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

taught their business, or what would happen if war suddenly broke out?”

“What is war after all?” said Romashov sadly, “and why⁠—? Perhaps it is nothing more than a mistake made by all, a universal error, a madness. Do you mean to tell me that it is natural to kill?”

“Oh, the devil take your philosophy! If the Germans were to attack us suddenly, who would defend Russia?”

“I know nothing about it, so I can’t talk about it,” said Romashov shortly. “I know nothing, and yet, take⁠—”

“For my part,” said Viätkin, “I think that if those are your ideas about war, it would be better for you to be out of the service. We are not supposed to think in our profession. The only question is, What could we do if we were not in the service? What use should we be anywhere when we know nothing but ‘Left! Right!’ We can die, of course, that is true. And die we should, as soon as we began to be in want, for food is not provided gratis, you know. And so, Mr. Philosopher, come to the club with me after drill.”

“Very well,” agreed Romashov indifferently. “If you ask me, I should say that it’s a hog’s life that we are leading; but, as you say, if one thinks so it is better to leave the service altogether.”

While they talked they walked up and down, and at length halted close to the 4th platoon. The soldiers were sitting or lying around their piled arms; some of them were eating bread, for soldiers eat bread all day long, and under all circumstances, at reviews, at halting-places in the manoeuvres, in church before confession, and even before physical punishment.

Romashov heard a quietly provocative voice say:

“Khliabnikov! I say, Khliabnikov!”

“Yes?” said Khliabnikov gruffly, through his nose.

“What do you do at home?”

“Work,” answered the other sleepily.

“What kind of work, you blockhead?”

“All kinds⁠—ploughing, cattle driving.”

Romashov glanced at the grey, pitiful face of Khliabnikov, and again was seized by an uneasy pain at his heart.

“Rifle practice!” cried Sliva from the centre. “Officers to their places.”

They unpiled their arms and took their places with much bustle.

“Close up!” commanded Sliva. “Stand at ease!”

And then, coming nearer to the company, he shouted:

“Manual exercise⁠—count aloud. On guard!”

“One!” cried the soldiers, and held their guns aloft.

Sliva went amongst them in a leisurely manner, making abrupt remarks: “Bayonets higher.⁠—Hold the butt-end to you.”

Then he again took up his position in front of the company and gave the order: “Two!”

“Two!” cried the soldiers.

And once more Sliva went amongst them to see if they were doing the exercises correctly.

After the manual exercise by division they had exercise by company, then turnings, form fours, fixing and unfixing bayonets and other forms. Romashov performed like an automaton all that was required of him, but all the time the words so carelessly uttered by Viätkin were running through his mind: “If I thought that, I would not stay in the service.” And all the arts of war⁠—the skilful evolutions, the cleverness of the rifle exercise, and all those tactics and fortifications on which he had wasted nine of the best years of his life, which would fill the rest of his life, and which not so very long ago had seemed to him important and so full of wisdom⁠—all had suddenly become deadly dull, unnatural, inventions without value, a universal self-deceit resembling an absurd dream.

When the drill was finished he and Viätkin went to the club and drank a lot of vodka together. Romashov, hardly knowing what he was doing, kissed Viätkin and wept hysterically on his shoulder, complained of his empty, miserable life, and also that no one understood him, also that a certain woman did not love him⁠—who she was no one should ever know. As for Viätkin, he drank glass after glass, only saying from time to time with contemptuous pity:

“The worst of you is, Romashov, that you can’t drink. You take one glass and you are all over the place.”

Then suddenly he struck his fist on the table threateningly, and cried: “If they want us to die, we’ll die!”

“We’ll die,” answered Romashov pitifully. “What is dying? A mere trifle! Oh, how my heart aches!”

Romashov did not remember going home and getting into bed. It seemed to him that he was floating on a thick blue cloud, upon which were scattered milliards and milliards of microscopic diamonds. His head seemed swollen to a tremendous size, and a pitiless voice was calling out in a tone which made him feel sick:

“One! Two!”

XVII

From this night Romashov underwent a profound inward change. He cut himself entirely adrift from the company of his comrades, usually took his dinner at home, never frequented the soirées dansantes of his regiment, and ceased to indulge in drink. He had grown older, riper, and more serious, and he noticed this himself in the calm resignation with which he bore the trials and adversities of life. Often, too, he recalled to mind the assertion he had long ago picked up from books or in the way of conversation, that human life is made up of periods of seven years, and that, in the course of each period, not only the organism, but also the character, views taken of life, and inclinations are completely renewed. And it was not so long since Romashov had completed his twenty-first year.

The soldier Khliabnikov used to visit him, but at first, however, only after being again urged to do so. Afterwards his visits became more and more frequent. During the first period he put one in mind of a starved and whipped dog which flinches from the hand held out caressingly; but Romashov’s kindness and goodness gradually drove away his fear and embarrassment and restored to him the faculty of gratitude and confidence. With something akin to remorse and shame, Romashov learned more of Khliabnikov’s sad conditions of life and family circumstances. At home lived his mother, his father⁠—a confirmed drunkard⁠—a semi-idiotic brother, and four