"Good, my lads," rang the General's delighted voice. "Ah, ah, ah, ah!"
was the soldiers' rapid, joyous answer. Stronger and stronger at every
second grew the alluring influence of the parade march, and Romashov
could hardly restrain his feelings any longer. "O thou, my ideal,"
thought he of the General, with deep emotion.
The blissful moment had come. With elastic strides that scarcely touched
the ground, Romashov approached his "enchanted thread." He threw his
head bravely back with a proud and defiant twist to the left. So potent
a feeling of lightness, freedom, and bliss rushed through his being that
he fancied he could at any moment whirl himself into space. And while he
felt he was an object of delight and admiration to the eyes of all--a
centre of all the universe contains of strength, beauty, and delight, he
said to himself, as though under the witchery of a heavenly dream--
"Look, look, there goes Romashov! The ladies' eyes are shining with love
and admiration. One, two; left, right, 'Colonel Shulgovich,' shouts the
General, 'your Romashov is a priceless jewel; he must be my Adjutant.'
Left, right! One, two!"
Another second and Romashov knew he had started and passed his mystic
"thread." The parade march had changed to a joyous peal of trumpets
announcing victory. "Now comes the General's salute and thanks," thought
Romashov, and his soul returns to the regions of bliss; but he fancies
he hears the Colonel's voice and certain other voices.
"What has happened; what is the matter? Of course the General has
saluted, but why don't my men respond?--What's this?"
Romashov turned round, and his face became white. Instead of a
well-ordered troop in two lines as straight as an arrow, his men formed
a shapeless mass--a crowd--resembling a flock of sheep--of individuals
mad with imbecility and misery, pushing and jolting each other. The
cause of this was that Romashov, whilst he was in his paradisaical world
of dreams and intoxication of victory, failed to notice that, step by
step, he deviated from the line of march, and more and more approached
the right wing of his division. His trusty, unfortunate "markers"
followed close on the heels of their leader, and, of course, in
consequence of this the whole of the half company finally got into the
wildest confusion. Romashov saw all this at the very moment he became
aware that the wretched Khliabnikov was stalking, on his own account,
twenty paces behind the division, right under the very nose of the
General.
Romashov immediately let his wings droop. Covered with dust, he stood
quite still to await and collect his poor veterans, who, absolutely dead
beaten with the weight of their knapsacks and ammunition, were now
hardly able to crawl along on all-fours with one hand still grasping the
rifle and the other fumbling in the air or in the region of their
perspiring noses.
To Romashov it seemed as if the glorious May sun had suddenly lost its
radiance; as if he had been buried under an infinite weight, under sand
and gravel, and that the music that so lately sounded such triumphant
strains now rang softly and ominously in his ears, like a funeral march.
And he felt so small and weak and wretched, so loathsome in every
respect, that it was all he could do to keep himself upright on his
leaden, palsied legs.
The Colonel's Adjutant at that moment rushed up to him. Federovski's
face was as red as fire and distorted with passion. His lower jaw
trembled, and he was panting with rage and his hard riding. Even at a
distance he began shrieking like a man possessed, and uttering
inarticulate and incomprehensible words.
"Sub-lieutenant Romashov, the commander of your regiment condemns, in
the strongest terms, your behaviour to-day. Seven days' arrest in the
staff cells. What a monstrous scandal! The whole regiment--on account of
you. Oh, such an abortion!"
Romashov did not make the slightest reply, nor did he even turn his
head. And, besides, what answer could he make? Federovski had, most
certainly, a right to be furious. But the troops, the soldiers who heard
every single insulting word of the Adjutant's--what would they think?
Romashov felt at that moment a boundless hatred and contempt of
himself. "I am lost; I am dishonoured for ever. I'll shoot myself. Can I
suppose I am worthy to live! What am I? An insignificant, ridiculous,
contemptible wretch--a caricature, an ugly, disgusting, idiotic
creature. My own soldiers will laugh at me, and, behind my back, they
will make merry with nudges and secret signs, at my expense. Or,
perhaps, they will pity me. All the same, everything is lost, and
I--I'll shoot myself."
After passing the General, all the companies made a half-turn to the
left, and then went back to their original places, where they were
successively drawn up again and in open file. Whilst waiting for the
return of the last companies to march past, the men were allowed to
"stand easy," and the officers utilized the occasion to smoke a
cigarette and chat with one another. Only Romashov stood quite alone,
silent and motionless in front of his half company. He dug the earth
incessantly with the point of his sabre, and though he cast his eyes
down fixedly, he felt he was, on all sides, a mark for curious,
sarcastic, and contemptuous glances.
Captain Sliva purposely passed by Romashov without stopping except to
look at him, and spoke, as it were, to himself through his clenched
teeth, and in a voice hoarse and unrecognizable through hatred and
fury--
"Be good enough to send in to-day a request to be transferred to another
company."
A little while afterwards Viätkin came. In his kindly, frank glance and
the drawn corners of his mouth, Romashov read that expression of pity
and compassion with which people usually regard a dog that has been run
over and crushed in the street. And, at the same time, Romashov felt
with disgust that he had, half mechanically, twisted his mouth into an
unmeaning, pitiful smile.
"Yuri Alexievich," exclaimed Viätkin, "come and smoke a cigarette with
me," and with a click of the tongue and slightly throwing his head back,
he added in a despondent tone--
"Well, well, old chap!"
Romashov's chin and the corners of his mouth twitched, and a lump came
into his throat. Tears were not far off, and he replied in the faltering
and fretful voice of an aggrieved child--
"No, no; not now!--I don't want to!"
Viätkin withdrew.
"Suppose I were to go and give that fellow Sliva a bang on his ear,"
thought Romashov, buffeted here and there by his melancholy
introspections. "Or to go up to that grey-bearded General and say:
'Aren't you ashamed, at your age, to play with soldiers and torture men?
Release us from here instantly, and let us rest. For two long weeks the
soldiers have been ill-treated solely on account of you.'"
Romashov, however, remembered his own proud, stuck-up thoughts only a
brief while ago--of the young ensign as handsome as a picture, of the
ladies' ideal, of the General's favourite future Adjutant, etc.,
etc.--and he felt so much shame and pain that a deep blush overspread,
not only his face, but even his chest and back.
"You wretched, absurd, contemptible being!" he shrieked to himself in
thought. "Let all know that I shall shoot myself to-day."
* * * * *
The review was over. The regiment had, nevertheless, to parade several
times before the General, first by companies in the ordinary march,
afterwards in quick march, and finally in close columns. The General
became a little less severe, as it were, and he even praised the
soldiers several times. At last the clock was close upon 4 p.m. Then at
length the men got a little rest whilst the officers assembled to
criticize them.
The staff-trumpeter blew a signal. "The officers are summoned to the
General," it shouted through the companies.
The officers left the ranks, and formed themselves into a dense circle
round the General, who remained on horseback, stooping and visibly
extremely tired; but he peered through his glasses as shrewdly and
scornfully as before.
"I shall be brief," said he in an abrupt and decisive tone. "The
regiment is inefficient, but that's not the fault of the soldiers, but
of the officers. When the coachman is bad the horses will not go.
Gentlemen, you have no heart, no mind or sympathy, so far as the men's
needs and interests are concerned. Don't forget, 'Blessed is he who lays
down his life for his friend.' With you there is only one thought, 'How
shall I best please the General at the review?' You treat your men like
plough horses. The appearance of the officers witnesses to moral
slovenliness and barbarism. Here and there an officer puts me in mind of
a village sexton dressed in an officer's uniform. Moreover, I will refer
to my orders of the day in writing. An ensign, belonging probably to the
sixth or seventh company, lost his head entirely and hopelessly muddled
up his division. Such a thing is a disgrace. I do not want a jog-trot
march in three-time, but, before everything else, a sound and calm
judgment."
"That last referred to me," thought Romashov, and he fancied he felt all
the glances of those present turned towards him at once. But nobody even
stirred: all stood speechless, petrified, with their eyes immovably
fixed on the General's face.
"My very heartiest thanks to the Captain of the 5th Company. Where are
you, Captain? Oh, there you are!" The General, a little theatrically,
took off his cap with both hands and bared his powerfully shaped bald
head, whilst making a profound bow to Stelikovski. "Once more I thank
you, and it is a pleasure for me to shake you by the hand. If God should
ordain that this corps is to fight under my command, remember, Captain,
that the first dangerous task belongs to you. And now, gentlemen,
good-bye. Your work for the day is finished, and it will be a pleasure
for me to see you again, but under different and more pleasing
circumstances. Make way for my horse now."
Colonel Shulgovich stepped out of the circle.
"Your Excellency, in the officers' name, I invite you respectfully to
dine at our mess. We shall be----"
"No, I see no reason for that," interrupted the General dryly. "I thank
you, as I am in duty bound to do, but I am invited to Count
Liedochovski's."
The officers cleared a way, and the General galloped off to the place
where the regiment was awaiting the officers' return.
"I thank you, my lads," he shouted lustily and kindly to the soldiers.
"I give you two days' leave. And now, off with you to your tents. Quick
march, hurrah!"
It was just as if he had, by this last brief shout, turned the whole
regiment topsy-turvy. With a deafening yell of delight, fifteen hundred
men dispersed, in an instant, in all directions, and the ground shook
beneath the feet of the fugitives.
* * * * *
Romashov separated himself from the other officers, who returned, in
groups, to the town, and took a long circuit through the camp. He felt
just then like a banned, excommunicated fugitive; like an unworthy
member expelled from the circle of his comrades--nay, even like a
creature beyond the pale of humanity, in soul and body stunted and
despised.
When he at length found himself behind the camp, near his own mess, he
heard a few cries of sudden but restrained rage. He stood an instant and
saw how his ensign, Rynda--a small, red-faced, powerful fellow--was,
with frightful invectives and objurgations, belabouring with his fists
Khliabnikov's nose and cheeks. In the poor victim's almost bestially
dull eyes one could see an indescribable terror, and, at every blow,
Khliabnikov staggered now to the right, now to the left.
Romashov hurried away from the spot almost at running speed. In his
present state of mind, it was beyond his power to protect Khliabnikov
from further ill-treatment. It seemed to Romashov as if this wretched
soldier's fate had to-day become linked with his own. They were both, he
thought, cripples, who aroused in mankind the same feeling of compassion
and disgust. This similarity in their position certainly excited, on
Romashov's part, an intolerable feeling of shame and disgust at himself,
but also a consciousness that in this lay something singularly deep and
truly human.