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

to him commonplace and uninteresting. Shulgovich, in nervous haste, placed a chair before him, and said, with unexpected but somewhat rough kindness⁠—

“The Devil take you! what a touchy fellow you are! Sit down and be damned to you! But you are all alike. You look at me as if I were a wild beast. ‘The old fossil goes for us without rhyme or reason.’ And all the time God knows I love you as if you were my own children. Do you think I have nothing to put up with, either? Ah, gentlemen, how little you know me! It is true I scold you occasionally, but, damn it all! an old fellow has a right to be angry sometimes. Oh, you youngsters! Well, let us make peace. Give me your hand and come to dinner.”

Romashov bowed without uttering a syllable, and pressed the coarse, cold, hairy hand. His recollection of the past insult to some extent faded, but his heart was none the lighter for this. He remembered his proud, inflated fancies of that very morning, and he now felt like a little pale, pitiful schoolboy, like a shy, abandoned, scarcely tolerated brat, and he thought of all this with shame and mortification. Also, whilst accompanying Shulgovich to the dining-room, he could not help addressing himself, as his habit was, in the third person⁠—

“And a shadow rested on his brow.”

Shulgovich was childless. In the dining-room, his wife⁠—a fat, coarse, self-important, and silent woman⁠—awaited him. She had not a vestige of neck, but displayed a whole row of chins. Notwithstanding her pince-nez and her scornful mien, there was a certain air of vulgarity about her countenance, which gave the impression of its being formed, at the last minute, hurriedly and negligently, out of dough, with raisins or currants instead of eyes. Behind her waddled, dragging her feet, the Colonel’s old mother⁠—a little deaf, but still an active, domineering, venomous old hag. While she closely and rudely examined Romashov over her spectacles, she clawed hold of his fingers and coolly pressed to his lips her black, shrivelled, bony hand, that reminded one most of an anatomical specimen. This done, she turned to the Colonel and asked him, just as if they had been absolutely alone in the dining-room⁠—

“Who is this? I don’t remember seeing him here before?”

Shulgovich formed his hands into a sort of speaking-tube, and bawled into the old woman’s ear:

“Sublieutenant Romashov, mamma. A capital officer, a smart fellow, and an ornament to his regiment⁠—comes from the Cadet School. By the way, Sublieutenant,” he exclaimed abruptly, “we are certainly from the same province. Aren’t you from Pevsa?”9

“Yes, Colonel, I was born in Pevsa.”

“To be sure, to be sure; now I remember. You are from the Narovtschátski district?”

“Quite right, Colonel.”

“Ah, yes⁠—how could I have forgotten it! Mamma,” he again trumpeted into his mother’s ear, “mamma, Sublieutenant Romashov is from our province; he’s from Narovtschátski.”

“Ah, ah,” and the old woman raised her eyebrows as a sign that she understood. “Well, then, you’re, of course, a son of Sergei Petrovich Shishkin?”

“No, dear mother,” roared the Colonel, “you are wrong. His name is Romashov, not Shishkin.”

“Yes, didn’t I say so? I never knew Sergei Petrovich except by hearsay; but I often met Peter Petrovich. He was a charming young man. We were near neighbours, and I congratulate you, my young friend, on your relationship.”

“Well, as you will have it, you old deaf-as-a-post,” exclaimed the Colonel, interrupting her with good-humoured cynicism. “But now, let’s sit down; please take a seat, Sublieutenant. Lieutenant Federovski,” he shrieked towards the door, “stop your work and come and have a schnapps.” The Adjutant, who, according to the custom in many regiments, dined every day with his chief, hurriedly entered the dining-room. He clicked his spurs softly and discreetly, walked straight up to the little majolica table with the sakuska,10 calmly helped himself to a schnapps, and ate with extreme calmness and enjoyment. Romashov noticed all that with an absurd, envious feeling of admiration.

“You’ll take one, won’t you?” said Shulgovich to Romashov. “You’re no teetotaller, you know.”

“No, thank you very much,” replied Romashov hoarsely; and, with a slight cough, “I do not usually⁠—”

“Bravo, my young friend. Stick to that in future.”

They sat down to table. The dinner was good and abundant. Anyone could observe that, in this childless family, both host and hostess had an innocent little weakness for good living. Dinner consisted of chicken soup with vegetables, roast bream with kascha,11 a splendid fat duck and asparagus. On the table stood three remarkable decanters containing red wine, white wine, and madeira, resplendent with embossed silver stoppers bearing elegant foreign marks. The Colonel, whose violent explosion of wrath but a short time previously had evidently given him an excellent appetite, ate with an elegance and taste that struck the spectator with pleasure and surprise. He joked all the time with a certain rough humour. When the asparagus was put on the table, he crammed a corner of his dazzlingly white serviette well down under his chin, and exclaimed in a lively way⁠—

“If I were the Tsar, I would eat asparagus every day of my life.”

Only once, at the fish course, he fell into his usual domineering tone, and shouted almost harshly to Romashov⁠—

“Sublieutenant, be good enough to put your knife down. Fish and cutlets are eaten only with a fork. An officer must know how to eat properly; he may, at any time, you know, be invited to the palace. Don’t forget that.”

Romashov was uncomfortable and constrained the whole time. He did not know what to do with his hands, which, for the most part, he kept under the table plaiting the fringe of the tablecloth. He had long got out of the habit of observing what was regarded as “good form” in an elegant and wealthy house. And, during the whole time he was at table, one sole thought tortured him: “How disagreeable this is, and what