“Rascal, scoundrel, your hour is come!” screamed Nikolaiev in a loud, trembling voice.
With flashing eyes he raised his tightly clenched fist to Romashov’s face, but the expected blow never fell.
Romashov experienced a momentary fear, together with a torturing, sickening sensation in his chest and ribs, and he now noticed, for the first time, that he was grasping some object with the fingers of his right hand.
Then with a rapid movement he threw the remains of his half-emptied glass of ale into Nikolaiev’s face.
Instantly after this a violent blow in the region of his left eye struck him like a deafening thunderclap, and with the howl of a wounded wild beast, Romashov rushed at his foe. A heavy fall, and the two rolled over one another on the ground with furious blows and kicks. A thick cloud of dust eddied round the combatants; chairs and tables were flung in all directions, but the two continued, with unabated fury, to force, in turn, each other’s head against the filthy floor, and panting and with rattling throats, tried to tear each other to pieces.
Romashov knew he had managed somehow or other to get his fingers well into Nikolaiev’s mouth at one of the corners, and he strove with all his might to rend Nikolaiev’s cheek, with the object of destroying those hateful features for all time. He himself, however, felt no pain when his head and elbows were bumped time after time, in the course of the fight, against the hard floor.
He had not the slightest notion as to how the battle finally ended.
He suddenly found himself standing in a corner, plucked from the fight by kindly hands, and, by the same well-meaning helper, prevented from renewing his attack on Nikolaiev.
Biek-Agamalov handed Romashov a glass of water, and his teeth could be heard chattering, through the convulsive twitchings of his lower jaw, against the side of the glass.
His uniform was torn to tatters in the back and elbows, and one shoulder-strap swung hither and thither on its torn fastening.
Romashov was unable to speak, but his silent lips moved incessantly in fruitless efforts to whisper audibly—
“I’ll—show—him.
I challenge him.”
Old Liech, who had been in a delightful slumber at the edge of his table during all that fearful row, now arose fully awake, sober, and severe in countenance, and, in a bitter and hectoring tone rarely employed by him, said—
“Gentlemen, in my capacity as the eldest here present, I order you all to leave the mess instantly, and to go to your respective quarters.
A report of what has taken place here to-night is to be handed in to the commander of the regiment to-morrow.”
The order was obeyed without the slightest demur.
All departed, cowed and shamefaced, and consequently shy at meeting each other’s glances. Each individual dreaded to read in his comrade’s eyes his own shame and self-contempt, and they all gave one the impression of dirty little malicious animals, to whose dim and undeveloped brains a gleam of human understanding had suddenly managed to grope its way.
Day began to dawn. A delightful, glorious morning with a clear, fleckless sky, refreshing coolness, and infinite harmony and peace.
The moist trees, wrapped in thin, curling exhalations arising from the earth, and scarcely visible to the eye, had just awakened silently and imperceptibly from their deep, mysterious, nocturnal sleep.
And when Romashov, on his way home, glanced at them, at the sky, and at the grass faintly sparkling like silver in the dew, he felt himself so low, vile, degenerate, and disgusting that he realized, with unutterable melancholy, how unworthy he was to be greeted by the innocent, smiling child-eyes of awakening Nature.
XX
ON that same day—it was Wednesday—Romashov received the following curt official communication—
The Court of Honour of the—th Infantry Regiment hereby requests Sub-lieutenant Romashov to attend at 6 p.m. the officers’ common-room.
Dress: ordinary uniform.
Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov, President of the Court.
On perusing the letter, Romashov could not restrain an ironical smile. This so-called “ordinary uniform,” i.e. undress uniform with shoulder-knots and belt, was to be worn, under the most extraordinary circumstances, before the Court, for public reprimand, when appearing for examination by the commander of his regiment, etc., etc.
At 6 p.m. Romashov put in an appearance at the mess, and told the orderly to send in his name to the president.
The answer was to the effect that he was to wait.
Romashov sat down by an open window in the dining-room, took up a paper and began to read; but he did not understand a word of the contents: everything seemed to him so uninteresting as he cast his eyes mechanically down one column after another.
Three officers who were in the mess before Romashov returned his salutation with marked coldness, and continued their conversation in a low voice, with the obvious intention of preventing Romashov from catching what they were saying.
Only one of them, Michin, pressed Romashov’s hand long and warmly, with moist eyes, blushing and tongue-tied. He at once turned away, put on his cloak and hat hurriedly and awkwardly, and ran out of the room.
Nikolaiev shortly afterwards entered through the buffet.
He was pale, his eyelids were of a bluish hue, his left hand was shaking with spasmodic twitches, and just below his temples a bluish swelling was visible.
At once the recollection of the fight on the previous day came to Romashov with painful distinctness. He hung his head, frowned, and, almost annihilated with shame, hid himself behind his newspaper. He closed his eyes, and listened in nervous tension to every sound in the room.
Romashov heard Nikolaiev order a glass of cognac from the waiter, and then greet one of the company.
After that he walked up to where Romashov was sitting, and passed him quite closely.
Somebody left the room, the door of which was shut again.
A few seconds later Romashov heard in a whispering tone behind him—
“Don’t look back.
Sit still and listen carefully to what I have to say.”
It was Nikolaiev.
The newspaper shook in Romashov’s hands.
“As you’re aware, all conversation between us is now forbidden; but damn all these French niceties.
What occurred yesterday can never be put straight again, made little of, or be consigned to oblivion.
In spite of everything, however, I regard you as a man of conscience and honour.
I implore you—do you hear?—I implore you, not a word about my wife and the anonymous letters.
You understand me?”
Romashov, who was hidden by the newspaper from the eyes of his brother officer, made a slow inclination of his head.
The sound of steps crunching the sand was audible from the courtyard.