Why run risks?’

‘Well, please allow me to ignore your advice. I’ve been waiting here a whole month just for the chance of seeing some action and you want me to miss it!’

‘You must do as you think fit, but in my opinion you should stay behind. You could do a spot of hunting while you’re waiting for us, while we would go and do what we have to. That would be splendid for you!’

He spoke with such conviction that for a moment I really did think it would be splendid. But then I bluntly told him that nothing would induce me to stay behind.

‘But what do you expect to see there?’ the captain went on, still trying to dissuade me. ‘If you really want to know what battles are like, read Mikhaylovsky-Danilevsky’s Description of War1 — it’s a fine book and you’ll find all you want there, where each corps was positioned, how battles are fought.’

‘But it’s just that kind of thing that doesn’t interest me!’ I replied.

‘What does interest you, then? Want to see how people are killed? In 1832 there was a civilian here, like you ... I think he was a Spaniard. He accompanied us on two expeditions and wore a kind of blue cloak ... well, the poor fellow got killed. But that’s nothing new here, my friend.’

However humiliated I felt at the captain’s misinterpretation of my motives I did not start arguing with him.

‘Was he a brave man?’ I asked.

‘God knows! He was always riding out in front and where the fighting was, there he’d be!’

‘So he must have been brave,’ I said.

‘No. Poking your nose in where you’re not wanted isn’t what I’d call brave.’

‘Then what would you call brave?’

‘Brave? Brave?’ the captain repeated with the air of someone asking the question for the very first time. ‘The man who behaves as he ought to is brave,’ he replied after some thought.

I remembered that Plato had defined bravery as the knowledge of what should and what should not be feared and, despite the looseness and vagueness of the captain’s definition, I felt that in their basic ideas the two definitions were not so different as they might appear and that the captain’s was even more accurate than the Greek philosopher’s since, had he been able to express himself as well as Plato, he would most probably have said that the brave man is the one who fears only what ought to be feared, and not what should not be feared.

I wanted to explain my idea to the captain. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that in every danger there is a choice, and the choice that springs from a sense of duty, for example, is courage, while a choice made under the influence of base feelings is cowardice. Therefore, the man who risks his life from vanity, curiosity or greed cannot be called brave. Conversely, the man who avoids danger from an honest sense of responsibility to his family, or simply out of conviction, cannot be called a coward.’

The captain looked at me with rather a strange expression as I spoke. ‘Well, I’m not much good at arguing about such things,’ he said, filling his pipe, ‘but there’s a cadet here who’s fond of philosophizing. Go and have a chat with him. He writes poetry too.’

It was only when I was in the Caucasus that I got to know the captain, but I had heard about him before I left Russia. His mother, Marya, has a small estate less than two miles from mine. Before I left for the Caucasus I visited her. The old lady was absolutely delighted that I would be seeing her Pashenka (her pet name for the elderly, grey-haired captain) and that, like a ‘talking letter’, I could tell him all about her and deliver a small parcel. After treating me to some excellent pie and smoked duck, she went to her bedroom and returned with a rather large black leather pouch containing an amulet with a black silk ribbon attached to it.

‘This is the icon of our Lady of the Burning Bush,’ she said, crossing herself and kissing the icon as she handed it to me. ‘Please give it to him. You see, when he left for the Caucasus I said prayers for him and vowed if he remained alive and unharmed I would have this icon of the Mother of God made for him. For eighteen years Our Lady and the saints have been merciful to him: not once has he been injured - and when I think of the battles he’s taken part in! What Mikhailo, who was with him, told me was enough to make one’s hair stand on end! You understand - all I know about him is only through others. The dear boy never writes back about his campaigns for fear of frightening me.’

(Later in the Caucasus I found out — not through the captain, however — that he had been severely wounded four times but, needless to say, had not written one word to his mother either about wounds or campaigns.)

‘So, let him wear this holy image now,’ she continued. ‘My blessing goes with it. May the Holy Mother of God protect him! Especially in battles — that’s when he must never forget to wear it. Please tell him, dear sir, that those are his mother’s wishes.’

I promised to do exactly as she asked.

‘I know you’ll like my Pashenka,’ the old lady went on. ‘He’s a wonderful man.