The Duel

The clumsy, pock-marked Arkhipov was obstinately silent, and stood gazing out of the window. Outside the service he was an active, intelligent, clever fellow; but in class he behaved like an imbecile. Obviously the trouble lay in the fact that his healthy mind, accustomed to observe and think about the simple, straightforward affairs of village life, was quite unable to grasp the connection between hypothetical problems and real life. For this reason he could not understand nor learn the simplest things, to the great astonishment and indignation of his platoon commander.

“We-ll! How much longer am I to wait while you get ready to answer?” cried Syeroshtán, beginning to get angry.

“Internal enemies – enemies – ”

“You don’t know it?” cried Syeroshtán in a threatening tone, and he would have fallen upon Arkhipov, but, glancing with a side glance at the officer, he contented himself with shaking his head and rolling his eyes terribly. “Well, listen. Internal enemies are those who resist the law; for example, who shall we – ?” He glanced at Ovechkin’s sharp eyes. “You tell us, Ovechkin.”

Ovechkin jumped up and cried joyfully:

“Such as rebels, students, horse-stealers, Jews and Poles.”

Shapovalenko was occupied with his platoon close by. Pacing up and down between the benches, he asked questions from the “Soldier’s Manual,” which he held in his hand.

“Soltuis, what is a sentry?”

Soltuis, a Lithuanian, cried, opening and shutting his eyes rapidly in the effort to think: “A sentry must be incorruptible.”

“Well, and what else?”

“A sentry is a soldier placed at a certain post with a rifle in his hand.”

“Right. I see, Soltuis, that you are beginning to try. And why is he placed there, Pakhorukov?”

“That he may neither sleep, nor doze, nor smoke, nor accept bribes.”

“And the pass-word?”

“And that he may give the pass-word to the officers who pass in and out.”

“Right. Sit down.”

Shapovalenko had noticed some time ago the ironical smile on the face of the volunteer Fokin, and for this reason he cried with extra severity:

“Now, volunteer! But is that the way to stand? When your chief asks a question you should stand as straight as a ramrod. What do you mean by the Colours?”

The volunteer Fokin, with a University badge on his breast, stood in front of the non-commissioned officer in a respectful attitude, but his young, grey eyes sparkled with laughter.

“By the Colours is meant the sacred Standard of War under which – ”

“Wrong!” broke in Shapovalenko angrily, bringing the Manual down hard on the palm of his hand.

“No, that is quite right,” replied Fokin calmly.

“Wh-a-at? If your chief says it is wrong, it is wrong.”

“Look in the book and see for yourself.”

“I am your officer, and as such I must know better than you. A fine thing, indeed! Perhaps you think that I want to enter a cadet school for instruction? What do you know about anything? What’s a St-a-a-n-dard? Ste-ndard! There’s no such word as Sta-a-andard. The sacred Stendard of War – ”

“Don’t quarrel now, Shapovalenko,” put in Romashov. “Get on with the lesson.”

“Very good, your Honour!” drawled Shapovalenko. “Only allow me to inform your Honour that all these volunteers are far too clever.”

“That will do, that will do! get on with the lesson.”

“Very good, your Honour – Khliabnikov! Who is the commander of this corps?”

Khliabnikov stared with wild eyes at the “non-com.” All the sound which came from his open mouth was a croak, which might have been made by a hoarse crow.

“Answer!” cried Shapovalenko furiously.

“His – ”

“Well! ‘His.’ What else?”

Romashov, who had just turned away, heard him mutter in a low voice: “You wait! Won’t I just give you a stroking down after the lesson.” But directly Romashov turned back to him he said loudly and kindly: “His Excellency – well, how does it go on, Khliabnikov?”

“His – infantry – lieutenant,” muttered Khliabnikov in a broken, terrified voice.

“A-a-a!” cried Shapovalenko, grinding his teeth. “Whatever shall we do with you, Khliabnikov? I am really afraid to think what will become of you; you are just like a camel, except that you can’t even make yourself heard. You don’t make the slightest attempt to learn. Stand there until the end of the lesson, and after dinner come to me, and I’ll take you alone. Grechenko! Who is the commander of this corps?”

“As it is to-day, so it will be to-morrow, and so on to the end of my life,” thought Romashov, as he passed from platoon to platoon. “Shall I throw it all up? Shall I leave the service? I don’t know what to do!”

After the instruction the men were kept busy in the yard, which was arranged as a shooting range. While one party practised shooting in a looking-glass, another learned to hit a target with a shot, and a third learned rifle-shooting. Ensign Lbov’s clear, animated tenor voice giving orders to the 2nd platoon could be heard at a distance.

“Right – turn – firing company – one, two!” “Compan-y!” he dragged out the last syllable, paused, and then, abruptly: “Fire!”

There was a loud report, and Lbov in his joyful, inspiring voice, cried again:

“Present!”

Sliva went from platoon to platoon, stooping and walking slowly, finding fault and making coarse remarks:

“Is that the way to hold a rifle? Any one would think you were a deacon holding a candle! What are you keeping your mouth open for, Kartashov? Do you want some porridge? Sergeant-major, put Kartashov under arms for an hour after drill. How do you fold up a cloak, Vedenyeev? Look at it, you lazy fellow!”

After the shooting practice the men piled their rifles and threw themselves down beside them on the young spring grass, already trampled on by the soldiers’ boots. It was a warm, clear day. The air smelled of the leaves of young poplar trees, of which there were two rows planted round the causeway. Viätkin again approached Romashov:

“Dreaming again, Yuri Alexeich,” he said. “What is the use of it? As soon as the drill is over we will go to the club, and after a drink or two you will be all right.”

“I am bored, my dear Pavel Pavlich,” said Romashov wearily.

“It is not very cheerful, I admit,” said Viätkin. “But how can it be helped? The men must be taught their business, or what would happen if war suddenly broke out?”

“What is war after all?” said Romashov sadly, “and why – ? Perhaps it is nothing more than a mistake made by all, a universal error, a madness. Do you mean to tell me that it is natural to kill?”

“Oh, the devil take your philosophy! If the Germans were to attack us suddenly, who would defend Russia?”

“I know nothing about it, so I can’t talk about it,” said Romashov shortly. “I know nothing, and yet, take – ”