At 3.30 p.m. Lieutenant Federovski, the Adjutant of the regiment, drove
up to Romashov's house. He was a tall, stately, and (as the ladies of
the regiment used to say) presentable young man, with freezingly cold
eyes and an enormous moustache that almost grazed his shoulder. Towards
the younger officers he was always excessively polite, but, at the same
time, officially correct in his conduct. He was not familiar with any
one, and had a very high opinion of himself and his position. Nearly all
the captains flattered and paid court to him.
As he entered the door, he rapidly scanned with his blinking eyes the
whole of the scanty furniture in Romashov's room. The latter, who lay
resting on his bed, jumped off, and, blushing, began to button up his
undress tunic.
"I am here by orders of the commander, who wishes to speak to you," said
Federovski in a dry tone. "Be good enough to dress and accompany me as
soon as possible."
"I shall be ready at once. Shall I put on undress or parade uniform?"
"Don't, please, stand on ceremony. A frock-coat, if you like, that would
be quite sufficient. Meanwhile, with your permission, I will take a
seat."
"Oh, I beg your pardon--will you have some tea?" said Romashov fussily.
"No, thanks. My time is short, and I must ask you to be as quick as
possible about changing your clothes."
And without taking off his cloak or gloves, he sat down whilst Romashov
changed his clothes in nervous haste and with painful glances at his not
particularly clean shirt. Federovski sat the whole time with his hands
resting on the hilt of his sabre, as motionless as a stone image.
"I suppose you do not happen to know why I am sent for?"
The Adjutant shrugged his shoulders.
"A singular question! How should I know? You ought to know the reason
better than I. But if I may give you a bit of friendly advice, put the
sabre-belt under--not over--the shoulder strap. The Colonel is, as you
are aware, particular about such matters. And now, if you please, we
will start."
Before the steps stood a common _calèche_, attached to which were a
couple of high, lean army horses. Romashov was polite enough to encroach
as little as possible on the narrow seat, so as not to cause his
attendant any discomfort, but the latter did not, so it seemed, take the
slightest notice of that. On the way they met Viätkin; the latter
exchanged a chilly and correct salute with the Adjutant, but honoured
Romashov, who for a second turned round, with a comic but enigmatical
gesture that might probably mean: "Ah, poor fellow, you are on your way
to Pontius Pilate." They met other officers, some of whom regarded
Romashov with a sort of solemn interest, others with unfeigned
astonishment, and some bestowed on him only a derisive smile. Romashov
tried to avoid their glances and felt himself shrinking beneath them.
The Colonel did not receive him at once. He had some one in his private
room. Romashov had to wait in a half-dark hall that smelt of apples,
naphtha, newly-polished furniture and, besides that, of something which
not at all unpleasantly reminded him of the odour which seems
particularly inseparable from clothes and furniture in well-to-do German
families that are pedantically careful about their goods and chattels.
As he walked slowly up and down the hall, he glanced at himself several
times in a mirror in a light ashwood frame which was fixed to the wall;
and each time he looked his face struck him as being unhealthily pale,
ugly, and queer. His uniform, too, was shabby, and his epaulettes
soiled.
Out in the hall might be heard the incessant rumbling of the Colonel's
deep bass voice. The words themselves could not be distinguished, but
the ferocious tone told the tale clearly enough that Colonel Shulgovich
was scolding some one with implacable and sustained rage. This went on
for about five minutes; after which Schulgovich suddenly became silent,
a trembling, supplicating voice succeeded his, and, after a moment's
pause, Romashov clearly heard the following frightful tirade uttered
with a terrible accent of pride, indignation, and contempt:
"What nonsense is it that you dare to talk about your wife and your
children? What the devil have I to do with them? Before you brought your
children into the world you ought to have considered how you could
manage to feed them. What? So now you are trying to throw the blame on
your Colonel, are you? But it has nothing to do with him. You know too
well, Captain, that if I do not deliver you into the hands of justice I
shall fail in my duty as your commander. Be good enough not to
interrupt me. Here there is no question of an offence against
discipline, but a glaring crime, and _your_ place henceforward will
certainly not be in the regiment, but you yourself best know _where_."
Again he heard that miserable, beseeching voice, so pitiful that it did
not sound human.
"Good Lord! what is it all about?" thought Romashov, who, as if he were
glued to the looking-glass, gazed at his pale face without seeing it,
and felt his heart throbbing painfully. "Good Lord! how horrible!"
The plaintive, beseeching voice again replied, and spoke at some length.
When it ceased, the Colonel's deep bass began thundering, but now
evidently a trifle more calmly and gently than before, as if his rage
had spent itself, and his desire to witness the humiliation of another
were satisfied.
Shulgovich said abruptly: "Engrave it for ever on your red nose. All
right! But this is the last time. Remember now! The last time! Do you
hear? If it ever comes to my ears that you have been drunk,
the--silence!--I know what you intend to say, but I won't hear any more
of your promises. In a week's time I shall inspect your company. You
understand? And as to the troops' pay, that matter must be settled
to-morrow. You hear? _To-morrow._ And now I shall not detain you longer,
Captain. I have the honour----"
The last words were interrupted by a scraping on the floor, and a few
tottering steps towards the door; but, suddenly, the Colonel's voice was
again heard, though this time its wrathful and violent tone did not
sound quite natural.
"Wait a moment! Come here, you devil's pepper-box! Where are you off
to? To the Jews, of course--to get a bill signed. Ah, you fool--you
blockhead! Here you are! One, two, three, four--three hundred. I can't
do more. Take them and be off with you. Pay me back when you can. What a
mess you have made of things, Captain! Now be off with you! Go to the
devil--your servant, sir!"
The door sprang open, and into the hall staggered little Captain
Sviatovidov, red and perspiring, with harassed, nay, ravaged, features.
His right hand grasped convulsively his new, rustling bundle of
banknotes. He made a sort of pirouette directly he recognized Romashov,
tried, but failed miserably in the attempt, to assume a sportive,
free-and-easy look, and clutched tight hold of Romashov's fingers with
his hot, moist, trembling hand. His wandering, furtive glances rested at
last on Romashov as if he would ask the question: "Have you heard
anything or have you not?"
"He's a tiger, a bloodhound!" he whispered, pointing to the door of the
Colonel's room; "but what the deuce does it matter?" Sviatovidov twice
crossed himself quickly. "The Lord be praised! the Lord be praised!"
"Bon-da-ren-ko!" roared Shulgovich from his room, and his powerful voice
that moment filled every nook and corner of the house. "Bondarenko, who
is out there still? Bring him in."
"Hold your own, my young lion," whispered Sviatovidov with a false
smile. "_Au revoir_, Lieutenant. Hope you'll have a good time."
Bondarenko glided through the door. He was a typical Colonel's servant,
with an impudently condescending look, hair pomaded and parted in the
middle, dandified, with white gloves. He addressed Romashov in a
respectful tone, but eyed him, at the same time, in a very bold way.
"His Excellency begs your Honour to step in."
He opened the door and stepped aside. Romashov walked in.
Colonel Shulgovich sat at a table in a corner of the room, to the left
of the door. He was wearing his fatigue tunic, under which appeared his
gleaming white shirt. His red, sinewy hands rested on the arm of his
easy chair. His unnaturally big, old face, with short tufts of hair on
the top of his head, and the white pointed beard, gave an impression of
a certain hardness and coldness. The bright colourless eyes gleamed
almost aggressively at the visitor, whose salutation was returned with a
brief nod. Romashov at that moment noticed a crescent-shaped ring in the
Colonel's ear, and thought to himself: "Strange that I never saw that
ring before."
"This is very serious," began Shulgovich, in a gruff bass that seemed to
proceed from the depths of his diaphragm, after which he made a long
pause. "Shame on you!" he continued in a raised voice. "Because you've
served a year all but one week you begin to put on airs. Besides this, I
have many other reasons to be annoyed with you. For instance: I come to
the parade-ground and make a justifiable remark about you. At once you
are ready to answer your commanding officer in a silly, insolent manner.
Can that be called military tact and discipline? No. Such a thing is
incredible, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself." The latter words
were roared by Shulgovich with such deafening violence that his victim
felt a tremor under his knee-cap.
Romashov looked gloomily away, and no power in the world, thought he,
should induce him to look at the Colonel straight in his basilisk face.
"Where's my _Ego_ now?" he asked himself ironically. "Here the only
thing to do is to suffer, keep silent, and stand at attention."
"It does not matter now how I obtained my information about you. It is
quite sufficient I know all your sins. _You drink._ You, a mere boy--a
callow creature that has but lately left school--swig schnapps like a
cobbler's apprentice. Hold your tongue, don't try to defend yourself, I
know everything--and much more than you think. Well, God forbid!--if you
are bent on going down the broad path you are welcome to do it, so far
as I'm concerned. Still, I'll give you a warning: drink has made more
than one of your sort acquainted with the inside of a prison. Lay these
words of mine to heart. My long-suffering is great, but even an angel's
patience can be exhausted. The officers of a regiment are mutually
related as members of one family; but don't forget that an unworthy
member who tarnishes the honour of the family is ruthlessly cast out."
"Here I stand paralysed with fright, and my tongue is numbed," thought
Romashov, as he stared, as though hypnotized, at the little silver ring
in the Colonel's ear. "At this moment I ought to tell him straight out
that I do not in the least degree value the honour of belonging to this
worthy family, and that I shall be delighted to leave it to enter the
reserves; but have I the courage to say so?" His lips moved, he found a
difficulty in swallowing, but he stood still, as he had throughout the
interview.
"But let us," continued Shulgovich in the same harsh tone, "examine more
closely your conduct in the past. In the previous year--practically as
soon as you entered the service, you requested leave on account of your
mother's illness, nay, you even produced a sort of letter about it.
Well, in such cases an officer cannot, you know, openly express his
doubts as to the truth of a comrade's word. But I take this opportunity
of telling you in private that I had my own opinion then about that
story. You understand?"
Romashov had for a long time felt a tremor in his right knee. This
tremor was at first very slight, in fact scarcely noticeable, but it
very soon assumed alarming proportions, and finally extended over the
whole of his body. This feeling grew very painful at the thought that
Shulgovich might possibly regard his nervousness as proceeding from
fear; but when his mother's name was mentioned, a consuming heat coursed
through Romashov's veins, and his intense nervous tremor ceased
immediately. For the first time during all this painful scene he raised
his eyes to his torturer and looked him defiantly straight in the face.
And in this look glittered a hatred, menace, and imperious lust of
vengeance from the insulted man, so intense and void of all fear that
the illimitable distance between the omnipotent commander and the
insignificant sub-lieutenant, who had no rights at all, was absolutely
annihilated. A mist arose before Romashov's eyes, the various objects in
the room lost their shape, and the Colonel's gruff voice sounded to him
as if from a deep abyss. Then there suddenly came a moment of darkness
and ominous silence, devoid of thoughts, will, or external perception,
nay, even without consciousness. He experienced only a horrible
certainty that, in another moment, something terrible and maniacal,
something irretrievably disastrous, would happen. A strange, unfamiliar
voice whispered in his ear: "Next moment I will kill him," and Romashov
was slowly but irresistibly forced to fix his eyes on the Colonel's bald
head.
Afterwards, as if in a dream, he became aware, although he could not
understand the reason, of a curious change in his enemy's eyes, which,
in rapid succession, reflected wonder, dread, helplessness, and pity.
The wave of destruction that had just whelmed through Romashov's soul,
by the violence of natural force, subsided, sank, and disappeared in
space. He tottered, and now everything appeared to him commonplace and
uninteresting. Shulgovich, in nervous haste, placed a chair before him,
and said, with unexpected but somewhat rough kindness--
"The Devil take you! what a touchy fellow you are! Sit down and be
damned to you! But you are all alike. You look at me as if I were a wild
beast. 'The old fossil goes for us without rhyme or reason.' And all the
time God knows I love you as if you were my own children. Do you think I
have nothing to put up with, either? Ah, gentlemen, how little you know
me! It is true I scold you occasionally, but, damn it all! an old fellow
has a right to be angry sometimes. Oh, you youngsters! Well, let us make
peace. Give me your hand and come to dinner."
Romashov bowed without uttering a syllable, and pressed the coarse,
cold, hairy hand. His recollection of the past insult to some extent
faded, but his heart was none the lighter for this. He remembered his
proud, inflated fancies of that very morning, and he now felt like a
little pale, pitiful schoolboy, like a shy, abandoned, scarcely
tolerated brat, and he thought of all this with shame and
mortification. Also, whilst accompanying Shulgovich to the dining-room,
he could not help addressing himself, as his habit was, in the third
person--
"And a shadow rested on his brow."
Shulgovich was childless. In the dining-room, his wife--a fat, coarse,
self-important, and silent woman--awaited him. She had not a vestige of
neck, but displayed a whole row of chins. Notwithstanding her
_pince-nez_ and her scornful mien, there was a certain air of vulgarity
about her countenance, which gave the impression of its being formed, at
the last minute, hurriedly and negligently, out of dough, with raisins
or currants instead of eyes. Behind her waddled, dragging her feet, the
Colonel's old mother--a little deaf, but still an active, domineering,
venomous old hag. While she closely and rudely examined Romashov over
her spectacles, she clawed hold of his fingers and coolly pressed to his
lips her black, shrivelled, bony hand, that reminded one most of an
anatomical specimen. This done, she turned to the Colonel and asked him,
just as if they had been absolutely alone in the dining-room--
"Who is this? I don't remember seeing him here before?"
Shulgovich formed his hands into a sort of speaking-tube, and bawled
into the old woman's ear:
"Sub-lieutenant Romashov, mamma. A capital officer, a smart fellow, and
an ornament to his regiment--comes from the Cadet School. By the way,
Sub-lieutenant," he exclaimed abruptly, "we are certainly from the same
province. Aren't you from Pevsa?"[9]
"Yes, Colonel, I was born in Pevsa."
"To be sure, to be sure; now I remember. You are from the Narovtschátski
district?"
"Quite right, Colonel."
"Ah, yes--how could I have forgotten it! Mamma," he again trumpeted into
his mother's ear, "mamma, Sub-lieutenant Romashov is from our province;
he's from Narovtschátski."
"Ah, ah," and the old woman raised her eyebrows as a sign that she
understood. "Well, then, you're, of course, a son of Sergei Petrovich
Shishkin?"
"No, dear mother," roared the Colonel, "you are wrong. His name is
Romashov, not Shishkin."
"Yes, didn't I say so? I never knew Sergei Petrovich except by hearsay;
but I often met Peter Petrovich. He was a charming young man. We were
near neighbours, and I congratulate you, my young friend, on your
relationship."
"Well, as you will have it, you old deaf-as-a-post," exclaimed the
Colonel, interrupting her with good-humoured cynicism." But now, let's
sit down; please take a seat, Sub-lieutenant. Lieutenant Federovski," he
shrieked towards the door, "stop your work and come and have a
schnapps." The Adjutant, who, according to the custom in many regiments,
dined every day with his chief, hurriedly entered the dining-room. He
clicked his spurs softly and discreetly, walked straight up to the
little majolica table with the _sakuska_,[10] calmly helped himself to a
schnapps, and ate with extreme calmness and enjoyment. Romashov noticed
all that with an absurd, envious feeling of admiration.
"You'll take one, won't you?" said Shulgovich to Romashov. "You're no
teetotaller, you know."
"No, thank you very much," replied Romashov hoarsely; and, with a slight
cough, "I do not usually----"
"Bravo, my young friend. Stick to that in future."
They sat down to table. The dinner was good and abundant. Any one could
observe that, in this childless family, both host and hostess had an
innocent little weakness for good living. Dinner consisted of chicken
soup with vegetables, roast bream with _kascha_,[11] a splendid fat duck
and asparagus. On the table stood three remarkable decanters containing
red wine, white wine, and madeira, resplendent with embossed silver
stoppers bearing elegant foreign marks. The Colonel, whose violent
explosion of wrath but a short time previously had evidently given him
an excellent appetite, ate with an elegance and taste that struck the
spectator with pleasure and surprise. He joked all the time with a
certain rough humour. When the asparagus was put on the table, he
crammed a corner of his dazzlingly white serviette well down under his
chin, and exclaimed in a lively way--
"If I were the Tsar, I would eat asparagus every day of my life."
Only once, at the fish course, he fell into his usual domineering tone,
and shouted almost harshly to Romashov--
"Sub-lieutenant, be good enough to put your knife down. Fish and cutlets
are eaten only with a fork. An officer must know how to eat properly; he
may, at any time, you know, be invited to the palace. Don't forget
that."
Romashov was uncomfortable and constrained the whole time. He did not
know what to do with his hands, which, for the most part, he kept under
the table plaiting the fringe of the tablecloth. He had long got out of
the habit of observing what was regarded as "good form" in an elegant
and wealthy house. And, during the whole time he was at table, one sole
thought tortured him: "How disagreeable this is, and what weakness and
cowardice on my part not to have the courage to refuse this humiliating
invitation to dinner. Now I shall not stand this any longer. I'll get up
and bow to the company, and go my way. They may think what they please
about it. They can hardly eat me up for that--nor rob me of my soul, my
thoughts, my consciousness. Shall I go?" And again he was obliged to
acknowledge to himself, with a heart overflowing with pain and
indignation, that he lacked the moral courage necessary to assert his
individuality and self-respect.
Twilight was falling when at last coffee was served. The red, slanting
beams of the setting sun filtered in through the window blinds, and
sportively cast little copper-coloured spots or rays on the dark
furniture, on the white tablecloth, and the clothes and countenances of
those present. Conversation gradually languished. All sat silent, as
though hypnotized by the mystic mood of the dying day.
"When I was an ensign," said Shulgovich, breaking the silence, "we had
for the chief of our brigade a General named Fofanov. He was just one of
those gentle and simple old fogies who had risen from the ranks during a
time of war, and, as I believe, belonged at the start to what we call
Kantonists.[12] I remember how at reviews he always went straight up to
the big drum--he was insanely enamoured of that instrument--and said to
the drummer, 'Come, come, my friend, play me something really
melancholy.' This same General had also the habit of going to bed
directly the clock struck eleven. When the clock was just on the stroke
of the hour, he invariably said to his guests, 'Well, well, gentlemen,
eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves, but I'm going to throw myself into the
arms of Neptune.' Somebody once remarked, 'Your Excellency, you mean the
arms of Morpheus?' 'Oh, that's the same thing. They both belong to the
same mineralogy.' Well, that's just what I am going to do, gentlemen."
Shulgovich got up and placed his serviette on the arm of his chair. "I,
too, am going to throw myself into the arms of Neptune. I release you,
gentlemen."
Both officers got up and stretched themselves. "A bitter, ironical smile
played on his thin lips," thought Romashov about himself--only
_thought_, however, for at that moment his countenance was pale,
wretched, and by no means prepossessing to look at.
Once more Romashov was on his way home, and once more he felt himself
lonely, abandoned, and helpless in this gloomy and hostile place. Once
more the sun flamed in the west, amidst heavy, dark blue thunder-clouds,
and once more before Romashov's eyes, in the distance, behind houses and
fields, at the verge of the horizon, there loomed a fantastic fairy city
beckoning to him with promises of marvellous beauty and happiness.
The darkness fell suddenly between the rows of houses. A few little
Jewish children ran, squealing, along the path. Here and there in
doorways, in the embrasures of windows, and in the dusk of gardens there
were sounds of women's laughter, provocative and unintermittent, and
with a quiver of warm animalistic gladness which is heard only when
spring is near. With the deep yet calm melancholy that now lay heavy on
Romashov's heart there were mingled strange, dim memories of a bliss
miraged but never enjoyed in youth's still lovelier spring, and there
arose in his heart a delicious presentiment of a strong, invincible love
that at last gained its object.
When Romashov reached his abode he found Hainán in his dark and dirty
cupboard in front of Pushkin's bust. The great bard was smeared all over
with grease, and before him burning candles cast bright blurs on the
statue's nose, its thick lips and muscular neck. Hainán sat, in the
Turkish style, cross-legged on the three boards that constituted his
bed, rocked his body to and fro, and mumbled out in a sing-song tone
something weird, melancholy, and monotonous.
"Hainán," shouted Romashov.
The servant started, jumped up, and stood at attention. Fear and
embarrassment were displayed on his countenance.
"Allah?" asked Romashov in the most friendly way.
The Circassian's shaven boyish mouth expanded in a broad grin which
showed his beautiful white teeth in the candle-light.
"Allah, your Honour."
"It is all the same, Hainán. Allah is in you. Allah is in me. There is
one Allah for us all."
"My excellent Hainán," thought Romashov to himself as he went into his
room. "And I dare not shake hands with him. Dare not! Damn it all! from
to-day I will dress and undress myself. It's a disgrace that some one
else should do it for me."
That evening he did not go to the mess-room, but stayed at home and
brought out of a drawer a thick, ruled book, nearly entirely filled with
elegant, irregular handwriting. He wrote far into the night. It was the
third in order of Romashov's novels, and its title ran: _A Fatal
Beginning_.
But our lieutenant blushed furiously at his literary efforts, and he
would not have been induced for anything in the world to acknowledge his
authorship.