But he could not help observing that this was a world strangely unlike that which he had known in Moscow before the war. The reckless extravagance, the heedless gaiety, the wild dissipation of those days seemed to be no more. Over many of the noble houses where he visited the angel of death had already spread his wings,--a son, a brother, a nephew had fallen at Smolensko or Borodino; while over all there brooded the apprehension of the same dread visitation, producing, if not melancholy, at least seriousness. Ladies of fashion, instead of playing cards or loto, prepared lint for the wounded or garments for the perishing. Great efforts were being made for the relief of the sufferers in the terrible tragedy of Moscow; and Ivan rejoiced to see immense convoys of clothing and provisions setting out from the new capital for the old. Troops of all kinds were coming every day to the city, or leaving it for the seat of war. Ivan’s friends pointed out to him, with justifiable pride, the excellent equipment of the soldiers, and told him of the unwearied exertions of the Czar to supply the whole of his enormous army not only with the necessaries, but even with the comforts of life. “Every man in the service,” it was said, “has his fur pelisse, his warm boots, even his warm gloves.”[37] Infinite care and pains were expended upon the commissariat; and depots of all kinds of provisions were established wherever they were likely to be needed. In a few days Michael came joyfully to inform “Barrinka” that he had attained the desire of his heart. “Praised be the great St. Nicholas!” he said, “I am to be a gunner. My officer tells me that after a little training I shall be able to pull a thing they call the lanyard. It makes the gun go off, and kills the Nyemtzi.” But no earthly happiness is ever without alloy, and Michael’s was not an exception. There was one hardship, in his own estimation very serious, to which he had to submit. “Barrinka,” he asked, “why must our beards be cut off before we go to fight the Nyemtzi?” “It has been always done,” said Ivan. “It is the custom. Besides, do you not know it makes you a free man? The very hour your beard is cut, you cease to be a serf; you have no longer any lord on earth except the Czar.” “I do not care to be a free man,” grumbled Michael; “and I do not see why I must part with my beard, which God gave me. It is very hard.” Ivan laughed. “My dear lad,” he said, “you have given your hand for our lord the Czar; you are ready to give your life for him; then why do you grudge him your beard?” “Do you call it giving to _him_?” asked Michael. “That makes a difference certainly. Though I cannot see what the Czar wants with my beard, still, if it be his Majesty’s pleasure, he shall have it.”