The Duel and Other Stories
with you," muttered the deacon. "Old Grandad Tarantula will be glad
. . . . It's funny, it's too funny! Only I beg of you most earnestly
don't tell anybody I was there, or I may get into hot water with
the authorities. They will say: 'The deacon was a second.'"
"Gentlemen," said Von Koren, "the deacon asks you not to tell any
one you've seen him here. He might get into trouble."
"How contrary to human nature it is!" sighed the deacon. "Excuse
my saying so, but your face was so dreadful that I thought you were
going to kill him."
"I was very much tempted to put an end to that scoundrel," said Von
Koren, "but you shouted close by, and I missed my aim. The whole
procedure is revolting to any one who is not used to it, and it has
exhausted me, deacon. I feel awfully tired. Come along. . . ."
"No, you must let me walk back. I must get dry, for I am wet and
cold."
"Well, as you like," said the zoologist, in a weary tone, feeling
dispirited, and, getting into the carriage, he closed his eyes. "As
you like. . . ."
While they were moving about the carriages and taking their seats,
Kerbalay stood in the road, and, laying his hands on his stomach,
he bowed low, showing his teeth; he imagined that the gentry had
come to enjoy the beauties of nature and drink tea, and could not
understand why they were getting into the carriages. The party set
off in complete silence and only the deacon was left by the _duhan_.
"Come to the _duhan_, drink tea," he said to Kerbalay. "Me wants
to eat."
Kerbalay spoke good Russian, but the deacon imagined that the Tatar
would understand him better if he talked to him in broken Russian.
"Cook omelette, give cheese. . . ."
"Come, come, father," said Kerbalay, bowing. "I'll give you everything
. . . . I've cheese and wine. . . . Eat what you like."
"What is 'God' in Tatar?" asked the deacon, going into the _duhan_.
"Your God and my God are the same," said Kerbalay, not understanding
him. "God is the same for all men, only men are different. Some are
Russian, some are Turks, some are English--there are many sorts
of men, but God is one."
"Very good. If all men worship the same God, why do you Mohammedans
look upon Christians as your everlasting enemies?"
"Why are you angry?" said Kerbalay, laying both hands on his stomach.
"You are a priest; I am a Mussulman: you say, 'I want to eat'--I
give it you. . . . Only the rich man distinguishes your God from
my God; for the poor man it is all the same. If you please, it is
ready."
While this theological conversation was taking place at the _duhan_,
Laevsky was driving home thinking how dreadful it had been driving
there at daybreak, when the roads, the rocks, and the mountains
were wet and dark, and the uncertain future seemed like a terrible
abyss, of which one could not see the bottom; while now the raindrops
hanging on the grass and on the stones were sparkling in the sun
like diamonds, nature was smiling joyfully, and the terrible future
was left behind. He looked at Sheshkovsky's sullen, tear-stained
face, and at the two carriages ahead of them in which Von Koren,
his seconds, and the doctor were sitting, and it seemed to him as
though they were all coming back from a graveyard in which a
wearisome, insufferable man who was a burden to others had just
been buried.
"Everything is over," he thought of his past, cautiously touching
his neck with his fingers.
On the right side of his neck was a small swelling, of the length
and breadth of his little finger, and he felt a pain, as though
some one had passed a hot iron over his neck. The bullet had bruised
it.
Afterwards, when he got home, a strange, long, sweet day began for
him, misty as forgetfulness. Like a man released from prison or
from hospital, he stared at the long-familiar objects and wondered
that the tables, the windows, the chairs, the light, and the sea
stirred in him a keen, childish delight such as he had not known
for long, long years. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, pale and haggard, could
not understand his gentle voice and strange movements; she made
haste to tell him everything that had happened to her. . . . It
seemed to her that very likely he scarcely heard and did not
understand her, and that if he did know everything he would curse
her and kill her, but he listened to her, stroked her face and hair,
looked into her eyes and said:
"I have nobody but you. . . ."
Then they sat a long while in the garden, huddled close together,
saying nothing, or dreaming aloud of their happy life in the future,
in brief, broken sentences, while it seemed to him that he had never
spoken at such length or so eloquently.
XXI
More than three months had passed.
The day came that Von Koren had fixed on for his departure. A cold,
heavy rain had been falling from early morning, a north-east wind
was blowing, and the waves were high on the sea. It was said that
the steamer would hardly be able to come into the harbour in such
weather. By the time-table it should have arrived at ten o'clock
in the morning, but Von Koren, who had gone on to the sea-front at
midday and again after dinner, could see nothing through the
field-glass but grey waves and rain covering the horizon.
Towards the end of the day the rain ceased and the wind began to
drop perceptibly. Von Koren had already made up his mind that he
would not be able to get off that day, and had settled down to play
chess with Samoylenko; but after dark the orderly announced that
there were lights on the sea and that a rocket had been seen.
Von Koren made haste. He put his satchel over his shoulder, and
kissed Samoylenko and the deacon. Though there was not the slightest
necessity, he went through the rooms again, said good-bye to the
orderly and the cook, and went out into the street, feeling that
he had left something behind, either at the doctor's or his lodging.
In the street he walked beside Samoylenko, behind them came the
deacon with a box, and last of all the orderly with two portmanteaus.
Only Samoylenko and the orderly could distinguish the dim lights
on the sea. The others gazed into the darkness and saw nothing. The
steamer had stopped a long way from the coast.
"Make haste, make haste," Von Koren hurried them. "I am afraid it
will set off."
As they passed the little house with three windows, into which
Laevsky had moved soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist
peeping in at the window. Laevsky was sitting, writing, bent over
the table, with his back to the window.
"I wonder at him!" said the zoologist softly. "What a screw he has
put on himself!"
"Yes, one may well wonder," said Samoylenko. "He sits from morning
till night, he's always at work. He works to pay off his debts. And
he lives, brother, worse than a beggar!"
Half a minute of silence followed. The zoologist, the doctor, and
the deacon stood at the window and went on looking at Laevsky.
"So he didn't get away from here, poor fellow," said Samoylenko.
"Do you remember how hard he tried?"
"Yes, he has put a screw on himself," Von Koren repeated. "His
marriage, the way he works all day long for his daily bread, a new
expression in his face, and even in his walk--it's all so
extraordinary that I don't know what to call it."
The zoologist took Samoylenko's sleeve and went on with emotion in
his voice:
"You tell him and his wife that when I went away I was full of
admiration for them and wished them all happiness . . . and I beg
him, if he can, not to remember evil against me. He knows me. He
knows that if I could have foreseen this change, then I might have
become his best friend."
"Go in and say good-bye to him."
"No, that wouldn't do."
"Why? God knows, perhaps you'll never see him again."
The zoologist reflected, and said:
"That's true."
Samoylenko tapped softly at the window. Laevsky started and looked
round.
"Vanya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you," said
Samoylenko. "He is just going away."
Laevsky got up from the table, and went into the passage to open
the door. Samoylenko, the zoologist, and the deacon went into the
house.
"I can only come for one minute," began the zoologist, taking off
his goloshes in the passage, and already wishing he had not given
way to his feelings and come in, uninvited. "It is as though I were
forcing myself on him," he thought, "and that's stupid."
"Forgive me for disturbing you," he said as he went into the room
with Laevsky, "but I'm just going away, and I had an impulse to see
you. God knows whether we shall ever meet again."
"I am very glad to see you. . . . Please come in," said Laevsky,
and he awkwardly set chairs for his visitors as though he wanted
to bar their way, and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his
hands.
"I should have done better to have left my audience in the street,"
thought Von Koren, and he said firmly: "Don't remember evil against
me, Ivan Andreitch. To forget the past is, of course, impossible
--it is too painful, and I've not come here to apologise or to
declare that I was not to blame. I acted sincerely, and I have not
changed my convictions since then. . . . It is true that I see, to
my great delight, that I was mistaken in regard to you, but it's
easy to make a false step even on a smooth road, and, in fact, it's
the natural human lot: if one is not mistaken in the main, one is
mistaken in the details. Nobody knows the real truth."
"No, no one knows the truth," said Laevsky.
"Well, good-bye. . . . God give you all happiness."
Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; the latter took it and bowed.
"Don't remember evil against me," said Von Koren. "Give my greetings
to your wife, and say I am very sorry not to say good-bye to her."
"She is at home."
Laevsky went to the door of the next room, and said:
"Nadya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped near the doorway and
looked shyly at the visitors. There was a look of guilt and dismay
on her face, and she held her hands like a schoolgirl receiving a
scolding.
"I'm just going away, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna," said Von Koren, "and
have come to say good-bye."
She held out her hand uncertainly, while Laevsky bowed.
"What pitiful figures they are, though!" thought Von Koren. "The
life they are living does not come easy to them. I shall be in
Moscow and Petersburg; can I send you anything?" he asked.
"Oh!" said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she looked anxiously at her
husband. "I don't think there's anything. . . ."
"No, nothing . . ." said Laevsky, rubbing his hands. "Our greetings."
Von Koren did not know what he could or ought to say, though as he
went in he thought he would say a very great deal that would be
warm and good and important. He shook hands with Laevsky and his
wife in silence, and left them with a depressed feeling.
"What people!" said the deacon in a low voice, as he walked behind
them. "My God, what people! Of a truth, the right hand of God has
planted this vine! Lord! Lord! One man vanquishes thousands and
another tens of thousands. Nikolay Vassilitch," he said ecstatically,
"let me tell you that to-day you have conquered the greatest of
man's enemies--pride."
"Hush, deacon! Fine conquerors we are! Conquerors ought to look
like eagles, while he's a pitiful figure, timid, crushed; he bows
like a Chinese idol, and I, I am sad. . . ."
They heard steps behind them. It was Laevsky, hurrying after them
to see him off. The orderly was standing on the quay with the two
portmanteaus, and at a little distance stood four boatmen.
"There is a wind, though. . . . Brrr!" said Samoylenko. "There must
be a pretty stiff storm on the sea now! You are not going off at a
nice time, Koyla."
"I'm not afraid of sea-sickness."