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

Thou art almighty, Thou art good, Thou seest and hearest everything⁠—why hast Thou suffered injustice and malice so to triumph over me?”

But instantly afterwards he was filled with alarm at his blasphemous speech, and he went on to say in fervour and anguish⁠—

“No, no; forgive and forget my sinful words. I know Thou art as wise as Thou art merciful, and I shall never murmur any more. Do with me what seems best in Thy sight. I will always submit to Thy will with gratitude and a meek heart.”

Simultaneously with these pious words of penance and reformation there stirred in the depth of his soul a secret calculating thought that his solemnly promised submission to our Lord’s will would move the All-seeing God suddenly to work, on his behalf, a miracle whereby all the bitter sorrows and trials of this day would appear only as a hideous dream.

“Where are you?” shrieked just then a locomotive down at the station with a short, angry, impatient whistle. Another engine at once answered, in a hollow, threatening tone, “I am coming.”

From the moonlit crest of the ravine’s opposite slope a soft rustle was heard. In order more easily to detect the cause, Romashov raised his head from the ground. A grey, shapeless, scarcely human figure was sliding down to the bottom of the ravine. In spite of the bright moonlight, it was difficult to distinguish the nightwalker in the high grass, and only by the movements of his shadow was it possible for anyone to follow with the eye his course down the declivity.

Now he was crossing the railway-line. “Judging from everything,” guessed Romashov, “he is a soldier. Anyhow it’s a human being; but who can it be? A drunkard or a sleepwalker?”

The strange figure had already crossed the railway, stepped into the shade, and was climbing toilsomely up the slope on which Romashov was. The latter now saw distinctly that the wanderer was a soldier, who, however, immediately afterwards disappeared from Romashov’s sight. Two or three minutes elapsed before he again became visible. A round-clipped head without a cap was slowly lifted in Romashov’s direction, who now recognized, without difficulty, the left wing soldier in his own half-company⁠—the unfortunate Khliabnikov.

Khliabnikov went on his way bareheaded and with his cap in his hand, looking fixedly before him. It was evident that he was labouring under the influence of a mysterious inward force. He passed so near Romashov that the latter’s cloak almost grazed his own. The moon’s keen rays were reflected in the motionless pupils beneath the unnaturally wide-open eyelids.

“Khliabnikov, is it you?” cried Romashov.

“A-ah!” shouted the soldier, who stopped immediately, and began to shake all over.

Romashov jumped up from the ground. He saw before him a disfigured face, as pale as a corpse’s, with severed, bleeding lips, and one eye almost closed up by a tremendous bump turning blue. In the uncertain evening light the traces of the disgusting violence that had been perpetrated gained a still more horrible appearance. And as Romashov gazed at Khliabnikov, his thoughts ran thus: “Behold the man who with me brought shame on the entire regiment today. We are both equally to be pitied.”

“Where were you going, my friend? what’s the matter?” asked Romashov, in his tenderest tone, and, without thinking, he put both his hands on the soldier’s shoulders. Khliabnikov stared at him out of his uninjured eye with the wild look of one who had been frightened out of his wits, but he turned away at once. His bleeding lips, welded together, slowly opened with a soft, smacking sound, but all he could utter was a hoarse rattle. Romashov suddenly experienced an intolerable feeling of sickness, and he thought he felt in his chest and abdomen certain symptoms which usually precede fainting.

“Has someone beaten you, eh? Tell me! Come and sit down beside me.” He pulled the soldier by the sleeve of his coat down to the ground. Khliabnikov obediently collapsed, like a dummy fallen in a heap, and sank noiselessly down on the damp grass beside Romashov.

“Where were you going?” asked the latter. Khliabnikov did not answer a word where he sat, in a very unnatural and uncomfortable position, with his legs straddling. Romashov noticed that his head sank slowly, with scarcely perceptible little nods, on his chest. Again Romashov heard the same short, hoarse, rattling sound, and his whole soul was filled by an unspeakable pity. “Do I understand that you wanted to run away? Put on your cap and listen, Khliabnikov. At this moment I am not your officer or superior, but, like yourself, only a lonely, unlucky, ruined creature. I can understand how hard and burdensome it is for you to live, therefore speak to me frankly, tell me all. Perhaps you meant to kill yourself?” he added in a hollow, whispering tone.

A gurgling noise was again heard in the soldier’s throat, but not a word passed his lips. At the same moment Romashov noticed that his companion in misfortune was shaking from head to foot as if from a chill, and he was himself now attacked by an unconquerable terror. This sleepless night passed in feverish excitement; this feeling of loneliness and desertion; the moon’s unchangeable, oppressive, cold gleam; the ravine’s black depth beneath his feet; the dumb, cruelly maltreated soldier at his side⁠—all this seemed to him like a mad, insufferable dream⁠—one of those dreams that are wont to herald the approach of death. But directly afterwards he was again seized by the same infinite pity for the unfortunate victim beside him, and it was clear to him at once how petty and insignificant was his own sorrow in comparison with Khliabnikov’s cruel fate. With sincere tenderness he threw his arm round the soldier’s neck, drew him forcibly to him, and said, with the warmth that belongs to conviction⁠—

“Khliabnikov, you find life unsupportable, but, my friend, believe me, even I am an exceedingly unhappy man. The whole world wherein I live is to me a puzzle. Everything is