"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."