Александр Куприн
The Duel

XIX

THE violent emotion felt by every member of the company during the wild scene we have just depicted found expression in a nervous irritability which, on their return to the mess-room, took the form of reckless arrogance and gross misbehaviour to all who happened to come across the officers on their way home. A poor Jew coming along was stopped and deprived of his cap. Olisár got up in the carriage, and insulted, in the outskirts of the town, in the middle of the street, all passers-by in a manner which cannot be decently described. Bobetinski whipped his coachman for no reason whatever. The others sang and bawled with all their might; only Biek-Agamalov, who rode beside Romashov, sat all the time angry, silent, and taciturn.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the mess-rooms were brilliantly illuminated and full of people. In the card and billiard-rooms and at the buffet creatures with unbuttoned coats, flaming faces, vacantly staring eyes and of uncertain gait, helplessly collided with each other, heavily fuddled by the fumes of wine and tobacco smoke. Romashov, who was walking about and nodding to several of the officers, also found among them, to his great astonishment, Nikoläiev. He was sitting by Osadchi, red in face and intoxicated, but holding himself upright. On seeing Romashov approaching he eyed him sharply for a few seconds, but afterwards turned abruptly aside, so as to avoid holding out his hand to the latter, meanwhile conversing with his neighbour with increased interest.

“Viätkin, come here and sing,” bellowed Osadchi over the heads of the rest.

“Yes, come let us sing,” chanted Viätkin, in reply, parodying, imitating, and caricaturing a melody from the Church ritual —

 
“Three small boys found lurching
Got an awful birching
At the parson’s stile.”
 

Viätkin imitated in quick succession and in the same tone the strophes recited in the remainder of the antiphon at Mass —

 
“Sexton, parson, and his clerk
Thought the smacking quite a lark.
Then the beadle said, ‘By hell,
Nikifor, you smack right well.’”
 
 
“Nikifor, you smack right well!”
 

answered pianissimo in complete harmony the hastily improvised choir of drunken officers, seconded by Osadchi’s softly rumbling bass voice.

Viätkin conducted the singing, standing on a table in the middle of the room, whilst stretching his arms in an attitude of benediction over the heads of the “congregation.” Now his eyes flashed terrifying glances of threat and condemnation; at another time they were raised to heaven with a languishing expression of infinite beatitude; then he hissed with rage at those who sang out of tune; again he stopped in time by a scarcely perceptible tremolo of the palm of his hand a run to a misplaced crescendo.

“Staff-Captain Lieschtschenko, you’re singing damnably. Damn it, what a wretched ear!” roared Osadchi. “Keep quiet in the room, gentlemen. No noise, please, when there’s singing.”

 
“Once on a time a farmer so rich —
Who used to like iced punch” —
 

continued Viätkin, in his improvised service of the Church. His eyes, however, now began to smart dreadfully from the dense tobacco smoke. Romashov was reminded by the wet and sticky tablecloth that he had not washed his hands since dinner. He went out and made his way across the yard to a side room called the “Officers’ Shelter,” which served as a sort of lavatory. It was a cold, dismal little crib with only one window. Several common cupboards stood along the wall, and between them, in hospital fashion, were placed two beds, the sheets, etc., of which were never changed. Not a man in the entire regiment could recollect when this room was swept and cleaned. There was an intolerable stench there, the main ingredients of which were rotting bedclothes, stinking boots, and bad tobacco. The room was originally intended for officers of other regiments who happened to be visiting the garrison town, but it gradually became converted into a sort of morgue for those who got dead drunk at mess. It was almost officially designated as “the mortuary,” which name, by a dreadful irony of fate, received its full justification from the fact that no less than two officers and one soldier had committed suicide in it during the few years the regiment had been garrisoned in the town. Moreover, not a year elapsed without one suicide taking place among the officers of this regiment.

When Romashov entered “the mortuary” he found two men sitting there on a bed near the window. The room was dark, and it was some time before Romashov recognized in one of the “guests” ex-Staff-Captain Klodt, alcoholist and thief, and on those grounds expelled from the command of his company. The other was a certain Ensign Solotuchin – a tall, lean, bald-headed, worn-out rake and gambler, feared and despised wherever he went for his evil, lying tongue and his conversation interlarded with coarse cynicisms and improprieties – a veritable type of the ensigns of the storybooks.

Between these two worthy “birds of a feather” might be seen on the table the dim outline of a schnapps bottle, an empty plate, and two full glasses. The pair of boon companions were silent when Romashov entered the room, and tried, as it were, to hide themselves in the darkness; but when he leaned over them, they looked at him with a sly smile.

“What, in the name of goodness, are you two doing here?” asked Romashov, in alarm.

“Hush!” Solotuchin made a mysterious warning gesture with his forefinger. “Wait here, and don’t disturb us.”

“Hold your jaw!” ordered Klodt in a whisper.

At the same moment the rattling noise of a telega was heard somewhere in the distance. Then the two strangers raised their glasses, clicked them together, and drained the contents.

“But answer me. What is the meaning of it all?” repeated Romashov in the same anxious tone.

“My little greenhorn,” replied Klodt in a significant whisper, “if you must know, it’s only our usual little morning repast; but now I hear the telega, Ensign,” Klodt went on to say as he turned to Solotuchin. “It’s time then to finish our drink and be off. What do you think of the moonlight? Will it suit?”

“My glass is empty already,” replied Solotuchin, glancing out of the window at the moon’s slender, pointed sickle that stood drowsy and sleepy in the sky, and hung down over the little slumbering town. “But let’s just wait a wee bit. S-sh! I thought I heard a dog barking.”

And again they bent towards one another to resume their mysterious conversation, carried on in a low voice; the spluttering tone and evident lack of coherence witnessed clearly enough that the schnapps had begun to take effect. From the salle-à-manger hard by came now and then the melancholy, hollow tones of Viätkin’s and Osadchi’s improvised Mass for the Dead, which had a weird and threatening ring about it in the silent night.

Romashov seized his head with both hands.

“I beseech you, gentlemen, to stop this. I can’t stand it any longer.”

“Go to the devil!” roared Solotuchin. “No, stop, dear boy – whither away? But, by all that’s unholy, you shall first drink a glass with two fine fellows. Catch tight hold of him, Captain, I’ll shut the door.”

With a yell of laughter the two scoundrels jumped up to seize Romashov; but the latter’s self-command was exhausted. The whole hideous situation – this disgusting drinking-bout in the weird, dark room with its insufferable, stifling atmosphere – this mysterious midnight meeting between two individuals who were a danger to society – the vulgar bellowing of the drunken officers and their blasphemous parody of the Russian Mass – all this filled him with frantic terror and nausea. With a piercing shriek, he thrust Solotuchin from him, and, trembling in every limb, rushed deliberately from the mortuary.

Common sense now urged him to go home, but a strange, unfathomable inward force again drove him, against his will, to the mess-room. There some of the wine-soaked company were asleep on the window-sills and chairs. A stifling heat prevailed, and, in spite of the wide-open windows, the drowsily burning lights and lamps were never reached by a quickening draught of air. The poor, dead-tired soldiers who attended to the waiting could scarcely stand on their legs, and every moment stifled a yawn, but as yet none of the champion boozers had entertained a thought of breaking up.

Viätkin had again taken his place on a table, and was singing in his high, caressive tenor voice —

 
“Swift as the ocean’s
Roaring billows,
Vanishes life in eternity.”
 

There were several officers in the regiment with really beautiful voices, which even now were very effective in spite of the drink.

This simple, plaintive melody exercised, at this moment, an ennobling influence on all, and more than one of them experienced a pricking, remorseful feeling at the thought of his worthless, sinful life.

 
“Once you’re in your coffin,
Soon the world forgets your name,”
 

continued Viätkin in a voice of emotion, and his sleepy but good eyes were dimmed with tears. Artschakovski seconded him with unimpeachable care. To make his voice thrill he grasped his larynx with two fingers and shook it. Osadchi accompanied it all with his heavy, long-drawn, organ notes.

After the singing there reigned a deep silence for a few moments. Suddenly Osadchi began again to recite in a subdued tone and eyes cast down —

“All ye who wander in sorrow’s heavy, narrow road – ”

“No, that’s enough of it,” a voice exclaimed. “This is now, I suppose, the tenth time we have taken up this cursed Mass of Requiem – ”

But the rest had already intoned the solemn melody that divides the recitative of the antiphon, and once more, in the reeking and dirty room, resounded the requiem over St. John of Damascus in clear, full-voiced strains that express in so masterly a way the inconsolable sorrow for death’s inexorable cruelty —

 
“All ye who believe in Me enter into the joy of My Father.”
 

Artschakovski, who was as familiar with the ritual as the most experienced choir-singer, at once repeated the following answer in accordance with the text —

 
“With our whole soul we all praise,” etc.
 

And so the whole antiphon was chanted; but when Osadchi’s turn came to take up the recitation for the last time, he lowered his head like an infuriated bull, the veins in his neck swelled, and as he directed his melancholy, cruel, and threatening glances towards those present, he declaimed in a half-singing tone, and in a voice that resembled the roar of distant thunder —

 
“Give, O Lord, Thy departed slave, Nikifor,
A blessed departure hence and eternal rest.”
 

In the midst of this lofty and pious invocation he stopped short, and, to the horror of the bystanders, uttered two words of the most blasphemous, cynical, and disgusting import.

Romashov jumped up, and thumped his fist, like a madman, on the table.

“Be silent! I forbid this,” he roared in a voice trembling with anger and pain. “What are you laughing at, Captain Osadchi? You ought to be ashamed. Your eyes are mocking, but I see and know that remorse, terror, and the tortures of hell are raging in your heart.”

A hideous silence on the part of all followed this outbreak of temper. Then a voice from the crowd was heard to exclaim —

“Is he drunk?”

These three words relaxed all the terrible tension of the situation; but at the same moment let loose afresh – just as a few hours previously in Schleyfer’s den of infamy – all the evil spirits of orgy. There was shrieking, hooting, stamping, jumping, and dancing; the whole room was turned in a trice into an indescribable, savage, motley chaos. Viätkin, who jumped on to a table, hit his head against the big hanging lamp, which then swayed in awful zigzag curves, producing for some time a fantastic series of dissolving views on the ceiling and walls, on which drunken, frantic human beings were depicted as marvellous, gigantic shapes, or as huddled, dwarfish figures resembling embryos.

The debauch seemed at last to reach its height. All these wretched creatures were possessed, as it were, by a savage, exultant, ruthless fiend who, mocking at all the laws of sense and decency, forced his victims, by blasphemies, oaths, and all kinds of shamelessness, to abdicate the last shreds of their human dignity.

Romashov, in the smoke and stuffiness, suddenly caught sight of a person with features distorted by rage and incessant hooting, which for that reason seemed to him, in the first instant, unrecognizable. It was none other than Nikoläiev, who, now foaming with hate and fury, roared to his enemy:

“You’re a disgrace to the whole regiment, you and Nasanski! Not a word or, by God! I’ll – ”

Romashov felt that some one was pulling him, gently and cautiously, a few paces backwards. He turned round and recognized Agamalov, but at the same instant forgot him, and turned quickly round to Nikoläiev. White with suppressed rage, he answered in a low, hoarse voice and a forced and bitter smile —

“What reason have you to mention Nasanski’s name? But perhaps you have some private, secret cause for hating him?”

“Rascal, scoundrel, your hour is come!” screamed Nikoläiev 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 Nikoläiev’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 Nikoläiev’s mouth at one of the corners, and he strove with all his might to rend Nikoläiev’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 Nikoläiev. 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.

Nikoläiev 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 Nikoläiev 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 Nikoläiev. 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. Romashov allowed a few minutes to elapse, after which he turned round and glanced through the window. Nikoläiev had gone.

“Your Honour!” the orderly suddenly stood, as if he had risen from the earth, at Romashov’s side. “I am ordered to ask you to walk in.”

Along one side of the wall were placed several card tables, over which a green cloth had been spread. Behind these tables sat the members of the court, with their backs to the window. In consequence of this, it was difficult to distinguish their faces. In the midst of them, in an arm-chair, was seated Lieutenant-Colonel Migunov, the president – a fat, pursy man without a neck, but with big, round shoulders which protruded in quite an unnatural manner. On each side of Migunov sat Lieutenant-Colonels Rafalski and Liech, and moreover, on the right, Osadchi and Peterson; on the left, Captain Duvernois and the commissary to the regiment, Staff-Captain Doroshenko. The table in front of all these gentlemen was virtually empty, except that before Doroshenko, the court prosecutor-in-ordinary, lay a heap of papers. It was cold and dark in the great, bare room, although out-of-doors the sunshine was gloriously warm. Everywhere the nose was assailed by a drowsy smell of mustiness and rotting, moth-eaten furniture.

The president laid his big, white, fat hands on the tablecloth, examined them minutely, and then began in a dry, official tone —

“Sub-lieutenant Romashov, the Officers’ Court of Honour, which meets to-day by order of the commander of the regiment, is directed to examine closely into the circumstances of the deplorable and, to the officers as a body, disgraceful scene that took place between you and Lieutenant Nikoläiev last night, and it is incumbent on you to render to us a most punctilious account of what you have to say with regard to this painful affair.”

Romashov stood before his judges with his arms hanging down, and plucked at the fur lining of his cap. He felt like a hunted animal, but at the same time as clumsy, feeble, and indifferent to everything as a schoolboy just “ploughed” at an examination is to his teachers’ threats and his school-fellows’ jeers. Coughing and stammering, in unconnected phrases and with contradictions and repetitions, Romashov began his report. At the same time, and whilst slowly observing the high “tribunal” seated before him, he made a sort of appraisement of the private or personal feelings of its individual members towards him. “Migunov has a heart of stone, and it is a matter of supreme indifference to him how the affair turns out; but the place of honour as president and the great responsibility attached to it are, in the highest degree, flattering to his vanity. Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Brehm’ is looking miserable. Oh, you good old chap, perhaps you are sitting thinking of that ten-rouble note which was never returned to you? Old Liech looks glum. He’s sober to-day in honour of the occasion, but the pouches under his eyes are bigger than usual. He’s not my enemy, but has so many sins of his own to answer that he must take advantage of the occasion, and play the part of guardian and protector of morality and the ‘honour of an officer.’ So far as Osadchi and Peterson are concerned, they are both notoriously my enemies. By invoking the law, I might certainly challenge Osadchi – the whole of the row began through his blasphemously parodying the Mass for the Dead – but what then? The result in any case will be the same. Peterson smiles out of one corner of his mouth in his usual snake-like way. I am just wondering what share he had in those anonymous letters. Duvernois – a sleepy beast, whose great, troubled eyes put one in mind of a cuttlefish’s. Ah, yes, I’ve never been one of Duvernois’s favourites, and just as little of Doroshenko’s. Yuri Alexievich, my dear boy, the prospect does indeed look gloomy for you.”

“One instant, if you please,” interrupted Osadchi. “President, will you permit me to put a question?”

“Certainly,” replied Migunov, with a gracious nod.

“Tell me, Sub-lieutenant Romashov,” began Osadchi, in an affectedly imposing and drawling tone, “where were you before you came to the mess in such an inexcusable condition?”

Romashov blushed deeply, and felt big drops of sweat on his forehead.

“I was – I was,” he stammered, “I was in a brothel,” he added almost in a whisper.

“Ha, ha – in a brothel,” repeated Osadchi, as he purposely raised his voice and pronounced every word with unsparing distinctness. “And no doubt you had drinks there.”

“Yes, I had been drinking,” answered Romashov, in an abrupt tone.

“I have no wish to put any more questions,” said Osadchi, turning with a bow to the president.

“Sub-lieutenant, be good enough to continue your report,” resumed Migunov, “You remember you have acknowledged that you threw the glass of ale at Nikoläiev – well?”

Romashov began his story again as unmethodically and unconnectedly as before, but honourably endeavouring not to give any details. He had already, in an indirect way and with much shame, succeeded in expressing the regret he felt at his unworthy conduct, when he was once more interrupted, this time by Captain Peterson. The latter was rubbing his long, yellow-wax coloured hands with their sharp, dirty finger-nails just as if he were washing himself, and said in his studiously polite – nay, almost friendly – thin, wheedling voice —

“Ah, all that is quite fit and proper, and such a voluntary confession, in a way, does you credit; but tell me, were you not, before this painful story began, in the habit of visiting Lieutenant Nikoläiev’s house?”

Romashov drew himself up and, looking straight, not at Captain Peterson, but at Migunov, replied bluntly:

“That is true, but I cannot understand what that has to do with the matter.”

“Pray don’t get excited,” exclaimed Peterson. “I only want you to answer my questions. Tell me then, was there any special cause of mutual enmity between you and Lieutenant Nikoläiev? I do not mean any difference in the service, but a cause of a quite – er – if I may so put it, domestic nature?”

Romashov pulled himself up to his full height, and his glance pierced with undisguised hatred his enemy’s treacherous, black, consumptive eyes.

“I have not visited Lieutenant Nikoläiev’s home more frequently than those of my other acquaintances,” he replied in a hard and cutting tone. “No previous enmity has existed between us. The whole thing happened unexpectedly and accidentally, when we were both the worse for liquor.”

“Heh, heh, heh, we have already heard about the insobriety,” Captain Peterson chimed in; “but I will ask you once more, had not an unfriendly meeting already taken place between you and Lieutenant Nikoläiev? I do not for an instant suggest that you had quarrelled or come to blows, but quite simply that – how shall I put it? – you were a little at variance in your views of certain scandalous reports and intrigues?”

“President, am I bound to reply to all questions that are put to me?” exclaimed Romashov.

“That rests entirely with you,” replied Migunov coldly. “You can, if you wish, absolutely refuse to answer. You can also commit your answer to writing. That is your privilege.”

“In such case I hereby declare that I will not answer any of Captain Peterson’s questions, and that not only in my interest but in his.”

After Romashov had answered a few questions of minor importance the examination was declared closed. Nevertheless, he had on two occasions to give the court supplementary information, first in the evening of the same day, and then again on the day following, viz., Thursday morning. However careless and inexperienced Romashov might be in all the practical circumstances of life, he nevertheless saw soon enough that the court was performing its functions in the most negligent and indiscreet way, and had therefore been guilty, not only of a revolting lack of tact, but also of utter illegality. In defiance of Section 149 of the “Statute concerning Discipline,” by which every communication to unauthorized persons of what takes place at such examinations is in plain language strictly forbidden, the members of the “Court of Honour” did not scruple to relate everything straight off to their wives and relations. The latter spread the scandal still further among the other ladies of “Society,” who in their turn discussed the matter with their maidservants, charwomen, etc. Before twenty-four hours had elapsed Romashov was the talk of the entire town and “hero of the day.” When he passed along the street he was gazed at from windows and doors, between the hedge-posts of backyards, and from the vantage of garden-bushes and arbours. Women from a good distance off pointed at him with their finger, and he often heard his name whispered behind his back. Nobody in the town doubted that a duel between him and Nikoläiev was inevitable – nay, they even began to bet about the upshot of it.

As Romashov was passing Lykatschev’s house on Thursday morning he suddenly heard his name shouted.

“Yuri Alexievich, Yuri Alexievich, come here.”

Romashov stopped, and soon discovered Katya Lykatschev standing on a bench inside the fence. She was still in morning dress, which chiefly consisted of a kimono, the triangular arrangement of which in front left the delicate virginal neck wholly exposed. And she was altogether so fresh and rosy that for an instant Romashov even felt light at heart.

Katya leant over the fence to enable Romashov to reach her hand, which was still cool and moist from the morning bath. She began at once to chatter and lisp at her usual pace:

“Where have you been all this time? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, forgetting your friends in that way! Zoi, zoi, zoi– hush! I have long known everything, everything.” She stared at Romashov with great terror-stricken eyes. “Take this and hang it round your throat. Hear and obey at once. Look, if you please.”

From the fold of her kimono, straight from her bosom, she drew out an amulet that hung by a silk cord, and shyly put it into Romashov’s hand. The amulet still felt balmy from its nest against the young woman’s warm body.

“Will it help?” asked Romashov, in a jesting tone. “What is it?”

“That’s a secret, and don’t you dare to laugh, you ungodly creature. Zoi, zoi!”

“Hang it, if I’m not beginning to be a man of note,” thought Romashov, as he said good-bye to Katya. “Splendid girl!” But he could not prevent himself, though it might be for the last time, from thinking of himself in the third person: