‘You took part, I see, sir, in the storming of Prague,’ I began, pointing to the St. George cross, ‘and won a sign of distinction, rare at any time, but particularly so then; you must remember Suvorov?’ ‘Alexander Vassilitch?’ the brigadier answered, after a brief silence, in which he seemed to be pulling his thoughts together; ‘to be sure, I remember him; he was a little, brisk old man. Before one could stir a finger, he’d be here and there and everywhere (the brigadier chuckled). He rode into Warsaw on a Cossack horse; he was all in diamonds, and he says to the Poles: “I’ve no watch, I forgot it in Petersburg--no watch!” and they shouted and huzzaed for him. Queer chaps! Hey! Cucumber! lad!’ he added suddenly, changing and raising his voice (the deacon-buffoon had remained standing at the door), ‘where’s the rolls, eh? And tell Grunka ... to bring some kvas!’ ‘Directly, your honour,’ I heard Cucumber’s voice reply. He handed the brigadier the bundle of rolls, and, going out of the lodge, approached a dishevelled creature in rags--the half-witted girl, Grunka, I suppose--and as far as I could make out through the dusty little window, proceeded to demand kvas from her--at least, he several times raised one hand like a funnel to his mouth, and waved the other in our direction. XII I made another attempt to get into conversation with the brigadier; but he was evidently tired: he sank, sighing and groaning, on the little couch, and moaning, ‘Oy, oy, my poor bones, my poor bones,’ untied his garters. I remember I wondered at the time how a man came to be wearing garters. I did not realise that in former days every one wore them. The brigadier began yawning with prolonged, unconcealed yawns, not taking his drowsy eyes off me all the time; so very little children yawn. The poor old man did not even seem quite to understand my question.... And he had taken Prague! He, sword in hand, in the smoke and the dust--at the head of Suvorov’s soldiers, the bullet-pierced flag waving above him, the hideous corpses under his feet.... He ... he! Wasn’t it wonderful! But yet I could not help fancying that there had been events more extraordinary in the brigadier’s life. Cucumber brought white kvas in an iron jug; the brigadier drank greedily--his hands shook. Cucumber supported the bottom of the jug. The old man carefully wiped his toothless mouth with both hands--and again staring at me, fell to chewing and munching his lips. I saw how it was, bowed, and went out of the room. ‘Now he’ll have a nap,’ observed Cucumber, coming out behind me. ‘He’s terribly knocked up to-day--he went to the grave early this morning.’ ‘To whose grave?’ ‘To Agrafena Ivanovna’s, to pay his devotions.... She is buried in our parish cemetery here; it’ll be four miles from here. Vassily Fomitch visits it every week without fail. Indeed, it was he who buried her and put the fence up at his own expense.’ ‘Has she been dead long?’ ‘Well, let’s think--twenty years about.’