Just then we heard the voice of the commander of the battalion outside, addressing Bolhov.
“Who is with you, Nicholas Fedorovich?”
Bolhov gave him my name, and then three officers scrambled into the hut—Major Kirsanov; the adjutant of his battalion; and Captain Trosenko.
Kirsanov was not tall but stout, he had black moustaches, rosy cheeks, and oily little eyes. These eyes were his most remarkable feature. When he laughed, nothing remained of them but two tiny moist stars, and these little stars, together with his wide-stretched lips and outstretched neck, often gave him an extraordinarily senseless look. In the regiment Kirsanov behaved himself and bore himself better than anyone else; his subordinates did not complain of him, and his superiors respected him—though the general opinion was that he was very limited. He knew the service, was exact and zealous, always had ready money, kept a carriage and a man-cook, and knew how to make an admirable pretence of being proud.
“What were you talking about, Nicholas Fedorovich?”