grumbling there a bit, he brought us a travelling-case, on which he placed a candle (round which he first tied a piece of paper to keep the wind off), a saucepan, a pot of mustard, a tin cup with a handle, and a bottle of vodka bitters. Having arranged all this, Nikita stood some time near us and watched with evident disapproval while Guskov and I drank some of the spirit. By the dim light of the candle shining through the paper the only things one could see amid the surrounding darkness were the sealskin with which the travelling-case was covered, the supper standing on it, and Guskov’s face, his sheepskin coat, and the little red hands with which he took the dumplings out of the saucepan. All around was black, and only by looking intently could one discern the black battery, the equally black figure of the sentry visible over the breastwork, the watch-fires around, and the reddish stars above. Guskov smiled just perceptibly in a sad and bashful way, as if it were awkward for him to look me in the eyes after his confession. He drank another cup of vodka, and ate greedily, scraping out the saucepan.
“Yes, it must at any rate be some relief to you,” I remarked, in order to say something, “to be acquainted with the adjutant; I have heard he is a very decent fellow.”
“Yes,” answered he, “he is a kindhearted man, but he can’t help being what he is; he can’t be a man: with his education one can’t expect it,” and he suddenly seemed to blush. “You noticed his coarse jokes today about the ambuscades.” And Guskov, in spite of my repeated efforts to stop the conversation, began to justify himself to me, and to demonstrate that he did not run away from the ambuscades, and that he was not a coward, as the Adjutant and Captain S⸺ wished to imply.
“As I told you,” he said, wiping his hands on his sheepskin, “people of that kind can’t be considerate to a man who is a private and who has but little money: that is above their strength. And these last five months, during which it has somehow happened that I have received nothing