The Duel Read online

  A few years back, owing to a combination of circumstances, very insignificant in themselves, but very important for me, it was my lot to spend six months in the district town O——. This town is all built on a slope, and very uncomfortably built, too. There are reckoned to be about eight hundred inhabitants in it, of exceptional poverty; the houses are hardly worthy of the name; in the chief street, by way of an apology for a pavement, there are here and there some huge white slabs of rough-hewn limestone, in consequence of which even carts drive round it instead of through it. In the very middle of an astoundingly dirty square rises a diminutive yellowish edifice with black holes in it, and in these holes sit men in big caps making a pretense of buying and selling. In this place there is an extraordinarily high striped post sticking up into the air, and near the post, in the interests of public order, by command of the authorities, there is kept a cartload of yellow hay, and one government hen struts to and fro. In short, existence in the town of O——is truly delightful. During the first days of my stay in this town, I almost went out of my mind with boredom. I ought to say of myself that, though I am, no doubt, a superfluous man, I am not so of my own seeking; I’m morbid myself, but I can’t bear anything morbid.… I’m not even averse to happiness— indeed, I’ve tried to approach it right and left.… And so it is no wonder that I too can be bored like any other mortal. I was staying in the town of O——on official business.

  Terentyevna has certainly sworn to make an end of me. Here’s a specimen of our conversation:—

  TERENTYEVNA. Oh—oh, my good sir! what are you for ever writing for? it’s bad for you, keeping all on writing.

  I. But I’m dull, Terentyevna.

  SHE. Oh, you take a cup of tea now and lie down. By God’s mercy you’ll get in a sweat and maybe doze a bit.

  I. But I’m not sleepy.

  SHE. Ah, sir! why do you talk so? Lord have mercy on you! Come, lie down, lie down; it’s better for you.

  I. I shall die any way, Terentyevna!

  SHE. Lord bless us and save us! … Well, do you want a little tea?

  I. I shan’t live through the week, Terentyevna!

  SHE. Eh, eh! good sir, why do you talk so? … Well, I’ll go and heat the samovar.

  Oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Am I really, even in your eyes, not a man?

  —from The Diary of A Superfluous Man by Ivan Turgenev. Published in 1850, Turgenev’s novel provided a term for the soon to be ubiquitous concept of the superfluous man. The disdain the protagonist shows toward his caretaker, Terentyevna, is a hallmark of the superfluous character type. He is both dependent and resentful of her ministrations.

  Oblomovism

  With Oblomov, lying in bed was neither a necessity (as in the case of an invalid or of a man who stands badly in need of sleep) nor an accident (as in the case of a man who is feeling worn out) nor a gratification (as in the case of a man who is purely lazy). Rather, it represented his normal condition. Whenever he was at home and almost always he was at home—he would spend his time in lying on his back. Likewise he used but the one room—which was combined to serve both as bedroom, as study, and as reception-room—in which we have just discovered him. True, two other rooms lay at his disposal, but seldom did he look into them save on mornings (which did not comprise by any means every morning) when his old valet happened to be sweeping out the study. The furniture in them stood perennially covered over, and never were the blinds drawn up.

  At first sight the room in which Oblomov was lying was a well-fitted one. In it there stood a writing-table of redwood, a couple of sofas, upholstered in some silken material, and a handsome screen that was embroidered with birds and fruits unknown to Nature. Also the room contained silken curtains, a few mats, some pictures, bronzes, and pieces of china, and a multitude of other pretty trifles. Yet even the most cursory glance from the experienced eye of a ma of taste would have detected no more than a tendency to observe les convenances while escaping their actual observance. Without doubt that was all that Oblomov had thought of when furnishing his study. Taste of a really refined nature would never have remained satisfied with such ponderous, ungainly redwood chairs, with such rickety whatnots. Moreover, the back of one of the sofas had sagged, and here and there the wood had come way from the glue. Much the same thing was to be seen in the case of the pictures, the vases, and certain other trifles of the apartment. Nevertheless, its master was accustomed to regard its appurtenances with the cold, detached eye of one who would ask, “Who has dared to bring this stuff here?” The same indifference on his part, added to, perhaps, an even greater indifference on the part of his servant, Zakhar, caused the study, when contemplated with attention, to strike the beholder with an impression of all-prevailing carelessness and neglect. On the walls and around the pictures there hung cobwebs coated with dust; the mirrors, instead of reflecting, would more usefully have served as tablets for recording memoranda; every mat was freely spotted with stains; on the sofa there lay a forgotten towel, and on the table (as on most mornings) a plate, a salt-cellar, a half-eaten crust of bread, and some scattered crumbs—all of which had failed to be cleared away after last night’s supper. Indeed, were it not for the plate, for a recently smoked pipe that was propped against the bed, and for the recumbent form of Oblomov himself, one might have imagined that the place contained not a single living soul, so dusty and discoloured did everything look, and so lacking were any active traces of the presence of a human being. True, on the whatnots there were two or three open books, while a newspaper was tossing about, and the bureau bore on its top an inkstand and a few pens; but the pages at which the books were lying open were covered with dust and beginning to turn yellow (thus proving that they had long been tossed aside), the date of the newspaper belonged to the previous year, and from the inkstand, whenever a pen happened to be dipped therein, there arose, with a frightened buzz, only a derelict fly.

  Famously, the protagonist of Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov fails to leave bed for the first 150 pages and rarely does so beyond that point. Nearly paralyzed with ennui, Goncharov’s antihero is incapable of action, even when it comes to pursing a woman he loves. Unlike other examples of superfluous men, Oblomov does not engage in daring exploits or selfish hedonism in order to stave off his boredom. Instead, he lives in a state of complete apathy. In a speech given in 1922, Vladimir Lenin stated that, “Russia has made three revolutions, and still the Oblomovs have remained … and he must be washed, cleaned, pulled about, and flogged for a long time before any kind of sense will emerge.”

  Reading I

  The Queen Of Spades

  by Alexander Pushkin

  I

  THERE was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.

  “And how did you fare, Surin?” asked the host.

  “Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always lose!”

  “And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red? … Your firmness astonishes me.”

  “But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing to a young Engineer: “he has never had a card in his hand in his life, he has never in, his life laid a wager, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the morning watching our play.”

  “Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.”

  “Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all!” observed Tomsky. “But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna.”

  “How so?” inquired the guests.
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br />   “I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is that my grandmother does not punt.”

  “What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?” said Narumov.

  “Then you do not know the reason why?”

  “No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Oh! then listen. About sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used to run after her to catch a glimpse of the ‘Muscovite Venus.’ Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches from her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss at the gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember, was a sort of house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out to her that in six months she had spent half a million francs, that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were in Paris, and finally refused point blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that there is a great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, and becomes quite angry if any one speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man immediately waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to him in the blackest colours the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.” St. Germain reflected.

  “ ‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but I know that you would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.’

  “ ‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell you that I haven’t any money left.’

  “ ‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be pleased to listen to me.’

  “Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a good deal …”

  The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and then continued:

  “That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the jeu de la reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused herself in an off-hand manner for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won sonika, [Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible time.] and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost.”

  “Mere chance!” said one of the guests.

  “A tale!” observed Hermann.

  “Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third.

  “I do not think so,” replied Tomsky gravely.

  “What!” said Narumov, “you have a grandmother who knows how to hit upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded in getting the secret of it out of her?”

  “That’s the deuce of it!” replied Tomsky: “she had four sons, one of whom was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to one of them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have been a bad thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich, and he assured me, on his honour, that it was true. The late Chaplitzky—the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions—once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles—to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitzky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitzky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he staked fifty thousand rubles and won sonika; he doubled the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back more than he had lost.

  “But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already.”

  And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each other.

  II

  THE old Countess A——was seated in her dressing-room in front of her looking—glass. Three waiting maids stood around her. One held a small pot of rouge, another a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall can with bright red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her youth, dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of seventy years before, and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have done sixty years previously. Near the window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her ward.

  “Good morning, grandmamma,” said a young officer, entering the room. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grandmamma, I want to ask you something.”

  “What is it, Paul?”

  “I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow me to bring him to the ball on Friday.”

  “Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at B——’s yesterday?”

  “Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up until five o’clock. How charming Yeletzkaya was!”

  “But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.”

  “How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; “she died seven years ago.”

  The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess heard the news with the greatest indifference.

  “Dead!” said she; “and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of honour at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress …”

  And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of her anecdotes.

  “Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, “help me to get up. Lizanka, where is my snuff-box?”

  And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.

  “Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?” asked Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper.

  “Narumov. Do you know him?”

  “No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”

  “A soldier.”

  “Is he in the Engineers?”

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sp; “No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was in the Engineers?”

  The young lady smiled, but made no reply.

  “Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send me some new novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the present day style.”

  “What do you mean, grandmother?”

  “That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor his mother, and in which there are no drowned bodies. I have a great horror of drowned persons.”

  “There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?”

  “Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me one!”

  “Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry … Good-bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?”

  And Tomsky left the boudoir.