The Duel and Other Stories
comparison with what my imagination can give me, all these streams
and rocks are trash, and nothing else."
The carriages now were by the banks of the stream. The high mountain
banks gradually grew closer, the valley shrank together and ended
in a gorge; the rocky mountain round which they were driving had
been piled together by nature out of huge rocks, pressing upon each
other with such terrible weight, that Samoylenko could not help
gasping every time he looked at them. The dark and beautiful mountain
was cleft in places by narrow fissures and gorges from which came
a breath of dewy moisture and mystery; through the gorges could be
seen other mountains, brown, pink, lilac, smoky, or bathed in vivid
sunlight. From time to time as they passed a gorge they caught the
sound of water falling from the heights and splashing on the stones.
"Ach, the damned mountains!" sighed Laevsky. "How sick I am of
them!"
At the place where the Black River falls into the Yellow, and the
water black as ink stains the yellow and struggles with it, stood
the Tatar Kerbalay's _duhan_, with the Russian flag on the roof and
with an inscription written in chalk: "The Pleasant _duhan_." Near
it was a little garden, enclosed in a hurdle fence, with tables and
chairs set out in it, and in the midst of a thicket of wretched
thornbushes stood a single solitary cypress, dark and beautiful.
Kerbalay, a nimble little Tatar in a blue shirt and a white apron,
was standing in the road, and, holding his stomach, he bowed low
to welcome the carriages, and smiled, showing his glistening white
teeth.
"Good-evening, Kerbalay," shouted Samoylenko. "We are driving on a
little further, and you take along the samovar and chairs! Look
sharp!"
Kerbalay nodded his shaven head and muttered something, and only
those sitting in the last carriage could hear: "We've got trout,
your Excellency."
"Bring them, bring them!" said Von Koren.
Five hundred paces from the _duhan_ the carriages stopped. Samoylenko
selected a small meadow round which there were scattered stones
convenient for sitting on, and a fallen tree blown down by the storm
with roots overgrown by moss and dry yellow needles. Here there was
a fragile wooden bridge over the stream, and just opposite on the
other bank there was a little barn for drying maize, standing on
four low piles, and looking like the hut on hen's legs in the fairy
tale; a little ladder sloped from its door.
The first impression in all was a feeling that they would never get
out of that place again. On all sides wherever they looked, the
mountains rose up and towered above them, and the shadows of evening
were stealing rapidly, rapidly from the _duhan_ and dark cypress,
making the narrow winding valley of the Black River narrower and
the mountains higher. They could hear the river murmuring and the
unceasing chirrup of the grasshoppers.
"Enchanting!" said Marya Konstantinovna, heaving deep sighs of
ecstasy. "Children, look how fine! What peace!"
"Yes, it really is fine," assented Laevsky, who liked the view, and
for some reason felt sad as he looked at the sky and then at the
blue smoke rising from the chimney of the _duhan_. "Yes, it is
fine," he repeated.
"Ivan Andreitch, describe this view," Marya Konstantinovna said
tearfully.
"Why?" asked Laevsky. "The impression is better than any description.
The wealth of sights and sounds which every one receives from nature
by direct impression is ranted about by authors in a hideous and
unrecognisable way."
"Really?" Von Koren asked coldly, choosing the biggest stone by the
side of the water, and trying to clamber up and sit upon it. "Really?"
he repeated, looking directly at Laevsky. "What of 'Romeo and
Juliet'? Or, for instance, Pushkin's 'Night in the Ukraine'? Nature
ought to come and bow down at their feet."
"Perhaps," said Laevsky, who was too lazy to think and oppose him.
"Though what is 'Romeo and Juliet' after all?" he added after a
short pause. "The beauty of poetry and holiness of love are simply
the roses under which they try to hide its rottenness. Romeo is
just the same sort of animal as all the rest of us."
"Whatever one talks to you about, you always bring it round to
. . ." Von Koren glanced round at Katya and broke off.
"What do I bring it round to?" asked Laevsky.
"One tells you, for instance, how beautiful a bunch of grapes is,
and you answer: 'Yes, but how ugly it is when it is chewed and
digested in one's stomach!' Why say that? It's not new, and . . .
altogether it is a queer habit."
Laevsky knew that Von Koren did not like him, and so was afraid of
him, and felt in his presence as though every one were constrained
and some one were standing behind his back. He made no answer and
walked away, feeling sorry he had come.
"Gentlemen, quick march for brushwood for the fire!" commanded
Samoylenko.
They all wandered off in different directions, and no one was left
but Kirilin, Atchmianov, and Nikodim Alexandritch. Kerbalay brought
chairs, spread a rug on the ground, and set a few bottles of wine.
The police captain, Kirilin, a tall, good-looking man, who in all
weathers wore his great-coat over his tunic, with his haughty
deportment, stately carriage, and thick, rather hoarse voice, looked
like a young provincial chief of police; his expression was mournful
and sleepy, as though he had just been waked against his will.
"What have you brought this for, you brute?" he asked Kerbalay,
deliberately articulating each word. "I ordered you to give us
_kvarel_, and what have you brought, you ugly Tatar? Eh? What?"
"We have plenty of wine of our own, Yegor Alekseitch," Nikodim
Alexandritch observed, timidly and politely.
"What? But I want us to have my wine, too; I'm taking part in the
picnic and I imagine I have full right to contribute my share. I
im-ma-gine so! Bring ten bottles of _kvarel_."
"Why so many?" asked Nikodim Alexandritch, in wonder, knowing Kirilin
had no money.
"Twenty bottles! Thirty!" shouted Kirilin.
"Never mind, let him," Atchmianov whispered to Nikodim Alexandritch;
"I'll pay."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was in a light-hearted, mischievous mood; she
wanted to skip and jump, to laugh, to shout, to tease, to flirt.
In her cheap cotton dress with blue pansies on it, in her red shoes
and the same straw hat, she seemed to herself, little, simple,
light, ethereal as a butterfly. She ran over the rickety bridge and
looked for a minute into the water, in order to feel giddy; then,
shrieking and laughing, ran to the other side to the drying-shed,
and she fancied that all the men were admiring her, even Kerbalay.
When in the rapidly falling darkness the trees began to melt into
the mountains and the horses into the carriages, and a light gleamed
in the windows of the _duhan_, she climbed up the mountain by the
little path which zigzagged between stones and thorn-bushes and sat
on a stone. Down below, the camp-fire was burning. Near the fire,
with his sleeves tucked up, the deacon was moving to and fro, and
his long black shadow kept describing a circle round it; he put on
wood, and with a spoon tied to a long stick he stirred the cauldron.
Samoylenko, with a copper-red face, was fussing round the fire just
as though he were in his own kitchen, shouting furiously:
"Where's the salt, gentlemen? I bet you've forgotten it. Why are
you all sitting about like lords while I do the work?"
Laevsky and Nikodim Alexandritch were sitting side by side on the
fallen tree looking pensively at the fire. Marya Konstantinovna,
Katya, and Kostya were taking the cups, saucers, and plates out of
the baskets. Von Koren, with his arms folded and one foot on a
stone, was standing on a bank at the very edge of the water, thinking
about something. Patches of red light from the fire moved together
with the shadows over the ground near the dark human figures, and
quivered on the mountain, on the trees, on the bridge, on the
drying-shed; on the other side the steep, scooped-out bank was all
lighted up and glimmering in the stream, and the rushing turbid
water broke its reflection into little bits.
The deacon went for the fish which Kerbalay was cleaning and washing
on the bank, but he stood still half-way and looked about him.
"My God, how nice it is!" he thought. "People, rocks, the fire, the
twilight, a monstrous tree--nothing more, and yet how fine it
is!"
On the further bank some unknown persons made their appearance near
the drying-shed. The flickering light and the smoke from the camp-fire
puffing in that direction made it impossible to get a full view of
them all at once, but glimpses were caught now of a shaggy hat and
a grey beard, now of a blue shirt, now of a figure, ragged from
shoulder to knee, with a dagger across the body; then a swarthy
young face with black eyebrows, as thick and bold as though they
had been drawn in charcoal. Five of them sat in a circle on the
ground, and the other five went into the drying-shed. One was
standing at the door with his back to the fire, and with his hands
behind his back was telling something, which must have been very
interesting, for when Samoylenko threw on twigs and the fire flared
up, and scattered sparks and threw a glaring light on the shed, two
calm countenances with an expression on them of deep attention could
be seen, looking out of the door, while those who were sitting in
a circle turned round and began listening to the speaker. Soon
after, those sitting in a circle began softly singing something
slow and melodious, that sounded like Lenten Church music. . . .
Listening to them, the deacon imagined how it would be with him in
ten years' time, when he would come back from the expedition: he
would be a young priest and monk, an author with a name and a
splendid past; he would be consecrated an archimandrite, then a
bishop; and he would serve mass in the cathedral; in a golden mitre
he would come out into the body of the church with the ikon on his
breast, and blessing the mass of the people with the triple and the
double candelabra, would proclaim: "Look down from Heaven, O God,
behold and visit this vineyard which Thy Hand has planted," and the
children with their angel voices would sing in response: "Holy
God. . ."
"Deacon, where is that fish?" he heard Samoylenko's voice.
As he went back to the fire, the deacon imagined the Church procession
going along a dusty road on a hot July day; in front the peasants
carrying the banners and the women and children the ikons, then the
boy choristers and the sacristan with his face tied up and a straw
in his hair, then in due order himself, the deacon, and behind him
the priest wearing his _calotte_ and carrying a cross, and behind
them, tramping in the dust, a crowd of peasants--men, women, and
children; in the crowd his wife and the priest's wife with kerchiefs
on their heads. The choristers sing, the babies cry, the corncrakes
call, the lark carols. . . . Then they make a stand and sprinkle
the herd with holy water. . . . They go on again, and then kneeling
pray for rain. Then lunch and talk. . . .
"And that's nice too . . ." thought the deacon.
VII
Kirilin and Atchmianov climbed up the mountain by the path. Atchmianov
dropped behind and stopped, while Kirilin went up to Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna.
"Good-evening," he said, touching his cap.
"Good-evening."
"Yes!" said Kirilin, looking at the sky and pondering.
"Why 'yes'?" asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna after a brief pause, noticing
that Atchmianov was watching them both.
"And so it seems," said the officer, slowly, "that our love has
withered before it has blossomed, so to speak. How do you wish me
to understand it? Is it a sort of coquetry on your part, or do you
look upon me as a nincompoop who can be treated as you choose."