The Duel and Other Stories
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna reflected that she really had not lived. She
had finished her studies in a boarding-school and had been married
to a man she did not love; then she had thrown in her lot with
Laevsky, and had spent all her time with him on this empty, desolate
coast, always expecting something better. Was that life?
"I ought to be married though," she thought, but remembering Kirilin
and Atchmianov she flushed and said:
"No, it's impossible. Even if Ivan Andreitch begged me to on his
knees--even then I would refuse."
Marya Konstantinovna sat on the sofa for a minute in silence, grave
and mournful, gazing fixedly into space; then she got up and said
coldly:
"Good-bye, my dear! Forgive me for having troubled you. Though it's
not easy for me, it's my duty to tell you that from this day all
is over between us, and, in spite of my profound respect for Ivan
Andreitch, the door of my house is closed to you henceforth."
She uttered these words with great solemnity and was herself
overwhelmed by her solemn tone. Her face began quivering again; it
assumed a soft almond-oily expression. She held out both hands to
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who was overcome with alarm and confusion,
and said in an imploring voice:
"My dear, allow me if only for a moment to be a mother or an elder
sister to you! I will be as frank with you as a mother."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna felt in her bosom warmth, gladness, and pity
for herself, as though her own mother had really risen up and were
standing before her. She impulsively embraced Marya Konstantinovna
and pressed her face to her shoulder. Both of them shed tears. They
sat down on the sofa and for a few minutes sobbed without looking
at one another or being able to utter a word.
"My dear child," began Marya Konstantinovna, "I will tell you some
harsh truths, without sparing you."
"For God's sake, for God's sake, do!"
"Trust me, my dear. You remember of all the ladies here, I was the
only one to receive you. You horrified me from the very first day,
but I had not the heart to treat you with disdain like all the rest.
I grieved over dear, good Ivan Andreitch as though he were my son
--a young man in a strange place, inexperienced, weak, with no
mother; and I was worried, dreadfully worried. . . . My husband was
opposed to our making his acquaintance, but I talked him over . . .
persuaded him. . . . We began receiving Ivan Andreitch, and with
him, of course, you. If we had not, he would have been insulted. I
have a daughter, a son. . . . You understand the tender mind, the
pure heart of childhood . . . 'who so offendeth one of these little
ones.' . . . I received you into my house and trembled for my
children. Oh, when you become a mother, you will understand my
fears. And every one was surprised at my receiving you, excuse my
saying so, as a respectable woman, and hinted to me . . . well, of
course, slanders, suppositions. . . . At the bottom of my heart I
blamed you, but you were unhappy, flighty, to be pitied, and my
heart was wrung with pity for you."
"But why, why?" asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, trembling all over.
"What harm have I done any one?"
"You are a terrible sinner. You broke the vow you made your husband
at the altar. You seduced a fine young man, who perhaps had he not
met you might have taken a lawful partner for life from a good
family in his own circle, and would have been like every one else
now. You have ruined his youth. Don't speak, don't speak, my dear!
I never believe that man is to blame for our sins. It is always the
woman's fault. Men are frivolous in domestic life; they are guided
by their minds, and not by their hearts. There's a great deal they
don't understand; woman understands it all. Everything depends on
her. To her much is given and from her much will be required. Oh,
my dear, if she had been more foolish or weaker than man on that
side, God would not have entrusted her with the education of boys
and girls. And then, my dear, you entered on the path of vice,
forgetting all modesty; any other woman in your place would have
hidden herself from people, would have sat shut up at home, and
would only have been seen in the temple of God, pale, dressed all
in black and weeping, and every one would have said in genuine
compassion: 'O Lord, this erring angel is coming back again to Thee
. . . .' But you, my dear, have forgotten all discretion; have lived
openly, extravagantly; have seemed to be proud of your sin; you
have been gay and laughing, and I, looking at you, shuddered with
horror, and have been afraid that thunder from Heaven would strike
our house while you were sitting with us. My dear, don't speak,
don't speak," cried Marya Konstantinovna, observing that Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna wanted to speak. "Trust me, I will not deceive you, I
will not hide one truth from the eyes of your soul. Listen to me,
my dear. . . . God marks great sinners, and you have been marked-out:
only think--your costumes have always been appalling."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who had always had the highest opinion of her
costumes, left off crying and looked at her with surprise.
"Yes, appalling," Marya Konstantinovna went on. "Any one could judge
of your behaviour from the elaboration and gaudiness of your attire.
People laughed and shrugged their shoulders as they looked at you,
and I grieved, I grieved. . . . And forgive me, my dear; you are
not nice in your person! When we met in the bathing-place, you made
me tremble. Your outer clothing was decent enough, but your petticoat,
your chemise. . . . My dear, I blushed! Poor Ivan Andreitch! No one
ever ties his cravat properly, and from his linen and his boots,
poor fellow! one can see he has no one at home to look after him.
And he is always hungry, my darling, and of course, if there is no
one at home to think of the samovar and the coffee, one is forced
to spend half one's salary at the pavilion. And it's simply awful,
awful in your home! No one else in the town has flies, but there's
no getting rid of them in your rooms: all the plates and dishes are
black with them. If you look at the windows and the chairs, there's
nothing but dust, dead flies, and glasses. . . . What do you want
glasses standing about for? And, my dear, the table's not cleared
till this time in the day. And one's ashamed to go into your bedroom:
underclothes flung about everywhere, india-rubber tubes hanging on
the walls, pails and basins standing about. . . . My dear! A husband
ought to know nothing, and his wife ought to be as neat as a little
angel in his presence. I wake up every morning before it is light,
and wash my face with cold water that my Nikodim Alexandritch may
not see me looking drowsy."
"That's all nonsense," Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sobbed. "If only I were
happy, but I am so unhappy!"
"Yes, yes; you are very unhappy!" Marya Konstantinovna sighed,
hardly able to restrain herself from weeping. "And there's terrible
grief in store for you in the future! A solitary old age, ill-health;
and then you will have to answer at the dread judgment seat. . .
It's awful, awful. Now fate itself holds out to you a helping hand,
and you madly thrust it from you. Be married, make haste and be
married!"
"Yes, we must, we must," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; "but it's
impossible!"
"Why?"
"It's impossible. Oh, if only you knew!"
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna had an impulse to tell her about Kirilin, and
how the evening before she had met handsome young Atchmianov at the
harbour, and how the mad, ridiculous idea had occurred to her of
cancelling her debt for three hundred; it had amused her very much,
and she returned home late in the evening feeling that she had sold
herself and was irrevocably lost. She did not know herself how it
had happened. And she longed to swear to Marya Konstantinovna that
she would certainly pay that debt, but sobs and shame prevented her
from speaking.
"I am going away," she said. "Ivan Andreitch may stay, but I am
going."
"Where?"
"To Russia."
"But how will you live there? Why, you have nothing."
"I will do translation, or . . . or I will open a library . . . ."
"Don't let your fancy run away with you, my dear. You must have
money for a library. Well, I will leave you now, and you calm
yourself and think things over, and to-morrow come and see me,
bright and happy. That will be enchanting! Well, good-bye, my angel.
Let me kiss you."
Marya Konstantinovna kissed Nadyezhda Fyodorovna on the forehead,
made the sign of the cross over her, and softly withdrew. It was
getting dark, and Olga lighted up in the kitchen. Still crying,
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
She began to be very feverish. She undressed without getting up,
crumpled up her clothes at her feet, and curled herself up under
the bedclothes. She was thirsty, and there was no one to give her
something to drink.
"I'll pay it back!" she said to herself, and it seemed to her in
delirium that she was sitting beside some sick woman, and recognised
her as herself. "I'll pay it back. It would be stupid to imagine
that it was for money I . . . I will go away and send him the money
from Petersburg. At first a hundred . . . then another hundred . . .
and then the third hundred. . . ."
It was late at night when Laevsky came in.
"At first a hundred . . ." Nadyezhda Fyodorovna said to him, "then
another hundred . . ."
"You ought to take some quinine," he said, and thought, "To-morrow
is Wednesday; the steamer goes and I am not going in it. So I shall
have to go on living here till Saturday."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna knelt up in bed.
"I didn't say anything just now, did I?" she asked, smiling and
screwing up her eyes at the light.
"No, nothing. We shall have to send for the doctor to-morrow morning.
Go to sleep."
He took his pillow and went to the door. Ever since he had finally
made up his mind to go away and leave Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, she had
begun to raise in him pity and a sense of guilt; he felt a little
ashamed in her presence, as though in the presence of a sick or old
horse whom one has decided to kill. He stopped in the doorway and
looked round at her.
"I was out of humour at the picnic and said something rude to you.
Forgive me, for God's sake!"
Saying this, he went off to his study, lay down, and for a long
while could not get to sleep.
Next morning when Samoylenko, attired, as it was a holiday, in
full-dress uniform with epaulettes on his shoulders and decorations
on his breast, came out of the bedroom after feeling Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna's pulse and looking at her tongue, Laevsky, who was
standing in the doorway, asked him anxiously: "Well? Well?"
There was an expression of terror, of extreme uneasiness, and of
hope on his face.
"Don't worry yourself; there's nothing dangerous," said Samoylenko;
"it's the usual fever."
"I don't mean that." Laevsky frowned impatiently. "Have you got the
money?"
"My dear soul, forgive me," he whispered, looking round at the door
and overcome with confusion.
"For God's sake, forgive me! No one has anything to spare, and I've
only been able to collect by five- and by ten-rouble notes. . . .
Only a hundred and ten in all. To-day I'll speak to some one else.
Have patience."
"But Saturday is the latest date," whispered Laevsky, trembling
with impatience. "By all that's sacred, get it by Saturday! If I
don't get away by Saturday, nothing's any use, nothing! I can't
understand how a doctor can be without money!"
"Lord have mercy on us!" Samoylenko whispered rapidly and intensely,
and there was positively a breaking note in his throat. "I've been
stripped of everything; I am owed seven thousand, and I'm in debt
all round. Is it my fault?"
"Then you'll get it by Saturday? Yes?"
"I'll try."