Fathers and Sons
Talk of educated dogs dancing on their hind legs!... However, I could
not have refused him, for, otherwise, he would have struck me and
_then_"--Bazarov turned pale, for his pride had been aroused--"well,
_then_ I should have strangled him like a kitten!"
He returned to his microscope, but found his heart to be still
beating, and the coolness necessary to scientific observation to have
disappeared.
"I suppose he saw us this morning," he continued to himself. "Yet
surely he is not doing this on his brother's behalf? For what is there
in a kiss? No; something else is in the background. Bah! What if it
should be that he himself is in love with her? Yes, that is it. It is
as clear as day. What a mess! Truly a horrible mess, however it be
viewed! For first of all I am to have my brains blown out, and then I
am to be made to leave this place! And there is Arkady to consider, and
that old heifer Nikolai Petrovitch. Awkward! Awkward indeed!"
However, the day dragged its slow length along. Thenichka remained
practically non-existent (in other words, she kept to her room as
closely as a mouse to its hole), Nikolai Petrovitch walked about with
a careworn air (it had been reported to him that mildew had begun to
attack the wheat), and Paul Petrovitch's mien of icy urbanity succeeded
in damping the spirits of Prokofitch himself.
Presently Bazarov sat down to write a letter to his father, but tore it
up, and threw the pieces under the table.
"Should I be killed," he reflected, "my parents will hear of it soon
enough. But I shall _not_ be killed--I have yet far to wander about the
world."
Next he ordered Peter to call him at dawn; and inasmuch as the order
was accompanied with a mention of important business, Peter jumped
to the conclusion that it was Bazarov's intention to take him to St.
Petersburg. Bazarov then retired to rest. Yet, late though he had done
so, he was troubled with fantastic visions. Ever before him there
flitted Madame Odintsov, who was also his mother. And ever behind her
there walked a black cat, which was also Thenichka. For his part, Paul
Petrovitch figured as a forest which the dreamer was engaged to fight.
At length, when four o'clock arrived, Peter came to rouse him. Hastily
dressing himself, he left the house with the valet. The morning was
fine and fresh, and though a few wisps of cloud were trailing across
the pale-blue transparency of the zenith, a light dew had coated the
grass and foliage with drops, and was shining like silver on spiders'
webs. The steaming earth seemed still to be seeking to detain the
roseate traces of dawn in her embrace; but presently every quarter of
the sky became lit up, and resounded again to the songs of larks.
Bazarov walked straight ahead until he reached the copse--then seated
himself at the shadowy edge of the trees, and explained to Peter the
services which he looked to the latter to perform; upon which the
"cultured" menial came near to fainting, and was calmed only with
an assurance that he would but have to stand at a distance, as a
looker-on, and that in no case would responsibility attach to his
person.
"And think," Bazarov concluded, "in what an important rôle you are
about to figure!"
But Peter, extending his hands deprecatingly, only turned up his eyes,
became green in the face, and went and leant against a birch tree.
The copse was skirted by the road from Marino, and the light coating of
dust bore no mark of having been disturbed since the previous evening,
whether by wheel or by foot. Involuntarily Bazarov kept glancing along
this road as, plucking and chewing stems of grass, he repeated again
and again to himself: "What a piece of folly!" More than once, too,
the morning air made him shiver, and Peter gaze plaintively in his
direction; but Bazarov only laughed, for _he_ at least was no coward.
At length hoofs sounded along the road, and there came into sight from
behind the trees a peasant driving two horses with traces attached. As
the man passed Bazarov he looked at him inquisitively, but failed to
doff his cap; and this circumstance impressed Peter unfavourably, since
the valet considered it a bad omen.
"Like ourselves, that peasant has risen early," thought Bazarov. "But
whereas _he_ has risen to work, _we_----!"
"Some one else is coming, I believe," whispered Peter.
Bazarov raised his head, and saw Paul Petrovitch, in a light check
jacket and a pair of snow-white trousers, walking briskly along the
road. Under his arm was a green, baize-covered box.
"Pardon me for having kept you waiting," he said with a bow to Bazarov,
and then one to Peter (for even to the latter he, for the nonce, seemed
to accord something of the respect due to a second). "As a matter of
fact, I was loth to arouse my valet."
"I beg that you will not mention it," replied Bazarov. "We ourselves
have only just arrived."
"So much the better!" And Paul Petrovitch glanced about him. "There
will be no one to see us or disturb us. Are you agreeable to
proceeding?"
"Quite."
"And I presume that you require no further explanations?"
"None whatsoever."
"Then kindly load these." Paul Petrovitch took from the box a brace of
pistols.
"No. Do you load, while I measure the distance--my legs are longer
than yours." This last Bazarov added with a dry smile. "Now, one, two,
three----"
"I beg your pardon, sir," gasped Peter, who was trembling as with ague.
"I beg your pardon, but might I move further away?"
"Four, five---- Certainly, my good fellow! Pray do so. You can go and
stand behind that tree there, and stop your ears--provided that you
do not also stop your eyes. Lastly, should either Monsieur Kirsanov
or myself fall, you are to run and pick up the fallen. Six, seven,
eight----" Bazarov halted. "That will do, I suppose?" he added to Paul
Petrovitch. "Or would you prefer me to add another couple of paces?"
"Do as you please," the other replied as he rammed home the second of
the two bullets.
"Then I will add those two paces." And Bazarov scratched a line in the
soil with his toe. "Here is the mark. _Apropos_, how many paces is each
of us to retire from our respective marks?"
"Ten, I presume," said Paul Petrovitch as he proffered Bazarov a brace
of pistols. "Will you kindly make choice of these?"
"I will. Nevertheless you will agree that our duel is singular, even to
the point of absurdity? For pray observe the countenance of our second!"
"It is still your pleasure to jest," Paul Petrovitch responded coldly.
"Of the singularity of our contest I make no denial. I merely consider
it my duty to warn you that I intend to right you in grim earnest. So,
_à bon entendeur, salut!_"
"Yet, even though we intend to exterminate one another, why should we
not enjoy our jest, and thus combine _utile_ with _dulce_? You have
spoken to me in French. I reply in Latin."
"I repeat that I intend to fight you in grim earnest," said Paul
Petrovitch; with which he moved to his place, and Bazarov, after
counting ten paces from his mark, turned, and halted.
"Are you ready?" inquired Paul Petrovitch.
"I am."
"Then engage."
Bazarov started to advance, and Paul Petrovitch did the same, with
his left hand thrust into his coat pocket, and his right gradually
elevating the muzzle of his pistol.
"The fellow is aiming straight for my nose," thought Bazarov to
himself. "And how the rascal is screwing up his eyes as he marches!
This is not a wholly pleasing sensation. I had better keep my eyes
fixed upon his watch-chain."
Past Bazarov's ear something suddenly whistled, while almost at the
same moment there came the sound of a report.
"I seemed to hear something, but no matter," was the thought which
flashed through Bazarov's brain. Then he advanced another step, and,
without aiming, pulled the trigger.
As he did so Paul Petrovitch gave a faint start, and clapped his hand
to his thigh, down the white trouser-leg of which there began to
trickle a thin stream of blood.
Bazarov threw aside his pistol and approached his antagonist.
"Are you wounded?" he inquired.
"Pray recall me to the mark," said Paul Petrovitch. "You have the right
so to do, and we are merely wasting time. The conditions of the contest
allow of a second shot apiece."
"Pardon me, that can be deferred," said Bazarov, catching hold of Paul
Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale in the face. "I am no longer
a duellist, but a doctor, and must examine your wound. Peter! Here!
Where the devil has the man got to?"
"This is sheer folly," gasped Paul Petrovitch. "I need no help. Let
us----" Yet, even as he tried to twirl his moustache, his arm fell to
his side, his eyes closed, and he collapsed in a swoon.
"Something new!" involuntarily cried Bazarov as he laid his antagonist
upon the grass. "A swoon! Let us see what is the matter with him."
Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he wiped away the blood, and probed
the neighbourhood of the wound.
"The bone is intact," he muttered. "Yes, and the bullet has merely
pierced the flesh a little below the surface. Nothing but the _musculus
vastus externus_ is so much as touched. In three weeks' time we shall
have him trotting about again. A swoon! Oh these men of nerves! What
thin skins, to be sure!"
"Is--is he dead?" came in Peter's tremulous voice from behind.
Bazarov looked up.
"No," he said. "Run for a little water, and he will outlive us both."
Unfortunately the "perfect servant" did not understand what was said
to him, but remained stock still. In fact, even when, the next moment,
Paul Petrovitch opened his eyes Peter went on crossing himself and
repeating: "He is dying!"
"Monsieur Bazarov," the wounded man said with a twisted smile, "you
were perfectly in the right when you said that the face of that man was
the face of a fool."
"It is so," agreed Bazarov. "Damn you, will you fetch some water!" (The
latter to the valet.)
"There is no need," put in Paul Petrovitch. "It was only a passing
vertigo. Kindly assist me to sit up. That is it. A scratch like this
will require only to be bandaged for me to walk home again. There will
be no necessity to have the _drozhki_ sent. For that matter, the duel
need not be renewed unless you wish it. At least to-day you have acted
like a gentleman. Kindly note that I have said so."
"To the past we have no need to refer," said Bazarov. "And, as regards
the future, it calls for equally little remark, seeing that I intend
to leave here at once. Allow me to bind your leg. The wound is not
dangerous, but one of a nature which will make it as well to have the
blood staunched. But first I must restore that stuck pig to life."
Shaking Peter vigorously by the collar, he dispatched him in search of
the _drozhki._
"But see that you do not alarm my brother," was Paul Petrovitch's
injunction also to the man. "You are not to breathe a word of what has
happened."
Peter set off at full speed. During the time that he was hastening for
the _drozhki_, the two antagonists sat silently side by side on the
ground, while Paul Petrovitch tried his best not to look at Bazarov,
for the reason that he did not feel inclined to become reconciled with
him, while at the same time he felt ashamed alike of his impulsiveness,
his failure, and the scheme which had had this ending, though he
realised that it might have been worse.
"At least will the fellow swagger here no more," he thought to himself
by way of consolation. "And, for that, much thanks!"
The silence was a heavy, awkward silence, for neither of the pair felt
comfortable--each of them recognised that the other had taken his
measure. To friends, such a recognition may be very agreeable, but to
foes it is far from welcome--least of all, when neither explanations
nor a parting are feasible.