Why, he never lets a year go by without sending me money. And he’s a great help to my daughter Annushka, too. And all he has is his army pay! I shall always be so thankful to God for giving me such a son,’ she concluded with tears in her eyes.

‘Does he write often?’ I asked.

‘Rarely. Perhaps a few words once a year, when he sends me money, but not otherwise. “If you don’t hear from me,” he writes, “that means I’m alive and well. But should anything happen to me, God forbid, they’ll be sure to let you know!” ’

When I gave the captain his mother’s present (it was in my quarters) he asked me for some paper, carefully wrapped it and put it away. I told him a great deal about his mother’s life, but he said nothing. When I had finished, he retired to one corner of the room and took what appeared to be ages to fill his pipe.

‘Yes, she’s a fine old lady,’ he said from over there in a rather muffled voice. ‘Will God ever let me see her again?’

In those simple words there was much affection and sadness.

‘Why do you serve here?’ I asked.

‘One has to,’ he replied with conviction. ‘The double pay means a lot for poor devils like me.’

The captain lived frugally: he did not play cards, rarely went out drinking, and he smoked very cheap tobacco which, for some reason, he was too proud to call shag, giving it some obscure brand name instead. I had taken to the captain from the start: he had one of those simple, calm Russian faces that are easy and pleasant to look straight in the eye. After this conversation I felt deep respect for him.

2

Next morning at four o’clock the captain came for me. He wore an old threadbare coat without epaulettes, wide Caucasian trousers, a sheepskin cap which once had been white but which was now yellow and tattered; a rather inferior Asiatic sabre was strapped around his shoulder. His small white horse ambled along, its head hung low and its thin tail swinging. Although the good captain’s appearance had nothing particularly martial or handsome about it, it expressed such equanimity towards everything around that it could only inspire respect.

I did not keep him waiting, but immediately mounted my horse and together we rode out of the fortress gates.

The battalion was about five hundred yards ahead of us and resembled some dense swaying black mass. One could tell that it was the infantry only from the bayonets, which looked like a bunch of tightly packed needles, and from the snatches of songs, the beating of a drum and the delightful voice of the Sixth Company’s second tenor (I had often admired it back in the fortress) which occasionally reached us. The road ran along a deep and wide ravine by the side of a small stream in full spate. Flocks of wild pigeons circled over it, settling on its rocky banks or turning, swiftly wheeling and disappearing from sight. The sun was not yet visible, but the top of the right slope of the ravine was just beginning to brighten. Grey and whitish pebbles, yellow-green moss, dew-covered Christ’s Thorn bushes, dog-wood and dwarf elm could all be seen with extraordinary clarity in the limpid, golden light of dawn. But the other side of the ravine and the valley, which was shrouded in drifting, smoky layers of dense mist, were damp and gloomy and presented an elusive medley of colours — pale lilac, shades of black, dark green and white. Directly in front of us rose the dazzling white masses of snowy mountains, strikingly clear against the deep azure of the horizon, their shadows and outlines fantastic but graceful in every detail. Crickets, dragonflies and myriads of other insects awoke in the tall grass and filled the air with their clear incessant sounds: it was as if countless numbers of tiny bells were ringing in our ears. The air smelled of water, grass, mist — all the scents of a beautiful early summer’s morning. The captain struck a flint and lit his pipe. I found the smell of his cheap tobacco and tinder extremely pleasant.

We rode along the side of the road to catch up more quickly with the infantry. The captain seemed more pensive than usual, never took his Daghestan pipe from his mouth and at every step prodded his little horse with his heels. Swaying from side to side, the horse left barely perceptible, dark green tracks in the tall wet grass. A pheasant flew out from under its hoofs with that cry and whirr of wings that makes every huntsman involuntarily start, and then slowly rose into the sky. The captain didn’t take the slightest notice of it.

We had almost caught up with the infantry when we heard the thud of hoofs behind us and a very handsome young man in officer’s uniform and tall white sheepskin cap galloped past, nodding at the captain and flourishing his whip ...