XV

Only one way led from the camp to the town, viz. over the railway-line,

which at this spot crossed a deep and declivitous ravine. Romashov ran

briskly down the narrow, well-trodden, almost precipitous pathway, and

was beginning, after that, a toilsome clamber up the other slope. He had

not reached more than half-way to the top of the ravine before he

noticed a figure there in uniform with a cloak over his shoulders. After

a few seconds' close examination, Romashov recognized his friend

Nikoläiev.

"Now," thought Romashov, "comes the most disagreeable of all," and he

could not suppress a certain unpleasant feeling of anxiety; but he

continued on his way resigned to his fate, and was soon on the plateau.

The two officers had not seen each other for five days, but neither of

them made even an intimation of greeting, and it seemed, at any rate to

Romashov, as if this were quite the correct thing on this memorable,

miserable day.

"I have purposely waited for you here, Yuri Alexievich," began

Nikoläiev, whilst he looked over Romashov's shoulder into the distance,

towards the camp.

"I am at your service, Vladimir Yefimovich," replied Romashov in a

strained, unconcerned tone, and with a slight tremor in his voice. He

stooped down to the ground and broke off a dry, brown stalk of grass

from the previous year. Whilst absently biting the stalk of grass, he

stared obstinately at the bright buttons on Nikoläiev's cape, and he saw

in them his own distorted figure--a little narrow head upwards;

downwards two stunted legs, and between them an abnormally broad big

belly.

"I shall not keep you long waiting--only a few words," said Nikoläiev.

He spoke with a strikingly peculiar softness in his voice and with the

forced politeness of an angry and hot-tempered person who has made up

his mind not to forget himself. But whilst both tried to shun the

other's glances, the situation became every moment more and more

intolerable, so that Romashov in a questioning tone proposed--

"It would be best perhaps if we went on our way together?"

The winding steps, worn by foot-passengers, cut through a large field of

white beet. In the distance the town, with its white houses and

red-tiled roofs, might be distinguished. Both officers walked side by

side, yet with an evident effort to keep as far as possible from each

other, and the beets' thick, luxuriant, and juicy leaves were crushed

and bruised beneath their feet. Both observed, for a long time, an

obstinate silence. Finally, after taking a deep breath, Nikoläiev

managed, with a visible effort, to blurt out--

"First of all, I must ask you a question. Have you invariably shown my

wife, Alexandra Petrovna, due regard and respect?"

"I don't understand what you mean, Vladimir Yefimovich," replied

Romashov; "but I, too, have a question...."

"Excuse me," interrupted Nikoläiev in a sharp tone, "our questions

ought, to avoid confusion, to be put in turn--first I, then you. And now

let us talk openly and without restraint. Answer me this question first.

Is it a matter of supreme indifference to you that my wife--that her

good name--has been the subject of scandal and slander? No, no, don't

interrupt me. You can hardly deny, I suppose, that on my part you have

never experienced anything but goodwill, and that, in our house, you

have always been received as an intimate friend--nay, almost as a

relation."

Romashov made a false step and stumbled on the loose ground. In an

embarrassed tone he mumbled in reply--

"Be assured, Vladimir Yefimovich, that I shall always feel grateful to

you and Alexandra Petrovna."

"Ah, that's not the question," said Nikoläiev, angrily interrupting him.

"I am not soliciting your gratitude. I'll only tell you that my wife has

been the victim of dirty, lying scandal in which" (Nikoläiev almost

panted out the words, and he wiped his face with his handkerchief)--"well,

to put it shortly, a scandal in which you, too, are mixed up. We

both--she and I--are greeted almost every day with the most shameless

anonymous letters. It is too disgusting to me to put these letters

before you, but you shall know a good deal of their contents."

Nikoläiev broke off his speech, but, in the next minute, he continued

with a stammer. "By all the devils--now listen--they say that you are

Alexandra Petrovna's lover, and that--how horrible!--secret meetings

daily take place in your room. The whole regiment is talking about it.

What a scandal!"

He bit his teeth in rage and spat.

"I know who has written these letters," answered Romashov in a lowered

voice, and turned away.

"Do you?" Nikoläiev stopped suddenly and clutched Romashov's arm

tightly. It was quite plain now that his forced calm was quite

exhausted. His bestial eyes grew bigger, his face became blood-red, foam

began to appear at the corners of his mouth, and, as he bent in a

threatening manner towards Romashov, he shrieked madly--

"So you know this, and you even dare to keep silence! Don't you

understand that it is quite plainly your bounden duty to slay this

serpent brood, to put a stop at once to this insidious slander?

My--noble Don Juan, if you are an honourable man and not a ----"

Romashov turned pale, and he eyed Nikoläiev with a glance of hatred. He

felt that moment that his hands and feet were as heavy as lead, his

brain empty, that the abnormal and violent beating of his heart had sunk

still lower in his chest, and that his whole body was trembling.

"I must ask you to lower your voice when you address me," he interrupted

him by saying in a hollow voice. "Speak civilly; you know well enough I

do not allow any one to shout at me."

"I'm not shouting," replied Nikoläiev, still speaking in a rough and

coarse, though somewhat subdued tone. "I'm only trying to make you see

what your duty is, although I have a right to demand it. Our former

intimate relations give me this right. If Alexandra Petrovna's

unblemished name is still of any value to you, then, without delay, put

a stop to these infamies."

"All right. I will do all I can as regards that," was Romashov's dry

answer.

He turned away and went on. In the middle of the pathway, Nikoläiev

caught him up in a few steps.

"Please wait a moment." Nikoläiev's voice sounded more gentle, and

seemed even to have lost some of its assertiveness and force. "I submit,

now the matter has at last been talked about, we ought also to cease our

acquaintance. What do you say yourself?"

"Perhaps so."

"You must yourself have noticed the kindness and sympathy with which

we--that is to say, Alexandra Petrovna and I--received you at our house.

But if I should now be forced to--I need say no more; you know well

enough how scandal rankles in this wretched little provincial hole."

"Very well," replied Romashov gloomily. "I shall cease my visits. That,

I take it, was what you wished. I may tell you, moreover, that I had

already made up my mind not to enter your door again. A few days ago I

paid Alexandra Petrovna a very short call to return her some books, but

you may be absolutely certain that was the last time."

"Yes, that is best so; I think----"

Nikoläiev did not finish the sentence, and was evidently anything but

easy in his mind. The two officers reached the road at this moment.

There still remained some three hundred yards before they came to the

town. Without uttering another word or even deigning to glance at each

other, they continued on their way, side by side. Neither of them could

make up his mind either to stop or turn back, and the situation became

more awkward every minute.

At length they reached the furthest houses of the town. An _isvostschik_

drove up and was at once hailed by Nikoläiev.

"That's agreed then, Yuri Alexievich." Nikoläiev uttered these words in

a vulgar, unpleasant tone, and then got into the _droshky_. "Good-bye

and _au revoir_."

The two officers did not shake hands, and their salute at parting was

very curt. Romashov stood still for a moment, and stared, through the

cloud of dust, at the hurrying _droshky_ and Nikoläiev's strong, white

neck. He suddenly felt like the most lonely and forsaken man in the wide

world, and it seemed to him as if he had, then and there, despoiled

himself of all that had hitherto made his life at all worth living.

Slowly he made his way home. Hainán met him in the yard, and saluted

him, from a distance, with his broad grin. His face beamed with

benevolence and delight as he took off his master's cloak, and, after a

few minutes, he began his usual curious dance.

"Have you had dinner?" he asked in a sympathetic, familiar tone. "Oh,

you have not. Then I'll run to the club at once and fetch some food.

I'll be back again directly."

"Go to the devil!" screamed Romashov, "and don't dare to come into my

room. I'm not at home to anybody--not even to the Tsar himself."

He threw himself on the bed, and buried his face in the pillow. His

teeth closed over the linen, his eyes burned, and he felt a curious

stabbing sensation in his throat. He wanted to cry. With eager longing

he waited for the first hot, bitter tears which would, he hoped, afford

him consolation and relief in this dark hour of torture and misery.

Without pity on himself, he recalled once more in his mind the cruel

events of the day; he purposely magnified and exaggerated his shame and

ignominy, and he regarded, as it were, from outside, his own wretched

Ego with pity and contempt.

Then something very strange happened. It did not seem to Romashov that

he slept or even slumbered for an instant, but simply that he was for

some moments wholly incapable of thinking. His eyes were shut, but, all

of a sudden, he felt he had regained full consciousness, and was

suffering the same anguish as before. It was completely dark in the room

now. He looked at his watch and discovered to his indescribable

astonishment that this mysterious trance had lasted more than five

hours.

He began to feel hungry. He got up, put on his sabre, threw his cloak

over his shoulder and started for the officers' mess. The distance there

from Romashov's door was scarcely two hundred yards, and besides, he

always made use of a short cut through unbuilt-upon plots and fenced-in

kitchen-gardens, etc.

A bright gleam issued from the half-open windows of the

_salle-à-manger_, billiard-room, and kitchen, but the dirty backyard,

blocked up with and partly covered by all sorts of rubbish, was in thick

darkness. Every moment one heard loud chatter and laughter, singing, and

the sharp click of billiard balls.

Romashov had already reached the courtyard steps when he recognized his

Captain's angry and sneering voice. Romashov stopped at once, and

cautiously glancing into one of the open windows of the

_salle-à-manger_, he caught sight of Captain Sliva's humped back.

He was stammering: "All my c-c-company m-m-marches as one man." Sliva

marked time by raising and lowering the palm of his hand. "But th-that

d-d-damned fool m-must upset everything." Sliva made with his first

finger several clumsy and silly motions in the air. "But, g-gentlemen,

I s-said to him, 'M-march to another c-c-company, my f-fine f-f-fellow,

or s-still b-better m-march out of the regiment. Who the devil will have

s-such an officer?'"

Romashov shut his eyes, and shrivelled up with shame and rage. He feared

that, at the next movement on his part, all the officers at mess would

rush to the window and discover him. For one or two minutes he did not

stir; then with his head hidden in his cloak, and scarcely venturing to

breathe, he stole on tip-toe along the wall, out through the gate to the

street, the moonlit portion of which he crossed by a couple of brisk

jumps so as to reach the deep protecting shadow of the high hoarding on

the other side.

Romashov sauntered for a long time that evening about the streets of the

town. Often he did not even know where he was. Once he stopped in the

shadow right under Nikoläiev's house, the green-painted sheet-iron roof

and white walls of which were brilliantly illumined by the moon's clear

bright rays. Not a soul was in the street, not a sound was audible. The

sharply marked outlines of the shadows from the houses opposite divided

the street into two halves.

Behind the thick dark-red curtains in one of the rooms at the

Nikoläievs' a lamp was burning. "My beloved," whispered Romashov, "don't

you feel how near I am to you, how much I love you?" He pressed his

hands to his chest, and had much difficulty in restraining his tears.

Suddenly, however, he got the idea that, in spite of the distance and

the house's thick walls, he might possibly make Shurochka notice his

presence. With closed teeth and hands so tightly clenched that the

nails were driven into the flesh, and with a sensation as if icy-cold

ants were creeping over his body, he began to concentrate all his

will-power to a single object. "Get up from your sofa. Come to the

window. Draw the curtain. Look, look through the window out into the

street. Obey. I command you; come to the window at once."

But the curtain remained motionless. "You don't hear me, then,"

whispered Romashov, with sorrow and indignation in his heart. "You are

sitting by the lamp beside him, calm, indifferent, and as beautiful as

ever. Oh, my God, my God, how wretched I am!"

He sighed deeply, and with bowed head and crippled with weariness he

continued his melancholy wandering.

He even passed Nasanski's place, but it was dark there. It seemed to

Romashov as if a white spectre had quickly fluttered past one of the

house's dark windows. A shudder ran through him, and he dared not call

to Nasanski.

Some days later Romashov remembered this fantastic--nay, idiotic--ramble

as a strange, far-off dream which, nevertheless, could not be forgotten.

He had even been in the Jewish cemetery, but how he got there he could

not tell himself. This silent and mysterious burial-ground lay beyond

the town, on a height, and was surrounded by a low white wall. From the

luxuriant, slumbering grass arose the icy-cold gravestones, simple,

unadorned, like each other, and casting behind them long, narrow

shadows. And over all this gloomy place reigned the grave, solemn,

austere note of solitude.

After this he saw himself in another quarter of the town, but this,

nevertheless, was perhaps only a dream. He stood in the middle of a

long, carefully constructed dam that divided the River Bug across its

entire breadth. The dark-hued water ran slowly and lazily away beneath

his feet, and now and then it, as it were, strove to render a well-known

melody by its capricious splashing. The moon was mirrored on the lightly

curled surface of the river, like an infinitely long, trembling pillar,

around which you might fancy you saw millions of fishes playing in the

water whilst they slowly withdrew and disappeared in the direction of

the distant shore, which lay afar off, silent, dark, and deserted.

Wherever he might be, whether in or out of the town, he was followed by

a faint, sweet, aromatic scent from the white acacia flower.

Wonderful thoughts entered his brain this night--thoughts sometimes sad

and melancholy, at other times childishly ridiculous. Most frequently he

reasoned like the inexperienced gambler who with the frivolity and

optimism of youth pondered upon the fact that he had in a single night

played away all he possessed. Thus Romashov tried again and again to

delude himself into believing that the wretched events of the past day

had absolutely no importance--nay, he even succeeded in resuscitating

that "irresistible" Sub-lieutenant Romashov who so ideally conducts his

parade march under the General's critical eyes, who at the front is the

object of the General's thanks and admiration, and who afterwards drains

his goblet of wine among his rejoicing comrades. But the next moment he

hears Federovski's furious threats, his chief's insulting words,

Nikoläiev's painful questions and complaints, and he is once more the

disgraced and hopelessly ruined Sub-lieutenant Romashov.

An irresistible force from within brought him back in the course of his

nocturnal wandering to the place where he came upon Nikoläiev after the

review. Here he walked about meditating suicide, though by no means

seriously, but only--according to his ingrained habit--to pose in his

own worthy person as a martyr and hero.

Hainán comes rushing out of Romashov's room. His countenance is

distorted with terror. Pale and trembling all over, he hurries on to the

officers' _salle-à-manger_, which is full of people. At the sight of

Hainán all spontaneously get up from their places. "Your

Excellencies--the lieutenant has--shot himself," Hainán at last stammers

out. General uproar; dismay is to be read in the faces of all. "Who has

shot himself? Where? What lieutenant?" Finally somebody recognizes

Hainán. "Gentlemen, this is Hainán, you know--Lieutenant Romashov's

servant. It's the Circassian, you know." All hurry to Romashov's house;

some do not even give themselves time to put on their caps. Romashov is

discovered lying on his bed; on the floor beside him is a large pool of

blood, in which is found a revolver of the Smith and Wesson celebrated

make. Through a crowd of officers, who occupy every corner of the little

room, Znoiko, the regimental surgeon, pushes his way with some

difficulty. "Shot in the temple," he says amidst a general hush. "All is

over, nothing can be done." Some one among the bystanders says in a

lowered voice, "Gentlemen, uncover your heads before the majesty of

Death!" Many make the sign of the Cross. Viätkin finds on the table a

note on which the deceased has written in a firm hand a few lines in

pencil. Viätkin reads them out--

I forgive all. I die of my own free will. My life is intolerable.

Break the news gently to my mother.