for whom the company which he was commanding had become his family, the fortress where the staff was stationed his home, and the singers his only amusement in life,—a man for whom everything which was not the Caucasus was worthy of contempt, and almost undeserving belief; but everything which was the Caucasus was divided into two halves, ours, and not ours; the first he loved, the second he hated with all the powers of his soul, and, what is most important, he was a man of tried, quiet bravery, rare kindness of heart in relation to his comrades and inferiors, and of an aggravating straight-forwardness and even rudeness in relation to adjutants and bonjours, whom he for some reason despised. Upon entering the booth, he almost pierced the roof with his head, then suddenly lowered it, and sat down on the ground.
"Well?" he said, and, suddenly noticing my unfamiliar face, he stopped, gazing at me with his turbid, fixed glance.
"So, what were you talking about?" asked the major, taking out his watch and looking at it, though I was firmly convinced that there was no need for his doing so.
"He was asking me why I was serving here."
"Of course, Nikoláy Fédorovich wants to distinguish himself here, and then go back home."
"Well, you tell me, Abrám Ilích, why do you serve in the Caucasus?"
"Because, you see, in the first place, we are all obliged to serve. What?" he added, though all were silent. "Yesterday I received a letter from Russia, Nikoláy Fédorovich," he continued, evidently desiring to change the subject. "They write to me—they make such strange inquiries."
"What inquiries?" asked Bolkhóv.
He laughed.
"Really, strange questions—they want to know
