The Duel Read online

  “Will you give it to me, or not? I’m asking you?”

  “Tell me in all honesty, what does he need the money for?”

  “It’s no secret. He needs to leave for Petersburg Saturday.”

  “So that’s how it is!” Von Koren said in a protracted manner. “Aha … We understand. And is she going with him, or what?”

  “She’ll remain here for now. He’ll settle his affairs in Petersburg and will send her money, and then she’ll follow.”

  “That’s clever! …” the zoologist said, and began laughing curt tenor chuckles. “Clever! It’s intelligently devised.”

  He briskly approached Samoylenko and, standing face-to-face, glaring into his eyes, asked:

  “You tell me in all honesty: has he fallen out of love with her? Yes? Tell me: he’s fallen out of love? Yes?”

  “Yes,” Samoylenko uttered, and began to sweat.

  “How disgusting this is!” Von Koren said, and it was evident by his face that he felt disgust. “It can only be one of two things, Alexander Davidich: either you’re negotiating some agreement with him or, pardon me, you’re a nincompoop. Do you really not understand that he is taking advantage of you, as you would a little boy, in the most unscrupulous way possible? It’s as clear as day that he wants to get rid of her and to dump her here. She’ll be left hanging off your neck, and it’s clear as day that you’ll have to send her off to Petersburg at your own expense. Could it really be that your magnificent friend has blinded you with his merits to the point that you are unable to see the very simplest of things?”

  “That’s just one hypothesis,” Samoylenko said, sitting down.

  “Hypothesis? Then why is he going alone, and not together with her? And why, ask him, doesn’t she go ahead and he follow? Crafty devil!”

  From the pressure of unexpected doubts and apprehensions regarding his friend, Samoylenko suddenly relented and lowered his tone.

  “But it’s impossible!” he said, remembering the night Laevsky had stayed overnight with him. “He is suffering so much!”

  “What of it? Thieves and arsonists suffer too!”

  “Let’s just say that you’re right …” Samoylenko said, absorbed in thought. “Let’s say … But he’s a young man, on foreign shores … a student, we too were students, and besides us there is no one here to lend him a hand.”

  “To help him do odious things only because you and he were at university, at different times, and neither of you managed to get anything done there? What rubbish!”

  “Hold it, let’s cool our blood and sort this out. I propose that it’s possible to set things up this way …” Samoylenko pondered, his fingers stirring. “You understand I will give him the money, but I will take from him his honest, noble word that in a week’s time he will send Nadezhda Fyodorovna money for the road.”

  “And he’ll give you his honest word, he’ll even get teary-eyed and believe in it himself, but what is the value of his word? He won’t stand by it, and when in a year or two you run into him on Nevsky, arm in arm with a new lover, he will vindicate himself by saying that he’s been crippled by civilization and that he’s a chip off of Rudin*. Will you drop him, for God’s sake! Step away from the dirt and stopping digging in it with both hands!”

  Samoylenko thought for a moment and then decisively said:

  “Well, I’m still going to give him money. You do as you please. My stance is not to refuse a man on the basis of mere hypothesis alone.”

  “That’s superb. Kiss him goodbye.”

  “Well, then, give me the hundred rubles,” Samoylenko asked bashfully.

  “I won’t.”

  Silence set in. Samoylenko had totally weakened: his face took on a guilty, chastened expression seeking to curry favor, and it was somewhat strange to see this pitiful face of childlike befuddlement on an enormous man with epaulets and orders.

  “In this region, His Eminence tours the diocese not in a carriage, but on horseback,” said the deacon, putting down his pen. “The sight of him riding on horseback is extraordinarily moving. His simplicity and modesty embody the grandeur of the Bible.”

  “Is he a good man?” Von Koren asked, happy to change the subject.

  “How could it be otherwise? If he were not a good man, would he have been appointed bishop?”

  “One encounters many good and gifted men among the bishops,” said Von Koren. “It’s just unfortunate that so many of them have a weakness—they imagine themselves to be statesmen. One occupies himself with spreading Russification, another criticizes the sciences. That’s none of their business. They’d be better off looking in on the consistory more often.”

  “A secular man cannot judge the bishops.”

  “Why not, Deacon? A bishop is a man, just the same as I am.”

  “The same but not the same,” the deacon said, taking offense, picking up his pen. “If it were the case that you’re the same, then grace would have been bestowed upon you and you would be a bishop yourself, but since it’s the case that you’re not a bishop then, it means you’re not the same.”

  “Don’t you start, Deacon!” Samoylenko said with melancholy. “Listen, here’s what I’ve thought up,” turning his attention to Von Koren. “Do not give me the hundred rubles. You’re still going to eat at my table d’hote for the next three months until the winter, so why don’t you just pay me in advance for those three months.”

  “I won’t.”

  Samoylenko blinked his eyes and flushed crimson; mechanically he drew the book with the fanalgae on it to himself and looked at it, then rose to retrieve his hat. Von Koren began to pity him.

  “Fine, if that’s the kind of gentleman you deign to have in your life and conduct business with!” said the zoologist, and in indignation kicked some piece of paper into the corner. “Just understand that this is not kindness, nor love, but cowardice, a lack of discipline, poison! What the intellect creates, your flaccid, good-for-nothing heart destroys! When I was ill with typhoid as a schoolboy, my auntie glutted me with marinated mushrooms out of compassion and I nearly died. Understand, right along with my auntie, that love for a person must be situated not in the heart, not at the end of a spoon and not in the loins, but right here!”

  Von Koren smacked himself on the forehead.

  “Take it!” he said, and threw the hundred-ruble note.

  “There’s nothing for you to be angry about, Kolya,” Samoylenko meekly said, folding the note. “I understand you perfectly, but … try to put yourself in my predicament.”

  “Woman, you’re old, how’s that!”

  The deacon burst out laughing.

  “Listen, Alexander Davidich, to a final request!” Von Koren hotly said. “When you give that scoundrel the money, attach a condition: have him leave with his mistress or have him send her on ahead, otherwise don’t give it to him. Don’t stand on ceremony with him. Tell him, just like that, and if you don’t tell him, then I give you my honest word, I’ll go to his office myself and throw him down the stairs, and I won’t associate with you any longer. Know this!”

  “What? If he leaves with her or sends her ahead, it’ll be more convenient for him,” Samoylenko said. “He’ll even be happy. Come now, bid me farewell!”

  He demonstratively bid farewell and exited, but, before closing the door behind him, he looked back at Von Koren, made a dreadful face and said:

  “Brother, it’s the Germans that ruined you! Yes! The Germans!”

  * The “superfluous man” who is the title character of Turgenev’s first novel.

  XII

  The following day, Thursday, Maria Konstantinovna celebrated the birthday of her Kostya. Everyone was invited over to eat pirog at midday and drink chocolate in the evening. When Laevsky and Nadezhda Fyodorovna arrived in the evening, the zoologist, already seated in the drawing room drinking chocolate, asked Samoylenko:

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Look here, don’t stand on ceremony. I don’
t understand the insolence of these gentlepersons! You see, they know the opinion of this local family perfectly well regarding their cohabitation, and in the midst of it they worm their way in here.”

  “If you focus on every prejudice,” Samoylenko pointed out, “you’ll never venture anywhere.”

  “Is the disgust felt by the masses toward love out of wedlock and debauchery prejudice?”

  “Of course. Prejudice and hatred. Soldiers will see a maiden of questionable character and immediately begin to hoot and holler, but why not ask them: who are they themselves?”

  “They’re not whistling for no reason. That wenches suffocate their illegitimate infants, and then serve hard time, and that Anna Karenina threw herself beneath a train, and that in villages they smear tar onto picket fences, and that you and I, for whatever reason, like that Katya has a purity about her, and that everyone feels a nebulous yearning for pure love, all the while knowing that such love does not exist—is all of this truly prejudice? This, brother, is the only thing that has survived intact of natural selection and if it weren’t for this opaque force that governs relations between the sexes, the lady and mister Laevsky would show you the score, and humanity would degenerate within two years’ time.”

  Laevsky entered the drawing room, greeted everyone, and, shaking Von Koren’s hand, smiled ingratiatingly. He waited for the right moment, then said to Samoylenko:

  “Pardon me, Alexander Davidich, I need to have a couple of words with you.”

  Samoylenko rose, led him by the waist, and both went into Nikodim Aleksandrich’s study.

  “Tomorrow is Friday …” Laevsky said, gnawing on his fingernails. “Were you able to get what you promised?”

  “I was only able to get two hundred ten. I’ll have the rest today or tomorrow. Rest assured.”

  “Thank God!” Laevsky took a deep breath, and his hands began to jitter from joy. “You’re rescuing me, Alexander Davidich, and I swear to God before you, on my happiness or whatever you like, I will send the money to you the very hour of my arrival. And I’ll send the old debt as well.”

  “Here’s the thing, Vanya …” Samoylenko said, taking him by the button and reddening. “You’ll forgive me that I’m mixing in your familial affairs, but … why don’t you leave together with Nadezhda Fyodorovna?”

  “You odd fellow, how could that possible be? One of us must certainly stay behind, or else the creditors will be in an uproar. You see, I owe around seven hundred rubles to the shops, if not more. Wait, in a little while, I’ll send them money, shove it between their teeth, then she’ll leave this place too.”

  “All right … But then why don’t you send her ahead of you?”

  “Oh … my God, how could that even be possible?” Laevsky recoiled. “You see, she’s a woman, what would she do there alone? What does she understand? It would be nothing more than a waste of time and an extra expense.”

  Well reasoned …, Samoylenko thought, but, remembering his conversation with Von Koren, cast down his eyes and said sullenly:

  “I can’t agree with you. Either travel together with her or send her ahead, but otherwise … otherwise, I won’t give you the money. This is my final word …”

  He retreated, cringing, his back slammed against the door, and he exited out into the drawing room red, in a state of frightful embarrassment.

  Friday … Friday …, Laevsky thought, returning to the drawing room. Friday …

  He was served a cup of chocolate. He burned his lips and tongue on the hot chocolate and thought:

  Friday … Friday …

  For some reason the word “Friday” would not leave his head; there was nothing besides Friday that he could think of, and it was evident to him, not in his head but somewhere below his heart, that he would not be leaving on Saturday. Nikodim Aleksandrich stood before him, carefully kempt, with hair swept up at the temples and asked:

  “Eat something, I humbly request that you do …”

  Maria Konstantinovna was showing the guests Katya’s grades while protractedly saying:

  “It’s horrible now, horribly difficult to study! They demand so much …”

  “Mama!” moaned Katya, not knowing where to hide from the embarrassment and praise.

  Laevsky looked at the grades and praised her also. Divine Law, the Russian Language, Conduct—fives and fours sprang before his eyes, and all this mixed together with Friday tethered to him, he perceived the combed whiskers of Nikodim Aleksandrich and Katya’s red cheeks as a boundless, insurmountable ennui, such that he but very nearly cried out in despair as he asked himself: “Could it be, could it really be that I won’t leave?”

  Two card tables were placed close to one another, and they took their seats to play a game of post office. Laevsky sat down as well.

  Friday … Friday … he thought, smiling as he removed a pencil from his pocket. Friday …

  He wanted to contemplate his predicament but was afraid to think. He was afraid to admit that the doctor had caught him in the deceit that he for so long, had so carefully, concealed from himself. Any time he thought of his future, he wouldn’t allow his thoughts free reign. He would take a seat in a train car and set off—this would determine the question of his life, he had not allowed his thoughts to go any further. Like a distant lackluster flame in a field, so from time to time a thought flickered in his mind that somewhere along one of the side streets of Petersburg, in the distant future, in order to part company with Nadezhda Fyodorovna and repay his debts, he would have to resort to telling a small lie. He would tell this lie only once, and it would be followed by total renewal. And this was good: for the price of one small lie he would purchase a large truth.

  But for now, as the doctor’s refusal harshly alluded to his deceit, it became clear to him that he would require the lie not only in the distant future but today, and tomorrow, and in a month’s time and, possibly even to the end of his life. In actuality, so that he could leave, he would have to lie to Nadezhda Fyodorovna, his creditors and the civic administration; next, so as to procure money in Petersburg, he would have to lie to his mother, telling her that he had already parted company with Nadezhda Fyodorovna—and Mother wouldn’t give him more than five hundred rubles, which meant that he’d already deceived the doctor, seeing as how he would be in no state to send him money any time soon. What’s more, when Nadezhda Fyodorovna arrived in Petersburg, he would have to employ a whole row of minor and major deceits so as to part company with her; and again, there would be tears, ennui, an odious life, remorse, which in turn means there would be no renewal at all. Deceit and nothing more. An entire mountain of lies had sprung up in Laevsky’s imagination. To leap over it in a single bound, and not lie piecemeal, he saw it would be necessary to resort to drastic measures, for instance, without saying a word, to rise from his seat, put on his hat and set off that instant without the money, without saying a word, but Laevsky felt that this was impossible for him to do.

  Friday … Friday …, he thought. Friday …

  They had written notes, folded them in half and placed them in Nikodim Aleksandrich’s old top hat, and, when enough notes had accumulated, Kostya, imitating a postman, walked around the table distributing them. The deacon, Katya and Kostya had all received funny notes, and, in attempting to make their replies even funnier, were all in an uproar.

  “We need to talk,” Nadezhda Fyodorovna read from her note. She exchanged glances with Maria Konstantinovna, who smiled back all almond-infused and nodded her head in acknowledgment.

  What is there to talk about? Nadezhda Fyodorovna thought. If you can’t divulge everything, then there’s no point in talking.

  Before they had set off to call on their friends, she had knotted Laevsky’s tie, and this meaningless act had filled her soul with tenderness and sorrow. The anxiety on his face, the distracted looks, paleness and the incomprehensible changeover, the incidents surrounding them in the recent past, and that she was keeping a frightful, disgusting secret from him, and that her ha
nds shook as she knotted his tie—for some reason all this told her that there was little time remaining of their living together. She stared at him as she would at an icon, with fear and repentance, and thought: Forgive … forgive … Achmianov sat across the table from her and could not tear his black lovestruck eyes away from her; she was aroused by desires, she was ashamed of herself and feared that even melancholy and woe would not hinder her yielding to tainted passion, neither today, nor tomorrow—and that she, like a compulsive drunk, did not have the power to stop.

  So as to no longer continue living this life, one that was shameful to her and insulting to Laevsky, she had decided to go away. She would tearfully beg him to release her, and if he should be against it, then she would leave him secretly. She would not tell him what had transpired. Let the memories that he had left of her be pure.

  “I love, I love, I love …” she read. This was from Achmianov.

  She would live in some out-of-the-way place, work and send Laevsky money from “Anonymous,” and embroidered shirts and tobacco also, and would return to him in old age and, incidentally, if he should fall seriously ill and require a sick-nurse. When in old age he recognized the reason she had refused to be his wife and left him, he would come to value her sacrifice and forgive her.

  “You have a long nose.” This should be from either the deacon or Kostya.

  Nadezhda Fyodorovna fancied how, in bidding farewell to Laevsky, she would embrace him tightly, kiss his hand and swear that she would love him her whole, whole life, and then, living in some out-of-the-way place, among strangers, she would think every day of how somewhere she had a friend, a beloved man, pure, benevolent and sublime, who harbored pure memories of her.

  “If you do not grant me a rendezvous today, then I will take measures, I give you my honest word. You cannot treat decent people in such a manner, you must understand that.” This was from Kirilin.