In the large room of the barracks there was a great number of men;
naval, artillery, and infantry officers. Some were sleeping, others
were conversing, seated on the shot-chests and gun-carriages of the
cannons of the fortifications; others still, who formed a very numerous
and noisy group behind the arch, were seated upon two felt rugs, which
had been spread on the floor, and were drinking porter and playing
cards.
“Ah! Kozeltzoff, Kozeltzoff! Capital! it's a good thing that he has
come! He's a brave fellow!... How's your wound?” rang out from various
quarters. Here also it was evident that they loved him and were
rejoiced at his coming.
After shaking hands with his friends, Kozeltzoff joined the noisy
group of officers engaged in playing cards. There were some of his
acquaintances among them. A slender, handsome, dark-complexioned man,
with a long, sharp nose and a huge moustache, which began on his
cheeks, was dealing the cards with his thin, white, taper fingers,
on one of which there was a heavy gold seal ring. He was dealing
straight on, and carelessly, being evidently excited by something,—and
merely desirous of making a show of heedlessness. On his right, and
beside him, lay a gray-haired major, supporting himself on his elbow,
and playing for half a ruble with affected coolness, and settling up
immediately. On his left squatted an officer with a red, perspiring
face, who was laughing and jesting in a constrained way. When his
cards won, he moved one hand about incessantly in his empty trousers
pocket. He was playing high, and evidently no longer for ready money,
which displeased the handsome, dark-complexioned man. A thin and pallid
officer with a bald head, and a huge nose and mouth, was walking about
the room, holding a large package of bank-notes in his hand, staking
ready money on the bank, and winning.
Kozeltzoff took a drink of vodka, and sat down by the players.
“Take a hand, Mikhaïl Semyónitch!” said the dealer to him; “you have
brought lots of money, I suppose.”
“Where should I get any money! On the contrary, I got rid of the last I
had in town.”
“The idea! Some one certainly must have fleeced you in Simpferopol.”
“I really have but very little,” said Kozeltzoff, but he was evidently
desirous that they should not believe him; then he unbuttoned his coat,
and took the old cards in his hand.
“I don't care if I do try; there's no knowing what the Evil One will
do! queer things do come about at times. But I must have a drink, to
get up my courage.”
And within a very short space of time he had drunk another glass of
vodka and several of porter, and had lost his last three rubles.
A hundred and fifty rubles were written down against the little,
perspiring officer.
“No, he will not bring them,” said he, carelessly, drawing a fresh card.
“Try to send it,” said the dealer to him, pausing a moment in his
occupation of laying out the cards, and glancing at him.
“Permit me to send it to-morrow,” repeated the perspiring officer,
rising, and moving his hand about vigorously in his empty pocket.
“Hm!” growled the dealer, and, throwing the cards angrily to the right
and left, he completed the deal. “But this won't do,” said he, when he
had dealt the cards. “I'm going to stop. It won't do, Zakhár Ivánitch,”
he added, “we have been playing for ready money and not on credit.”
“What, do you doubt me? That's strange, truly!”
“From whom is one to get anything?” muttered the major, who had won
about eight rubles. “I have lost over twenty rubles, but when I have
won—I get nothing.”
“How am I to pay,” said the dealer, “when there is no money on the
table?”
“I won't listen to you!” shouted the major, jumping up, “I am playing
with you, but not with him.”
All at once the perspiring officer flew into a rage.
“I tell you that I will pay to-morrow; how dare you say such
impertinent things to me?”
“I shall say what I please! This is not the way to do—that's the
truth!” shouted the major.
“That will do, Feódor Feodoritch!” all chimed in, holding back the
major.
But let us draw a veil over this scene. To-morrow, to-day, it may be,
each one of these men will go cheerfully and proudly to meet his death,
and he will die with firmness and composure; but the one consolation of
life in these conditions, which terrify even the coldest imagination in
the absence of all that is human, and the hopelessness of any escape
from them, the one consolation is forgetfulness, the annihilation
of consciousness. At the bottom of the soul of each lies that noble
spark, which makes of him a hero; but this spark wearies of burning
clearly—when the fateful moment comes it flashes up into a flame, and
illuminates great deeds.