“Pretty choice specimens, in all truth,” thought he.
The standards were unfurled amidst the strident notes of the regimental band.
After this came a long and trying moment.
Straight away to the station, from which the Brigadier-General was expected, were posted a number of signallers who, by certain arranged signs, were to prepare the regiment for the approach of the Generals.
More than once they were disturbed by a false alarm.
The loose, slack ropes were once more tightened in mad haste, “dressings” and “lines” were ordered, and all stood for several minutes at the most painful “attention,” until weariness once more asserted its claims, and the poor soldiers collapsed, yet, at the very last, striving to keep the position of their feet, at any rate, unmoved.
Out in the plain, about three hundred paces off, the ladies displayed their clothes, parasols, and hats of variegated and loud colours.
Romashov knew very well that Shurochka was not in that bright, festive group. But every time he glanced in that direction he felt, as it were, an icy-cold shudder in the region of his heart, and his quick, nervous breathing bore witness to a strong inward excitement.
Suddenly, like a strong gust of wind, a rumour ran through the ranks, and a timorous cry was heard:
“He’s coming; he’s coming!”
It was clear to all that the important, eventful moment was approaching.
The soldiers, who had been since dawn the victims of the prevailing excitement, dressed in their ranks without orders, but with a certain nervous haste, and became rigid in apparently lifeless immobility. Now and then a nervous coughing was heard.
“Ranks, attention!” rang out Shulgovich’s order.
Romashov, glancing to the right, discovered, at a good distance down the plain, a small but dense group of horsemen who, now and then obscured for an instant by a faint yellow cloud of dust, were rapidly approaching the front.
Shulgovich rode, with a severe and solemn countenance, from his place in front of the middle company, right out into the plain, most certainly a good fourth further than the regulations demanded. The tremendous importance of the moment was reflected in his features.
With a gesture of noble dignity, he first glanced upwards, then calmed the dark, motionless mass of soldiers by a glance, withering, it is true, but mingled with tremulous exultation, and then let his stentorian voice roll over the plain, when commanding—
“Attention!
Should—er——”
He purposely kept back the last syllable of that longest word of command—the so-called “effective” word, just as if an infinite power and sanctity lay hidden in the pronunciation of those few wretched letters. His countenance became a bluish-red, the veins in his neck were strained like thick cords, and, finally, the releasing word was discernible in the wild-beast-like roar—
“—— arms!”
One—two.
A thousand slamming and rattling of hard blows from soldiers’ fists on the stocks of their rifles, and the violent contact of locks with the coarse metal clasps of belts echoed through the air. At the same moment the electrifying strains of the regimental march were audible from the right wing.
Like wild, excited, undisciplined children let loose, the flutes and cornets ran riot, trying by their shrill, ear-piercing voices to drown the coarse bellowing of trombones and ophicleides, whilst the thunder of drums and kettledrums, warning and threatening, exhorted frivolous, thoughtless young men of the consideration due to the seriousness and supreme importance of the moment.
From the station there rang out, almost like a soothing piccolo-strain, the whistle of the engine, mingling harmoniously with the joyful music of the band.
Romashov suddenly felt himself caught, as it were, by a mighty, roaring wave that, irresistibly and exultingly, carried him away.
With a sensation of joy and courage such as he had never experienced before, his glance met the sun’s gold-steeped rays, and it seemed to him as if, at that moment, he was, for the first time, conscious of the blue sky paled by the heat, and the warm verdure of the plain that disappeared in the far distance. For once he felt young and strong and eager to distinguish himself; proud, too, of belonging to this magnificent, motionless, imposing mass of men, gathered together and quelled by an invisible, mysterious will.
Shulgovich, with his sabre drawn to a level with his face, rode in a ponderous gallop to meet the General.
Directly the band’s rough martial, triumphant strains had ceased, the General’s calm, musical voice rang out—
“Good-day, 1st Company.”
The soldiers answered his salutation promptly and joyfully.
Again the locomotive made its voice heard, but this time in the form of a sharp, defiant signal.
The Brigadier-General rode slowly along the line, saluting the companies in their proper order.
Romashov could already distinguish his heavy, obese figure with the thin linen jacket turned up in deep folds across his chest and fat belly; his big square face turned towards the troops; the gorgeous saddle-cloth with his monogram embroidered in bright colours, the majestic grey charger, the ivory rings on the martingale, and patent-leather riding boots.
“Good-day, 6th Company.”
The soldiers round Romashov replied with a shout that was pretty nearly destructive both to throats and ear-drums.
The General sat his horse with the careless grace of an accomplished rider. His noble charger, with the gentle, steadfast glance from his handsome, though slightly bloodshot eyes, tugged hard at its bit, from which, now and then, a few white foam-drops fell to the ground, and careered gently on with short, quick, dancing steps.
“He’s grey about the temples, but his moustache is black—dyed, perhaps,” was Romashov’s reflection just then.
Through his gold-rimmed pince-nez the General answered with his dark, clever, youthful and satirically questioning eyes the soldiers’ glances directed at him.
When he came up to Romashov he touched the peak of his cap with his hand.
Romashov stood quite still, with every muscle strained in the most correct attitude of “attention,” and he clasped the hilt of his sabre with such a hard, crushing grip that it almost caused him pain.
A shudder of infinite, enthusiastic devotion rushed through his whole being, and whilst looking fixedly at the General’s face, he thought to himself in his old naive, childish way—
“The grey-haired old warrior’s glances noted with delight the young ensign’s slender, well-built figure.”
The General continued his slow ride along the front, saluting company after company.
Behind him moved his suite—a promiscuous, resplendent group of staff officers, whose horses shone with profuse rubbing down and dressing.
Romashov glanced at them, too, benevolently, but not one of them took the slightest notice of him. These spoilt favourites of fortune had long since had more than enough of parades, reviews, and the boundless enthusiasm of little, insignificant infantry officers, and Romashov felt in his heart a bitter, rebellious feeling at the thought that these superior people belonged to a world quite beyond his reach.
The band suddenly received a sign to stop playing.
The General returned at a sharp trot to the right wing, and after him, in a long, variegated line, his mounted suite.
Colonel Shulgovich galloped off to the 1st Company.
Pulling his reins and throwing all his enormous body back in the saddle, he yelled in a hoarse and trembling voice—
“Captain Osadchi, advance company.