"Rifle practice!" cried Sliva from the centre. "Officers to their places." They unpiled their arms and took their places with much bustle. "Close up!" commanded Sliva. "Stand at ease!" And then, coming nearer to the company, he shouted: "Manual exercise--count aloud. On guard!" "One!" cried the soldiers, and held their guns aloft. Sliva went amongst them in a leisurely manner, making abrupt remarks: "Bayonets higher.--Hold the butt-end to you." Then he again took up his position in front of the company and gave the order: "Two!" "Two!" cried the soldiers. And once more Sliva went amongst them to see if they were doing the exercises correctly. After the manual exercise by division they had exercise by company, then turnings, form fours, fixing and unfixing bayonets and other forms. Romashov performed like an automaton all that was required of him, but all the time the words so carelessly uttered by Viätkin were running through his mind: "If I thought that, I would not stay in the service." And all the arts of war--the skilful evolutions, the cleverness of the rifle exercise, and all those tactics and fortifications on which he had wasted nine of the best years of his life, which would fill the rest of his life, and which not so very long ago had seemed to him important and so full of wisdom--all had suddenly become deadly dull, unnatural, inventions without value, a universal self-deceit resembling an absurd dream. When the drill was finished he and Viätkin went to the club and drank a lot of vodka together. Romashov, hardly knowing what he was doing, kissed Viätkin and wept hysterically on his shoulder, complained of his empty, miserable life, and also that no one understood him, also that a certain woman did not love him--who she was no one should ever know. As for Viätkin, he drank glass after glass, only saying from time to time with contemptuous pity: "The worst of you is, Romashov, that you can't drink. You take one glass and you are all over the place." Then suddenly he struck his fist on the table threateningly, and cried: "If they want us to die, we'll die!" "We'll die," answered Romashov pitifully. "What is dying? A mere trifle! Oh, how my heart aches!" Romashov did not remember going home and getting into bed. It seemed to him that he was floating on a thick blue cloud, upon which were scattered milliards and milliards of microscopic diamonds. His head seemed swollen to a tremendous size, and a pitiless voice was calling out in a tone which made him feel sick: "One! Two!" XVII