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A.P. Chekhov
- The Duel
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XXI
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Three days after the picnic, Marya
Konstantinovna unexpectedly called on Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and
without greeting her or taking off her hat, seized her by both
hands, pressed them to her breast and said in great excitement:
"My dear, I am deeply touched and moved: our dear kind-hearted
doctor told my Nikodim Alexandritch yesterday that your husband
was dead. Tell me, my dear . . . tell me, is it true?
"Yes, it's true; he is dead," answered Nadyezhda Fyodorovna.
"That is awful, awful, my dear! But there's no evil without some
compensation; your husband was no doubt a noble, wonderful, holy
man, and such are more needed in Heaven than on earth."
Every line and feature in Marya Konstantinovna's face began
quivering as though little needles were jumping up and down
under her skin; she gave an almond-oily smile and said,
breathlessly, enthusiastically:
"And so you are free, my dear. You can hold your head high now,
and look people boldly in the face. Henceforth God and man will
bless your union with Ivan Andreitch. It's enchanting. I am
trembling with joy, I can find no words. My dear, I will give
you away. . . . Nikodim Alexandritch and I have been so fond of
you, you will allow us to give our blessing to your pure, lawful
union. When, when do you think of being married?"
"I haven't thought of it," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, freeing
her hands.
"That's impossible, my dear. You have thought of it, you have."
"Upon my word, I haven't," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, laughing.
"What should we be married for? I see no necessity for it. We'll
go on living as we have lived."
"What are you saying!" cried Marya Konstantinovna in horror.
"For God's sake, what are you saying!"
"Our getting married won't make things any better. On the
contrary, it will make them even worse. We shall lose our
freedom."
"My dear, my dear, what are you saying!" exclaimed Marya
Konstantinovna, stepping back and flinging up her hands. "You
are talking wildly! Think what you are saying. You must settle
down!"
" 'Settle down.' How do you mean? I have not lived yet, and you
tell me to settle down."
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."
"I implore you, my dear fellow! So that the money may be in my
hands by Friday morning!"
Samoylenko sat down and prescribed solution of quinine and kalii
bromati and tincture of rhubarb, tinctur gentian, aqu
foeniculi -- all in one mixture, added some pink syrup to
sweeten it, and went away.
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