Sanine

"Why does he want to look at himself?" he thought.

When Sarudine looked in the glass he uttered an involuntary cry. In the

dark mirror a terribly disfigured face confronted him. One side of it

was black and blue, his eye was swollen, and his moustache stuck out

like bristles on his puffy check.

"Here! Take it away!" murmured Sarudine, and he sobbed hysterically.

"Some water!"

"Your Excellency mustn't take it so to heart. You'll soon be all right

again," said the kindly soldier, as he proffered water in a sticky

glass which smelt of tea.

Sarudine could not drink; his teeth rattled helplessly against the rim

of the glass, and the water was spilt over his coat.

"Go away!" he feebly moaned.

His servant, so he thought, was the only man in the world who

sympathized with him, yet that kindlier feeling towards him was

speedily extinguished by the intolerable consciousness that his

serving-man had cause to pity him.

Almost in tears, the soldier blinked his eyes and, going out, sat down

on the steps leading to the garden. Fawning upon him, the dog thrust

its pretty nose against his knee and looked up at him gravely with

dark, questioning eyes. He gently stroked its soft, wavy coat. Overhead

shone the silent stars. A sense of fear came over him, as the presage

of some great, inevitable mischance.

"Life's a sad thing!" he thought bitterly, remembering for a moment his

own native village.

Sarudine turned hastily over on the sofa and lay motionless, without

noticing that the compress, now grown warm, had slipped off his face.

"Now all is at an end!" he murmured hysterically, "What is at an end?

Everything! My whole life--done for! Why? Because I've been insulted--

struck like a dog! My face struck with the fist! I can never remain in

the regiment, never!"

He could clearly see himself there, in the avenue, hobbling on all

fours, cowed and ridiculous, as he uttered feeble, senseless threats.

Again and again he mentally rehearsed that awful incident with ever

increasing torture, and, as if illuminated, all the details stood out

vividly before his eyes. That which most irritated him was his

recollection of Sina Karsavina's white dress, of which he caught a

glimpse at the very moment when he was vowing futile vengeance.

"Who was it that lifted me up?" He tried to turn his thoughts into

another channel. "Was it Tanaroff? Or that Jew boy who was with them!

It must have been Tanaroff. Anyhow, it doesn't matter in the least.

What matters is that my whole life is ruined, and that I shall have to

leave the regiment. And the duel? What about that? He won't fight. I

shall have to leave the regiment."