“Is this Sevastopol already?” asked the younger brother, as they
ascended the hill.
And before them appeared the bay, with its masts of ships, its
shipping, and the sea, with the hostile fleet, in the distance; the
white batteries on the shore, the barracks, the aqueducts, the docks
and the buildings of the town, and the white and lilac clouds of smoke
rising incessantly over the yellow hills, which surrounded the town and
stood out against the blue sky, in the rosy rays of the sun, which was
reflected by the waves, and sinking towards the horizon of the shadowy
sea.
Volodya, without a shudder, gazed upon this terrible place of which
he had thought so much; on the contrary, he did so with an æsthetic
enjoyment, and a heroic sense of self-satisfaction at the idea that
here he was—he would be there in another half-hour, that he would
behold that really charmingly original spectacle—and he stared with
concentrated attention from that moment until they arrived at the north
fortification, at the baggage-train of his brother's regiment, where
they were to ascertain with certainty the situations of the regiment
and the battery.
The officer in charge of the train lived near the so-called new town
(huts built of boards by the sailors' families), in a tent, connecting
with a tolerably large shed, constructed out of green oak-boughs, that
were not yet entirely withered.
The brothers found the officer seated before a greasy table, upon which
stood a glass of cold tea, a tray with vodka, crumbs of dry sturgeon
roe, and bread, clad only in a shirt of a dirty yellow hue, and engaged
in counting a huge pile of bank-bills on a large abacus.
But before describing the personality of the officer, and his
conversation, it is indispensable that we should inspect with more
attention the interior of his shed, and become a little acquainted, at
least, with his mode of life and his occupations. The new shed, like
those built for generals and regimental commanders, was large, closely
wattled, and comfortably arranged, with little tables and benches, made
of turf. The sides and roof were hung with three rugs, to keep the
leaves from showering down, and, though extremely ugly, they were new,
and certainly costly.
Upon the iron bed, which stood beneath the principal rug, with a young
amazon depicted on it, lay a plush coverlet, of a brilliant crimson,
a torn and dirty pillow, and a raccoon cloak. On the table stood a
mirror, in a silver frame, a silver brush, frightfully dirty, a broken
horn comb, full of greasy hair, a silver candlestick, a bottle of
liqueur, with a huge gold and red label, a gold watch, with a portrait
of Peter I., two gold pens, a small box, containing pills of some sort,
a crust of bread, and some old, castaway cards, and there were bottles,
both full and empty, under the bed.
This officer had charge of the commissariat of the regiment and the
fodder of the horses. With him lived his great friend, the commissioner
who had charge of the operations.
At the moment when the brothers entered, the latter was asleep in
the booth, and the commissary officer was making up his accounts of
the government money, in anticipation of the end of the month. The
commissary officer had a very comely and warlike exterior. His stature
was tall, his moustache huge, and he possessed a respectable amount
of plumpness. The only disagreeable points about him were a certain
perspiration and puffiness of the whole face, which almost concealed
his small gray eyes (as though he was filled up with porter), and an
excessive lack of cleanliness, from his thin, greasy hair to his big,
bare feet, thrust into some sort of ermine slippers.
“Money, money!” said Kozeltzoff number one, entering the shed, and
fixing his eyes, with involuntary greed, upon the pile of bank-notes.
“You might lend me half of that, Vasíly Mikhaïlitch!”
The commissary officer cringed at the sight of his visitors, and,
sweeping up his money, he bowed to them without rising.
“Oh, if it only belonged to me! It's government money, my dear fellow.
And who is this you have with you?” said he, thrusting the money into a
coffer which stood beside him, and staring at Volodya.
“This is my brother, who has just come from the military academy. We
have both come to learn from you where our regiment is stationed.”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said the officer, rising, and going into the
shed, without paying any heed to his guests. “Won't you have something
to drink? Some porter, for instance?” said he.
“Don't put yourself out, Vasíly Mikhaïlitch.”
Volodya was impressed by the size of the commissary officer, by his
carelessness of manner, and by the respect with which his brother
addressed him.
“It must be that this is one of their very fine officers, whom every
one respects. Really, he is simple, but hospitable and brave,” he
thought, seating himself in a timid and modest manner on the sofa.
“Where is our regiment stationed, then?” called out his elder brother
into the board hut.
“What?”
He repeated his query.
“Zeifer has been here to-day. He told me that they had removed to the
fifth bastion.”
“Is that true?”
“If I say so, it must be true; but the deuce only knows anyway! He
would think nothing of telling a lie. Won't you have some porter?” said
the commissary officer, still from the tent.
“I will if you please,” said Kozeltzoff.
“And will you have a drink, Osip Ignatievitch?” went on the voice in
the tent, apparently addressing the sleeping commissioner. “You have
slept enough; it's five o'clock.”
“Why do you worry me? I am not asleep,” answered a shrill, languid
little voice.
“Come, get up! we find it stupid without you.”
And the commissary officer came out to his guests.
“Fetch some Simferopol porter!” he shouted.
A servant entered the booth, with a haughty expression of countenance,
as it seemed to Volodya, and, having jostled Volodya, he drew forth the
porter from beneath the bench.
The bottle of porter was soon emptied, and the conversation had
proceeded in the same style for rather a long time when the flap of
the tent flew open and out stepped a short, fresh-colored man, in a
blue dressing-gown with tassels, in a cap with a red rim and a cockade.
At the moment of his appearance, he was smoothing his small black
moustache, and, with his gaze fixed on the rugs, he replied to the
greetings of the officer with a barely perceptible movement of the
shoulders.
“I will drink a small glassful too!” said he, seating himself by the
table. “What is this, have you come from Petersburg, young man?” he
said, turning courteously to Volodya.
“Yes, sir, I am on my way to Sevastopol.”
“Did you make the application yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What queer tastes you have, gentlemen! I do not understand it!”
continued the commissioner. “It strikes me that I should be ready just
now to travel on foot to Petersburg, if I could get away. By Heavens, I
am tired of this cursed life!”
“What is there about it that does not suit you?” said the elder
Kozeltzoff, turning to him. “You're the very last person to complain of
life here!”
The commissioner cast a look upon him, and then turned away.
“This danger, these privations, it is impossible to get anything
here,” he continued, addressing Volodya. “And why you should take
such a freak, gentlemen, I really cannot understand. If there were any
advantages to be derived from it, but there is nothing of the sort. It
would be a nice thing, now, wouldn't it, if you, at your age, were to
be left a cripple for life!”
“Some need the money, and some serve for honor's sake!” said the elder
Kozeltzoff, in a tone of vexation, joining the discussion once more.
“What's the good of honor, when there's nothing to eat!” said the
commissioner with a scornful laugh, turning to the commissary, who also
laughed at this. “Give us something from ‘Lucia’; we will listen,” he
said, pointing to the music-box. “I love it.”
“Well, is that Vasíly Mikhaïlitch a fine man?” Volodya asked his
brother when they emerged, at dusk, from the booth, and pursued their
way to Sevastopol.
“Not at all; but such a niggard that it is a perfect terror! And I
can't bear the sight of that commissioner, and I shall give him a
thrashing one of these days.”