XX

On that same day--it was Wednesday--Romashov received the following curt

official communication--

The Court of Honour of the--th Infantry Regiment hereby requests

Sub-lieutenant Romashov to attend at 6 p.m. the officers'

common-room. Dress: ordinary uniform.

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL MIGUNOV,

_President of the Court_.

On perusing the letter, Romashov could not restrain an ironical smile.

This so-called "ordinary uniform," i.e. undress uniform with

shoulder-knots and belt, was to be worn, under the most _extraordinary_

circumstances, before the Court, for public reprimand, when appearing

for examination by the commander of his regiment, etc., etc.

At 6 p.m. Romashov put in an appearance at the mess, and told the

orderly to send in his name to the president. The answer was to the

effect that he was to wait. Romashov sat down by an open window in the

dining-room, took up a paper and began to read; but he did not

understand a word of the contents: everything seemed to him so

uninteresting as he cast his eyes mechanically down one column after

another. Three officers who were in the mess before Romashov returned

his salutation with marked coldness, and continued their conversation in

a low voice, with the obvious intention of preventing Romashov from

catching what they were saying. Only one of them, Michin, pressed

Romashov's hand long and warmly, with moist eyes, blushing and

tongue-tied. He at once turned away, put on his cloak and hat hurriedly

and awkwardly, and ran out of the room.

Nikoläiev shortly afterwards entered through the buffet. He was pale,

his eyelids were of a bluish hue, his left hand was shaking with

spasmodic twitches, and just below his temples a bluish swelling was

visible. At once the recollection of the fight on the previous day came

to Romashov with painful distinctness. He hung his head, frowned, and,

almost annihilated with shame, hid himself behind his newspaper. He

closed his eyes, and listened in nervous tension to every sound in the

room.

Romashov heard Nikoläiev order a glass of cognac from the waiter, and

then greet one of the company. After that he walked up to where Romashov

was sitting, and passed him quite closely. Somebody left the room, the

door of which was shut again. A few seconds later Romashov heard in a

whispering tone behind him--

"Don't look back. Sit still and listen carefully to what I have to say."

It was Nikoläiev. The newspaper shook in Romashov's hands.

"As you're aware, all conversation between us is now forbidden; but damn

all these French niceties. What occurred yesterday can never be put

straight again, made little of, or be consigned to oblivion. In spite of

everything, however, I regard you as a man of conscience and honour. I

implore you--do you hear?--I implore you, not a word about my wife and

the anonymous letters. You understand me?"

Romashov, who was hidden by the newspaper from the eyes of his brother

officer, made a slow inclination of his head. The sound of steps

crunching the sand was audible from the courtyard. Romashov allowed a

few minutes to elapse, after which he turned round and glanced through

the window. Nikoläiev had gone.

"Your Honour!" the orderly suddenly stood, as if he had risen from the

earth, at Romashov's side. "I am ordered to ask you to walk in."

Along one side of the wall were placed several card tables, over which a

green cloth had been spread. Behind these tables sat the members of the

court, with their backs to the window. In consequence of this, it was

difficult to distinguish their faces. In the midst of them, in an

arm-chair, was seated Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov, the president--a fat,

pursy man without a neck, but with big, round shoulders which protruded

in quite an unnatural manner. On each side of Migunov sat

Lieutenant-Colonels Rafalski and Liech, and moreover, on the right,

Osadchi and Peterson; on the left, Captain Duvernois and the commissary

to the regiment, Staff-Captain Doroshenko. The table in front of all

these gentlemen was virtually empty, except that before Doroshenko, the

court prosecutor-in-ordinary, lay a heap of papers. It was cold and dark

in the great, bare room, although out-of-doors the sunshine was

gloriously warm. Everywhere the nose was assailed by a drowsy smell of

mustiness and rotting, moth-eaten furniture.

The president laid his big, white, fat hands on the tablecloth, examined

them minutely, and then began in a dry, official tone--

"Sub-lieutenant Romashov, the Officers' Court of Honour, which meets

to-day by order of the commander of the regiment, is directed to

examine closely into the circumstances of the deplorable and, to the

officers as a body, disgraceful scene that took place between you and

Lieutenant Nikoläiev last night, and it is incumbent on you to render to

us a most punctilious account of what you have to say with regard to

this painful affair."

Romashov stood before his judges with his arms hanging down, and plucked

at the fur lining of his cap. He felt like a hunted animal, but at the

same time as clumsy, feeble, and indifferent to everything as a

schoolboy just "ploughed" at an examination is to his teachers' threats

and his school-fellows' jeers. Coughing and stammering, in unconnected

phrases and with contradictions and repetitions, Romashov began his

report. At the same time, and whilst slowly observing the high

"tribunal" seated before him, he made a sort of appraisement of the

private or personal feelings of its individual members towards him.

"Migunov has a heart of stone, and it is a matter of supreme

indifference to him how the affair turns out; but the place of honour as

president and the great responsibility attached to it are, in the

highest degree, flattering to his vanity. Lieutenant-Colonel 'Brehm' is

looking miserable. Oh, you good old chap, perhaps you are sitting

thinking of that ten-rouble note which was never returned to you? Old

Liech looks glum. He's sober to-day in honour of the occasion, but the

pouches under his eyes are bigger than usual. He's not my enemy, but has

so many sins of his own to answer that he must take advantage of the

occasion, and play the part of guardian and protector of morality and

the 'honour of an officer.' So far as Osadchi and Peterson are

concerned, they are both notoriously my enemies. By invoking the law, I

might certainly challenge Osadchi--the whole of the row began through

his blasphemously parodying the Mass for the Dead--but what then? The

result in any case will be the same. Peterson smiles out of one corner

of his mouth in his usual snake-like way. I am just wondering what share

he had in those anonymous letters. Duvernois--a sleepy beast, whose

great, troubled eyes put one in mind of a cuttlefish's. Ah, yes, I've

never been one of Duvernois's favourites, and just as little of

Doroshenko's. Yuri Alexievich, my dear boy, the prospect does indeed

look gloomy for you."

"One instant, if you please," interrupted Osadchi. "President, will you

permit me to put a question?"

"Certainly," replied Migunov, with a gracious nod.

"Tell me, Sub-lieutenant Romashov," began Osadchi, in an affectedly

imposing and drawling tone, "where were you before you came to the mess

in such an inexcusable condition?"

Romashov blushed deeply, and felt big drops of sweat on his forehead.

"I was--I was," he stammered, "I was in a brothel," he added almost in a

whisper.

"Ha, ha--in a brothel," repeated Osadchi, as he purposely raised his

voice and pronounced every word with unsparing distinctness. "And no

doubt you had drinks there."

"Yes, I had been drinking," answered Romashov, in an abrupt tone.

"I have no wish to put any more questions," said Osadchi, turning with a

bow to the president.

"Sub-lieutenant, be good enough to continue your report," resumed

Migunov, "You remember you have acknowledged that you threw the glass

of ale at Nikoläiev--well?"

Romashov began his story again as unmethodically and unconnectedly as

before, but honourably endeavouring not to give any details. He had

already, in an indirect way and with much shame, succeeded in expressing

the regret he felt at his unworthy conduct, when he was once more

interrupted, this time by Captain Peterson. The latter was rubbing his

long, yellow-wax coloured hands with their sharp, dirty finger-nails

just as if he were washing himself, and said in his studiously

polite--nay, almost friendly--thin, wheedling voice--

"Ah, all that is quite fit and proper, and such a voluntary confession,

in a way, does you credit; but tell me, were you not, before this

painful story began, in the habit of visiting Lieutenant Nikoläiev's

house?"

Romashov drew himself up and, looking straight, not at Captain Peterson,

but at Migunov, replied bluntly:

"That is true, but I cannot understand what that has to do with the

matter."

"Pray don't get excited," exclaimed Peterson. "I only want you to answer

my questions. Tell me then, was there any special cause of mutual enmity

between you and Lieutenant Nikoläiev? I do not mean any difference in

the service, but a cause of a quite--er--if I may so put it, domestic

nature?"

Romashov pulled himself up to his full height, and his glance pierced

with undisguised hatred his enemy's treacherous, black, consumptive

eyes.

"I have not visited Lieutenant Nikoläiev's home more frequently than

those of my other acquaintances," he replied in a hard and cutting tone.

"No previous enmity has existed between us. The whole thing happened

unexpectedly and accidentally, when we were both the worse for liquor."

"Heh, heh, heh, we have already heard about the insobriety," Captain

Peterson chimed in; "but I will ask you once more, had not an unfriendly

meeting already taken place between you and Lieutenant Nikoläiev? I do

not for an instant suggest that you had quarrelled or come to blows, but

quite simply that--how shall I put it?--you were a little at variance in

your views of certain scandalous reports and intrigues?"

"President, am I bound to reply to all questions that are put to me?"

exclaimed Romashov.

"That rests entirely with you," replied Migunov coldly. "You can, if you

wish, absolutely refuse to answer. You can also commit your answer to

writing. That is your privilege."

"In such case I hereby declare that I will not answer any of Captain

Peterson's questions, and that not only in my interest but in his."

After Romashov had answered a few questions of minor importance the

examination was declared closed. Nevertheless, he had on two occasions

to give the court supplementary information, first in the evening of the

same day, and then again on the day following, viz., Thursday morning.

However careless and inexperienced Romashov might be in all the

practical circumstances of life, he nevertheless saw soon enough that

the court was performing its functions in the most negligent and

indiscreet way, and had therefore been guilty, not only of a revolting

lack of tact, but also of utter illegality. In defiance of Section 149

of the "Statute concerning Discipline," by which every communication to

unauthorized persons of what takes place at such examinations is in

plain language strictly forbidden, the members of the "Court of Honour"

did not scruple to relate everything straight off to their wives and

relations. The latter spread the scandal still further among the other

ladies of "Society," who in their turn discussed the matter with their

maidservants, charwomen, etc. Before twenty-four hours had elapsed

Romashov was the talk of the entire town and "hero of the day." When he

passed along the street he was gazed at from windows and doors, between

the hedge-posts of backyards, and from the vantage of garden-bushes and

arbours. Women from a good distance off pointed at him with their

finger, and he often heard his name whispered behind his back. Nobody in

the town doubted that a duel between him and Nikoläiev was

inevitable--nay, they even began to bet about the upshot of it.

As Romashov was passing Lykatschev's house on Thursday morning he

suddenly heard his name shouted.

"Yuri Alexievich, Yuri Alexievich, come here."

Romashov stopped, and soon discovered Katya Lykatschev standing on a

bench inside the fence. She was still in morning dress, which chiefly

consisted of a _kimono_, the triangular arrangement of which in front

left the delicate virginal neck wholly exposed. And she was altogether

so fresh and rosy that for an instant Romashov even felt light at heart.

Katya leant over the fence to enable Romashov to reach her hand, which

was still cool and moist from the morning bath. She began at once to

chatter and lisp at her usual pace:

"Where have you been all this time? You ought to be ashamed of yourself,

forgetting your friends in that way! _Zoi, zoi, zoi_--hush! I have long

known everything, everything." She stared at Romashov with great

terror-stricken eyes. "Take this and hang it round your throat. Hear and

obey at once. Look, if you please."

From the fold of her _kimono_, straight from her bosom, she drew out an

amulet that hung by a silk cord, and shyly put it into Romashov's hand.

The amulet still felt balmy from its nest against the young woman's warm

body.

"Will it help?" asked Romashov, in a jesting tone. "What is it?"

"That's a secret, and don't you dare to laugh, you ungodly creature.

_Zoi, zoi!_"

"Hang it, if I'm not beginning to be a man of note," thought Romashov,

as he said good-bye to Katya. "Splendid girl!" But he could not prevent

himself, though it might be for the last time, from thinking of himself

in the third person:

"And over the old warrior's rugged features stole a melancholy smile."

On that same evening he and Nikoläiev were again summoned to the Court.

The two enemies stood before the green table almost side by side. They

did not once look at each other, but they equally felt each other's

high-strung emotion, and were, in consequence, still more excited. Their

eyes were fixed, as though by magnetism, on the president's face when he

at last began to read the verdict of the Court.

"The members of the Officers' Court of Honour of the--th Regiment" (here

followed their Christian and surnames in full), "under the presidency of

Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov, have inquired into the matter of the fight,

in the mess, between Lieutenant Nikoläiev and Sub-lieutenant Romashov,

and the Court, by reason of the serious nature of the case, finds a duel

is necessary to satisfy the wounded honour of the regiment. This decree

of the Court is ratified by the commander of the regiment."

Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov took off his spectacles, and replaced them in

their case.

"It is incumbent on you, gentlemen," he went on to say in a sepulchral

voice, "to choose two seconds apiece, who are to meet here at 9 p.m. to

agree as to the conditions of the duel. Moreover," added Migunov, as he

got up and put his spectaclecase in his back-pocket, "moreover, I must

tell you that the verdict just read possesses only a conditionally

binding force on you, viz. it rests in your free discretion either to

submit to the decree of the Court or"--Migunov paused and made a gesture

by which he meant to express his absolute indifference--"leave the

regiment. You ought, gentlemen, to keep apart. However, one thing more.

Not in my capacity as president of the Court, but as an old comrade, I

must advise you, gentlemen, for the avoidance of further unpleasantness

and complications prior to the duel, not to visit the mess. _Au

revoir._"

Nikoläiev made a sharp, military "Face-about," and walked with rapid

steps out of the room. Romashov followed slowly after. He had no fear,

but he felt at once utterly lonely, abandoned, and shut off from the

entire world. When he reached the steps he gazed for some time, calm and

astonished, at the sky, the trees, a cow grazing on the other side of

the fence, the sparrows burrowing in the high road, and thought, "So

everything lives, struggles, and worries about its existence, except

myself. I require nothing and I have no interests. I am doomed; I am

alone, and dead already to this world."

With a feeling of sickness and disgust he went to find Biek-Agamalov and

Viätkin, whom he had chosen for his seconds. Both granted his request;

Biek-Agamalov with a gloomy, solemn countenance, Viätkin with many

hearty handshakes.

It was impossible for Romashov to return home.

Never had the thought of his uncomfortable abode seemed so repulsive to

him as at the present moment. In these gloomy hours of spiritual

depression, abandonment, and weariness of life, he needed a trusty,

intelligent, and sympathetic friend--a man with brains and heart.

Then he thought of Nasanski.