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A.P. Chekhov
- The Duel
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Next day, Thursday, Marya Konstantinovna was
celebrating the birthday of her Kostya. All were invited to come
at midday and eat pies, and in the evening to drink chocolate.
When Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyodorovna arrived in the evening,
the zoologist, who was already sitting in the drawing-room,
drinking chocolate, asked Samoylenko:
"Have you talked to him?"
"Not yet."
"Mind now, don't stand on ceremony. I can't understand the
insolence of these people! Why, they know perfectly well the
view taken by this family of their cohabitation, and yet they
force themselves in here."
"If one is to pay attention to every prejudice," said Samoylenko,
"one could go nowhere."
"Do you mean to say that the repugnance felt by the masses for
illicit love and moral laxity is a prejudice?"
"Of course it is. It's prejudice and hate. When the soldiers see
a girl of light behaviour, they laugh and whistle; but just ask
them what they are themselves."
"It's not for nothing they whistle. The fact that girls strangle
their illegitimate children and go to prison for it, and that
Anna Karenin flung herself under the train, and that in the
villages they smear the gates with tar, and that you and I,
without knowing why, are pleased by Katya's purity, and that
every one of us feels a vague craving for pure love, though he
knows there is no such love -- is all that prejudice? That is
the one thing, brother, which has survived intact from natural
selection, and, if it were not for that obscure force regulating
the relations of the sexes, the Laevskys would have it all their
own way, and mankind would degenerate in two years."
Laevsky came into the drawing-room, greeted every one, and
shaking hands with Von Koren, smiled ingratiatingly. He waited
for a favourable moment and said to Samoylenko:
"Excuse me, Alexandr Daviditch, I must say two words to you."
Samoylenko got up, put his arm round Laevsky's waist, and both
of them went into Nikodim Alexandritch's study.
"To-morrow's Friday," said Laevsky, biting his nails. "Have you
got what you promised?"
"I've only got two hundred. I'll get the rest to-day or
to-morrow. Don't worry yourself."
"Thank God . . ." sighed Laevsky, and his hands began trembling
with joy. "You are saving me, Alexandr Daviditch, and I swear to
you by God, by my happiness and anything you like, I'll send you
the money as soon as I arrive. And I'll send you my old debt
too."
"Look here, Vanya . . ." said Samoylenko, turning crimson and
taking him by the button. "You must forgive my meddling in your
private affairs, but . . . why shouldn't you take Nadyezhda
Fyodorovna with you?"
"You queer fellow. How is that possible? One of us must stay, or
our creditors will raise an outcry. You see, I owe seven hundred
or more to the shops. Only wait, and I will send them the money.
I'll stop their mouths, and then she can come away."
"I see. . . . But why shouldn't you send her on first?"
"My goodness, as though that were possible!" Laevsky was
horrified. "Why, she's a woman; what would she do there alone?
What does she know about it? That would only be a loss of time
and a useless waste of money."
"That's reasonable . . ." thought Samoylenko, but remembering
his conversation with Von Koren, he looked down and said
sullenly: "I can't agree with you. Either go with her or send
her first; otherwise . . . otherwise I won't give you the money.
Those are my last words. . ."
He staggered back, lurched backwards against the door, and went
into the drawing-room, crimson, and overcome with confusion.
"Friday . . . Friday," thought Laevsky, going back into the
drawing-room. "Friday. . . ."
He was handed a cup of chocolate; he burnt his lips and tongue
with the scalding chocolate and thought: "Friday . . . Friday. .
. ."
For some reason he could not get the word "Friday" out of his
head; he could think of nothing but Friday, and the only thing
that was clear to him, not in his brain but somewhere in his
heart, was that he would not get off on Saturday. Before him
stood Nikodim Alexandritch, very neat, with his hair combed over
his temples, saying:
"Please take something to eat. . . ."
Marya Konstantinovna showed the visitors Katya's school report
and said, drawling:
"It's very, very difficult to do well at school nowadays! So
much is expected . . ."
"Mamma!" groaned Katya, not knowing where to hide her confusion
at the praises of the company.
Laevsky, too, looked at the report and praised it. Scripture,
Russian language, conduct, fives and fours, danced before his
eyes, and all this, mixed with the haunting refrain of "Friday,"
with the carefully combed locks of Nikodim Alexandritch and the
red cheeks of Katya, produced on him a sensation of such immense
overwhelming boredom that he almost shrieked with despair and
asked himself: "Is it possible, is it possible I shall not get
away?"
They put two card tables side by side and sat down to play post.
Laevsky sat down too.
"Friday . . . Friday . . ." he kept thinking, as he smiled and
took a pencil out of his pocket. "Friday. . . ."
He wanted to think over his position, and was afraid to think.
It was terrible to him to realise that the doctor had detected
him in the deception which he had so long and carefully
concealed from himself. Every time he thought of his future he
would not let his thoughts have full rein. He would get into the
train and set off, and thereby the problem of his life would be
solved, and he did not let his thoughts go farther. Like a
far-away dim light in the fields, the thought sometimes
flickered in his mind that in one of the side-streets of
Petersburg, in the remote future, he would have to have recourse
to a tiny lie in order to get rid of Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and
pay his debts; he would tell a lie only once, and then a
completely new life would begin. And that was right: at the
price of a small lie he would win so much truth.
Now when by his blunt refusal the doctor had crudely hinted at
his deception, he began to understand that he would need
deception not only in the remote future, but to-day, and
to-morrow, and in a month's time, and perhaps up to the very end
of his life. In fact, in order to get away he would have to lie
to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, to his creditors, and to his superiors
in the Service; then, in order to get money in Petersburg, he
would have to lie to his mother, to tell her that he had already
broken with Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; and his mother would not give
him more than five hundred roubles, so he had already deceived
the doctor, as he would not be in a position to pay him back the
money within a short time. Afterwards, when Nadyezhda Fyodorovna
came to Petersburg, he would have to resort to a regular series
of deceptions, little and big, in order to get free of her; and
again there would be tears, boredom, a disgusting existence,
remorse, and so there would be no new life. Deception and
nothing more. A whole mountain of lies rose before Laevsky's
imagination. To leap over it at one bound and not to do his
lying piecemeal, he would have to bring himself to stern,
uncompromising action; for instance, to getting up without
saying a word, putting on his hat, and at once setting off
without money and without explanation. But Laevsky felt that was
impossible for him.
"Friday, Friday . . ." he thought. "Friday. . . ."
They wrote little notes, folded them in two, and put them in
Nikodim Alexandritch's old top-hat. When there were a sufficient
heap of notes, Kostya, who acted the part of postman, walked
round the table and delivered them. The deacon, Katya, and
Kostya, who received amusing notes and tried to write as funnily
as they could, were highly delighted.
"We must have a little talk," Nadyezhda Fyodorovna read in a
little note; she glanced at Marya Konstantinovna, who gave her
an almond-oily smile and nodded.
"Talk of what?" thought Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. "If one can't tell
the whole, it's no use talking."
Before going out for the evening she had tied Laevsky's cravat
for him, and that simple action filled her soul with tenderness
and sorrow. The anxiety in his face, his absent-minded looks,
his pallor, and the incomprehensible change that had taken place
in him of late, and the fact that she had a terrible revolting
secret from him, and the fact that her hands trembled when she
tied his cravat -- all this seemed to tell her that they had not
long left to be together. She looked at him as though he were an
ikon, with terror and penitence, and thought: "Forgive,
forgive."
Opposite her was sitting Atchmianov, and he never took his
black, love-sick eyes off her. She was stirred by passion; she
was ashamed of herself, and afraid that even her misery and
sorrow would not prevent her from yielding to impure desire
to-morrow, if not to-day -- and that, like a drunkard, she would
not have the strength to stop herself.
She made up her mind to go away that she might not continue this
life, shameful for herself, and humiliating for Laevsky. She
would beseech him with tears to let her go; and if he opposed
her, she would go away secretly. She would not tell him what had
happened; let him keep a pure memory of her.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," she read. It was from
Atchmianov.
She would live in some far remote place, would work and send
Laevsky, "anonymously," money, embroidered shirts, and tobacco,
and would return to him only in old age or if he were
dangerously ill and needed a nurse. When in his old age he
learned what were her reasons for leaving him and refusing to be
his wife, he would appreciate her sacrifice and forgive.
"You've got a long nose." That must be from the deacon or Kostya.
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna imagined how, parting from Laevsky, she
would embrace him warmly, would kiss his hand, and would swear
to love him all her life, all her life, and then, living in
obscurity among strangers, she would every day think that
somewhere she had a friend, some one she loved -- a pure, noble,
lofty man who kept a pure memory of her.
"If you don't give me an interview to-day, I shall take
measures, I assure you on my word of honour. You can't treat
decent people like this; you must understand that." That was
from Kirilin.
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