In the service it was impossible to find a soldier who knew his business better, who was braver or more obedient; but he was too meek and homely to be chosen as an artillerist,[7] though he had been bombardier fifteen years. Zhdánof's one pleasure, and even passion, was music. He was exceedingly fond of some songs, and he always gathered round him a circle of singers from among the young soldiers; and though he himself could not sing, he stood with them, and putting his hands into the pockets of his short-coat,[8] and shutting his eyes, expressed his contentment by the motions of his head and cheeks. I know not why it was, that in that regular motion of the cheeks under the mustache, a peculiarity which I never saw in any one else, I found unusual expression. His head white as snow, his mustache dyed black, and his brown, wrinkled face, gave him at first sight a stern and gloomy appearance; but as you looked more closely into his great round eyes, especially when they smiled (he never smiled with his lips), something extraordinarily sweet and almost childlike suddenly struck you. [Footnote 4: _feierverker;_ German, _Feuerwerker._] [Footnote 5: _odnodvortsui,_ of one estate; freemen, who in the seventeenth century were settled in the Ukrafoa with special privileges.] [Footnote 6: _polushubochek,_ little half _shuba._] [Footnote 7: _feierverker._] [Footnote 8: _polushubka._] IV. "Alas! I have forgotten my pipe; that's a misfortune, fellows," repeated Velenchúk. "But you should smoke _cikarettes,_[9] dear man," urged Chikin, screwing up his mouth, and winking. "I always smoke _cikarettes_ at home: it's sweeter." Of course, all joined in the laugh. "So you forgot your pipe?" interrupted Maksímof, proudly knocking out the ashes from his pipe into the palm of his left hand, and not paying any attention to the universal laughter, in which even the officers joined. "You lost it somewhere here, didn't you, Velenchúk?" Velenchúk wheeled to right face at him, started to lift his hand to his cap, and then dropped it again. "You see, you haven't woke up from your last evening's spree, so that you didn't get your sleep out. For such work you deserve a good raking." "May I drop dead on this very spot, Feódor Maksímovitch, if a single drop passed my lips. I myself don't know what got into me," replied Velenchúk. "How glad I should have been to get drunk!" he muttered to himself. "All right. But one is responsible to the chief for his brother's conduct, and when you behave this way it's perfectly abominable," said the eloquent Maksímof savagely, but still in a more gentle tone.