The commander of the battery lived in a little two-story house. It was
entered through a court-yard. In one of the windows, in which a pane was
missing and was replaced by a sheet of paper, shone the feeble light of
a candle. The servant, seated in the door-way, was smoking his pipe.
Having announced Volodia to his master, he showed him into his room.
There, between two windows, beside a broken mirror, was seen a table
loaded with official papers, several chairs, an iron bed with clean
linen and a rug before it. Near the door stood the sergeant-major, a
fine man, with a splendid pair of mustaches, his sword in its belt. On
his coat sparkled a cross and the medal of the Hungary campaign. The
staff-officer, small in stature, with a swollen and bandaged cheek,
walked up and down, dressed in a frock-coat of fine cloth which bore
marks of long wear. He was decidedly corpulent, and appeared about forty
years old. A bald spot was clearly marked on the top of his head; his
thick mustache, hanging straight down, hid his mouth; his brown eyes had
an agreeable expression; his hands were fine, white, a little fat; his
feet, very much turned out, were put down with a certain assurance and a
certain affectation which proved that bashfulness was not the weak side
of the commander.
“I have the honor to present myself. I am attached to the Fifth Light
Battery--Koseltzoff, the second-ensign,” said Volodia, who, entering the
room, recited in one breath this lesson learned by heart.
The commander of the battery replied by a somewhat dry salute, and
without offering him his hand begged him to be seated. Volodia then sat
down timidly near the writing-table, and in his distraction getting hold
of a pair of scissors, began to play with them mechanically. With hands
behind his back and with bowed head, the commander of the battery
continued his promenade in silence, casting his eyes from time to time
on the fingers which continued to juggle with the scissors.
“Yes,” he said, stopping at last in front of the sergeant-major, “from
to-morrow on we must give another measure of oats to the caisson horses;
they are thin. What do you think of it?”
“Why not? It can be done, your High Excellency; oats are now cheaper,”
replied the sergeant-major, his arms stuck to the side of his body and
his fingers stirring--an habitual movement with which he usually
accompanied his conversation.
“Then there is the forage-master, Frantzone, who wrote me a line
yesterday, your High Excellency. He said we must buy axle-trees without
fail; they are cheap. What are your orders?”
“Well, they must be bought; there is money,” answered the commander,
continuing to walk. “Where are your traps?” he suddenly said, pausing
before Volodia.
Poor Volodia, pursued by the thought that he was a coward, saw in each
look, in each word, the scorn he must inspire; and it seemed to him that
his chief had already discovered his sad secret, and that he was jeering
at him. Then he replied in confusion that his things were at Grafskaia,
and that his brother would send them to him the following day.
“Where shall we put up the ensign?” the lieutenant-colonel asked the
sergeant-major, without listening to the young man’s answer.
“The ensign?” repeated the sergeant-major. A rapid glance thrown on
Volodia, and which seemed to say, “What sort of an ensign is that?”
finished the disconcerting of the latter. “Down there, your Excellency,
with the second-captain. Since the captain is in the bastion his bed is
empty!”
“Will that do for you while you are waiting?” asked the commander of the
battery. “You must be tired, I think. To-morrow it can be more
conveniently arranged for you.”
Volodia arose and saluted.
“Will you have some tea?” added his superior officer. “The samovar can
be heated.”
Volodia, who had already reached the door, turned around, saluted again,
and went out.
The lieutenant-colonel’s servant conducted him down-stairs, and showed
him into a bare and dirty room where different broken things were thrown
aside as rubbish, and in which, in a corner, a man in a red shirt, whom
Volodia took for a soldier, was sleeping on an iron bed without sheets
or coverlid, wrapped in his overcoat.
“Peter Nikolaïevitch”--and the servant touched the sleeper’s
shoulder--“get up; the ensign is going to sleep here. It’s Vlang, our
yunker,” he added, turning to Volodia.
“Oh, don’t disturb yourself, I beg,” cried the latter, seeing the
yunker, a tall and robust young man, with a fine face, but one entirely
devoid of intelligence, rise, throw his overcoat over his shoulders, and
drowsily go away, murmuring, “That’s nothing; I will go and sleep in the
yard.”