II

The soldiers marched home to their quarters in platoon order. The square

was deserted. Romashov stood hesitating for a moment at the causeway. It

was not the first time during the year and a half he had been in the

service he had experienced that painful feeling of loneliness, of being

lost among strangers either hostile or indifferent, or that distressful

hesitation as to where one shall spend the evening. To go home or spend

the evening at the officers' mess was equally distasteful to him. At the

latter place, at that time of day, there was hardly a soul, at most a

couple of ensigns who, whilst they drank ale and smoked to excess and

indulged in as many oaths and unseemly words as possible, played

pyramids in the wretched little narrow billiard-room; in addition to all

this, the horrible smell of food pervading all the rooms.

"I shall go down to the railway-station," said Romashov at last. "That

will be something to do."

In the poor little town, the population of which mainly consisted of

Jews, the only decent restaurant was that at the railway-station. There

were certainly two clubs--one for officers, the other for the civilian

"big-wigs" of the community. They were both, however, in a sorry plight,

and on these grounds the railway restaurant had become the only place

where the inhabitants assembled to shake off the dust of everyday life,

and to get a drink or a game at cards. Even the ladies of the place

accompanied their male protectors there, chiefly, however, to witness

the arrival of the trains and scrutinize the passengers, which always

offered a little change in the dreary monotony of provincial life.

Romashov liked to go down to the railway-station of an evening at the

time when the express arrived, which made its last stop before reaching

the Prussian frontier. With a curious feeling of excitement and tension,

he awaited the moment when the train flashed round a sharp curve of the

line, the locomotive's fiery, threatening eye grew rapidly in size and

intensity, and, at the next second, thundered past him a whole row of

palatial carriages. "Like a monstrously huge giant that suddenly checks

himself in the middle of a furious leap," he thought, the train came to

an abrupt stop before the platform. From the dazzling, illuminated

carriages, that resembled a fairy palace, stepped beautiful and elegant

ladies in wonderful hats, gentlemen dressed according to the latest

Paris fashion, who, in perfect French or German, greeted one another

with compliments or pointed witticisms. None of the passengers took the

slightest notice of Romashov, who saw in them a striking little sample

of that envied and unattainable world where life is a single,

uninterrupted, triumphal feast.

After an interval of eight minutes a bell would ring, the engine would

whistle, and the _train de luxe_ would flit away into the darkness. The

station would be soon deserted after this, and the lights lowered in the

buffet and on the platform, where Romashov would remain gazing with

melancholy eyes, after the lurid gleam of the red lamp of the rear

coach, until it disappeared in the gloom like an extinguished spark.

"I shall go to the station for a while," Romashov repeated to himself

once more, but when he cast a glance at his big, clumsy goloshes,

bespattered with clay and filth, he experienced a keen sense of shame.

All the other officers in the regiment wore the same kind of goloshes.

Then he noticed the worn buttonholes of his shabby cloak, its many

stains, and the fearfully torn lower border that almost degenerated into

a sort of fringe at the knees, and he sighed. One day in the previous

week he had, as usual, been promenading the platform, looking with

curiosity at the express train that had just arrived, when he noticed a

tall, extraordinarily handsome lady standing at the open door of a

first-class carriage. She was bare-headed, and Romashov managed to

distinguish a little, straight, piquant nose, two charming, pouting

lips, and a splendid, gleaming black head of hair which, parted in the

middle of her forehead, stole down to her coquettish little ears. Behind

her, and looking over her shoulder, stood a gigantic young man in a

light suit, with a scornful look, and moustaches after the style

affected by Kaiser Wilhelm. In fact, he bore a certain resemblance to

Wilhelm. The lady looked at Romashov, it seemed to him with an

expression of interest, and he said to himself: "The fair unknown's eyes

rested with pleasure on the young warrior's tall, well-formed figure."

But when, after walking on a few steps, he turned round to catch the

lady's eyes again, he saw that both she and her companion were looking

after him and laughing. In that moment he saw himself from outside, as

it were--his awful goloshes, his cloak, pale face, stiff, angular

figure--and experienced a feeling of shame and indignation at the

thought of the bombastic, romantic phrase he had just applied to

himself. Ah! even at this moment, when he was walking along the road in

the gloomy spring evening, he flushed at that torturing recollection.

"No, I shall not go to the station," he whispered to himself with bitter

hopelessness. "I'll take a little stroll and then go straight home."

It was in the beginning of April. The dusk was deepening into night. The

poplars that bordered the road, the small white houses with their

red-tiled roofs, the few wanderers one met in the street at this

hour--all grew darker, lost colour and perspective. All objects were

changed into black shadow, the lines of which, however, still showed

distinctly against the dark sky. Far away westwards, outside the town,

the sunset still gleamed fiery red. Vast dark-blue clouds melted slowly

down into a glowing crater of streaming, flaming gold, and then assumed

a blood-red hue with rays of violet and amber. But above the volcano,

like a dome of varying green, turquoise and beryl, arose the boundless

sky of a luminous spring night.

Romashov looked steadily at this enchanting picture whilst he slowly and

laboriously dragged himself and his goloshes along the causeway. As he

always did, even from childhood, he even now indulged in fancies of a

mysterious, marvellous world that waited for and beckoned to him in the

far distance, beyond the sunset. Just there--there behind the clouds and

the horizon--is hidden a wonderfully beautiful city lighted up by the

beams of a sun invisible from here, and protected against our eyes by

heavy, inexorable, threatening clouds. There the human eye is blinded by

streets paved with gold; there, to a dazzling height, the dome-capped

towers rise above the purple-hued roofs, where the palace windows

shimmer in the sun like innumerable gems, where countless flags and

banners resplendent with colour sway in the breeze. And in this fairy

city throng bands of rejoicing people, whose whole life is nothing but

an endless, intoxicating feast, a chord of harmony and bliss vibrating

for ever and ever. In paradisaical parks and gardens, amidst fountains

and flowers, stroll godlike men and women fair as the day, who have

never yet known an unfulfilled desire, who have never yet experienced

sorrow and struggle and shame.

Romashov suddenly called to mind the painful scene in the parade-ground,

the Commander's coarse invectives and that outrageous insult in the

presence of his comrades and subordinates. Ah! what affected him most

bitterly of all was that a person had railed at him before the soldiers

in the same rough and ruthless way as he himself, alas! had only too

often done to his subordinates. This he felt almost as a degradation,

nay, even as a debasement of his dignity as a human being.

Then awoke within him, exactly as was the case in his early youth--alas!

in many respects he still much resembled a big child--feelings at once

revengeful, fantastic, and intoxicating. "Stuff and nonsense!" he

shouted out to himself. "All my life is before me." And, as it were, in

keeping with his thoughts, he took firmer strides, and breathed more

deeply. "To-morrow to spite them all I shall rise with the sun, stick to

my books, and force an entrance into the Military Academy. Hard work? I

can work hard if I like. I must take myself in hand, that is all. I'll

read and cram like fury, early and late, and then, some fine day, to

every one's astonishment, I shall pass a brilliant examination. And

then, of course, every one will say: 'This was nothing unexpected, we

might have foretold that long ago. Such an energetic, talented young

man!'"

And our Romashov already saw himself in his mind's eye with a snug Staff

appointment and unlimited possibilities in the future. His name stood

engraved on the golden tablet of the Military Academy. The professors

had predicted a brilliant career for him, tried to retain him as a

lecturer at the Academy, etc. etc.--but in vain. All his tastes were for

the practical side, for troop service. He had also first to perform his

duties as company officer, and as a matter of course--yes, _as a matter

of course_--in his old regiment. He would, therefore, have to make

another appearance here--in this disgusting little out-of-the-way

hole--as a Staff officer uncommonly learned and all-accomplished, in

every respect unsurpassable, well-bred and elegant, inexorably severe to

himself, but benevolently condescending towards others, a pattern for

all, envied by all, etc. etc. He had seen at the manoeuvres in the

previous year a similar prodigy, who stood millions of miles above the

rest of mankind, and who, therefore, kept himself far apart from his

comrades at the officers' mess. Cards, dice, heavy drinking and noisy

buffoonery were not in his line; he had higher views. Besides, he had

only honoured with a short visit that miserable place, which for him was

only a stage, a step-ladder on the road to honour--and decorations.

And Romashov pursued his fancies. The grand manoeuvres have begun, and

the battalion is busy. Colonel Shulgovich, who never managed to make out

the strategical or tactical situation, gets more and more muddled in his

orders, commands and countermands, marches his men aimlessly here and

there, and has already got two orderlies at him, bringing severe

reprimands from the Commander of the corps. "Look here, Captain," says

Shulgovich, turning to his former sub-lieutenant, "help me out of this.

We are old and good friends, you know--well, we did have a little

difference on one occasion. Now tell me what I ought to do." His face is

red with anxiety and vexation; but Romashov sits straight in the saddle,

salutes stiffly, and in a respectful but freezing tone replies: "Pardon,

Colonel. _Your_ duty is to advance your regiment in accordance with the

Commander's order; _mine_ is only to receive your instructions and to

carry them out to the best of my ability." In the same moment a third

orderly from the Commander approaches at a furious gallop.

Romashov, the brilliant Staff officer, rises higher and higher towards

the pinnacles of power and glory. A dangerous strike has taken place at

a steel manufactory. Romashov's company is charged with the difficult

and hazardous task of restoring peace and order amongst the rioters.

Night and gloom, incendiarism, a flaming sea of fire, an innumerable,

hooting, bloodthirsty mob, a shower of stones. A stately young officer

steps in front of the company, his name is Romashov. "Brothers," cries

he, in a strong but melodious voice, "for the third and last time I

beseech you to disperse, otherwise--I shall fire." Wild shouts, derisive

laughter, whistling. A stone hits Romashov on the shoulder, but his

frank, handsome countenance maintains its unalterable calm. Slowly he

turns towards his soldiers, whose eyes scintillate with rage at the

insolent outrage that some one had dared to commit on their idolized

Captain. A few brief, energetic words of command are heard, "Line and

aim--fire!" A crashing report of rifles, immediately followed by a roar

of rage and despair from the crowd. A few score dead and wounded lie

where they have fallen; the rest flee in disorder or beg for mercy and

are taken prisoners. The riot is quelled, and Romashov awaits a gracious

token of the Tsar's gratitude and favour, together with a special reward

for the heroism he displayed.

Then comes the longed-for war. Nay, even before the war he is sent by

the War Office to Germany as a spy on the enemy's military power near

the frontier. Perfectly familiar with the German language, he enters

upon his hazardous career. How delightful is such an adventure to a

brave and patriotic man! Absolutely alone, with a German passport in his

pocket and a street organ on his back, he wanders from town to town,

from village to village, grinds out tunes, collects coppers, plays the

part of a simple lout, and meanwhile obtains, in all secrecy, plans and

sketches of fortresses, stores, barracks, camps, etc., etc. Foes and

perils lie in wait for him every minute. His own Government has left him

helpless and unprotected. He is virtually an outlaw. If he succeeds in

his purpose, honours and rewards of all kinds await him. Should he be

unmasked, he will be condemned straight off to be shot or hanged. He

sees himself standing in the dark and gloomy trench, confronted by his

executioners. Out of compassion they fasten a white cloth before his

eyes; but he tears it away and throws it to the ground with the proud

words, "Do you not think an officer can face death?" An old Colonel

replies, in a quivering voice: "Listen, my young friend. I have a son of

the same age as you. I will spare you. Tell us your name--tell us, at

any rate, your nationality, and the death sentence will be commuted to

imprisonment." "I thank you, Colonel; but it is useless. Do your duty."

Then he turns to the soldiers, and says to them in a firm voice in

German: "Comrades, there is only one favour I would crave: spare my

face, aim at my heart." The officer in command, deeply moved, raises his

white pocket-handkerchief--a crashing report--and Romashov's story is

ended.

This picture made such a lively impression on his imagination that

Romashov, who was already very excited and striding along the road,

suddenly stopped short, trembling all over. His heart beat violently,

and he clenched his hands convulsively. He gained, however, command over

himself immediately, and smiling compassionately at himself, he

continued on his way in the darkness.

But it was not long before he began to conjure up fresh pictures in his

imagination. The cruel war with Prussia and Austria, long expected and

prepared for, had come. An enormous battlefield, corpses everywhere,

havoc, annihilation, blood, and death. It was the chief battle, on the

issue of which the whole war depended. The decisive moment had arrived.

The last reserves had been brought up, and one was waiting anxiously for

the Russian flanking column to arrive in time to attack the enemy in the

rear. At any cost the enemy's frantic attack must be met without

flinching. The most important and threatened position on the field was

occupied by the Kerenski regiment, which was being decimated by the

concentrated fire of the enemy. The soldiers fight like lions without

yielding an inch, although the whole line is being mowed down by a

murderous fire of shells. Every one feels that he is passing through an

historical moment. A few more seconds of heroic endurance and victory

will be snatched out of the enemy's hands. But Colonel Shulgovich

wavers. He is a brave man--that must be admitted--but the perils of a

fight like this are too much for his nerves. He turns pale and trembles.

The next moment he signals to the bugler to sound the retreat, and the

latter has already put the bugle to his lips, when, that very moment,

Colonel Romashov, chief of the Staff, comes dashing from behind the hill

on his foaming Arab steed. "Colonel, we dare not retreat. The fate of

Russia will be decided here." Shulgovich begins blustering. "Colonel

Romashov, it is I who am in command and must answer to God and the Tsar.

The regiment must retire--blow the bugle." But Romashov snatches the

bugle from the bugler's hand and hurls it to the ground. "Forward, my

children!" he shouts; "the eyes of your Emperor and your

fellow-countrymen are fixed on you." "Hurrah!" With a deafening shout of

joy the soldiers, led by Romashov, rush at the foe. Everything

disappears in a chasm of fire and smoke. The enemy wavers, and soon his

lines are broken; but behind him gleam the Russian bayonets. "The

victory is ours! Hurrah, comrades"----

Romashov, who no longer walked but ran, gesticulating wildly, at last

stopped and gradually became himself again. It seemed to him as if some

one with fingers cold as ice had suddenly passed them over his back,

arms, and legs, his hair bristled, and his strong excitement had brought

tears to his eyes. He had no notion how he suddenly found himself near

his quarters, and, as he recovered from his mad fancies, he gazed with

astonishment at the street door he knew so well, at the neglected

fruit-garden within which stood the little whitewashed wing where he

lodged.

"How does all this nonsense get into my head?" said he, with a sense of

shame and a shrug of his shoulders in self-contempt.