|
|
|
A. P. Chekhov
- The Duel
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
IV
The deacon was very easily amused, and
laughed at every trifle till he got a stitch in his side, till
he was helpless. It seemed as though he only liked to be in
people's company because there was a ridiculous side to them,
and because they might be given ridiculous nicknames. He had
nicknamed Samoylenko "the tarantula," his orderly "the drake,"
and was in ecstasies when on one occasion Von Koren spoke of
Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyodorovna as "Japanese monkeys." He
watched people's faces greedily, listened without blinking, and
it could be seen that his eyes filled with laughter and his face
was tense with expectation of the moment when he could let
himself go and burst into laughter.
"He is a corrupt and depraved type," the zoologist continued,
while the deacon kept his eyes riveted on his face, expecting he
would say something funny. "It is not often one can meet with
such a nonentity. In body he is inert, feeble, prematurely old,
while in intellect he differs in no respect from a fat
shopkeeper's wife who does nothing but eat, drink, and sleep on
a feather-bed, and who keeps her coachman as a lover."
The deacon began guffawing again.
"Don't laugh, deacon," said Von Koren. "It grows stupid, at
last. I should not have paid attention to his insignificance,"
he went on, after waiting till the deacon had left off laughing;
"I should have passed him by if he were not so noxious and
dangerous. His noxiousness lies first of all in the fact that he
has great success with women, and so threatens to leave
descendants -- that is, to present the world with a dozen
Laevskys as feeble and as depraved as himself. Secondly, he is
in the highest degree contaminating. I have spoken to you
already of vint and beer. In another year or two he will
dominate the whole Caucasian coast. You know how the mass,
especially its middle stratum, believe in intellectuality, in a
university education, in gentlemanly manners, and in literary
language. Whatever filthy thing he did, they would all believe
that it was as it should be, since he is an intellectual man, of
liberal ideas and university education. What is more, he is a
failure, a superfluous man, a neurasthenic, a victim of the age,
and that means he can do anything. He is a charming fellow, a
regular good sort, he is so genuinely indulgent to human
weaknesses; he is compliant, accommodating, easy and not proud;
one can drink with him and gossip and talk evil of people. . . .
The masses, always inclined to anthropomorphism in religion and
morals, like best of all the little gods who have the same
weaknesses as themselves. Only think what a wide field he has
for contamination! Besides, he is not a bad actor and is a
clever hypocrite, and knows very well how to twist things round.
Only take his little shifts and dodges, his attitude to
civilisation, for instance. He has scarcely sniffed at
civilisation, yet: 'Ah, how we have been crippled by
civilisation! Ah, how I envy those savages, those children of
nature, who know nothing of civilisation!' We are to understand,
you see, that at one time, in ancient days, he has been devoted
to civilisation with his whole soul, has served it, has sounded
it to its depths, but it has exhausted him, disillusioned him,
deceived him; he is a Faust, do you see? -- a second Tolstoy. .
. . As for Schopenhauer and Spencer, he treats them like small
boys and slaps them on the shoulder in a fatherly way: 'Well,
what do you say, old Spencer?' He has not read Spencer, of
course, but how charming he is when with light, careless irony
he says of his lady friend: 'She has read Spencer!' And they all
listen to him, and no one cares to understand that this
charlatan has not the right to kiss the sole of Spencer's foot,
let alone speaking about him in that tone! Sapping the
foundations of civilisation, of authority, of other people's
altars, spattering them with filth, winking jocosely at them
only to justify and conceal one's own rottenness and moral
poverty is only possible for a very vain, base, and nasty
creature."
"I don't know what it is you expect of him, Kolya," said
Samoylenko, looking at the zoologist, not with anger now, but
with a guilty air. "He is a man the same as every one else. Of
course, he has his weaknesses, but he is abreast of modern
ideas, is in the service, is of use to his country. Ten years
ago there was an old fellow serving as agent here, a man of the
greatest intelligence . . . and he used to say . . ."
"Nonsense, nonsense!" the zoologist interrupted. "You say he is
in the service; but how does he serve? Do you mean to tell me
that things have been done better because he is here, and the
officials are more punctual, honest, and civil? On the contrary,
he has only sanctioned their slackness by his prestige as an
intellectual university man. He is only punctual on the 20th of
the month, when he gets his salary; on the other days he lounges
about at home in slippers and tries to look as if he were doing
the Government a great service by living in the Caucasus. No,
Alexandr Daviditch, don't stick up for him. You are insincere
from beginning to end. If you really loved him and considered
him your neighbour, you would above all not be indifferent to
his weaknesses, you would not be indulgent to them, but for his
own sake would try to make him innocuous."
"That is?"
"Innocuous. Since he is incorrigible, he can only be made
innocuous in one way. . . ." Von Koren passed his finger round
his throat. "Or he might be drowned . . .," he added. "In the
interests of humanity and in their own interests, such people
ought to be destroyed. They certainly ought."
"What are you saying?" muttered Samoylenko, getting up and
looking with amazement at the zoologist's calm, cold face.
"Deacon, what is he saying? Why -- are you in your senses?"
"I don't insist on the death penalty," said Von Koren. "If it is
proved that it is pernicious, devise something else. If we can't
destroy Laevsky, why then, isolate him, make him harmless, send
him to hard labour."
"What are you saying!" said Samoylenko in horror. "With pepper,
with pepper," he cried in a voice of despair, seeing that the
deacon was eating stuffed aubergines without pepper. "You with
your great intellect, what are you saying! Send our friend, a
proud intellectual man, to penal servitude!"
"Well, if he is proud and tries to resist, put him in fetters!"
Samoylenko could not utter a word, and only twiddled his
fingers; the deacon looked at his flabbergasted and really
absurd face, and laughed.
"Let us leave off talking of that," said the zoologist. "Only
remember one thing, Alexandr Daviditch: primitive man was
preserved from such as Laevsky by the struggle for existence and
by natural selection; now our civilisation has considerably
weakened the struggle and the selection, and we ought to look
after the destruction of the rotten and worthless for ourselves;
otherwise, when the Laevskys multiply, civilisation will perish
and mankind will degenerate utterly. It will be our fault."
"If it depends on drowning and hanging," said Samoylenko,
"damnation take your civilisation, damnation take your humanity!
Damnation take it! I tell you what: you are a very learned and
intelligent man and the pride of your country, but the Germans
have ruined you. Yes, the Germans! The Germans!"
Since Samoylenko had left Dorpat, where he had studied medicine,
he had rarely seen a German and had not read a single German
book, but, in his opinion, every harmful idea in politics or
science was due to the Germans. Where he had got this notion he
could not have said himself, but he held it firmly.
"Yes, the Germans!" he repeated once more. "Come and have some
tea."
All three stood up, and putting on their hats, went out into the
little garden, and sat there under the shade of the light green
maples, the pear-trees, and a chestnut-tree. The zoologist and
the deacon sat on a bench by the table, while Samoylenko sank
into a deep wicker chair with a sloping back. The orderly handed
them tea, jam, and a bottle of syrup.
It was very hot, thirty degrees Raumur in the shade. The sultry
air was stagnant and motionless, and a long spider-web,
stretching from the chestnut-tree to the ground, hung limply and
did not stir.
The deacon took up the guitar, which was constantly lying on the
ground near the table, tuned it, and began singing softly in a
thin voice:
" 'Gathered round the tavern were the seminary lads,' "
but instantly subsided, overcome by the heat, mopped his brow
and glanced upwards at the blazing blue sky. Samoylenko grew
drowsy; the sultry heat, the stillness and the delicious
after-dinner languor, which quickly pervaded all his limbs, made
him feel heavy and sleepy; his arms dropped at his sides, his
eyes grew small, his head sank on his breast. He looked with
almost tearful tenderness at Von Koren and the deacon, and
muttered:
"The younger generation. . . A scientific star and a luminary of
the Church. . . . I shouldn't wonder if the long-skirted
alleluia will be shooting up into a bishop; I dare say I may
come to kissing his hand. . . . Well . . . please God. . . ."
Soon a snore was heard. Von Koren and the deacon finished their
tea and went out into the street.
"Are you going to the harbour again to catch sea-gudgeon?" asked
the zoologist.
"No, it's too hot."
"Come and see me. You can pack up a parcel and copy something
for me. By the way, we must have a talk about what you are to
do. You must work, deacon. You can't go on like this."
"Your words are just and logical," said the deacon. "But my
laziness finds an excuse in the circumstances of my present
life. You know yourself that an uncertain position has a great
tendency to make people apathetic. God only knows whether I have
been sent here for a time or permanently. I am living here in
uncertainty, while my wife is vegetating at her father's and is
missing me. And I must confess my brain is melting with the
heat."
"That's all nonsense," said the zoologist. "You can get used to
the heat, and you can get used to being without the deaconess.
You mustn't be slack; you must pull yourself together."
|
|
|
