A.P. Chekhov
- The Duel
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"You look as though you were coming to arrest
me," said Von Koren, seeing Samoylenko coming in, in his
full-dress uniform.
"I was passing by and thought: 'Suppose I go in and pay my
respects to zoology,' " said Samoylenko, sitting down at the big
table, knocked together by the zoologist himself out of plain
boards. "Good-morning, holy father," he said to the deacon, who
was sitting in the window, copying something. "I'll stay a
minute and then run home to see about dinner. It's time. . . .
I'm not hindering you?"
"Not in the least," answered the zoologist, laying out over the
table slips of paper covered with small writing. "We are busy
copying."
"Ah! . . . Oh, my goodness, my goodness! . . ." sighed
Samoylenko. He cautiously took up from the table a dusty book on
which there was lying a dead dried spider, and said: "Only
fancy, though; some little green beetle is going about its
business, when suddenly a monster like this swoops down upon it.
I can fancy its terror."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Is poison given it to protect it from its enemies?"
"Yes, to protect it and enable it to attack."
"To be sure, to be sure. . . . And everything in nature, my dear
fellows, is consistent and can be explained," sighed Samoylenko;
"only I tell you what I don't understand. You're a man of very
great intellect, so explain it to me, please. There are, you
know, little beasts no bigger than rats, rather handsome to look
at, but nasty and immoral in the extreme, let me tell you.
Suppose such a little beast is running in the woods. He sees a
bird; he catches it and devours it. He goes on and sees in the
grass a nest of eggs; he does not want to eat them -- he is not
hungry, but yet he tastes one egg and scatters the others out of
the nest with his paw. Then he meets a frog and begins to play
with it; when he has tormented the frog he goes on licking
himself and meets a beetle; he crushes the beetle with his paw .
. . and so he spoils and destroys everything on his way. . . .
He creeps into other beasts' holes, tears up the anthills,
cracks the snail's shell. If he meets a rat, he fights with it;
if he meets a snake or a mouse, he must strangle it; and so the
whole day long. Come, tell me: what is the use of a beast like
that? Why was he created?"
"I don't know what animal you are talking of," said Von Koren;
"most likely one of the insectivora. Well, he got hold of the
bird because it was incautious; he broke the nest of eggs
because the bird was not skilful, had made the nest badly and
did not know how to conceal it. The frog probably had some
defect in its colouring or he would not have seen it, and so on.
Your little beast only destroys the weak, the unskilful, the
careless -- in fact, those who have defects which nature does
not think fit to hand on to posterity. Only the cleverer, the
stronger, the more careful and developed survive; and so your
little beast, without suspecting it, is serving the great ends
of perfecting creation."
"Yes, yes, yes. . . . By the way, brother," said Samoylenko
carelessly, "lend me a hundred roubles."
"Very good. There are some very interesting types among the
insectivorous mammals. For instance, the mole is said to be
useful because he devours noxious insects. There is a story that
some German sent William I. a fur coat made of moleskins, and
the Emperor ordered him to be reproved for having destroyed so
great a number of useful animals. And yet the mole is not a bit
less cruel than your little beast, and is very mischievous
besides, as he spoils meadows terribly."
Von Koren opened a box and took out a hundred-rouble note.
"The mole has a powerful thorax, just like the bat," he went on,
shutting the box; "the bones and muscles are tremendously
developed, the mouth is extraordinarily powerfully furnished. If
it had the proportions of an elephant, it would be an
all-destructive, invincible animal. It is interesting when two
moles meet underground; they begin at once as though by
agreement digging a little platform; they need the platform in
order to have a battle more conveniently. When they have made it
they enter upon a ferocious struggle and fight till the weaker
one falls. Take the hundred roubles," said Von Koren, dropping
his voice, "but only on condition that you're not borrowing it
for Laevsky."
"And if it were for Laevsky," cried Samoylenko, flaring up,
"what is that to you?"
"I can't give it to you for Laevsky. I know you like lending
people money. You would give it to Kerim, the brigand, if he
were to ask you; but, excuse me, I can't assist you in that
direction."
"Yes, it is for Laevsky I am asking it," said Samoylenko,
standing up and waving his right arm. "Yes! For Laevsky! And no
one, fiend or devil, has a right to dictate to me how to dispose
of my own money. It doesn't suit you to lend it me? No?"
The deacon began laughing.
"Don't get excited, but be reasonable," said the zoologist. "To
shower benefits on Mr. Laevsky is, to my thinking, as senseless
as to water weeds or to feed locusts."
"To my thinking, it is our duty to help our neighbours!" cried
Samoylenko.
"In that case, help that hungry Turk who is lying under the
fence! He is a workman and more useful and indispensable than
your Laevsky. Give him that hundred-rouble note! Or subscribe a
hundred roubles to my expedition!"
"Will you give me the money or not? I ask you!"
"Tell me openly: what does he want money for?
"It's not a secret; he wants to go to Petersburg on Saturday."
"So that is it!" Von Koren drawled out. "Aha! . . . We
understand. And is she going with him, or how is it to be?"
"She's staying here for the time. He'll arrange his affairs in
Petersburg and send her the money, and then she'll go."
"That's smart!" said the zoologist, and he gave a short tenor
laugh. "Smart, well planned."
He went rapidly up to Samoylenko, and standing face to face with
him, and looking him in the eyes, asked: "Tell me now honestly:
is he tired of her? Yes? tell me: is he tired of her? Yes?"
"Yes," Samoylenko articulated, beginning to perspire.
"How repulsive it is!" said Von Koren, and from his face it
could be seen that he felt repulsion. "One of two things,
Alexandr Daviditch: either you are in the plot with him, or,
excuse my saying so, you are a simpleton. Surely you must see
that he is taking you in like a child in the most shameless way?
Why, it's as clear as day that he wants to get rid of her and
abandon her here. She'll be left a burden on you. It is as clear
as day that you will have to send her to Petersburg at your
expense. Surely your fine friend can't have so blinded you by
his dazzling qualities that you can't see the simplest thing?"
"That's all supposition," said Samoylenko, sitting down.
"Supposition? But why is he going alone instead of taking her
with him? And ask him why he doesn't send her off first. The sly
beast!"
Overcome with sudden doubts and suspicions about his friend,
Samoylenko weakened and took a humbler tone.
"But it's impossible," he said, recalling the night Laevsky had
spent at his house. "He is so unhappy!"
"What of that? Thieves and incendiaries are unhappy too!"
"Even supposing you are right . . ." said Samoylenko,
hesitating. "Let us admit it. . . . Still, he's a young man in a
strange place . . . a student. We have been students, too, and
there is no one but us to come to his assistance."
"To help him to do abominable things, because he and you at
different times have been at universities, and neither of you
did anything there! What nonsense!"
"Stop; let us talk it over coolly. I imagine it will be possible
to make some arrangement. . . ." Samoylenko reflected, twiddling
his fingers. "I'll give him the money, you see, but make him
promise on his honour that within a week he'll send Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna the money for the journey."
"And he'll give you his word of honour -- in fact, he'll shed
tears and believe in it himself; but what's his word of honour
worth? He won't keep it, and when in a year or two you meet him
on the Nevsky Prospect with a new mistress on his arm, he'll
excuse himself on the ground that he has been crippled by
civilisation, and that he is made after the pattern of Rudin.
Drop him, for God's sake! Keep away from the filth; don't stir
it up with both hands!"
Samoylenko thought for a minute and said resolutely:
"But I shall give him the money all the same. As you please. I
can't bring myself to refuse a man simply on an assumption."
"Very fine, too. You can kiss him if you like."
"Give me the hundred roubles, then," Samoylenko asked timidly.
"I won't."
A silence followed. Samoylenko was quite crushed; his face wore
a guilty, abashed, and ingratiating expression, and it was
strange to see this pitiful, childish, shamefaced countenance on
a huge man wearing epaulettes and orders of merit.
"The bishop here goes the round of his diocese on horseback
instead of in a carriage," said the deacon, laying down his pen.
"It's extremely touching to see him sit on his horse. His
simplicity and humility are full of Biblical grandeur."
"Is he a good man?" asked Von Koren, who was glad to change the
conversation.
"Of course! If he hadn't been a good man, do you suppose he
would have been consecrated a bishop?"
"Among the bishops are to be found good and gifted men," said
Von Koren. "The only drawback is that some of them have the
weakness to imagine themselves statesmen. One busies himself
with Russification, another criticises the sciences. That's not
their business. They had much better look into their consistory
a little."
"A layman cannot judge of bishops."
"Why so, deacon? A bishop is a man just the same as you or I."
"The same, but not the same." The deacon was offended and took
up his pen. "If you had been the same, the Divine Grace would
have rested upon you, and you would have been bishop yourself;
and since you are not bishop, it follows you are not the same."
"Don't talk nonsense, deacon," said Samoylenko dejectedly.
"Listen to what I suggest," he said, turning to Von Koren.
"Don't give me that hundred roubles. You'll be having your
dinners with me for three months before the winter, so let me
have the money beforehand for three months."
"I won't."
Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson; he mechanically drew
towards him the book with the spider on it and looked at it,
then he got up and took his hat.
Von Koren felt sorry for him.
"What it is to have to live and do with people like this," said
the zoologist, and he kicked a paper into the corner with
indignation. "You must understand that this is not kindness, it
is not love, but cowardice, slackness, poison! What's gained by
reason is lost by your flabby good-for-nothing hearts! When I
was ill with typhoid as a schoolboy, my aunt in her sympathy
gave me pickled mushrooms to eat, and I very nearly died. You,
and my aunt too, must understand that love for man is not to be
found in the heart or the stomach or the bowels, but here!"
Von Koren slapped himself on the forehead.
"Take it," he said, and thrust a hundred-rouble note into his
hand.
"You've no need to be angry, Kolya," said Samoylenko mildly,
folding up the note. "I quite understand you, but . . . you must
put yourself in my place."
"You are an old woman, that's what you are."
The deacon burst out laughing.
"Hear my last request, Alexandr Daviditch," said Von Koren
hotly. "When you give that scoundrel the money, make it a
condition that he takes his lady with him, or sends her on
ahead, and don't give it him without. There's no need to stand
on ceremony with him. Tell him so, or, if you don't, I give you
my word I'll go to his office and kick him downstairs, and I'll
break off all acquaintance with you. So you'd better know it."
"Well! To go with her or send her on beforehand will be more
convenient for him," said Samoylenko. "He'll be delighted
indeed. Well, goodbye."
He said good-bye affectionately and went out, but before
shutting the door after him, he looked round at Von Koren and,
with a ferocious face, said:
"It's the Germans who have ruined you, brother! Yes! The
Germans!"
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