Part 7

He remembered in connection with this how, in his earliest youth, long before he entered the Cadet School, his mother used to punish him by tying him tightly to the foot of the bed with fine thread, after which she left him by himself; and little Romashov sat for whole hours submissively still. But never for an instant did it occur to him to flee from the house, although, under ordinary circumstances, he never stood on ceremony--for instance, to slide down the water-pipe from other storys to the street; to dangle, without permission, after a military band or a funeral procession as far as the outskirts of Moscow; or to steal from his mother lumps of sugar, jam, and cigarettes for older playfellows, etc. But this brittle thread exercised a remarkable hypnotizing influence on his mind as a child. He was even afraid of breaking it by some sudden, incautious movement. In that case he was influenced by no fear whatsoever of punishment, neither by a sense of duty, nor by regret, but by pure hypnosis, a superstitious dread of the unfathomable power and superiority of grown-up or older persons, which reminds one of the savage who, paralysed by fright, dares not take a step beyond the magic circle that the conjurer has drawn.

"And here I am sitting now like a schoolboy, like a little helpless, mischievous brat tied by the leg," thought Romashov as he slouched backwards and forwards in his room. "The door is open, I can go when I please, can do what I please, can talk and laugh--but I am kept back by a thread. _I_ sit here; _I_ and nobody else. Some one has ordered me to sit here, and I shall sit here; but who has authorized him to order this? Certainly not _I_.

"I"--Romashov stood in the middle of the room with his legs straddling and his head hanging down, thinking deeply. "_I, I, I!_" he shouted in a loud voice, in which there lay a certain note of astonishment, as if he now was first beginning to comprehend the meaning of this short word. "Who is standing here and gaping at that black crack in the floor?--Is it really I? How curious--I"--he paused slowly and with emphasis on the monosyllable, just as if it were only by such means that he could grasp its significance.

He smiled unnaturally; but, in the next instant, he frowned, and turned pale with emotion and strain of thought. Such small crises had not infrequently happened to him during the last five or six years, as is nearly always the case with young people during that period of life when the mind is in course of development. A simple truth, a saying, a common phrase, with the meaning of which he has long ago been familiar, suddenly, by some mysterious impulse from within, stands in a new light, and so receives a particular philosophical meaning. Romashov could still remember the first time this happened to him. It was at school during a catechism lesson, when the priest tried to explain the parable of the labourers who carried away stones. One of them began with the light stones, and afterwards took the heavier ones, but when at last he came to the very heaviest of all his strength was exhausted. The other worked according to a diametrically different plan, and luckily fulfilled his duty. To Romashov was opened the whole abyss of practical wisdom that lay hidden in this simple picture that he had known and understood ever since he could read a book. Likewise with the old saying: "Seven times shalt thou measure, once shalt thou cut." In a happy moment he suddenly perceived the full, deep import of this maxim; wisdom, understanding, wise economy, calculation. A tremendous experience of life lay concealed in these few words. Such was the case now. All his mental individuality stood suddenly before him with the distinctness of a lightning flash.

"My Ego," thought Romashov, "is only that which is within me, the very kernel of my being; all the rest is the non-Ego--that is, only secondary things. This room, street, trees, sky, the commander of my regiment, Lieutenant Andrusevich, the service, the standard, the soldiers--all this is non-Ego. No, no, this is non-Ego--my hands and feet." Romashov lifted up his hands to the level of his face, and looked at them with wonder and curiosity, as if he saw them now for the first time in his life. "No, all this is non-Ego. But look--I pinch my arm--that is the Ego. I see my arm, I lift it up--_this_ is the Ego. And what I am thinking now is also Ego. If I now want to go my way, that is the Ego. And even if I stop, that is the Ego.

"Oh, how wonderful, how mysterious is this. And so simple too. Is it true that all individuals possess a similar Ego? Perhaps it is only I who have it? Or perhaps nobody has it. Down there hundreds of soldiers stand drawn up in front of me. I give the order: 'Eyes to the right,' to hundreds of human beings who has each his own Ego, and who see in me something foreign, distant, i.e. non-Ego--then turn their heads at once to the right. But I do not distinguish one from the other; they are to me merely a mass. And to Colonel Schulgovich both I and Viätkin and Lbov, and all the captains and lieutenants, are likewise perhaps merely a 'mass,' viz., he does not distinguish one of us from the other, or, in other words, we are entirely outside his ken as individuals to him."

The door was opened, and Hainán stole into the room. He began at once his usual dance, threw up his legs into the air, rocked his shoulders, and shouted--

"Your Honour, I got no cigarettes. They said that Lieutenant Skriabin gave orders that you were not to have any more on credit."

"Oh, damn! You can go, Hainán. What am I to do without cigarettes? However, it is of no consequence. You can go, Hainán."

"What was it I was thinking of?" Romashov asked himself, when he was once more alone. He had lost the threads, and, unaccustomed as he was to think, he could not pick them up again at once. "What was I thinking of just now? It was something important and interesting. Well, let us turn back and take the questions in order. Also, I am under arrest; out in the street I see people at large; my mother tied me up with a thread--_me, me_. Yes, so it was. The soldier perhaps has an Ego, perhaps even Colonel Shulgovich. Ha, he! now I remember; go on. Here I am sitting in my room. I am arrested, but my door is open. I want to go out, but I dare not. Why do I not dare? Have I committed any crime--theft--murder? No. All I did was merely omitting to keep my heels together when I was talking to another man. Possibly I was wrong. Yet, why? Is it anything important? Is it the chief thing in life? In about twenty or thirty years--a second in eternity--my life, my Ego, will go out like a lamp does when one turns the wick down. They will light life--the lamp--afresh, over and over again; but my Ego is gone for ever. Likewise this room, this sky, the regiment, the whole army, all stars, this dirty globe, my hands and feet--all, all--shall be annihilated for ever. Yes, yes; that is so. Well, all right--but wait a bit. I must not be in too much of a hurry. I shall not be in existence. Ah, wait. I found myself in infinite darkness. Somebody came and lighted my life's lamp, but almost immediately he blew it out again, and once more I was in darkness, in the eternity of eternities. What did I do? What did I utter during this short moment of my existence? I held my thumb on the seam of my trousers and my heels together. I shrieked as loud as I could: 'Shoulder arms!' and immediately afterwards I thundered 'Use your butt ends, you donkeys!' I trembled before a hundred tyrants, now miserable ghosts in eternity like my own remarkable, lofty Ego. But why did I tremble before those ghosts and why could they compel me to do such a lot of unnecessary, idiotic, unpleasant things? How could they venture to annoy and insult my Ego--these miserable spectres?"

Romashov sat down by the table, put his elbows on it, and leaned his head on his hands. It was hard work for him to keep in check these wild thoughts which raced through his mind.

"H'm!--my friend Romashov, what a lot you have forgotten--your fatherland, the ashes of your sire, the altar of honour, the warrior's oath and discipline. Who shall preserve the land of your sires when the foe rushes over its boundaries? Ah! when I am dead there will be no more fatherland, no enemy, no honour. They will disappear at the same time as my consciousness. But if all this be buried and brought to naught--country, enemies, honour, and all the other big words--what has all this to do with _my Ego_? I am more important than all these phrases about duty, honour, love, etc. Assume that I am a soldier and my Ego suddenly says, 'I won't fight,' and not only _my own_ Ego, but millions of other Egos that constitute the whole of the army, the whole of Russia, the entire world; all these say, 'We won't!' Then it will be all over so far as war is concerned, and never again will any one have to hear such absurdities as 'Open order,' 'Shoulder arms,' and all the rest of that nonsense.

"Well, well, well. It must be so some day," shouted an exultant voice in Romashov. "All that talk about 'warlike deeds,' 'discipline,' 'honour of the uniform,' 'respect for superiors,' and, first and last, the whole science of war exists only because humanity will not, or cannot, or dare not, say, 'I won't.'"

"What do you suppose all this cunningly reared edifice that is called the profession of arms really is? Nothing, humbug, a house hanging in midair, which will tumble down directly mankind pronounces three short words: 'I will not.' My Ego will never say, 'I will not eat,' 'I will not breathe,' 'I will not see,' But if any one proposes to my Ego that it shall die, it infallibly replies: 'I will not.' What, then, is war with all its hecatombs of dead and the science of war, which teaches us the best methods of murdering? Why, a universal madness, an illusion. But wait. Perhaps I am mistaken. No, I cannot be mistaken, for this 'I will not' is so simple, so natural, that everybody must, in the end, say it. Let us, however, examine the matter more closely. Let us suppose that this thought is pronounced this very moment by all Russians, Germans, Englishmen, and Japanese. Ah, well, what would be the consequence? Why, that war would cease for ever, and the officers and soldiers would go, every man, to his home. And what would happen after that? I know: Shulgovich would answer; Shulgovich would immediately get querulous and say: 'Now we are done for; they can attack us now whenever they please, take away our hearths and homes, trample down our fields, and carry off our wives and sisters.' And what about rioters, socialists, revolutionaries? But when the whole of mankind without exception has shouted: 'We will no longer tolerate bloodshed,' who will then dare to assail us? No one! All enemies would be reconciled, submit to each other, forgive everything, and justly divide among themselves the abundance of the earth. Gracious God, when shall this dream be fulfilled?"

Whilst Romashov was indulging in these fancies, he failed to notice that Hainán had quietly stolen in behind his back and suddenly stretched his arm over his shoulder. Romashov started in terror, and roared out angrily--

"What the devil do you want?"

Hainán laid before him on the table a cinnamon-coloured packet. "This is for you," he replied in a friendly, familiar tone, and Romashov felt behind him his servant's jovial smile. "They are cigarettes; smoke now."

Romashov looked at the packet. On it was printed, "The Trumpeter, First-class Cigarettes. Price 3 kopecks for 20."

"What does this mean?" he asked in astonishment. "Where did this come from?"

"I saw that you had no cigarettes, so I bought these with my own money. Please smoke them. It is nothing. Just a little present."

After this, to conceal his confusion, Hainán ran headlong to the door, which he slammed after him with a deafening bang. Romashov lighted a cigarette, and the room was soon filled with a perfume that strongly reminded one of melted sealing-wax and burnt feathers.

"Oh, you dear!" thought Romashov, deeply moved. "I get cross with you and scold you and make you pull off my muddy boots every evening, and yet you go and buy me cigarettes with your few last coppers. 'Please smoke them.' What made you do it?"

Again he got up and walked up and down the room with his hands behind him.

"Our company consists of at least a hundred men, and each of them is a creature with thoughts, feelings, experience of life, personal sympathies and antipathies. Do I know anything about them? No, nothing, except their faces. I see them before me as they stand in line every day, drawn up from right to left: Sóltyss, Riaboschápka, Yégoroff, Yaschtschischin, etc., etc.--mere sorry, grey figures. What have I done to bring my soul nearer to their souls, my Ego to theirs? Nothing."

He involuntarily called to mind a rough night at the end of autumn, when (as was his custom) he was sitting drinking in the mess-room with a few comrades. Suddenly the pay-sergeant Goumeniuk, of the 9th Company, rushed into the room, and breathlessly called to his commander--

"Your Excellency, the recruits are here."

Yes, there they stood in the rain, in the barrack-yard, driven together like a herd of frightened animals without any will of their own, which with cowed, suspicious glances gazed at their tormentors. "Each individual," thought Romashov, as he slowly and carefully inspected their appearance, "has his own characteristic expression of countenance. This one, for instance, is most certainly a smith; that is, doubtless, a jolly chap who plays his accordion with some talent; that one with the shrewd features can both read and write, and looks as if he were a _polevói_."[8] And one felt that these poor recruits who, a few days ago, had been violently seized whilst their wives and children were crying and lamenting, had tried, with tears in their voices, to join in the coarse songs of their wild, drunken brothers in misfortune. But a year later they stood like soldiers in long rigid rows--grey, sluggish, apathetic figures, all cast, as it were, in the same mould. But they never left their homes of their own free will. Their Ego resented it. And yet they went. Why all this inconsistency? How can one not help thinking of that old and well-known story about the cock who fought desperately with his wings and resisted to the uttermost when his beak was pressed against a table, but who stood motionless, hypnotized, when some one drew a thick line with a piece of chalk across the table from the tip of his beak.

Romashov threw himself on the bed.

"What is there left for you to do under the circumstances?" he asked himself in bitter mockery. "Do you think of resigning? But, in that case, where do you think of going? What does the sum of knowledge amount to that you have learnt at the infants' school, the Cadet School, at the Military Academy, at mess? Have you tried the struggle and seriousness of life? No, you have been looked after and your wants supplied, as if you were a little child, and you think perhaps, like a certain schoolgirl, that rolls grow on trees. Go out into the world and try. At the very first step you would slip and fall; people would trample you in the dust, and you would drown your misery in drink. And besides, have you ever heard of an officer leaving the service of his own free will? No, never. Just because he is unfit for anything he will not give up his meagre bread-and-butter. And if any one is forced into doing this, you will soon see him wearing a greasy old regimental cap, and accepting alms from people in the street. I am a Russian officer of gentle birth, _comprenez-vous_? Alas, where shall I go--what will become of me?"

"Prisoner, prisoner!" cried a clear female voice beneath the window.

Romashov jumped up from his bed and rushed to the window. Opposite him stood Shurochka. She was protecting her eyes from the sun with the palm of her hand, and pressing her rosy face against the window pane, exclaiming in a mocking tone:--

"Oh, give a poor beggar a copper!"

Romashov fumbled at the window-catch in wild eagerness to open it, but he remembered in the same moment that the inner window had not been removed. With joyous resolution he seized the window-frame with both hands, and dragged it to him with a tremendous tug. A loud noise was heard, and the whole window fell into the room, besprinkling Romashov with bits of lime and pieces of dried putty. The outer window flew up, and a stream of fresh air, charged with joy and the perfume of flowers, forced its way into the room.

"Ha, at last! Now I'll go out, cost what it may," shouted Romashov in a jubilant voice.

"Romashov, you mad creature! what are you doing?"

He caught her outstretched hand through the window; it was closely covered by a cinnamon-coloured glove, and he began boldly to kiss it, first upwards and downwards, and after that from the finger-tips to the wrist. Last of all, he kissed the hole in the glove just below the buttons. He was astonished at his boldness; never before had he ventured to do this. Shurochka submitted as though unconscious to this passionate burst of affection, and smilingly accepted his kisses whilst gazing at him in shy wonderment.

"Alexandra Petrovna, you are an angel. How shall I ever be able to thank you?"

"Gracious, Romochka! what has come to you? And why are you so happy?" she asked laughingly as she eyed Romashov with persistent curiosity. "But wait, my poor prisoner, I have brought you from home a splendid _kalátsch_ and the most delicious apple puffs."

"Stepan, bring the basket here."

He looked at her with devotion in his eyes, and without letting go her hand, which she allowed to remain unresistingly in his, he said hurriedly--

"Oh, if you knew all I have been thinking about this morning--if you only knew! But of this, later on."

"Yes, later on. Look, here comes my lord and master. Let go my hand. How strange you look to-day! I even think you have grown handsome."

Nikoläiev now came up to the window. He frowned, and greeted Romashov in a rather cool and reserved way.

"Come, Shurochka," he said to his wife, "what in the world are you thinking about? You must both be mad. Only think, if the Commander were to see us. Good-bye, Romashov; come and see us."

"Yes, come and see us, Yuri Alexievich," repeated Shurochka. She left the window, but returned almost at once and whispered rapidly to Romashov. "Don't forget us. You are the only man here whom I can associate with--as a friend--do you hear? And another thing. Once for all I forbid you to look at me with such sheep's eyes, remember that. Besides, you have no right to imagine anything. 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 _calèche_, 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 Viätkin; 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.