At the end of August, along the rocky highway to Sevastopol, between
Duvanka and Bakhtchisaraï, through the thick, hot dust, at a foot-pace,
drove an officer's light cart, that peculiar _telyezhka_, not now to
be met with, which stands about half-way between a Jewish _britchka_,
a Russian travelling-carriage, and a basket-wagon. In the front of
the wagon, holding the reins, squatted the servant, clad in a nankeen
coat and an officer's cap, which had become quite limp; seated behind,
on bundles and packages covered with a military coat, was an infantry
officer, in a summer cloak.
As well as could be judged from his sitting position, the officer was
not tall in stature, but extremely thick, and that not so much from
shoulder to shoulder as from chest to back; he was broad and thick,
and his neck and the base of the head were excessively developed and
swollen. His waist, so called, a receding strip in the centre of the
body, did not exist in his case; but neither had he any belly; on
the contrary, he was rather thin than otherwise, particularly in the
face, which was overspread with an unhealthy yellowish sunburn. His
face would have been handsome had it not been for a certain bloated
appearance, and the soft, yet not elderly, heavy wrinkles that flowed
together and enlarged his features, imparting to the whole countenance
a general expression of coarseness and of lack of freshness. His eyes
were small, brown, extremely searching, even bold; his moustache was
very thick, but the ends were kept constantly short by his habit of
gnawing them; and his chin, and his cheek-bones in particular were
covered with a remarkably strong, thick, and black beard, of two days'
growth.
The officer had been wounded on the 10th of May, by a splinter, in the
head, on which he still wore a bandage, and, having now felt perfectly
well for the last week, he had come out of the Simferopol Hospital, to
rejoin his regiment, which was stationed somewhere in the direction
from which shots could be heard; but whether that was in Sevastopol
itself, on the northern defences, or at Inkermann, he had not so far
succeeded in ascertaining with much accuracy from any one.
Shots were still audible near at hand, especially at intervals, when
the hills did not interfere, or when borne on the wind with great
distinctness and frequency, and apparently near at hand. Then it seemed
as though some explosion shook the air, and caused an involuntary
shudder. Then, one after the other, followed less resounding reports in
quick succession, like a drum-beat, interrupted at times by a startling
roar. Then, everything mingled in a sort of reverberating crash,
resembling peals of thunder, when a thunder-storm is in full force, and
the rain has just begun to pour down in floods, every one said; and it
could be heard that the bombardment was progressing frightfully.
The officer kept urging on his servant, and seemed desirous of
arriving as speedily as possible. They were met by a long train of the
Russian-peasant type, which had carried provisions into Sevastopol, and
was now returning with sick and wounded soldiers in gray coats, sailors
in black paletots, volunteers in red fezes, and bearded militia-men.
The officer's light cart had to halt in the thick, immovable cloud of
dust raised by the carts, and the officer, blinking and frowning with
the dust that stuffed his eyes and ears, gazed at the faces of the sick
and wounded as they passed.
“Ah, there's a sick soldier from our company,” said the servant,
turning to his master, and pointing to the wagon which was just on a
line with them, full of wounded, at the moment.
On the cart, towards the front, a bearded Russian, in a lamb's-wool
cap, was seated sidewise, and, holding the stock of his whip under
his elbow, was tying on the lash. Behind him in the cart, about five
soldiers, in different positions, were shaking about. One, though pale
and thin, with his arm in a bandage, and his cloak thrown on over his
shirt, was sitting up bravely in the middle of the cart, and tried
to touch his cap on seeing the officer, but immediately afterwards
(recollecting, probably, that he was wounded) he pretended that he only
wanted to scratch his head. Another, beside him, was lying flat on the
bottom of the wagon; all that was visible was two hands, as they clung
to the rails of the wagon, and his knees uplifted limp as mops, as they
swayed about in various directions. A third, with a swollen face and a
bandaged head, on which was placed his soldier's cap, sat on one side,
with his legs dangling over the wheel, and, with his elbows resting on
his knees, seemed immersed in thought. It was to him that the passing
officer addressed himself.
“Dolzhnikoff!” he exclaimed.
“Here,” replied the soldier, opening his eyes, and pulling off his cap,
in such a thick and halting bass voice that it seemed as though twenty
soldiers had uttered an exclamation at one and the same time.
“When were you wounded, brother?”
The leaden and swimming eyes of the soldier grew animated; he evidently
recognized his officer.
“I wish Your Honor health!” he began again, in the same abrupt bass as
before.
“Where is the regiment stationed now?”
“It was stationed in Sevastopol, but they were to move on Wednesday,
Your Honor.”
“Where to?”
“I don't know; it must have been to the Sivernaya, Your Honor! To-day,
Your Honor,” he added, in a drawling voice, as he put on his cap,
“they have begun to fire clear across, mostly with bombs, that even go
as far as the bay; they are fighting horribly to-day, so that—”
It was impossible to hear what the soldier said further; but it was
evident, from the expression of his countenance and from his attitude,
that he was uttering discouraging remarks, with the touch of malice of
a man who is suffering.
The travelling officer, Lieutenant Kozeltzoff, was no common officer.
He was not one of those that live so and so and do thus and so because
others live and do thus; he did whatever he pleased, and others did the
same, and were convinced that it was well. He was rather richly endowed
by nature with small gifts: he sang well, played on the guitar, talked
very cleverly, and wrote very easily, particularly official documents,
in which he had practised his hand in his capacity of adjutant of the
battalion; but the most noticeable trait in his character was his
egotistical energy, which, although chiefly founded on this array of
petty talents, constituted in itself a sharp and striking trait. His
egotism was of the sort that is most frequently found developed in
masculine and especially in military circles, and which had become a
part of his life to such a degree that he understood no other choice
than to domineer or to humiliate himself; and his egotism was the
mainspring even of his private impulses; he liked to usurp the first
place over people with whom he put himself on a level.
“Well! it's absurd of me to listen to what a Moskva[I] chatters!”
muttered the lieutenant, experiencing a certain weight of apathy in
his heart, and a dimness of thought, which the sight of the transport
full of wounded and the words of the soldier, whose significance was
emphasized and confirmed by the sounds of the bombardment, had left
with him. “_That Moskva is ridiculous!_ Drive on, Nikolaeff! go ahead!
Are you asleep?” he added, rather fretfully, to the servant, as he
re-arranged the skirts of his coat.
[I] In many regiments the officers call a soldier, half in scorn, half
caressingly, _Moskva_ (Moscovite), or _prisyaga_ (an oath).
The reins were tightened, Nikolaeff clacked his lips, and the wagon
moved on at a trot.
“We will only halt a minute for food, and will proceed at once, this
very day,” said the officer.