He came round the bar smiling and bowing without intermission, and secretly wishing each of them without exception an agonizing death. They gorged and drank, but since this new land had risen into being they had not paid. They got no pay themselves, consequently they had no money. The Jew Kristianpoller regarded the finances of his new country with grave misgiving. These gentlemen were certainly waiting for Tarabas, and for the new regiment. They talked of him incessantly, and Kristianpoller’s sharp and clever ears let little escape them whilst he waited upon his guests. The Jew did not venture to ask them any questions on his own account. Undoubtedly they could have told him much. They all knew him.
All at once, in the middle of the meal, the door was thrown violently open. One of Tarabas’s armed guards entered, saluted with a click of heels, and remained standing at the door, a statue fearful to behold. “Tarabas’s messenger,” said the inn-keeper to himself. “Soon he will be here himself.”
And indeed a moment later the clanking footsteps of soldiers could be heard approaching. Through the opened door strode Colonel Tarabas, followed by his bodyguard. The door remained open. All the officers leapt to their feet. Colonel Tarabas saluted and motioned them to sit down again. He turned to the Jew Kristianpoller, who had stood the whole time in an obsequious attitude in front of his counter, and ordered food, drink, and accommodation for twelve without delay. He, too, would put up here, said Tarabas. He wanted a room that you could move about in. A bed outside the door for his servant. He wished to have twelve of his men in his immediate neighbourhood. What he expected of the inn-keeper and whatever servants there might be was punctuality, cleanliness, and obedience. And he concluded with this: “Repeat what I’ve just said, Jew!”
Word for word each wish of Colonel Tarabas’s was repeated by Kristianpoller. The repetition was an easy enough task. For the words of Tarabas had buried themselves in Kristianpoller’s brain like nails driven into wax. And there they would stay imbedded till the end of time. He said them back now word for word, his face still bent towards the ground, his eyes upon the shining toe-caps of Tarabas’s boots and on the silver rim which the mud had left round the soles. He might make me clean the edge of his soles with my tongue, thought Kristianpoller. Woe is me if he should!
“Look me in the face, Jew!” said Tarabas.
Kristianpoller stood upright.
“Where’s your answer?” demanded Tarabas.
“Your Excellency,” answered Kristianpoller, “everything is in readiness. A large room is at Your Excellency’s disposal. Your Excellency’s escort will be put up comfortably. And we will make up a bed outside Your Excellency’s door, a good bed.”
“Very good, very good,” said Tarabas. And he sent his men to get food from the kitchen. He sat down at an unoccupied table. There was silence in the room. The officers did not stir. They talked no more. Their forks and spoons lay untouched beside their plates.
“Good appetite!” cried Tarabas, pulling his knife out of his boot. He inspected it carefully, licked his thumb, and passed it gently across the blade.
The Jew Kristianpoller approached with a steaming bowl in his right hand, spoon and fork in his left. He had brought a dish of peas and sauerkraut with a pinkly gleaming rib of pork in it. The whole was veiled in a soft grey cloud of steam. When Kristianpoller had put down the bowl, he bowed and retreated backwards to the bar.
From behind the counter he observed between halfshut eyelids the extremely healthy appetite of the terrible Tarabas. He did not dare, not having been called upon to do so, to obey the prompting of the inner voice which told him to offer the mighty one strong drink. No, he would wait for the command to come.
“Something to drink!” the terrible one cried at last.
Kristianpoller vanished and reappeared a moment later with three large bottles on a stout wooden tray — wine, beer, spirits. He put the three bottles together with three separate glasses on the table before Tarabas and withdrew once more, bowing deeply. Tarabas first tested the bottles, raising each one in turn and examining it in the air as if to put it to the proof of hand and eye. Finally he decided in favour of the brandy. True to the habit of all drinkers of hard liquor, he emptied one glass at a single draught, and poured out another. There was still complete silence in the room. The officers sat stiffly with their plates and glasses in front of them and looked furtively across them at the colonel. Kristianpoller stood immobile and head down before his counter, waiting and alert to hasten over at a gesture, yes, at a flicker of an eyelash from Colonel Tarabas. He stood there intent upon the wishes of the war-god of Koropta, ready to spring to meet them as they formed slowly, or — who knew? — perhaps with suddenness within that mind. The gurgling of the brandy as the colonel poured out another glassful could be heard distinctly all over the large room. It was followed by the terrible one’s praise: “Good stuff, this, Jew!”—a phrase which Tarabas now began to reiterate with shorter and shorter pauses between, and each time in a louder voice. At last, when the colonel had disposed of his sixth glass, the youngest of the officers present, Lieutenant Kulin, thought that the time had come to break the silence which respect and fear had until then imposed on all of them. He rose, a glass of brandy in his hand, and went across to the colonel’s table. The lieutenant’s hand was steady; not a drop overflowed from the brimming glass he held. He stopped at the table and drew himself up smartly.
“To the health of our first colonel!” said Lieutenant Kulin.
All the officers rose.
“Long live the new army!” said Tarabas.
“Long live the new army!” they rejoined.
And amidst the clink of glasses meeting one another in the toast, came a somewhat belated, timid echo in the voice of the Jew Kristianpoller: “Long live our new army!”
Instantly, no sooner were the words out of his mouth, than Nathan Kristianpoller was mightily afraid. And he hastened behind the bar, pushed open the little wooden door which led into the yard, called to the servant Fedya, and ordered him to fetch two barrels of spirits from the cellar. Meanwhile, in the parlour a general fraternizing was taking place. First singly, then in small groups, the men left their places and, with rapidly increasing courage and confidence, approached the colonel’s table, where each one separately drank his health. Tarabas felt increasingly happy and at home. Still more than the spirits, the respectful friendship of the officers warmed him; vanity warmed his heart.
“Listen, my dear chap,” he was soon saying indiscriminately to this and that one.
And soon the tables were pushed together. Panting and with perspiring faces Kristianpoller and Fedya came with the brandy kegs. A while later the white and fiery fluid was pouring into roomy, gleaming wineglasses, thirty-six in number, waiting on the bar counter. The moment one was filled, it passed from hand to hand like a bucket at a fire. As though they were a company of firemen, the officers lined up in a chain from Kristianpoller’s counter to the table at which the terrible Tarabas sat, handing the fresh-filled glasses to each other. One after another was handed down the row — and they were of goodly size.