He often thought he recognized the mistress of his heart in some lady walking along. With beating heart and thrills of bliss he hurried nearer, but every time this turned out a bitter disappointment; and when he found out his mistake he felt in his soul an abandonment and deadly void that caused him pain.
XVIII
ONE day towards the end of May, a young soldier belonging to Captain Osadchi’s company hanged himself. Curiously enough, this suicide happened on the same date as a similar dreadful event in the previous year, and that, too, in Osadchi’s company.
About this time drinking-bouts were arranged in the regiment. These, in spite of their quasi-official character, were not one whit inferior in coarseness to the regular and more private gatherings inter pocula.
It is highly probable that such stimulating entertainments were felt a special necessity when men, who have been tied to one another by fate, through a soul-destructive inactivity or senseless cruelty towards their kind, have chanced to look somewhat more deeply into each other’s hearts, and then—in spite of prejudices, unscrupulousness, and spiritual darkness—suddenly realize in what a bottomless pit of darkness they all are.
In order to deaden the pangs of conscience and remorse at a life ruined and thrown away, all their insidious, brutish instincts have to be let loose at once and all their passions satisfied.
Shortly after the suicide in question, a similar crisis occurred among the officers. Osadchi, as might be expected, became the instigator and high-priest of the orgies. In the course of several days he organized in the mess, games of hazard more recklessly than ever, during which fearful quantities of spirit were consumed.
Strangely enough, this wild beast in human form soon managed to entice pretty nearly all the officers of his regiment into a whirl of mad dissipations. And during all these carousals Osadchi, with unparalleled cynicism, insolence, and heartlessness, tried to provoke expressions of disapproval and opposition, by invoking all the powers of the nether-world to insult the name and memory of the unhappy man who had taken his own life.
It was about 6 p.m., Romashov was sitting at his window with his legs resting on the window-sill, and whistling softly a waltz out of Faust.
The sparrows and magpies were making a noise and laughing at each other in the garden.
It was not yet evening, but the shadows beneath the trees grew longer and fainter.
Suddenly a powerful voice was heard outside singing, not without a certain spirit, but out of tune—
“The chargers are champing, snorting, and neighing. The foam-covered bridle still holds them in sway.”
Immediately afterwards the door was flung wide open, and Viatkin rolled into Romashov’s room with a loud peal of laughter.
Although it was all he could do to stand on his legs, he kept on singing—
“Matrons and maidens with sorrowful glances Watch till their hero is lost to their sight.”
Viatkin was still completely intoxicated from the libations of the preceding day, and his eyelids were red and swollen from a night without sleep.
His hat was half off his head, and his long, waxed moustache hung down like the tusks of a walrus.
“R-romuald, Syria’s holy hermit, come, let me kiss you!” he roared in a way that echoed through the whole house.
“How long do you intend to sit brooding here?
Come, let us go.
There’s wine and play and jolly fellows down there.
Come!”
Viatkin gave Romashov a sounding kiss and rubbed his face with his wet moustache.
“Well, well, that will do, Pavel Pavlich. Is that the way to go on?” Romashov tried to defend himself against Viatkin’s repeated caresses, but in vain.
“Hold out your hand, my friend.
Osadchi is kicking up a row down there, so there’s not a pane of glass unbroken.
Romashevich, I love you.
Come here and let me give you a real Russian kiss, right on the mouth—do you hear?”
Viatkin with his swollen face, glassy eyes, and stinking breath was unspeakably forbidding to Romashov, but, as usual, the latter could not ward off such caresses, to which he now responded by a sickly and submissive smile.
“Wait and you shall hear why I came,” shrieked Viatkin, hiccupping and stumbling about the room.
“Something important, you may well believe.
Bobetinski was cleaned out by me to his last copeck.
Then he wanted, of course, to give an IOU.
‘Much obliged, dear boy, but that cock won’t fight.
But perhaps you have something left to pledge.’
Then he drew out his revolver—here it is, by the way.”
Viatkin drew from his breeches pocket, which followed, turned inside out, a choice little, well-constructed revolver protected by a chamois-leather case.
“As you see, dear boy, the Mervin type.
‘Well,’ I said to him, ‘how much will you venture on that—twenty—ten—fifteen?’
And can you imagine such a curmudgeon?
The first time only a rouble, on the ‘colour,’ of course.
But all the same—hey, presto! slap-bang!
After five raisings the revolver was mine and the cartridges too.
And now you shall have it, Romashevich, as a keepsake of our old friendship. Some day you will always think of me thus: ‘Viatkin was always a brave and generous officer.’ But what are you doing?
Are you writing verses?”
“Well, well, what have you brought this for, Pavel Pavlich?
Put it away.”
“All right. Perhaps you think it’s no good?
I could kill an elephant with it.