fell to talking of a very good friend of his, an officer,
who had a ‘Mindindenger’ Swedish gun, with
a copper stock, just like a cannon, so that when you
fire it off you are almost knocked senseless—it
had been left behind by the French—and a
dog—simply one of Nature’s marvels!
that he himself had always had a great passion for
the chase, and his priest would have made no trouble
about it—he used in fact to catch quails
with him—but the ecclesiastical superior
had pursued him with endless persecution; ’and
as for Narkiz Semyonitch,’ he observed in a sing-song
tone, ’if according to his notions I’m
not a trustworthy person—well, what I say
is: he’s let his eyebrows grow till he’s
like a woodcock, and he fancies all the sciences are
known to him.’ By this time we had reached
the inn, a solitary tumble-down, one-roomed little
hut without backyard or outbuildings; an emaciated
dog lay curled up under the window; a hen was scratching
in the dust under his very nose. Cucumber sat
the brigadier down on the bank, and darted instantly
into the hut. While he was buying the rolls and
emptying a glass, I never took my eyes off the brigadier,
who, God knows why, struck me as something of an enigma.
In the life of this man—so I mused—there
must certainly have been something out of the ordinary.
But he, it seemed, did not notice me at all.
He was sitting huddled up on the bank, and twisting
in his fingers some pinks which he had gathered in
my friend’s garden. Cucumber made his appearance,
at last, with a bundle of rolls in his hand; he made
his appearance, all red and perspiring, with an expression
of gleeful surprise on his face, as though he had
just seen something exceedingly agreeable and unexpected.
He at once offered the brigadier a roll to eat, and
the latter at once ate it. We proceeded on our
way.
On the strength of the spirits he had drunk, Cucumber
quite ‘unbent,’ as it is called.
He began trying to cheer up the brigadier, who was
still hurrying forward with a tottering motion as
though he were on stilts. ’Why are you
so downcast, sir, and hanging your head? Let me
sing you a song. That’ll cheer you up in
a minute.’ He turned to me: ’Our
gentleman is very fond of a joke, mercy on us, yes!
Yesterday, what did I see?—a peasant-woman
washing a pair of breeches on the platform, and a great
fat woman she was, and he stood behind her, simply
all of a shake with laughter—yes, indeed!
... In a minute, allow me: do you know the
song of the hare? You mustn’t judge me
by my looks; there’s a gypsy woman living here
in the town, a perfect fright, but sings—’pon
my soul! one’s ready to lie down and die.’
He opened wide his moist red lips and began singing,
his head on one side, his eyes shut, and his beard
quivering:
