The residence of the commander of the battery, which the sentinel had
pointed out to him, was a small, two-story house, with an entrance
on the court-yard. In one of the windows, which was pasted over with
paper, burned the feeble flame of a candle. A servant was seated on
the porch, smoking his pipe; he went in and announced Volodya to the
commander, and then led him in. In the room, between the two windows,
and beneath a shattered mirror, stood a table, heaped with official
documents, several chairs, and an iron bedstead, with a clean pallet,
and a small bed-rug by its side.
Near the door stood a handsome man, with a large moustache,—a sergeant,
in sabre and cloak, on the latter of which hung a cross and a Hungarian
medal. Back and forth in the middle of the room paced a short
staff-officer of forty, with swollen cheeks bound up, and dressed in a
thin old coat.
“I have the honor to report myself, Cornet Kozeltzoff, 2d, ordered to
the fifth light battery,” said Volodya, uttering the phrase which he
had learned by heart, as he entered the room.
The commander of the battery responded dryly to his greeting, and,
without offering his hand, invited him to be seated.
Volodya dropped timidly into a chair, beside the writing-table, and
began to twist in his fingers the scissors, which his hand happened
to light upon. The commander of the battery put his hands behind his
back, and, dropping his head, pursued his walk up and down the room, in
silence, only bestowing an occasional glance at the hands which were
twirling the scissors, with the aspect of a man who is trying to recall
something.
The battery commander was a rather stout man, with a large bald spot
on the crown of his head, a thick moustache, which drooped straight
down and concealed his mouth, and pleasant brown eyes. His hands were
handsome, clean, and plump; his feet small and well turned, and they
stepped out in a confident and rather dandified manner, proving that
the commander was not a timid man.
“Yes,” he said, coming to a halt in front of the sergeant; “a measure
must be added to the grain to-morrow, or our horses will be getting
thin. What do you think?”
“Of course, it is possible to do so, Your Excellency! Oats are very
cheap just now,” replied the sergeant, twitching his fingers, which
he held on the seams of his trousers, but which evidently liked to
assist in the conversation. “Our forage-master, Franchuk, sent me a
note yesterday, from the transports, Your Excellency, saying that we
should certainly be obliged to purchase oats; they say they are cheap.
Therefore, what are your orders?”
“To buy, of course. He has money, surely.” And the commander resumed
his tramp through the room. “And where are your things?” he suddenly
inquired of Volodya, as he paused in front of him.
Poor Volodya was so overwhelmed by the thought that he was a coward,
that he espied scorn for himself in every glance, in every word, as
though they had been addressed to a pitiable poltroon. It seemed to him
that the commander of the battery had already divined his secret, and
was making sport of him. He answered, with embarrassment, that his
effects were on the Grafskaya, and that his brother had promised to
send them to him on the morrow.
But the lieutenant-colonel was not listening to him, and, turning to
the sergeant, he inquired:—
“Where are we to put the ensign?”
“The ensign, sir?” said the sergeant, throwing Volodya into still
greater confusion by the fleeting glance which he cast upon him, and
which seemed to say, “What sort of an ensign is this?”—“He can be
quartered downstairs, with the staff-captain, Your Excellency,” he
continued, after a little reflection. “The captain is at the bastion
just now, and his cot is empty.”
“Will that not suit you, temporarily?” said the commander.—“I think you
must be tired, but we will lodge you better to-morrow.”
Volodya rose and bowed.
“Will you not have some tea?” said the commander, when he had already
reached the door. “The samovár can be brought in.”
Volodya saluted and left the room. The lieutenant-colonel's servant
conducted him downstairs, and led him into a bare, dirty chamber, in
which various sorts of rubbish were lying about, and where there was
an iron bedstead without either sheets or coverlet. A man in a red
shirt was fast asleep on the bed, covered over with a thick cloak.
Volodya took him for a soldier.
“Piotr Nikolaïtch!” said the servant, touching the sleeper on the
shoulder. “The ensign is to sleep here.... This is our yunker,” he
added, turning to the ensign.
“Ah, don't trouble him, please,” said Volodya; but the yunker, a tall,
stout, young man, with a handsome but very stupid face, rose from the
bed, threw on his cloak, and, evidently not having had a good sleep,
left the room.
“No matter; I'll lie down in the yard,” he growled out.