For two hours after returning home he lay on his bed motionless. Then he went to his company commander and obtained leave to visit the staff. Without taking leave of anyone, and sending Vanyúsha to settle his accounts with his landlord, he prepared to leave for the fort where his regiment was stationed. Daddy Eróshka was the only one to see him off. They had a drink, and then a second, and then yet another. Again as on the night of his departure from Moscow, a three-horsed conveyance stood waiting at the door. But Olénin did not confer with himself as he had done then, and did not say to himself that all he had thought and done here was “not it”. He did not promise himself a new life. He loved Maryánka more than ever, and knew that he could never be loved by her. “Well, good-bye, my lad!” said Daddy Eróshka. “When you go on an expedition, be wise and listen to my words—the words of an old man. When you are out on a raid or the like (you know I’m an old wolf and have seen things), and when they begin firing, don’t get into a crowd where there are many men. When you fellows get frightened you always try to get close together with a lot of others. You think it is merrier to be with others, but that’s where it is worst of all! They always aim at a crowd. Now I used to keep farther away from the others and went alone, and I’ve never been wounded. Yet what things haven’t I seen in my day?” “But you’ve got a bullet in your back,” remarked Vanyúsha, who was clearing up the room. “That was the Cossacks fooling about,” answered Eróshka. “Cossacks? How was that?” asked Olénin. “Oh, just so. We were drinking. Vánka Sítkin, one of the Cossacks, got merry, and puff! he gave me one from his pistol just here.” “Yes, and did it hurt?” asked Olénin. “Vanyúsha, will you soon be ready?” he added. “Ah, where’s the hurry! Let me tell you. When he banged into me, the bullet did not break the bone but remained here. And I say: ‘You’ve killed me, brother. Eh! What have you done to me? I won’t let you off! You’ll have to stand me a pailful!’” “Well, but did it hurt?” Olénin asked again, scarcely listening to the tale. “Let me finish. He stood a pailful, and we drank it, but the blood went on flowing. The whole room was drenched and covered with blood. Grandad Burlák, he says, ‘The lad will give up the ghost. Stand a bottle of the sweet sort, or we shall have you taken up!’ They bought more drink, and boozed and boozed—” “Yes, but did it hurt you much?” Olénin asked once more. “Hurt, indeed! Don’t interrupt: I don’t like it. Let me finish. We boozed and boozed till morning, and I fell asleep on the top of the oven, drunk. When I woke in the morning I could not unbend myself anyhow—” “Was it very painful?” repeated Olénin, thinking that now he would at last get an answer to his question. “Did I tell you it was painful? I did not say it was painful, but I could not bend and could not walk.”