You are not a coxcomb yet, you know.”
VII
AT 3.30 p.m. Lieutenant Federovski, the Adjutant of the regiment, drove up to Romashov’s house.
He was a tall, stately, and (as the ladies of the regiment used to say) presentable young man, with freezingly cold eyes and an enormous moustache that almost grazed his shoulder.
Towards the younger officers he was always excessively polite, but, at the same time, officially correct in his conduct. He was not familiar with any one, and had a very high opinion of himself and his position.
Nearly all the captains flattered and paid court to him.
As he entered the door, he rapidly scanned with his blinking eyes the whole of the scanty furniture in Romashov’s room.
The latter, who lay resting on his bed, jumped off, and, blushing, began to button up his undress tunic.
“I am here by orders of the commander, who wishes to speak to you,” said Federovski in a dry tone. “Be good enough to dress and accompany me as soon as possible.”
“I shall be ready at once. Shall I put on undress or parade uniform?”
“Don’t, please, stand on ceremony.
A frock-coat, if you like, that would be quite sufficient. Meanwhile, with your permission, I will take a seat.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon—will you have some tea?” said Romashov fussily.
“No, thanks.
My time is short, and I must ask you to be as quick as possible about changing your clothes.”
And without taking off his cloak or gloves, he sat down whilst Romashov changed his clothes in nervous haste and with painful glances at his not particularly clean shirt. Federovski sat the whole time with his hands resting on the hilt of his sabre, as motionless as a stone image.
“I suppose you do not happen to know why I am sent for?”
The Adjutant shrugged his shoulders.
“A singular question!
How should I know?
You ought to know the reason better than I.
But if I may give you a bit of friendly advice, put the sabre-belt under—not over—the shoulder strap.
The Colonel is, as you are aware, particular about such matters.
And now, if you please, we will start.”
Before the steps stood a common caleche, attached to which were a couple of high, lean army horses.
Romashov was polite enough to encroach as little as possible on the narrow seat, so as not to cause his attendant any discomfort, but the latter did not, so it seemed, take the slightest notice of that.
On the way they met Viatkin; the latter exchanged a chilly and correct salute with the Adjutant, but honoured Romashov, who for a second turned round, with a comic but enigmatical gesture that might probably mean:
“Ah, poor fellow, you are on your way to Pontius Pilate.”
They met other officers, some of whom regarded Romashov with a sort of solemn interest, others with unfeigned astonishment, and some bestowed on him only a derisive smile. Romashov tried to avoid their glances and felt himself shrinking beneath them.
The Colonel did not receive him at once. He had some one in his private room.
Romashov had to wait in a half-dark hall that smelt of apples, naphtha, newly-polished furniture and, besides that, of something which not at all unpleasantly reminded him of the odour which seems particularly inseparable from clothes and furniture in well-to-do German families that are pedantically careful about their goods and chattels.
As he walked slowly up and down the hall, he glanced at himself several times in a mirror in a light ashwood frame which was fixed to the wall; and each time he looked his face struck him as being unhealthily pale, ugly, and queer. His uniform, too, was shabby, and his epaulettes soiled.
Out in the hall might be heard the incessant rumbling of the Colonel’s deep bass voice.
The words themselves could not be distinguished, but the ferocious tone told the tale clearly enough that Colonel Shulgovich was scolding some one with implacable and sustained rage.
This went on for about five minutes; after which Schulgovich suddenly became silent, a trembling, supplicating voice succeeded his, and, after a moment’s pause, Romashov clearly heard the following frightful tirade uttered with a terrible accent of pride, indignation, and contempt:
“What nonsense is it that you dare to talk about your wife and your children?
What the devil have I to do with them?
Before you brought your children into the world you ought to have considered how you could manage to feed them.
What?
So now you are trying to throw the blame on your Colonel, are you?
But it has nothing to do with him.
You know too well, Captain, that if I do not deliver you into the hands of justice I shall fail in my duty as your commander.
Be good enough not to interrupt me.
Here there is no question of an offence against discipline, but a glaring crime, and your place henceforward will certainly not be in the regiment, but you yourself best know where.”
Again he heard that miserable, beseeching voice, so pitiful that it did not sound human.
“Good Lord! what is it all about?” thought Romashov, who, as if he were glued to the looking-glass, gazed at his pale face without seeing it, and felt his heart throbbing painfully.
“Good Lord! how horrible!”
The plaintive, beseeching voice again replied, and spoke at some length.
When it ceased, the Colonel’s deep bass began thundering, but now evidently a trifle more calmly and gently than before, as if his rage had spent itself, and his desire to witness the humiliation of another were satisfied.
Shulgovich said abruptly: