Nevertheless, the hareskin coat appeared. The muzhik tried it on at once. Indeed, the coat, which I had already outgrown, was a bit tight on him. Nevertheless, he contrived to get into it, bursting it at the seams. Savelyich almost howled when he heard the threads rip. The vagabond was extremely pleased with my gift. He took me to the kibitka and said with a low bow: “Thank you, Your Honor! May the Lord reward you for your kindness. I’ll never forget your good turn.” He went his way, and I headed further on, paying no attention to Savelyich’s annoyance, and soon forgot about the previous day’s blizzard, my guide, and my hareskin coat.
On arriving in Orenburg, I went straight to the general. I saw a man, tall but already bent with age. His long hair was completely white. His old, faded uniform recalled the warrior from the time of Anna Ioannovna,10 and his speech strongly smacked of German pronunciation. I handed him father’s letter. Seeing his name, he gave me a quick glance.
“My Gott,” he said, “it dossn’t seem so long since Andrei Petrofich vas your age, and now see vat a fine young man he’s got for himzelf. Ach, time, time!”
He unsealed the letter and began to read it in a low voice, making his own observations:
“ ‘My dear sir, Andrei Karlovich, I hope that Your Excellency…’ Vat are dese ceremonies? Pah, he should be ashamed! Off course, discipline iss before efferyting, but iss diss the vay to write to an old kamrad?…‘Your Excellency hass not forgotten…’ Hm…‘and…when…de late field marshal Mün…campaign…and also…Karolinka…’ Aha,
“It means,” I replied, looking as innocent as I could, “to treat gently, not too strictly, allow greater freedom—keep in hedgehog mittens.”
“Hm, I see…‘and allow him no freedom’…no, ‘hedgehog mittens’ muss mean something else…‘Vit this…his passport’…Vere iss it? Ah, here it iss…‘report to the Semyonovsky’…Goot, goot: it vill all be done…‘Allow me, ignoring rank, to embrace you and…old comrade and friend’—ah! dere it iss…and so on and so forth…Well, my dear fellow,” he said, having read the letter and set my passport aside, “it will all be done: you’ll be transferred to the * * * regiment as an officer, and, so that you lose no time, you’ll go tomorrow to the Belogorsk fortress, where you will be under the command of Captain Mironov, a good and honorable man. You’ll be in real army service, and learn discipline. There’s nothing for you to do in Orenburg: dissipation is harmful for a young man. And today you are welcome to dine with me.”
“Worse and worse,” I thought to myself. “What use was it being a sergeant of the guards in my mother’s womb! Where did it get me? To the * * * regiment and a godforsaken fortress on the edge of the Kirghiz-Kaissak steppe!…”
I had dinner with Andrei Karlovich, the third man being his old adjutant. Strict German economy reigned at his table, and I think the fear of occasionally seeing an extra guest at his bachelor meals was partly the cause of my hasty removal to the garrison. The next day I took leave of the general and headed for my destination.
CHAPTER THREE The Fortress
So the fortress is our home,
Bread and water we live by;
And when our fierce foes do come
To snatch a piece of our good pie,
We prepare a merry feast
Of grapeshot for our welcome guests.
SOLDIERS’ SONG
Old-fashioned folk, my dear sir.
The Belogorsk fortress was twenty-five miles from Orenburg. The road went along the steep bank of the Yaik. The river was not yet frozen over, and its leaden waves showed a dreary black between the monotonous banks covered with white snow. Beyond them stretched the Kirghiz steppe. I sank into reflections, for the most part sad. Garrison life held little attraction for me. I tried to imagine Captain Mironov, my future superior, and pictured him as a stern, cross old man, who knew nothing except his service, and ready to put me under arrest on bread and water for any trifle. Meanwhile it was getting dark. We were driving rather quickly.
“Is it far to the fortress?” I asked the driver.
“Not far,” he replied. “There, you can already see it.”
I looked all around, expecting to see formidable bastions, towers, and ramparts; but I saw nothing except a little village surrounded by a stockade. On one side stood three or four haystacks, half covered with snow; on the other, a lopsided windmill with its bast sails hanging lazily.
“Where is the fortress?” I asked in surprise.
