The Duel, Aleksandr Kuprin [if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT] 📗

“Do you think of resigning? But, in that case, where do you think of going? What does the sum of knowledge amount to that you have learnt at the infants’ school, the Cadet School, at the Military Academy, at mess? Have you tried the struggle and seriousness of life? No, you have been looked after and your wants supplied, as if you were a little child, and you think perhaps, like a certain schoolgirl, that rolls grow on trees. Go out into the world and try. At the very first step you would slip and fall; people would trample you in the dust, and you would drown your misery in drink. And besides, have you ever heard of an officer leaving the service of his own free will? No, never. Just because he is unfit for anything he will not give up his meagre bread-and-butter. And if anyone is forced into doing this, you will soon see him wearing a greasy old regimental cap, and accepting alms from people in the street. I am a Russian officer of gentle birth, comprenez-vous? Alas, where shall I go⁠—what will become of me?”

“Prisoner, prisoner!” cried a clear female voice beneath the window.

Romashov jumped up from his bed and rushed to the window. Opposite him stood Shurochka. She was protecting her eyes from the sun with the palm of her hand, and pressing her rosy face against the window pane, exclaiming in a mocking tone:⁠—

“Oh, give a poor beggar a copper!”

Romashov fumbled at the window-catch in wild eagerness to open it, but he remembered in the same moment that the inner window had not been removed. With joyous resolution he seized the window-frame with both hands, and dragged it to him with a tremendous tug. A loud noise was heard, and the whole window fell into the room, besprinkling Romashov with bits of lime and pieces of dried putty. The outer window flew up, and a stream of fresh air, charged with joy and the perfume of flowers, forced its way into the room.

“Ha, at last! Now I’ll go out, cost what it may,” shouted Romashov in a jubilant voice.

“Romashov, you mad creature! what are you doing?”

He caught her outstretched hand through the window; it was closely covered by a cinnamon-coloured glove, and he began boldly to kiss it, first upwards and downwards, and after that from the fingertips to the wrist. Last of all, he kissed the hole in the glove just below the buttons. He was astonished at his boldness; never before had he ventured to do this. Shurochka submitted as though unconscious to this passionate burst of affection, and smilingly accepted his kisses whilst gazing at him in shy wonderment.

“Alexandra Petrovna, you are an angel. How shall I ever be able to thank you?”

“Gracious, Romochka! what has come to you? And why are you so happy?” she asked laughingly as she eyed Romashov with persistent curiosity. “But wait, my poor prisoner, I have brought you from home a splendid kalátsch and the most delicious apple puffs.”

“Stepan, bring the basket here.”

He looked at her with devotion in his eyes, and without letting go her hand, which she allowed to remain unresistingly in his, he said hurriedly⁠—

“Oh, if you knew all I have been thinking about this morning⁠—if you only knew! But of this, later on.”

“Yes, later on. Look, here comes my lord and master. Let go my hand. How strange you look today! I even think you have grown handsome.”

Nikoläiev now came up to the window. He frowned, and greeted Romashov in a rather cool and reserved way.

“Come, Shurochka,” he said to his wife, “what in the world are you thinking about? You must both be mad. Only think, if the Commander were to see us. Goodbye, Romashov; come and see us.”

“Yes, come and see us, Yuri Alexievich,” repeated Shurochka. She left the window, but returned almost at once and whispered rapidly to Romashov. “Don’t forget us. You are the only man here whom I can associate with⁠—as a friend⁠—do you hear? And another thing. Once for all I forbid you to look at me with such sheep’s eyes, remember that. Besides, you have no right to imagine anything. You are not a coxcomb yet, you know.”

VII

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 anyone, 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