XII

I MADE another attempt to get into conversation with the brigadier; but he was evidently tired: he sank, sighing and groaning, on the little couch, and moaning, "Oy, oy, my poor bones, my poor bones," untied his garters. I remember I wondered at the time how a man came to be wearing garters. I did not realise that in former days every one wore them. The brigadier began yawning with prolonged, unconcealed yawns, not taking his drowsy eyes off me all the time; so very little children yawn. The poor old man did not even seem quite to understand my question. . . . And he had taken Prague! He, sword in hand, in the smoke and the dust--at the head of Suvorov's soldiers, the bullet-pierced flag waving above him, the hideous corpses under his feet. . . . He . . . he! Wasn't it wonderful! But yet I could not help fancying that there had been events more extraordinary in the brigadier's life. Cucumber brought white kvas in an iron jug; the brigadier drank greedily--his hands shook. Cucumber supported the bottom of the jug. The old man carefully wiped his toothless mouth with both hands--and again staring at me, fell to chewing and munching his lips. I saw how it was, bowed, and went out of the room.