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

so savage, cruel, and senseless. However, one must be patient, one must learn to suffer.”

Khliabnikov’s bowed head fell suddenly on Romashov’s knee, which he embraced with both arms. All his being shook with suppressed weeping.

“I can’t stand any more,” he uttered at last, “I’ll bear it no longer. Oh, my God! They beat me, they mock me; the sergeants shriek for schnapps and money. Where is a poor devil like me to get money? And then they beat me again⁠—me, who have suffered from childhood from an incurable pain⁠—a severe rupture.”

Romashov bent down over his head, which shook convulsively backwards and forwards against Romashov’s knee. He perceived the smell of the soldier’s dirty, unhealthy body, and the rank stench of his cloak, which also served as a counterpane during the cold nights in his tent. An infinite sorrow for and disgust at himself, his profession, and the whole world harrowed the young officer’s soul. With overflowing heart he rested his forehead against Khliabnikov’s burning head and stubbly hair, at the same time whispering scarcely audibly⁠—

“My brother!”

Khliabnikov grasped Romashov’s hand, on which a few warm tears fell. Romashov even felt two cold, clammy lips kissing his fingers, but he did not withdraw his hand, and he spoke simple, calming, touching words, just as when one talks to a weeping, injured child.

Then he escorted Khliabnikov back to the camp, and then sent for Shapovalenko, the sergeant on duty that day in the 6th Company. The latter came out hurriedly, clad in an obviously imperfect costume, peered for a while with a pair of drowsy eyes, scratched himself both back and front with an earnestness that was probably more than justified. After several tremendous yawns he became gradually awake to the situation.

Romashov ordered him to release Khliabnikov from any duties he might happen to have just then.

“Your Honour, this may perhaps be a little premature.”

“No arguing!” shrieked Romashov in a furious tone. “Tell the Captain tomorrow that you acted on my instructions.” Then turning to Khliabnikov, he added: “We meet tomorrow, you know, at my house,” and received in reply a long, shy, grateful look.

Romashov slowly turned his steps homewards along the camp. A few words caught from a whispered conversation in one of the tents caused him to stop and listen: “You see, comrades,” says a subdued voice, “that this same devil sends the soldier his very chief magician. When the magician catches sight of the soldier, he roars at him like this: ‘What’s a soldier to me? I’ll eat him!’ ‘No,’ replies the soldier, ‘you can’t do that, old chap, for I myself am a magician⁠—’ ”

Romashov soon reached the ravine again. Once more that indescribable feeling of disgust at life and contempt of the inanity and senselessness of the work of creation. Whilst descending the declivity he stopped suddenly and raised his eyes to heaven. Again he was met by the same infinite, icy-cold firmament; again he experienced the same longing, mingled with fear and anguish, and almost unconsciously he raised his fists threateningly against heaven, and in the voice of a man foaming with rage, in words of unspeakable blasphemy, challenged his Maker’s omnipotence, and dared Him, in proof of it, to break off his arms and legs.

Romashov, deliberately and with his eyes shut, threw himself down the precipice, and alighted unscathed on the railway bank. With two leaps he gained the opposite slope, the top of which he reached without stopping or taking breath. His nostrils were dilated, and his chest heaved violently under convulsive efforts to regain his breath, but in the depths of his soul there blazed a proud, triumphant feeling of malicious joy and defiance.

XVI

There was a lesson on military drill going on in the school of recruits. In a close room, on benches arranged in a square, sat the soldiers of the 3rd platoon facing one another. In the middle of this square Corporal Syeroshtán walked to and fro. Close by, walking backwards and forwards in the centre of a similar square, was the noncommissioned officer Shapovalenko.

“Bondarenko!” cried Syeroshtán in a piercing voice.

Bondarenko brought his feet down on the floor with a bang, and jumped up just like a jack-in-the-box.

“Now, Bondarenko, suppose that you were standing at arms, and the commander came to you and asked: ‘What is that in your hands, Bondarenko?’ What ought you to answer?”

“A gun,” replied Bondarenko after reflection.

“Wrong! Do you mean to tell me you would call it a gun? At home you might call it a gun, certainly, but in the service it is called simply a sharpshooting infantry rifle of small calibre, maker Berdan, number two, with a sliding bolt. Repeat that now, you son of a⁠—!”

Bondarenko gabbled over the words, which he evidently knew by heart.

“Sit down!” commanded Syeroshtán graciously. “And for what purpose is the rifle given you?” His stern gaze wandered round the class. “Shevchuk! you answer this question.”

Shevchuk stood up with a morose expression, and answered in a deep bass voice, speaking through his nose, and very slowly, and in detached phrases, as if there were a full stop after each:

“It is given to me in order that in time of peace I may practise with it. But in time of war that I may protect my Emperor and my country from enemies.” He stopped, scratched his nose, and added obscurely: “Whether they be external or internal.”

“Right! You know that very well, Shevchuk, only you mumble. Sit down. And now, Ovechkin, tell me, whom do we call external enemies?”

Ovechkin, a sprightly soldier from Orlov, answered rapidly and with great animation, spluttering with excitement:

“External enemies are all those nations with whom we might go to war; the French, Germans, Italians, Turks, Europeans⁠—”

“Wait,” Syeroshtán cut him short. “All that is not in the text. Sit down. And now tell me⁠—Arkhipov! Who are our internal enemies?”

He uttered the last two words very loudly, as if to emphasize them, and threw a meaning glance at the volunteer, Markouson.

The clumsy, pockmarked Arkhipov was