The elder Kozeltzoff, meeting on the street a soldier belonging to his
regiment, betook himself at once, in company with the man, to the fifth
bastion.
“Keep under the wall, Your Honor,” said the soldier.
“What for?”
“It's dangerous, Your Honor; there's one passing over,” said the
soldier, listening to the sound of a screaming cannon-ball, which
struck the dry road, on the other side of the street.
Kozeltzoff, paying no heed to the soldier, walked bravely along the
middle of the street.
These were the same streets, the same fires, even more frequent now,
the sounds, the groans, the encounters with the wounded, and the same
batteries, breastworks, and trenches, which had been there in the
spring, when he was last in Sevastopol; but, for some reason, all this
was now more melancholy, and, at the same time, more energetic, the
apertures in the houses were larger, there were no longer any lights in
the windows, with the exception of the Kushtchin house (the hospital),
not a woman was to be met with, the earlier tone of custom and freedom
from care no longer rested over all, but, instead, a certain impress of
heavy expectation, of weariness and earnestness.
But here is the last trench already, and here is the voice of a soldier
of the P—— regiment, who has recognized the former commander of his
company, and here stands the third battalion in the gloom, clinging
close to the wall, and lighted up now and then, for a moment, by the
discharges, and a sound of subdued conversation, and the rattling of
guns.
“Where is the commander of the regiment?” inquired Kozeltzoff.
“In the bomb-proofs with the sailors, Your Honor,” replied the soldier,
ready to be of service. “I will show you the way, if you like.”
From trench to trench the soldier led Kozeltzoff, to the small ditch in
the trench. In the ditch sat a sailor, smoking his pipe; behind him a
door was visible, through whose cracks shone a light.
“Can I enter?”
“I will announce you at once,” and the sailor went in through the door.
Two voices became audible on the other side of the door.
“If Prussia continues to observe neutrality,” said one voice, “then
Austria also....”
“What difference does Austria make,” said the second, “when the Slavic
lands ... well, ask him to come in.”
Kozeltzoff had never been in this casemate. He was struck by its
elegance. The floor was of polished wood, screens shielded the door.
Two bedsteads stood against the wall, in one corner stood a large
ikon of the mother of God, in a gilt frame, and before her burned a
rose-colored lamp.
On one of the beds, a naval officer, fully dressed, was sleeping. On
the other, by a table upon which stood two bottles of wine, partly
empty, sat the men who were talking—the new regimental commander and
his adjutant.
Although Kozeltzoff was far from being a coward, and was certainly
not guilty of any wrongdoing so far as his superior officers were
concerned, nor towards the regimental commander, yet he felt timid
before the colonel, who had been his comrade not long before, so
proudly did this colonel rise and listen to him.
“It is strange,” thought Kozeltzoff, as he surveyed his commander, “it
is only seven weeks since he took the regiment, and how visible already
is his power as regimental commander, in everything about him—in his
dress, his bearing, his look. Is it so very long,” thought he, “since
this Batrishtcheff used to carouse with us, and he wore a cheap cotton
shirt, and ate by himself, never inviting any one to his quarters, his
eternal meat-balls and curd-patties? But now! and that expression of
cold pride in his eyes, which says to you, ‘Though I am your comrade,
because I am a regimental commander of the new school, yet, believe me,
I am well aware that you would give half your life merely for the sake
of being in my place!’”
“You have been a long time in recovering,” said the colonel to
Kozeltzoff, coldly, with a stare.
“I was ill, colonel! The wound has not closed well even now.”
“Then there was no use in your coming,” said the colonel, casting
an incredulous glance at the captain's stout figure. “You are,
nevertheless, in a condition to fulfil your duty?”
“Certainly I am, sir.”
“Well I'm very glad of that, sir. You will take the ninth company from
Ensign Zaitzoff—the one you had before; you will receive your orders
immediately.”
“I obey, sir.”
“Take care to send me the regimental adjutant when you arrive,” said
the regimental commander, giving him to understand, by a slight nod,
that his audience was at an end.
On emerging from the casemate, Kozeltzoff muttered something several
times, and shrugged his shoulders, as though pained, embarrassed,
or vexed at something, and vexed, not at the regimental commander
(there was no cause for that), but at himself, and he appeared to be
dissatisfied with himself and with everything about him.