THE DUEL

I

The 6th Company's afternoon drill was nearly over, and the junior

officers looked with increasing frequency at their watches, and with

growing impatience. The rank and file of the new regiment were being

instructed in garrison duty. Along the whole of the extensive

parade-ground the soldiers stood in scattered groups: by the poplars

that bordered the causeway, by the gymnastic apparatus, by the door of

the company's school, and in the neighbourhood of the butts. All these

places were to represent during the drill the most important buildings

in the garrison--the commander's residence, the headquarters, the powder

magazine, the administration department, etc. Sentries were posted and

relieved; patrols marched here and there, shouting at and saluting each

other in military fashion; harsh non-commissioned officers visited and

examined the sentries on duty, trying, sometimes by a trick, sometimes

by pretended threats, to fool the soldiers into infringing the rules,

e.g. to quit their posts, give up their rifles, to take charge of

contraband articles, etc. The older men, who had had previous experience

of such practical jokes, were very seldom taken in, but answered rudely,

"The Tsar alone gives orders here," etc., etc. The young recruits, on

the other hand, often enough fell into the snare set for them.

"Khliabnikov!" a stout little "non-com." cried angrily in a voice which

betrayed a passion for ruling. "What did I tell you just now, simpleton?

Did I put you under arrest? What are you sticking there for, then? Why

don't you answer?"

In the third platoon a tragi-comic scene took place. Moukhamedjinov, a

young soldier, Tartar by birth, was not yet versed in the Russian

language. He got more and more confused under the commander's irritating

and insidious questions. At last he lost his head entirely, brought his

rifle to the charge, and threatened all the bystanders with the bayonet.

"Stop, you madman!" roared Sergeant Bobuilev. "Can't you recognize your

own commander, your own captain?"

"Another step and you are a dead man!" shouted the Tartar, in a furious

rage. His eyes were bloodshot, and he nervously repelled with his

bayonet all who approached him. Round about him, but at a respectful

distance, a crowd of soldiers flocked together, accepting with joy and

gratitude this interesting little interlude in the wearisome drill.

Sliva, the captain of the company, approached to see what was going on.

While he was on the opposite side of the parade-ground, where, with bent

back and dragging steps, he tottered slowly backwards and forwards, a

few young officers assembled in a small group to smoke and chatter. They

were three, all told: Lieutenant Viätkin, a bald, moustached man of

thirty-three, a jovial fellow, chatterbox, singer, and particularly fond

of his glass; Sub-Lieutenant Romashov, who had hardly served two years

in the regiment; and, lastly, Sub-Ensign Lbov, a lively, well-shaped

young man, with an expression of shrewd geniality in his pale eyes and

an eternal smile on his thick, innocent lips. He passed for a

peripatetic storehouse of anecdotes, specially crammed with old and

worn-out officers' stories.

"This is an out-and-out scandal," said Viätkin, as he looked at his

dainty little watch, the case of which he angrily closed with a little

click. "What the devil does he mean by keeping the company all this

time?"

"You should ask him that question, Pavel Pavlich," replied Lbov, with a

sly look.

"Oh, go to the devil! Go and ask him yourself. But the point which I

want to emphasize is that the whole business is utterly futile; there is

always this fuss before the review, and every time they overdo it. The

soldiers are so worried and badgered, that at the review they stand like

blockheads. Do you know that story about the two captains who made a

pretty heavy bet as to which of them had in his company the best

trencher-man? When one of the 'champions' had consumed seven pounds of

bread he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten. His Captain, furious

with indignation, sent for his sergeant-major, and said: 'What made you

send me a creature like that? After his seventh pound he had to give up,

and I've lost my wager!' The poor sergeant-major stared at his superior.

'I don't know what could have happened to him, your Excellency. This

very morning I rehearsed with him, and then he ate _eight_ pounds

without any ado.' It's the same case here, gentlemen. We rehearse

without mercy and common-sense up to the very last, and thus, when the

tug-of-war comes, the soldier drops down from sheer weariness."

"Last night," began Lbov, who could hardly get his words out for

laughing--"last night, when the drill was over, I went to my quarters.

It was past eight, and quite dark then. As I was approaching the

barracks of the 11th Company I heard some ear-piercing music from there.

I go there and am told that the men are being taught our horn signals.

All the recruits were obliged to sing in chorus. It was a hideous

concert, and I asked Lieutenant Andrusevich how any one could put up

with such a row so late at night. He answered laughingly, 'Why shouldn't

we now and then, like the dogs, howl at the moon?'"

"Now I can't stand this any longer," interrupted Viätkin, with a yawn.

"But who's that riding down there? It looks like Biek."

"Yes, it's Biek-Agamalov," replied sharp-sighted Lbov. "Look how

beautifully he rides."

"Yes, he does," chimed in Romashov. "To my thinking, he rides better

than any other of our cavalrymen. But just look at his horse dancing.

Biek is showing off."

An officer, wearing an Adjutant's uniform and white gloves, was riding

quietly along the causeway. He was sitting on a high, slim-built horse

with a gold-coloured and short-clipped tail, after the English fashion.

The spirited animal pirouetted under his rider, and impatiently shook

its branch-bit by the violent tossings of its long and nobly formed

neck.

"Pavel Pavlich, is it a fact that Biek is a Circassian by birth?" asked

Romashov.

"Yes, I think so," answered Viätkin. "Armenians pretend sometimes that

they are Circassians or Lezghins,[1] but nobody can be deceived with

regard to Biek. Only look how he carries himself on horseback."

"Wait, I'll call him," said Lbov.

Lbov put his hands to his mouth, and tried to form out of them a sort of

speaking-tube, and shouted in a suppressed voice, so as not to be heard

by the Commander--

"Lieutenant Biek-Agamalov!"

The officer on horseback pulled the reins, stopped for a second, and

swung in the saddle towards the right. Then he also turned his horse to

the right, bent slightly forward, and, with a springy and energetic

movement, jumped the ditch, and rode in a short gallop up to the

officers.

He was a man somewhat below the medium height, lean, muscular, and very

powerful. His countenance, with its receding forehead, delicate,

aquiline nose, and strong, resolute lines about the mouth, was manly and

handsome, and had not yet got the pale and sickly hue that is so

characteristic of the Oriental when he is getting on in years.

"Good-day, Biek," was Viätkin's greeting. "Who was the girl for whom you

were exercising your arts of seduction down there, you lady-killer?"

Biek-Agamalov shook hands with the officers, whilst with an easy and

graceful movement he bent slightly forward in the saddle. He smiled, and

his gleaming white and even row of teeth cast a sort of lustre over the

lower part of his face, with its black and splendidly cultivated

moustache.

"Two or three little Jewess girls were there, but what is that to do

with me? I took no notice of them."

"Ah! we know well enough how you play the game with ladies," said

Viätkin jestingly.

"I say!" interrupted Lbov, with a laugh; "have you heard what General

Dokturov[2] remarked about the Adjutants in the infantry? It ought to

interest you, Biek. He said they were the most dare-devil riders in the

whole world."

"No lies, now, ensign," replied Biek, as he gave his horse the reins and

assumed an expression as if he intended to ride down the joker.

"It's true, by God it is! 'They ride,' said he, 'the most wretched

"crocks" in the world--spavined "roarers"--and yet, only give the order,

and off they fly at the maddest speed over stocks and stones, hedges and

ditches--reins loose, stirrups dropped, cap flying, ah!--veritable

cantaurs.'"

"What news, Biek?" asked Viätkin.

"What news? None. Ah! stay. A little while ago the Commander of the

regiment ran across Lieutenant-Colonel Liekh at mess. Liekh, as drunk as

a lord, was wobbling against the wall with his hands behind him, and

hardly able to stammer out a syllable. Shulgovich rushed at him like an

infuriated bull, and bellowed in such a way that it might be heard over

the whole market-place: 'Please remove your hands from the small of your

back when you stand in the presence of your commanding officer.' And all

the servants witnessed this edifying scene."

"Ah! that is detestable," chimed in Viätkin, laughing. "Yesterday, when

he favoured the 4th Company with a visit, he shouted: 'Who dares to

thrust the regulations in my face? I am your regulations. Not a word

more. Here I'm your Tsar and your God.'"

Lbov was again laughing at his own thoughts.

"Gentlemen, have you heard what happened to the Adjutant of the 4th

Regiment?"

"Keep your eternal stories to yourself, Lbov," exclaimed Viätkin,

interrupting him in a severe tone. "To-day you're worse than usual."

"I have some more news to tell," Biek-Agamalov went on to say, as he

again facetiously threatened Lbov with his horse, which, snorting and

shaking its head, beslavered all around it with foam. "The Commander has

taken it into his head that the officers of all the companies are to

practise sabre-cutting at a dummy. He has aroused a fearful animosity

against himself in the 9th Company. Epifanov was arrested for having

neglected to sharpen his sabre. But what are you frightened of, Lbov? He

isn't dangerous, and you must teach yourself to make friends with these

noble animals. It may, you know, some day fall to your lot to be

Adjutant; but then, I suppose, you will sit your horse as securely as a

roast sparrow on a dish."

"_Retro, Satanas!_" cried Lbov, who had some difficulty in protecting

himself against the horse's froth-covered muzzle. "You've heard, I

suppose, what happened to an Adjutant of the 4th Regiment who bought

himself a circus-horse? At the review itself, right before the eyes of

the inspecting General, the well-trained beast began to exhibit its

proficiency in the 'Spanish walk.' You know, I suppose, what that is? At

every step the horse's legs are swung high in the air from one side to

the other. At last, both horse and rider alighted in the thick of the

company. Shrieks, oaths, universal confusion, and a General, half-dead

with rage, who at last, by a supreme effort, managed to hiss out:

'Lieutenant and Adjutant, for this exhibition of your skill in riding

you have twenty-one days' arrest. March!'"

"What rot!" interrupted Viätkin in an indignant tone. "I say, Biek, the

news of the sabre-cutting was by no means a surprise to us. It means

that we do not get any free time at all. Turn round and see what an

abortion some one brought here yesterday."

He concluded his sentence by a significant gesture towards the middle of

the parade-ground, where a monstrously ugly figure of raw clay, lacking

both arms and legs, had been erected.

"Ha! look there--already. Well, have you tried it?" asked Biek, his

interest excited. "Have you had a go at it yet, Romashov?"

"Not yet."

"Don't you think I've something better to do than occupy myself with

rubbish of that sort?" exclaimed Viätkin angrily. "When am I to find

time for that? From nine in the morning to six at night I have to be

here, there, and everywhere, and hardly manage to get a bite or sup.

Besides, thank God! I've still my wits about me."

"What silly talk! An officer ought to be able to handle his sabre."

"Why? if I may ask. You surely know that in warfare, with the firearms

now in use, one never gets within a range of a hundred paces of the

enemy. What the devil's the use of a sabre to me? I'm not a cavalryman.

When it comes to the point, I shall seize hold of a rifle and--bang! So

the matter's simple enough. People may say what they please; the bullet

is, after all, the safest."

"Possibly so; but, even in time of peace, there are still many occasions

when the sabre may come in useful--for instance, if one is attacked in

street riots, tumults, etc."

"And you think I should condescend to exchange cuts with the tag-rag of

the streets? No, thank you, my good friend. In such a case I prefer to

give the command, 'Aim, fire'--and all's said and done."

Biek-Agamalov's face darkened.

"You are talking nonsense, Pavel Pavlich. Now answer me this: Suppose,

when you are taking a walk, or are at a theatre or restaurant, some

coxcomb insults you or a civilian boxes your ears. What will you do

then?"

Viätkin shrugged his shoulders and protruded his under lip

contemptuously.

"In the first place, that kind of man only attacks those who show that

they are afraid of him, and, in the second, I have my--revolver."

"But suppose the revolver were left at home?" remarked Lbov.

"Then, naturally, I should have to go home and fetch it. What stupid

questions! You seem to have clean forgotten the incident of a certain

cornet who was insulted at a music-hall by two civilians. He drove home

for his revolver, returned to the music-hall, and cheerfully shot down

the pair who had insulted him--simple enough."

Biek-Agamalov made an indignant gesture. "We know--we have heard all

that, but in telling the story you forget that the cornet in question

was convicted of deliberate murder. Truly a very pretty business. If I

had found myself in a similar situation, I should have----"

He did not finish his sentence, but the little, well-formed hand in

which he held the reins was clenched so hard that it trembled. Lbov was

seized with one of his usual paroxysms of laughter.

"Ah! you're at it again," Viätkin remarked severely.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but I really couldn't--ha, ha, ha! I happened to

think of a tragi-comic scene that was enacted in the 17th Regiment.

Sub-Ensign Krause on one occasion had a row with some one in an

aristocratic club. The steward, to prevent further mischief, seized him

so violently by the shoulder-knot that the latter was torn off,

whereupon Krause drew his revolver and put a bullet through the

steward's skull. A little lawyer who incautiously mixed himself up in

the game shared the same fate. The rest of the party rushed out of the

room like so many frightened hens. But Krause quietly proceeded to the

camp, and was then challenged by the sentry. 'Who goes there?' shouted

the sentry. 'Sub-Ensign Krause, who is coming to die by the colours of

his regiment'; whereupon he walked straight up to the colours, laid

himself down on the ground, and fired a bullet through his left arm. The

court afterwards acquitted him."

"That was a fine fellow," exclaimed Biek-Agamalov.

Then began the young officers' usual favourite conversation on duels,

fights, and other sanguinary scenes, whereupon it was stated with great

satisfaction that such transgressions of law and municipal order always

went unpunished. Then, for instance, a story was told about how a

drunken, beardless cornet had drawn his sword at random on a small crowd

of Jews who were returning from keeping the Passover; how a

sub-lieutenant in the infantry had, at a dancing-hall, stabbed to death

an undergraduate who happened to elbow him at the buffet, how an officer

at St. Petersburg or Moscow shot down like a dog a civilian who dared to

make the impertinent observation that decent people were not in the

habit of accosting ladies with whom they are not acquainted.

Romashov, who, up to now, had been a silent listener to these piquant

stories, now joined in the conversation; but he did so with every sign

of reluctance and embarrassment. He cleared his throat, slowly adjusted

his eyeglass, though that was not absolutely necessary then, and

finally, in an uncertain voice, spoke as follows--

"Gentlemen, allow me to submit to you this question: In a dispute of

that sort it might happen, you know, that the civilian chanced to be a

respectable man, even perhaps a person of noble birth. Might it not, in

that case, be more correct to demand of him an explanation or

satisfaction? We should both belong to the cultured class, so to speak."

"You're talking nonsense, Romashov," interrupted Viätkin. "If you want

satisfaction from such scum you'll most certainly get the following

answer, which is little gratifying: 'Ah, well, my good sir, I do not

give satisfaction. That is contrary to my principles. I loathe duels and

bloodshed--and besides, you can have recourse, you know, to the Justice

of the Peace, in the event of your feeling yourself wronged.' And then,

for the whole of your life, you must carry the delightful recollection

of an unavenged box on the ears from a civilian."

Biek-Agamalov smiled in approbation, and with more than his usual

generosity showed his whole row of gleaming white teeth. "Hark you,

Viätkin, you ought really to take some interest in this sabre-cutting.

With us at our home in the Caucasus we practise it from childhood--on

bundles of wattles, on water-spouts, the bodies of sheep."

"And men's bodies," remarked Lbov.

"And on men's bodies," repeated Agamalov with unruffled calm. "And such

strokes, too! In a twinkling they cleave a fellow from his shoulder to

the hip."

"Biek, can you perform a test of strength like that?"

Biek-Agamalov sighed regretfully.

"No, alas! A sheep, or a calf; I can say I could cleave to the neck by a

single stroke, but to cut a full-grown man down to the waist is beyond

my power. To my father it would be a trifle."

"Come, gentlemen, and let us try our strength and sabres on that

scarecrow," said Lbov, in a determined tone and with flashing eyes.

"Biek, my dear boy, come with us."

The officers went up to the clay figure that had been erected a little

way off. Viätkin was the first to attack it. After endeavouring to

impart to his innocent, prosaic face an expression of wild-beast

ferocity, he struck the clay man with all his might and with an

unnecessarily big flourish of his sabre. At the same time he uttered the

characteristic sound "Khryass!" which a butcher makes when he is cutting

up beef. The weapon entered about a quarter of an inch into the clay,

and Viätkin had some trouble to extricate his brave sabre.

"Wretchedly done," exclaimed Agamalov, shaking his head. "Now, Romashov,

it's your turn."

Romashov drew his sabre from its sheath, and adjusted his eyeglass with

a hesitating movement. He was of medium height, lean, and fairly strong

in proportion to his build, but through constitutional timidity and lack

of interest not much accustomed to handling the weapon. Even as a pupil

at the Military Academy he was a bad swordsman, and after a year and a

half's service in the regiment he had almost completely forgotten the

art.

He raised his sabre high above his head, but stretched out,

simultaneously and instinctively, his left arm and hand.

"Mind your hand!" shouted Agamalov.

But it was too late then. The point of the sabre only made a slight

scratch on the clay, and Romashov, to his astonishment, who had

mis-reckoned on a strong resistance to the steel entering the clay, lost

his balance and stumbled forward, whereupon the blade of the sabre

caught his outstretched hand and tore off a portion of skin at the lower

part of his little finger, so that the blood oozed.

"There! See what you've done!" cried Biek angrily as he dismounted from

his charger. "How can any one handle a sabre so badly? You very nearly

cut off your hand, you know. Well, that wound is a mere trifle, but

you'd better bind it up with your handkerchief. Ensign, hold my horse.

And now, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The force or effect of a stroke

is not generated either in the shoulder or the elbow, but _here_, in the

wrist." He made, as quick as lightning, a few rotary movements of his

right hand, whereupon the point of his sabre described a scintillating

circle above his head. "Now look, I put my left hand behind my back.

When the stroke itself is to be delivered it must not be done by a

violent and clumsily directed blow, but by a vigorous cut, in which the

arm and sabre are jerked slightly backwards. Do you understand?

Moreover, it is absolutely necessary that the plane of the sabre exactly

coincides with the direction of the stroke. Look, here goes!"

Biek took two steps backwards from the manikin, to which he seemed, as

it were, to fasten himself tightly by a sharp, penetrating glance.

Suddenly the sabre flashed in the air, and a fearful stroke, delivered

with a rapidity that the eye could not follow, struck like lightning the

clay figure, the upper part of which rolled, softly but heavily, down to

the ground. The cut made by the sabre was as smooth and even as if it

had been polished.

"The deuce, that was something like a cut!" cried the enthusiastic Lbov

in wild delight. "Biek, my dear fellow, of your charity do that over

again."

"Yes, do, Biek," chimed in Viätkin.

But Agamalov, who was evidently afraid of destroying the effect he had

produced, smiled as he replaced the sabre in its scabbard. He breathed

heavily, and at that moment, by his bloodthirsty, wildly staring eyes,

his hawk's nose, and set mouth, he put one in mind of a proud, cruel,

malignant bird of prey.

"That was really nothing remarkable," he exclaimed in a tone of assumed

contempt. "At home in the Caucasus my old father, although he is over

sixty-six, could cut off a horse's head in a trice. You see, my

children, everything can be acquired by practice and perseverance. At my

home we practise on bundles of fagots tightly twisted together, or we

try to cut through a water-spout without the least splash being

noticeable. Well, Lbov, it's your turn now."

At that very moment, however, Bobuilev, the "non-com.," rushed up to

Viätkin, with terror depicted on every feature.

"Your Honour! The Commander of the regiment is here."

"Attention!" cried Captain Sliva's sharp voice from the other side of

the parade-ground. The officers hastily made their way to their

respective detachments.

A large open carriage slowly approached the avenue and stopped at the

parade-ground. Out of it stepped the Commander with great trouble and

agony amidst a loud moaning and groaning from the side of the poor

carriage. The Commander was followed by his Adjutant, Staff-Captain

Federovski, a tall, slim officer of smart appearance.

"Good day, 7th Company," was his greeting in a careless, indistinct

voice. An ear-splitting chorus of soldiers, dispersed over the whole

extent of the ground, replied instantly: "God preserve your Excellency!"

The officers touched their caps.

"Proceed with the drill," ordered the Commander, as he went up to the

nearest platoon.

Colonel Shulgovich was evidently not in a good humour. He wandered about

the platoons, growling and swearing, all the while repeatedly trying to

worry the life out of the unhappy recruits by catch-questions from the

"Military Regulations." Time after time he was heard to reel out the

most awful strings of insults and threats, and in this he displayed an

inventive power and mastery that could hardly be surpassed. The soldiers

stood before him, transfixed with terror, stiff, motionless, scarcely

daring to breathe, and, as it were, hypnotized by the incessant,

steadfast glances, as hard as marble, from those senile, colourless,

severe eyes. Colonel Shulgovich, although much troubled with fatness and

advanced in years, nevertheless still contrived to carry his huge,

imposing figure. His broad, fleshy face, with its bloated cheeks and

deeply receding forehead, was surrounded below by a thick, silvery,

pointed beard, whereby the great head came very closely to resemble an

awe-inspiring rhomboid. The eyebrows were grey, bushy, and threatening.

He always spoke in a subdued tone, but his powerful voice--to which

alone he owed his comparatively rapid promotion--was heard all the same

as far as the most distant point of the parade-ground, nay! even out on

the highroad.

"Who are you?" asked the Colonel, suddenly halting in front of a young

soldier named Sharafutdinov, who was on sentry duty near the gymnastic

apparatus.

"Recruit in the 6th Company, Sharafutdinov, your Excellency," the Tartar

answered in a strained and hoarse voice.

"Fool! I mean, of course, what post are you supposed to occupy?"

The soldier, who was frightened by his Commander's angry tone, was

silent: he could only produce one or two nervous twitchings of the

eyebrows.

"Well?" Shulgovich raised his voice.

"I--am--standing--on guard," the Tartar at last spluttered out, chancing

it. "I cannot--understand, your Excellency," he went on to say, but he

relapsed into silence again, and stood motionless.

The Colonel's face assumed a dark brick colour, a shade with a touch of

blue about it, and his bushy eyebrows began to pucker in an alarming

way. Beside himself with fury, he turned round and said in a sharp

tone--

"Who is the youngest officer here?"

Romashov stepped forward and touched his cap.

"I am, Colonel."

"Ha--Sub-lieutenant Romashov, you evidently train your men well. Stand

at attention and stretch your legs," bawled Shulgovich suddenly, his

eyes rolling. "Don't you know how to stand in the presence of your

commanding officer? Captain Sliva, I beg to inform you that your

subaltern officer has been lacking in the respect due to his chief. And

you, you miserable cur," he now turned towards the unhappy

Sharafutdinov, "tell me the name of your Commander."

"I don't know," replied Sharafutdinov quickly, but in a firm tone in

which, nevertheless, a melancholy resignation might be detected.

"Oh, _I_ ask you the name of your Colonel. Do you know who I am?

I--I--I!" and Shulgovich drummed with the flat of his hand several times

on his broad chest.

"I don't know."

The Colonel delivered himself of a string of about twenty words of

cynical abuse. "Captain Sliva, I order you at once to exhibit this son

of a sea-cook, so that all may see him, with rifle and heavy

accoutrements, and let him stand there till he rots. And as for you,

Sub-lieutenant, I know well enough that loose women and flirtation

interest you more than the service does. In waltzing and reading Paul de

Kock you're said to be an authority, but as to performing your duties,

instructing your men--that, of course, is beneath your dignity. Just

look at this creature" (he gave Sharafutdinov a sound slap on the

mouth)--"is this a Russian soldier? No, he's a brute beast, who does not

even recognize his own commanding officer. You ought to be ashamed of

yourself."

Romashov stared speechlessly at his chief's red and rage-distorted

countenance. He felt his heart threatening to burst with shame and

indignation. Suddenly, almost unconsciously, he burst out in a hollow

voice--

"Colonel, this fellow is a Tartar and does not understand a word of our

language, and besides...."

But he did not finish his sentence. Shulgovich's features had that very

instant undergone a ghastly change. His whole countenance was as white

as a corpse's, his withered cheeks were transfused with sharp, nervous

puckers, and his eyes assumed a terrible expression.

"Wh-at!" roared he in a voice so unnatural and awe-inspiring that a

little crowd of Jew boys, who, some distance from the causeway, were

sitting on the fence on which they had swarmed, were scattered like

sparrows--"you answer back? Silence! A raw young ensign permits himself

to---- Lieutenant Federovski, enter in my day-book that I have ordered

Sub-lieutenant Romashov four days' arrest in his room for breach of

discipline. And Captain Sliva is to be severely rebuked for neglecting

to instil into his junior officers 'a true military spirit.'"

The Adjutant saluted respectfully without any sign of fear. Captain

Sliva stood the whole time bending slightly forward, with his hand to

his cap, and quivering with emotion, though without altering a feature

of his wooden face.

"I cannot help being surprised at you, Captain Sliva," again grunted

Shulgovich, who had now to some extent regained his self-control. "How

is it possible that you, who are one of the best officers in the

regiment, and, moreover, old in the service, can let your youngsters run

so wild? They want breaking in. It is no use to treat them like young

ladies and being afraid of hurting them."

With these words he turned his back on the Captain, and, followed by the

Adjutant, proceeded to the carriage awaiting him. Whilst he was getting

into the carriage, and till the latter had turned round behind the

corner of the regimental school, a dull, painful silence reigned in the

parade-ground.

"Ah! you dear old ducky," exclaimed Captain Sliva in a dry tone and with

deep contempt, when the officers had, some minutes later, separated.

"Now, gentlemen, I suppose I, too, ought to say a couple of loving words

to you. Learn to stand at attention and hold your jaw even if the sky

falls--etc. To-day I've had a wigging for you before the whole of my

company. Who saddled me with you? Who asked for your services? Not I, at

any rate. You are, for me and my company, about as necessary as a fifth

leg is to a dog. Go to the deuce, and return to your feeding-bottle."

He finished his bitter lecture with a weary, contemptuous movement of

his hand, and dragged himself slowly away in the direction of his dark,

dirty, cheerless bachelor quarters. Romashov cast a long glance at him,

and gazing at the tall, thin figure, already bent with age, as well as

by the affront just endured, he felt a deep pity for this lonely,

embittered man whom nobody loved, who had only two interests in the

whole world--correct "dressing" of the 6th Company when marching at a

review, and the dear little schnapps bottle which was his trusty and

sole companion till bedtime.

And whereas Romashov also had the absurd, silly habit, which is often

peculiar to young people, viz. in his introspection to think of himself

as a third party, and then weave his noble personality into a

sentimental and stilted phrase from novelettes, our soft-hearted

lieutenant now expressed his opinion of himself in the following

touching manner--

"And over his kindly, expressive eyes fell the shadow of grief."