SEVASTOPOL IN MAY, 1855.
I.
Six months have already passed since the first cannon-ball whistledfrom the bastions of Sevastopol, and ploughed the earth in the worksof the enemy, and since that day thousands of bombs, cannon-balls, andrifle-balls have been flying incessantly from the bastions into thetrenches and from the trenches into the bastions, and the angel ofdeath has never ceased to hover over them.
Thousands of men have been disappointed in satisfying their ambition;thousands have succeeded in satisfying theirs, in becoming swollenwith pride; thousands repose in the embrace of death. How many redcoffins and canvas canopies there have been! And still the same soundsare echoed from the bastions, and still on clear evenings the Frenchpeer from their camp, with involuntary tremor, at the yellow, furrowedbastions of Sevastopol, at the black forms of our sailors moving aboutupon them, and count the embrasures and the iron cannon which projectangrily from them; the under officer still gazes through his telescope,from the heights of the telegraph station, at the dark figures of theFrench at their batteries, at their tents, at the columns moving overthe green hill, and at the puffs of smoke which issue forth from thetrenches,--and a crowd of men, formed of divers races, still streams inthrongs from various quarters, with the same ardor as ever, and withdesires differing even more greatly than their races, towards thisfateful spot. And the question, unsolved by the diplomats, has stillnot been solved by powder and blood.
II.
On the boulevard of the besieged city of Sevastopol, not far from thepavilion, the regimental band was playing, and throngs of militarymen and of women moved gayly through the streets. The brilliant sunof spring had risen in the morning over the works of the English, hadpassed over the bastions, then over the city, over the Nikolaevskybarracks, and, illuminating all with equal cheer, had now sunk intothe blue and distant sea, which was lighted with a silvery gleam as itheaved in peace.
A tall, rather bent infantry officer, who was drawing upon his hand aglove which was presentable, if not entirely white, came out of one ofthe small naval huts, built on the left side of the Morskaya[C] street,and, staring thoughtfully at the ground, took his way up the slope tothe boulevard.
[C] Sea.
The expression of this officer's homely countenance did not indicateany great mental capacity, but rather simplicity, judgment, honor, anda tendency to solid worth. He was badly built, not graceful, and heseemed to be constrained in his movements. He was dressed in a littleworn cap, a cloak of a rather peculiar shade of lilac, from beneathwhose edge the gold of a watch-chain was visible; in trousers withstraps, and brilliantly polished calfskin boots. He must have beeneither a German--but his features clearly indicate his purely Russiandescent--or an adjutant, or a regimental quartermaster, only in thatcase he would have had spurs, or an officer who had exchanged from thecavalry for the period of the campaign, or possibly from the Guards. Hewas, in fact, an officer who had exchanged from the cavalry, and as heascended the boulevard, at the present moment, he was meditating upon aletter which he had just received from a former comrade, now a retiredland-owner in the Government of T., and his wife, pale, blue-eyedNatasha, his great friend. He recalled one passage of the letter, inwhich his comrade said:--
"When our _Invalid_[D] arrives, Pupka (this was the name by which theretired uhlan called his wife) rushes headlong into the vestibule,seizes the paper, and runs with it to the seat in the arbor, _inthe drawing-room_ (in which, if you remember, you and I passed suchdelightful winter evenings when the regiment was stationed in ourtown), and reads your heroic deeds with such ardor as it is impossiblefor you to imagine. She often speaks of you. 'There is Mikhailoff,' shesays, 'he's such a _love of a man_. I am ready to kiss him when I seehim. He fights on the bastions, and he will surely receive the Cross ofSt. George, and he will be talked about in the newspapers ...' and soon, and so on ... so that I am really beginning to be jealous of you."
[D] Military Gazette.
In another place he writes: "The papers reach us frightfully late,and, although there is plenty of news conveyed by word of mouth, notall of it can be trusted. For instance, the _young ladies with themusic_, acquaintances of yours, were saying yesterday that Napoleonwas already captured by our Cossacks, and that he had been sent toPetersburg; but you will comprehend how much I believe of this.Moreover, a traveller from Petersburg told us (he has been sent onspecial business by the minister, is a very agreeable person, and, nowthat there is no one in town, he is more of a _resource_ to us thanyou can well imagine ...) well, he declares it to be a fact that ourtroops have taken Eupatoria, _so that the French have no communicationwhatever with Balaklava_, and that in this engagement two hundred ofours were killed, but that the French lost fifteen thousand. My wifewas in such raptures over this that she _caroused_ all night, and shedeclares that her instinct tells her that you certainly took part inthat affair, and that you distinguished yourself."
In spite of these words, and of the expressions which I have purposelyput in italics, and the whole tone of the letter, Staff-CaptainMikhailoff recalled, with inexpressibly sad delight, his pale friendin the provinces, and how she had sat with him in the arbor in theevening, and talked about sentiment, and he thought of his goodcomrade, the uhlan, and of how the latter had grown angry and had lostthe game when they had played cards for kopek stakes in his study, andhow the wife had laughed at them ... he recalled the friendship ofthese two people for himself (perhaps it seemed to him to lie chieflyon the side of his pale feminine friend); all these faces with theirsurroundings flitted before his mind's eye, in a wonderfully sweet,cheerfully rosy light, and, smiling at his reminiscences, he placed hishand on the pocket which contained the letter so dear to him.
From reminiscences Captain Mikhailoff involuntarily proceeded to dreamsand hopes. "And what will be the joy and amazement of Natasha," hethought, as he paced along the narrow lane, "... when she suddenlyreads in the _Invalid_ a description of how I was the first to climbupon the cannon, and that I have received the George! I shall certainlybe promoted to a full captaincy, by virtue of seniority. Then it isquite possible that I may get the grade of major in the line, thisvery year, because many of our brothers have already been killed, andmany more will be in this campaign. And after that there will be moreaffairs on hand, and a regiment will be entrusted to me, since I aman experienced man ... lieutenant-colonel ... the Order of St. Annaon my neck ... colonel!..." and he was already a general, granting aninterview to Natasha, the widow of his comrade, who, according to hisdreams, would have died by that time, when the sounds of the musicon the boulevard penetrated more distinctly to his ears, the crowdsof people caught his eye, and he found himself on the boulevard, astaff-captain of infantry as before.
III.
He went, first of all, to the pavilion, near which were standing themusicians, for whom other soldiers of the same regiment were holdingthe notes, in the absence of stands, and about whom a ring of cadets,nurses, and children had formed, intent rather on seeing than onhearing. Around the pavilion stood, sat, or walked sailors, adjutants,and officers in white gloves. Along the grand avenue of the boulevardpaced officers of every sort, and women of every description, rarely inbonnets, mostly with kerchiefs on their heads (some had neither bonnetsnor kerchiefs), but no one was old, and it was worthy of note that allwere gay young creatures. Beyond, in the shady and fragrant alleys ofwhite acacia, isolated groups walked and sat.
No one was especially delighted to encounter Captain Mikhailoff onthe boulevard, with the exception, possibly, of the captain of hisregiment, Obzhogoff, and Captain Suslikoff, who pressed his handwarmly; but the former was dressed in camel's-hair trousers, nogloves, a threadbare coat, and his face was very red and covered withperspiration, and the second shouted so loudly and incoherently that itwas mortifying to walk with them, particularly in the presence of theofficers in white gloves (with one of whom, an adjutant, Staff-CaptainMikhailoff exchanged bows; and he might have bowed to anotherstaff-officer, since he had met him twice at
the house of a mutualacquaintance). Besides, what pleasure was it to him to promenade withthese two gentlemen, Obzhogoff and Suslikoff, when he had met them andshaken hands with them six times that day already? It was not for thisthat he had come.
He wanted to approach the adjutant with whom he had exchanged bows, andto enter into conversation with these officers, not for the sake ofletting Captains Obzhogoff and Suslikoff and Lieutenant Pashtetzky seehim talking with them, but simply because they were agreeable people,and, what was more, they knew the news, and would have told it.
But why is Captain Mikhailoff afraid, and why cannot he make up hismind to approach them? "What if they should, all at once, refuseto recognize me," he thinks, "or, having bowed to me, what if theycontinue their conversation among themselves, as though I did notexist, or walk away from me entirely, and leave me standing therealone among the _aristocrats_." The word aristocrats (in the sense ofa
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