with a smile.
“Yes, you know, it is nice in Russia,” continued the Major, just as if his sentences flowed naturally from one another. “When I was in Tambov in ’52, they received me everywhere as if I had been some emperor’s aide-de-camp. Will you believe it, that at a ball at the Governor’s, when I came in, you know … well, they received me very well. The General’s wife herself, you know, talked to me, and asked me about the Caucasus, and everybody was … so that I hardly knew. … They examined my gold sabre as if it were some curiosity; they asked for what I had received the sabre, for what the Ann, for what the Vladimir … so I just told them. … What? That’s what the Caucasus is good for, Nicholas Fedorovich!” he continued, without waiting for any reply:—“There they think very well of us Caucasians. You know a young man that’s a staff-officer and has an Ann and a Vladimir … that counts for a good deal in Russia. … What?”
“And you, no doubt, piled it on a bit, Abram Ilyich?” said Bolhov.
“He—he!” laughed the Major, stupidly. “You know one has to do that. And didn’t I feed well those two months!”
“And tell me, is it nice there in Russia?” said Trosenko, inquiring about Russia as though it were China or Japan.
“Yes, and the champagne we drank those two months, it was awful!”
“Eh, nonsense! You’ll have drunk nothing but lemonade. There now, I’d have burst to let them see how Caucasians drink. I’d have given them something to talk about. I’d have shown them how one drinks; eh, Bolhov?” said Trosenko.
“But you, Daddy, have been more than ten years in the Caucasus,” said Bolhov, “and you remember what Ermolov said? … And Abram Ilyich has been only six.”
“Ten indeed! … nearly sixteen. … Well, Bolhov, let us have some sage-vodka. It’s damp, b-r-r-r! … Eh?” said Trosenko, smiling, “Will you have a drink, Major?”
But the Major had been displeased by the old Captain’s first remarks to him, and plainly drew back and sought refuge in his own grandeur. He hummed something, and again looked at his watch.
“For my part, I shall never go there!” Trosenko continued without heeding the Major’s frowns. “I have lost the habit of speaking and walking in the Russian way. They’d ask, ‘What curious creature is this coming here? Asia, that’s what it is.’ Am I right, Nicholas Fedorovich? Besides, what have I to go to Russia for? What does it matter? I shall be shot here some day. They’ll ask, ‘Where’s Trosenko?’ ‘Shot!’ What will you do with the 8th Company then, eh?” he added, always addressing the Major.
“Send the officer on duty!” shouted the Major, without answering the Captain, though I again felt sure there was no need for him to give any orders.
“And you, young man, are glad, I suppose, to be drawing double pay?” said the Major, turning to the Adjutant of the battalion after some moments of silence.
“Yes, sir, very glad of course.”
“I think our pay now very high, Nicholas Fedorovich,” continued the Major; “a young man can live very decently, and even permit himself some small luxuries.”
“No, really, Abram Ilyich,” said the Adjutant bashfully. “Though it’s double it’s barely enough. You see, one must have a horse.”
“What are you telling me, young man? I have been an ensign myself and know. Believe me, one can live very well with care. But there! count it up,” added he, bending the little finger of his left hand.
“We always draw our salaries in advance; isn’t that account enough for you?” said Trosenko, emptying a glass of vodka.
“Well, yes, but what do you expect. … What?”
Just then a white head with a flat nose thrust itself into the opening of the hut, and a sharp voice said with a German accent—
“Are you here, Abram Ilyich? The officer on duty is looking for you.”
“Come in, Kraft!” said Bolhov.
A long figure in the uniform of the general staff crept in at the door, and began shaking hands all round with peculiar fervour.
“Ah, dear Captain, are you here too?” said he, turning to Trosenko.
In spite of the darkness the new visitor made his way to the Captain, and to the latter’s extreme surprise and dismay, as it seemed to me, kissed him on the lips.
“This is a German trying to be hail fellow well met,” thought I.