Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

longed to put matters right with the elder, who had no idea that he had given offence.

“You are not angry with me, Mísha?” he asked after a minute’s pause.

“Angry? What for?”

“Oh, nothing⁠ ⁠… only because of what passed⁠ ⁠… it’s nothing.”

“Not at all,” answered the elder, turning towards him and slapping him on the knee.

“Then forgive me if I have pained you, Mísha.” And the younger brother turned away to hide the tears that suddenly filled his eyes.

VIII

“Can this be Sevastopol already?” asked the younger brother when they reached the top of the hill.

Spread out before them they saw the Roadstead with the masts of the ships, the sea with the enemy’s fleet in the distance, the white shore batteries, the barracks, the aqueducts, the docks, and the buildings of the town, the white and purple clouds of smoke that, rising constantly from the yellow hills surrounding the town, floated in the blue sky, lit up by the rosy rays of the sun, which was reflected brilliantly in the sea, towards whose dark horizon it was already sinking.

Volódya looked without the slightest trepidation at the dreadful place that had so long been in his mind: he even gazed with concentrated attention at this really splendid and unique sight, feeling aesthetic pleasure and an heroic sense of satisfaction at the thought that in another half-hour he would be there; and he continued gazing until, on the North Side, they came to the commissariat of his brother’s regiment, where they had to ascertain the exact position of the regiment and of the battery.

The officer in charge of the commissariat lived near the so-called “new town” (a number of wooden sheds constructed by the sailors’ families) in a tent connected with a good-sized shed constructed of green oak branches that had not yet had time to dry completely.

The brothers found the officer seated at a dirty table on which stood a tumbler of cold tea, a tray with a vodka bottle, and bits of dry caviar and bread. He sat in a dirty yellowish shirt, counting, with the aid of a big abacus, an enormous pile of banknotes. But before speaking of the personality of this officer and his conversation, we must examine the interior of the shed more attentively, and see something of his way of living and his occupations. His new-built shed was as big, as strongly wattled, and as conveniently arranged with tables and seats made of turf, as though it were built for a general or the commander of a regiment. To keep the dry leaves from falling in, the top and sides were lined with three carpets, which, though hideous, were new, and must have cost money. On the iron bedstead which stood beneath the most striking carpet (depicting a lady on horseback), lay a bright red velvet-pile bedcover, a torn and dirty pillow, and a racoon fur-lined overcoat. On the table were a looking-glass in a silver frame, an exceedingly dirty silver-backed hairbrush, a broken horn comb full of greasy hair, a silver candlestick, a bottle of liqueur with an enormous red and gold label, a gold watch with a portrait of Peter I, two gold pens, a box of some kind of capsules, a crust of bread, and a scattered pack of old cards. Bottles, full and empty, were stowed away under the bed. This officer was in charge of the regimental commissariat and of the forage for the horses. With him lived his great friend, the commissioner employed on contracts. When the brothers entered, the latter was asleep in the tent, while the commissary officer was making up the regimental accounts for the month. The officer had a very handsome and military appearance: tall, with large moustaches and a portly figure. What was unpleasant about him was only a certain moistness and a puffiness about his face that almost hid his small grey eyes (as if he were filled with porter), and his extreme lack of cleanliness, from his thin greasy hair to his big bare feet slipped into some kind of ermine-lined slippers.

“What a heap of money!” said Kozeltsóf primus on entering the shed, as he fixed his eyes eagerly on the pile of banknotes. “Ah, if you’d lend me but half, Vasíly Miháylovitch!”

The commissary officer shrank back a little, recognised his visitor, and, gathering up the money, bowed without rising.

“Oh, if it were mine! It’s Government money, my dear fellow.⁠ ⁠… And who is that with you?” he said, putting the money into a cashbox that stood near him, and looking at Volódya.

“It’s my brother, straight from the training-college. We’ve come to learn from you where our regiment is stationed.”

“Take a seat, gentlemen. Won’t you have something to drink? A glass of porter, perhaps?” he said, and without taking any further notice of his visitors he rose and went out into the tent.

“I don’t mind if I do, Vasíly Miháylovitch.”

Volódya was struck by the grandeur of the commissary officer, his offhand manner, and the respect with which his brother addressed him.

“I expect this is one of their best officers, whom they all respect⁠—probably simple-minded, but hospitable and brave,” he thought as he sat down modestly and shyly on the sofa.

“Then where is our regiment stationed?” shouted the elder brother across to the tent.

“What?”

The question was repeated.

“Seifert was here this morning: he says the regiment has gone over to the Fifth Bastion.”

“Is that certain?”

“If I say so, of course it’s certain. However, the devil only knows if he told the truth! He’d not take much to tell a lie either. Well, will you have some porter?” said the commissary officer, still speaking from the tent.

“Well, yes, I think I will,” said Kozeltsóf.

“And you, Ósip Ignátyevitch, will you have some?” continued the voice from the tent, apparently addressing the sleeping contractor. “Wake up; it’s past four.”

“Why do you bother one? I’m not asleep,” answered a thin voice lazily.

“Well, get up, it’s dull without you,” and the commissary officer came out to his