"How do you do, Yuri Alexievich? Why don't you come and speak to me?"
Romashov went up to her. With a venomous glance from her small, sharp
eyes she pressed his hand. The pupils of her eyes stood motionless.
"At your desire I have kept the third quadrille for you. I hope you have
not forgotten that."
Romashov bowed.
"You are very polite! At least you might say _Enchanté, madame!_"
("Edchadté, badabe" was what Romashov heard.) "Isn't he a blockhead,
Count?"
"Of course, I remember," mumbled Romashov insincerely. "I thank you for
the great honour."
Bobetinski did nothing to liven up the evening. He conducted the ball
with an apathetic, condescending look, just as if he was performing,
from a strict sense of duty, something very distasteful and
uninteresting to himself, but of infinite importance to the rest of
mankind. When, however, the third quadrille was about to begin, he got,
as it were, a little new life, and, as he hurried across the room with
the long gliding steps of a skater, he shouted in a loud voice:
"_Quadrille monstre! Cavaliers, engagez vos dames!_"
Romashov and Raisa Alexandrovna took up a position close to the window
of the music gallery, with Michin and Madame Lieschtschenko for their
_vis-à-vis_. The latter hardly reached up to her partner's shoulders.
The number of dancers had now very noticeably increased, and the couples
stood up for the third quadrille. Every dance had therefore to be
repeated twice.
"There must be an explanation; this must be put a stop to," thought
Romashov, almost deafened by the noise of the big drums and the braying
brass instruments in his immediate proximity. "I have had enough! 'And
in his countenance you could read fixed resolution.'"
The "dancing-masters" and those who arranged the regimental balls had
preserved by tradition certain fairly innocent frolics and jokes for
such soirées, which were greatly appreciated by the younger dancers. For
instance, at the third quadrille it was customary, as it were
accidentally, by changing the dances, to cause confusion among the
dancers, who with uproar and laughter did their part in increasing the
general disorder. Bobetinski's device that evening consisted in the
gentlemen pretending to forget their partners and dancing the figure by
themselves. Suddenly a "galop all round" was ordered, the result of
which was a chaos of ladies and gentlemen rushing about in fruitless
search for their respective partners.
"_Mesdames, avancez--pardon, reculez._ Gentlemen, alone.
_Pardon--balancez avec vos dames!_"
Raisa Alexandrovna kept talking to Romashov in the most virulent tone
and panting with fury, but smiling all the while as if her conversation
was wholly confined to pleasant and joyous subjects.
"I will not allow any one to treat me in such a manner, do you hear? I
am not a good-for-nothing girl you can do as you like with. Besides,
decent people don't behave as you are behaving."
"Raisa Alexandrovna, for goodness' sake try to curb your temper," begged
Romashov in a low, imploring tone.
"Angry with you? No, sir, that would be to pay you too high a
compliment. I despise you, do you hear? Despise you; but woe to him who
dares to play with my feelings! You left my letter unanswered. How dare
you?"
"But your letter did not reach me, I assure you."
"Ha! don't try to humbug me. I know your lies, and I also know where you
spend your time. Don't make any mistake about that.
"Do you think I don't know this woman, this Lilliput queen, and her
intrigues? Rather, you may be sure of that," Raisa went on to say. "She
fondly imagines she's a somebody; yes, she does! Her father was a
thieving notary."
"I must beg you, in my presence, to express yourself in a more decent
manner in regard to my friends," interrupted Romashov sharply.
Then and there a painful scene occurred. Raisa stormed and broke out in
a torrent of aspersions on Shurochka. The fury within her had now the
mastery; her artificial smiles were banished, and she even tried to
drown the music by her snuffly voice. Romashov, conscious of his
impotence to try to put in a word in defence of the grossly insulted
Shurochka, was distracted with shame and wrath. In addition to this were
the intolerable din of the band and the disagreeable attention of the
bystanders, which his partner's unbridled fury was beginning to attract.
"Yes, her father was a common thief; she has nothing to stick her nose
in the air about and she ought, to be sure, to be very careful not to
give herself airs!" shrieked Raisa. "And for a thing like that to dare
to look down on us! We know something else about her, too!"
"I implore you!" whispered Romashov.
"Don't make any mistake about it; both you and she shall feel my claws.
In the first place, I shall open her husband's eyes--the eyes of that
fool Nikoläiev, who has, for the third time, been 'ploughed' in his
exam. But what else can one expect from a fool like that, who does not
know what is going on under his nose? And it is certainly no longer any
secret who the lover is."
"_Mazurka générale! Promenade!_" howled Bobetinski, who at that moment
was strutting through the room with the pomp of an archangel.
The floor rocked under the heavy tramping of the dancers, and the muslin
curtains and coloured lamps moved in unison with the notes of the
mazurka.
"Why cannot we part as friends?" Romashov asked in a shy tone. He felt
within himself that this woman not only caused him indescribable
disgust, but also aroused in his heart a cowardice he could not subdue,
and which filled him with self-contempt. "You no longer love me; let us
part good friends."
"Ha! ha! You're frightened; you're trying to cut my claws. No, my fine
fellow. I am not one of those who are thrown aside with impunity. It is
I, mind you, who throw aside one who causes me disgust and loathing--not
the other way about. And as for your baseness----"
"That's enough; let's end all this talk," said Romashov, interrupting
her in a hollow voice and with clenched teeth.
"Five minutes' _entr'acte_. _Cavaliers, occupez vos dames!_" shouted
Bobetinski.
"I'll end it when I think fit. You have deceived me shamefully. For you
I have sacrificed all that a virtuous woman can bestow. It is your fault
that I dare not look my husband in the face--my husband, the best and
noblest man on earth. It's you who made me forget my duties as wife and
mother. Oh, why, why did I not remain true to him!"
Romashov could not, however, now refrain from a smile. Raisa
Alexandrovna's innumerable amours with all the young, new-fledged
officers in the regiment were an open secret, and both by word of mouth
and in her letters to Romashov she was in the habit of referring to her
"beloved husband" in the following terms: "my fool," or "that despicable
creature," or "this booby who is always in the way," etc., etc.
"Ah, you have even the impudence to laugh," she hissed; "but look out
now, sir, it is my turn."
With these words she took her partner's arm and tripped along, with
swaying hips and smiling a vinegary smile on all sides. When the dance
was over her face resumed its former expression of hatred. Again she
began to buzz savagely--"like an angry wasp," thought Romashov.
"I shall never forgive you this, do you hear? _Never._ I know the reason
why you have thrown me over so shamelessly and in such a blackguardly
fashion; but don't fondly imagine that a new love-intrigue will be
successful. No; never, as long as I live, shall that be the case.
Instead of acknowledging in a straightforward and honourable way that
you no longer love me, you have preferred to cloak your treachery and
treat me like a vulgar harlot, reasoning, I suppose, like this: 'If it
does not come off with the other, I always have her, you know.' Ha! ha!
ha!"
"All right, you may perhaps allow me to speak decently," began Romashov,
with restrained wrath. His face grew paler and paler, and he bit his
lips nervously. "You have asked for it, and now I tell you straight. I
do _not_ love you."
"Oh, what an insult!"
"I have never loved you; nor did you love me. We have both played an
unworthy and false game, a miserable, vulgar farce with a nauseous plot
and disgusting _rôles_. Raisa Alexandrovna, I have studied you, and I
know you, very likely, better than you do yourself. You lack every
requisite of love, tenderness, nay, even common affection. The cause of
it is your absolutely superficial character, your narrow, petty outlook
on life. And, besides" (Romashov happened to remember at this point
Nasanski's words), "only elect, refined natures can know what a great or
real love is."
"Such elect, refined natures, for instance, as your own."
Once more the band thundered forth. Romashov looked almost with hatred
at the trombone's wide, shining mouth, that, with the most cynical
indifference, flung out its hoarse, howling notes over the whole of the
room. And its fellow-culprit--the poor soldier who, with the full force
of his lungs, gave life to the instrument--was with his bulging eyes and
blue, swollen cheeks, no less an object of his dislike and disgust.
"Don't let us quarrel about it. It is likely enough that I am not worthy
of a great and real love, but we are not discussing that now. The fact
is that you, with your narrow, provincial views and silly vanity, must
needs always be surrounded by men dancing attendance on you, so that you
may be able to boast about it to your lady friends in what you are
pleased to call 'Society.' And possibly you think I have not understood
the purpose of your ostentatiously familiar manner with me at the
regimental soirées, your tender glances, etc., the intimately
dictatorial tone you always assume when we are seen together. Yes,
precisely the chief object was that people should notice the
free-and-easy way in which you treated me. Except for this all your game
would not have had the slightest meaning, for no real love or affection
on my part has ever formed part of your--programme."
"Even if such had been the case I might well have chosen a better and
more worthy object than you," replied Raisa, in a haughty and scornful
tone.
"Such an answer from _you_ is too ridiculous to insult me; for, listen,
I repeat once more, your absurd vanity demands that some slave should
always be dancing attendance on you. But the years come and go, and the
number of your slaves diminishes. Finally, in order not to be entirely
without admirers, you are forced to sacrifice your plighted troth, your
duties as wife and mother."
"No; but that's quite sufficient. You shall most certainly hear from
me," whispered Raisa, in a significant tone and with glittering eyes.
At that moment, Captain Peterson came across the room with many absurd
skips and shuffles in order to avoid colliding with the dancers. He was
a thin, consumptive man with a yellow complexion, bald head, and black
eyes, in the warm and moist glance of which lurked treachery and malice.
It was said of him that, curiously enough, he was to such an extent
infatuated with his wife that he played the part of intimate friend, in
an unctuous and sickening way, with all her lovers. It was likewise
common knowledge that he had tried by means of acrimonious perfidy and
the most vulgar intrigues to be revenged on every single person who had,
with joy and relief, turned his back on the fair Raisa's withered
charms.
He smiled from a distance at his wife and Romashov with his bluish,
pursed lips.
"Are you dancing, Romashov? Well, how are you, my dear Georgi? Where
have you been all this time? My wife and I were so used to your company
that we have been quite dull without you."
"Been awfully busy," mumbled Romashov.
"Ah, yes, we all know about those military duties," replied Captain
Peterson, with a little insinuating whistle that was directly changed
into an amicable smile. His black eyes with their yellow pupils
wandered, however, from Raisa to Romashov inquisitively.
"I have an idea that you two have been quarrelling. Why do you both look
so cross? What has happened?"
Romashov stood silent whilst he gazed, worried and embarrassed, at
Raisa's skinny, dark, sinewy neck. Raisa answered promptly, with the
easy insolence she invariably displayed when lying:
"Yuri Alexievich is playing the philosopher. He declares that dancing is
both stupid and ridiculous, and that he has seen his best days."
"And yet he dances?" replied the Captain, with a quick, snake-like
glance at Romashov. "Dance away, my children, and don't let me disturb
you."
He had scarcely got out of earshot before Raisa Alexandrovna, in a
hypocritical, pathetic tone, burst out with, "And I have deceived this
saint, this noblest of husbands. And for whom?--Oh, if he knew all, if
he only knew!"
"_Mazurka générale_," shrieked Bobetinski. "Gentlemen, resume your
partners."
The violently perspiring bodies of the dancers and the dust arising from
the parquet floor made the air of the ballroom close, and the lights in
the lamps and candelabra took a dull yellow tint. The dancing was now in
full swing, but as the space was insufficient, each couple, who every
moment squeezed and pushed against one another, was obliged to tramp on
the very same spot. This figure--the last in the quadrille--consisted in
a gentleman, who was without a partner, pursuing a couple who were
dancing. If he managed to come face to face with a lady he clapped her
on the hand, which meant that the lady was now his booty. The lady's
usual partner tried, of course, to prevent this, but by this arose a
disorder and uproar which often resulted in some very brutal incidents.
"Actress," whispered Romashov hoarsely, as he bent nearer to Raisa.
"You're as pitiable as you are ridiculous."
"And you are drunk," the worthy lady almost shrieked, giving Romashov at
the same time a glance resembling that with which the heroine on the
stage measures the villain of the piece from head to foot.
"It only remains for me to find out," pursued Romashov mercilessly, "the
exact reason why I was chosen by you. But this, however, is a question
which I can answer myself. You gave yourself to me in order to get a
hold on me. Oh, if this had been done out of love or from sentiment
merely! But you were actuated by a base vanity. Are you not frightened
at the mere thought of the depths into which we have both sunk, without
even a spark of love that might redeem the crime? You must understand
that this is even more wretched than when a woman sells herself for
money. Then dire necessity is frequently the tempter. But in this
case--the memory of this senseless, unpardonable crime will always be
to me a source of shame and loathing."
With cold perspiration on his forehead and distraction in his weary
eyes, he gazed on the couples dancing. Past him--hardly lifting her feet
and without looking at her partner--sailed the majestic Madame Taliman,
with motionless shoulders and an ironical, menacing countenance, as if
she meant to protect herself against the slightest liberty or insult.
Epifanov skipped round her like a little frisky goat. Then glided little
Miss Lykatschev, flushed of face, with gleaming eyes, and bare, white,
virginal bosom. Then came Olisár with his slender, elegant legs,
straight and stiff as a sparrow's. Romashov felt a burning headache and
a strong, almost uncontrollable desire to weep; but beside him still
stood Raisa, pale with suppressed rage. With an exaggerated theatrical
gesture she fired at him the following sarcasm--
"Did any one ever hear such a thing before? A Russian Infantry
lieutenant playing the part of the chaste Joseph? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Yes, quite so, my lady. Precisely that part," replied Romashov, glaring
with wrath. "I know too well that it is humiliating and ridiculous.
Nevertheless, I am not ashamed to express my sorrow that I should have
so degraded myself. With our eyes open we have both flung ourselves into
a cesspool, and I know that I shall never again deserve a pure and noble
woman's love. Who is to blame for this? Well, you. Bear this well in
mind--you, you, you--for you were the older and more experienced of us
two, especially in affairs of that sort."
Raisa Alexandrovna got up hurriedly from her chair. "That will do," she
replied in a dramatic tone. "You have got what you wanted. _I hate
you._ I hope henceforward you will cease to visit a home where you were
received as a friend and relation, where you were entertained and fed,
and where, too, you were found out to be the scoundrel you are. Oh, that
I had the courage to reveal everything to my husband--that incomparable
creature, that saint whom I venerate. Were he only convinced of what has
happened he would, I think, know how to avenge the wounded honour of a
helpless, insulted woman. He would kill you."
Romashov looked through his eyeglass at her big, faded mouth, her
features distorted by hate and rage. The infernal music from the open
windows of the gallery continued with unimpaired strength; the
intolerable bassoon howled worse than ever, and, thought Romashov, the
bass drum had now come into immediate contact with his brain.
Raisa shut her fan with a snap that echoed through the ballroom. "Oh,
you--lowest of all blackguards on earth," whispered she, with a
theatrical gesture, and then disappeared into the ladies' retiring-room.
All was now over and done with, but Romashov did not experience the
relief he expected. This long-nourished hope to feel his soul freed from
a heavy, unclean burthen was not fulfilled. His strict, avenging
conscience told him that he had acted in a cowardly, low, and boorish
way when he cast all the blame on a weak, narrow, wretched woman who,
most certainly at that moment, in the ladies'-room, was, through him,
shedding bitter, hysterical tears of sorrow, shame, and impotent rage.
"I am sinking more and more deeply," thought he, in disgust at himself.
What had his life been? what had it consisted of? An odious and wanton
_liaison_, gambling, drinking, soul-killing, monotonous regimental
routine, with never a single inspiriting word, never a ray of light in
this black, hopeless darkness. Salutary, useful work, music, art,
science, where were they?
He returned to the dining-room. There he met Osadchi and his friend
Viätkin, who with much trouble was making his way in the direction of
the street door. Liech, now quite drunk, was helplessly wobbling in
different directions, whilst in a fuddled voice he kept asserting that
he was--an archbishop. Osadchi intoned in reply with the most serious
countenance and a low, rolling bass, whilst carefully following the
ecclesiastical ritual--
"Your high, refulgent Excellency, the hour of burial has struck. Give us
your blessing, etc."
As the soirée approached its end, the gathering in the dining-room grew
more noisy and lively. The room was already so full of tobacco smoke
that those sitting at opposite sides of the table could not recognize
each other. Cards were being played in one corner; by the window a small
but select set had assembled to edify one another by racy stories--the
spice most appreciated at officers' dinners and suppers.
"No, no, no, gentlemen," shrieked Artschakovski, "allow me to put in a
word. You see it was this way: a soldier was quartered at the house of a
_khokhol_[14] who had a pretty wife. Ho, ho, thought the soldier, that
is something for me."
Then, however, he was interrupted by Vasili Vasilievich, who had been
waiting long and impatiently--
"Shut up with your old stories, Artschakovski. You shall hear this. Once
upon a time in Odessa there----"
But even he was not allowed to speak very long. The generality of the
stories were rather poor and devoid of wit, but, to make up for that,
they were interspersed with coarse and repulsive cynicisms. Viätkin, who
had now returned from the street, where he had been paying his respects
to Liech's "interment" and holy "departure," invited Romashov to sit
down at the table.
"Sit you here, my dear Georginka.[15] We will watch them. To-day I am as
rich as a Jew. I won yesterday, and to-day I shall take the bank again."
Romashov only longed to lighten his heart, for a friend to whom he might
tell his sorrow and his disgust at life. After draining his glass he
looked at Viätkin with beseeching eyes, and began to talk in a voice
quivering with deep, inward emotion.
"Pavel Pavlich, we all seem to have completely forgotten the existence
of another life. _Where_ it is I cannot say; I only know that it exists.
Even in that men must struggle, suffer, and love, but that life is
rich--rich in great thoughts and noble deeds. For here, my friend, what
do you suppose our life is, and how will such a miserable existence as
ours end some day?"
"Well, yes, old fellow--but it's life," replied Viätkin in a sleepy way.
"Life after all is--only natural philosophy and energy. And what is
energy?"
"Oh, what a wretched existence," Romashov went on to say with increasing
emotion, and without listening to Viätkin. "To-day we booze at mess
till we are drunk; to-morrow we meet at drill--'one, two, left,
right'--in the evening we again assemble round the bottle. Just the
same, year in, year out. That's what makes up our life. How disgusting!"
Viätkin peered at him with sleepy eyes, hiccoughed, and then suddenly
started singing in a weak falsetto:--
"In the dark, stilly forest
There once dwelt a maiden,
She sat at her distaff
By day and by night.
"Take care of your health, my angel, and to the deuce with the rest.
"Romashevich! Romaskovski! let's go to the board of green cloth. I'll
lend you a----"
"No one understands me, and I have not a single friend here," sighed
Romashov mournfully. The next moment he remembered Shurochka--the
splendid, high-minded Shurochka, and he felt in his heart a delicious
and melancholy sensation, coupled with hopelessness and quiet
resignation.
He stayed in the mess-room till daybreak, watched them playing schtoss,
and now and then took a hand at the game, yet without feeling the
slightest pleasure or interest in it. Once he noticed how Artschakovski,
who was playing at a little private table with two ensigns, made rather
a stupid, but none the less successful, attempt to cheat. Romashov
thought for a moment of taking up the matter and exposing the fraud, but
checked himself suddenly, saying to himself: "Oh, what's the use! I
should not improve matters by interfering."
Viätkin, who had lost, in less than five minutes, his boasted
"millions," sat sleeping on a chair, with his eyes wide open and his
face as white as a sheet. Beside Romashov sat the eternal Lieschtschenko
with his mournful eyes fixed on the game. Day began to dawn. The
guttering candle-ends' half-extinguished, yellowish flames flickered
dully in their sticks, and illumined by their weak and uncertain light
the pale, emaciated features of the gamblers. But Romashov kept staring
at the cards, the heaps of silver and notes, and the green cloth
scrawled all over with chalk; and in his heavy, weary head the same
cruel, torturing thoughts of a worthless, unprofitable life ran
incessantly.
X
It was a splendid, though somewhat chilly, spring morning. The hedges
were in bloom. Romashov, who was still, as a rule, a slave to his
youthful, heavy sleep, had, as usual, overslept himself, and was late
for the morning drill. With an unpleasant feeling of shyness and
nervousness, he approached the parade-ground, and his spirits were not
cheered by the thought of Captain Sliva's notorious habit of making a
humiliating and painful situation still worse by his abuse and rudeness.
This officer was a survival of the barbaric times when an iron
discipline, idiotic pedantry--parade march in three time--and inhuman
martial laws were virtually epidemic. Even in the 4th Regiment, which,
from being quartered in a God-forsaken hole, seldom came into contact
with civilization, and, moreover, did not bear the reputation for much
culture, Captain Sliva was looked upon as a rough and boorish person,
and the most incredible anecdotes were current about him. Everything
outside the company, service, and drill-book, and which he was
accustomed to call "rot" or "rubbish," had no existence so far as he was
concerned. After having borne for nearly all his life the heavy burden
of military service, he had arrived at such a state of savagery that he
never opened a book, and, as far as newspapers were concerned, he only
looked at the official and military notices in the _Invalid_. He
despised with all his innate cynicism the meetings and amusements of
society, and there were no oaths, no insulting terms too gross and crude
for him to incorporate in his "Soldier's Lexicon." One story about him
was that one lovely summer evening, when sitting at his open window,
occupied, as usual, with his registers and accounts, a nightingale began
to warble. Captain Sliva got up instantly, and shouted in a towering
rage to his servant Sachartschuk, "Get a stone and drive away that
damned bird; it's disturbing me."
This apparently sleepy and easy-going man was unmercifully severe to the
soldiers, whom he not only abandoned to the ferocity of the "non-coms.,"
but whom he himself personally whipped till they fell bleeding to the
ground; but in all that concerned their food, clothing, and pay, he
displayed the greatest consideration and honesty, and in this he was
only surpassed by the commander of the 5th Company.
To the junior officers Captain Sliva was always harsh and stiff, and a
certain native, crabbed humour imparted an additional sharpness to his
biting sarcasms. If, for instance, a subaltern officer happened, during
the march, to step out with the wrong foot, he instantly bellowed--
"Damnation! What the devil are you doing? All the company _except_
Lieutenant N. is marching with the wrong foot!"
He was particularly rude and merciless on occasions when some young
officer overslept himself or, for some other cause, came too late to
drill, which not unfrequently was the case with Romashov.
Captain Sliva had a habit then of celebrating the victim's advent by
forming the whole company into line, and, in a sharp voice, commanding
"Attention!" After this he took up a position opposite the front rank,
and in death-like silence waited, watch in hand and motionless, while
the unpunctual officer, crushed with shame, sought his place in the
line. Now and then Sliva increased the poor sinner's torture by putting
to him the sarcastic question: "Will your Honour allow the company to go
on with the drill?" For Romashov he had, moreover, certain dainty
phrases specially stored up, e.g. "I hope you slept well," or "Your
Honour has, I suppose, as usual, had pleasant dreams?" etc., etc. When
all these preludes were finished, he began to shower abuse and
reproaches on his victim.
"Oh, I don't care," thought Romashov to himself in deep disgust as he
approached his company. "It is no worse to be here than in other places.
All my life is ruined."
Sliva, Viätkin, Lbov, and the ensign were standing in the middle of the
parade-ground, and all turned at once to Romashov as he arrived. Even
the soldiers turned their heads towards him, and with veritable torture
Romashov pictured to himself what a sorry figure he cut at that moment.
"Well, the shame I am now feeling is possibly unnecessary or excessive,"
he reasoned to himself, trying, as is habitual with timid or bashful
persons, to console himself. "Possibly that which seems so shameful and
guilty to me is regarded by others as the veriest trifle. Suppose, for
instance, that it was Lbov, not I, who came too late, and that I am now
in the line and see him coming up. Well, what more--what is there to
make a fuss about? Lbov comes--that's all it amounts to. How stupid to
grieve and get uncomfortable at such a petty incident, which within a
month, perhaps even in a week, will be forgotten by all here present.
Besides, what is there in this life which is not forgotten?" Romashov
remarked as he finished his argument with himself, and felt in some
degree calm and consoled.
To every one's astonishment this time Sliva spared Romashov from
personal insults, nay, he even seemed not to have noticed him in the
least. When Romashov went up to him and saluted, with his heels together
and his hand at his cap, he only said, pointing his red, withered
fingers, which strongly resembled five little cold sausages:
"I must beg you, Sub-lieutenant, to remember that it is your duty to be
with your company _five_ minutes before the senior subaltern officers,
and _ten_ minutes before the chief of your company."
"I am very sorry, Captain," replied Romashov in a composed tone.
"That's all very well, Sub-lieutenant, but you are always asleep and you
seem to have quite forgotten the old adage: 'He who is seldom awake must
go about shabby.' And I must now ask you, gentlemen, to retire to your
respective companies."
The whole company was split up into small groups, each of which was
instructed in gymnastics. The soldiers stood drawn up in open file at a
distance of a pace apart, and with their uniforms unbuttoned in order to
enable them to perform their gymnastic exercises. Bobyliev, the smart
subaltern officer stationed in Romashov's platoon, cast a respectful
glance at his commander, who was approaching, his lower jaw stuck out
and his eyes squinting, and giving orders in a resonant voice--
"Hips steady. Rise on your toes. Bend your knees."