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

made more hits in the target than could be accounted for by the shots fired, whereupon the ensign who was marking got severely ‘called over the coals.’ ”

“Do you recollect the Schreiberovsky gymnastics in Slesarev’s time?”

“Rather! It was like a ballet. Ah, may the devil take all those old Generals with their hobbies and eccentricities. And yet, gentlemen, all that sort of thing⁠—all the old-time absurdities, were as nothing compared with what is done in our days. It might be well said that discipline has received its quietus. The soldier, if you please, is now to be treated ‘humanely.’ He is our ‘fellow-creature,’ our ‘brother’; his ‘mind is to be developed,’ he is to be taught ‘to think,’ etc., etc. What absolute madness! No, he shall have a thrashing, the scoundrel. And oh, my saintly Suvorov, tell me if a single individual nowadays knows how a soldier ought to be treated, and what one should teach him. Nothing but newfangled arts and rubbish. That invention in regard to cavalry charges, for instance.”

“Yes, one might have something more amusing,” Viätkin chimed in.

“There you stand,” continued Sliva, “in the middle of the field, like a decoy-bird, and the Cossacks rush at you in full pelt. Naturally, like a sensible man, you make room for them in good time. Directly after comes: ‘You have bad nerves, Captain; one should not behave in that way in the army. Be good enough to recollect that,’ etc., etc., in the same style.”

“The General in command of the K⁠⸺ Regiment,” interrupted Viätkin, “once had a brilliant idea. He had a company marched to the edge of an awful cesspool, and then ordered the Captain to order the men to lie down. The latter hesitated for an instant, but obeyed the command. The soldiers were chapfallen, gazing at one another in a questioning way. All thought they had heard incorrectly; but they got their information right enough. The General thundered away at the poor Captain in the presence of all. ‘What training do you give your company? Miserable lot of weaklings. Pretty heroes to take into the field. No, you are cravens, every one of you, and you, Captain, not the least among them. March to arrest.’ ”

“That ‘takes the cake,’ ” laughed Lbov.

“And what’s the use of it? First one insults the officers in the presence of the men, and then complaints are made of lack of discipline. But to give a scamp his deserts is a thing one dare not do. He is, if you please, a ‘human being,’ a ‘personage’; but in the good old times there were no ‘personages’ in the army. Then the cattle got what they needed, and then there was the Italian Campaign, Sebastopol, and several other trifles. Well, all the same thing, so far as I am concerned. I’ll do my duty even if it costs me my commission, and as far as my arm reaches every scoundrel shall get his deserts.”

“There’s no honour in striking a soldier,” exclaimed Romashov, in a muffled voice. Up to this he had been merely a silent listener. “One can’t hit a man who is not allowed to raise a hand in self-defence. It is as cowardly as it is cruel.”

Captain Sliva bestowed on Romashov an annihilating look, pressed his underlip against his little grey, bristling moustache, and at length exclaimed, with an expression of the deepest contempt⁠—

“Wha-at’s that?”

Romashov stood as white as a corpse, his pulse beat violently, and a cold shudder ran through his body.

“I said that such a method of treatment was cruel and cowardly, and I⁠—retain my opinion,” answered Romashov nervously, but without flinching.

“You don’t say so!” twittered Sliva. “Listen to my young cockerel. Should you, against all likelihood, be another year with the regiment, you shall be provided with a muzzle. That you may rely on. Thank God, I know how to deal with such germs of evil. Don’t worry yourself about that.”

Romashov fearlessly directed at him a glance of hatred, straight in his eyes, and said, almost in a whisper⁠—

“If ever I see you maltreat a soldier I will report it at once to the commander of the regiment.”

“What, do you dare?” shrieked Sliva in a threatening voice, but checked himself instantly. “Enough of this,” he went on to say dryly; “you ensigns are a little too young to teach veterans who have smelt powder, and who have, for more than a quarter of a century, served their Tsar without incurring punishment. Officers, return to your respective posts.”

Captain Sliva turned his back sharply on the officers and went away.

“Why do you poke your nose into all that?” asked Viätkin as he took Romashov by the arm and left the place. “As you know, that old plum16 isn’t one of the sweetest; besides, you don’t know him yet as well as I do. Be careful what you are about; he is not to be played with, and some fine day he’ll put you in the lockup in earnest.”

“Listen, Pavel Pavlich,” cried Romashov, with tears of rage in his voice. “Do you think views such as Captain Sliva’s are worthy of an officer? And is it not revolting that such old bags of bones should be suffered to insult their subordinates with impunity? Who can put up with it in the long run?”

“Well, yes⁠—to a certain extent you are right,” replied Viätkin, in a tone of indifference. The rest of what he thought of saying died away in a gape, and Romashov continued, in increasing excitement⁠—

“Tell me, what is the use of all this shouting and yelling at the men? I never could imagine when I became an officer that such barbarism was tolerated in our time in a Russian regiment. Ah! never shall I forget my first impressions and experiences here. One incident remains very clearly graven in my memory. It was the third day after my arrival here. I was sitting at mess in company with that red-haired libertine, Artschakovski. I addressed him in conversation as ‘lieutenant,’