Russian fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
When the game was over, and that side in which the stranger whose rank
was so low had taken part, had come out winners, and it fell to his lot
to ride on one of our officers, Ensign D., the ensign grew red in the
face: he went to the little divan and offered the stranger a cigarette
by way of a compromise.
While they were ordering the mulled wine, and in the steward's tent
were heard assiduous preparations on the part of Nikíta, who had sent
an orderly for cinnamon and cloves, and the shadow of his back was
alternately lengthening and shortening on the dingy sides of the tent,
we men, seven in all, sat around on the benches; and while we took
turns in drinking tea from the three glasses, and gazed out over the
plain, which was now beginning to glow in the twilight, we talked and
laughed over the various incidents of the game.
The stranger in the fur jacket took no share in the conversation,
obstinately refused to drink the tea which I several times offered him,
and as he sat there on the ground in Tatar fashion, occupied himself
in making cigarettes of fine-cut tobacco, and smoking them one after
another, evidently not so much for his own satisfaction as to give
himself the appearance of a man with something to do. When it was
remarked that the summons to return was expected on the morrow, and
that there might be an engagement, he lifted himself on his knees, and,
addressing Captain B. only, said that he had been at the adjutant's,
and had himself written the order for the return on the next day. We
all said nothing while he was speaking; and notwithstanding the fact
that he was so bashful, we begged him to repeat this most interesting
piece of news. He repeated what he had said, adding only that he had
been staying at the adjutant's (since he made it his home there) when
the order came.
"Look here, old fellow, if you are not telling us false, I shall have
to go to my company and give some orders for to-morrow," said Captain S.
"No ... why ... it may be, I am sure" ... stammered the stranger, but
suddenly stopped, and, apparently feeling himself affronted, contracted
Ins brows, and, muttering something between his teeth, again began to
roll a cigarette. But the fine-cut tobacco in his chintz pouch began
to show signs of giving out, and he asked S. to lend him a little
cigarette.[6]
We kept on for a considerable time with that monotonous military
chatter which every one who has ever been on an expedition will
appreciate; all of us, with one and the same expression, complaining of
the dulness and length of the expedition, in one and the same fashion
sitting in judgment on our superiors, and all of us likewise, as we
had done many times before, praising one comrade, pitying another,
wondering how much this one had gained, how much that one had lost, and
so on, and so on.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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