havior to me showed more and more indifference until they have come almost to despise me. It is horrible, but it is absolutely the truth.
"Here I have been in action, I have fought, they have seen me under fire,"[1] he continued; "but when will it all end? I think, never. And my strength and energy have already begun to flag. Then I had imagined la guerre, la vie de camp; but it is n't at all what I see, in a sheep-skin jacket, dirty linen, soldier's boots, and you go out in ambuscade, and the whole night long lie in the ditch with some Antónof reduced to the ranks for drunkenness, and any minute from behind the bush may come a rifle-shot and hit you or Antónof,—it's all the same which. That is not bravery; it's horrible, c'est affreux, it's killing!"[2]
"Well, you can be promoted a non-commissioned officer for this campaign, and next year an ensign," said I.
"Yes, it may be: they promised me that in two years, and it's not up yet. What would those two years amount to, if I knew any one! You can imagine this life with Pavel Dmitriévitch; cards, low jokes, drinking all the time; if you wish to tell anything that is weighing on your mind, you would not be understood, or you would be laughed at: they talk with you, not for the sake of sharing a thought, but to get some-
