The Duel, Anton Chekhov [most interesting books to read TXT] 📗

gentlemen, and we have to be up early tomorrow.”

There was a sudden gust of wind; it blew up the dust on the seafront, whirled it round in eddies, with a howl that drowned the roar of the sea.

“A squall,” said the deacon. “We must go in, our eyes are getting full of dust.”

As they went, Samoylenko sighed and, holding his hat, said:

“I suppose I shan’t sleep tonight.”

“Don’t you agitate yourself,” laughed the zoologist. “You can set your mind at rest; the duel will end in nothing. Laevsky will magnanimously fire into the air⁠—he can do nothing else; and I daresay I shall not fire at all. To be arrested and lose my time on Laevsky’s account⁠—the game’s not worth the candle. By the way, what is the punishment for duelling?”

“Arrest, and in the case of the death of your opponent a maximum of three years’ imprisonment in the fortress.”

“The fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul?”

“No, in a military fortress, I believe.”

“Though this fine gentleman ought to have a lesson!”

Behind them on the sea, there was a flash of lightning, which for an instant lighted up the roofs of the houses and the mountains. The friends parted near the boulevard. When the doctor disappeared in the darkness and his steps had died away, Von Koren shouted to him:

“I only hope the weather won’t interfere with us tomorrow!”

“Very likely it will! Please God it may!”

“Good night!”

“What about the night? What do you say?”

In the roar of the wind and the sea and the crashes of thunder, it was difficult to hear.

“It’s nothing,” shouted the zoologist, and hurried home.

XVII

“Upon my mind, weighed down with woe,
Crowd thoughts, a heavy multitude:
In silence memory unfolds
Her long, long scroll before my eyes.
Loathing and shuddering I curse
And bitterly lament in vain,
And bitter though the tears I weep
I do not wash those lines away.”

Pushkin.

Whether they killed him next morning, or mocked at him⁠—that is, left him his life⁠—he was ruined, anyway. Whether this disgraced woman killed herself in her shame and despair, or dragged on her pitiful existence, she was ruined anyway.

So thought Laevsky as he sat at the table late in the evening, still rubbing his hands. The windows suddenly blew open with a bang; a violent gust of wind burst into the room, and the papers fluttered from the table. Laevsky closed the windows and bent down to pick up the papers. He was aware of something new in his body, a sort of awkwardness he had not felt before, and his movements were strange to him. He moved timidly, jerking with his elbows and shrugging his shoulders; and when he sat down to the table again, he again began rubbing his hands. His body had lost its suppleness.

On the eve of death one ought to write to one’s nearest relation. Laevsky thought of this. He took a pen and wrote with a tremulous hand:

“Mother!”

He wanted to write to beg his mother, for the sake of the merciful God in whom she believed, that she would give shelter and bring a little warmth and kindness into the life of the unhappy woman who, by his doing, had been disgraced and was in solitude, poverty, and weakness, that she would forgive and forget everything, everything, everything, and by her sacrifice atone to some extent for her son’s terrible sin. But he remembered how his mother, a stout, heavily-built old woman in a lace cap, used to go out into the garden in the morning, followed by her companion with the lapdog; how she used to shout in a peremptory way to the gardener and the servants, and how proud and haughty her face was⁠—he remembered all this and scratched out the word he had written.

There was a vivid flash of lightning at all three windows, and it was followed by a prolonged, deafening roll of thunder, beginning with a hollow rumble and ending with a crash so violent that all the windowpanes rattled. Laevsky got up, went to the window, and pressed his forehead against the pane. There was a fierce, magnificent storm. On the horizon lightning-flashes were flung in white streams from the storm-clouds into the sea, lighting up the high, dark waves over the faraway expanse. And to right and to left, and, no doubt, over the house too, the lightning flashed.

“The storm!” whispered Laevsky; he had a longing to pray to someone or to something, if only to the lightning or the storm-clouds. “Dear storm!”

He remembered how as a boy he used to run out into the garden without a hat on when there was a storm, and how two fair-haired girls with blue eyes used to run after him, and how they got wet through with the rain; they laughed with delight, but when there was a loud peal of thunder, the girls used to nestle up to the boy confidingly, while he crossed himself and made haste to repeat: “Holy, holy, holy.⁠ ⁠…” Oh, where had they vanished to! In what sea were they drowned, those dawning days of pure, fair life? He had no fear of the storm, no love of nature now; he had no God. All the confiding girls he had ever known had by now been ruined by him and those like him. All his life he had not planted one tree in his own garden, nor grown one blade of grass; and living among the living, he had not saved one fly; he had done nothing but destroy and ruin, and lie, lie.⁠ ⁠…

“What in my past was not vice?” he asked himself, trying to clutch at some bright memory as a man falling down a precipice clutches at the bushes.

School? The university? But that was a sham. He had neglected his work and forgotten what he had learnt. The service of his country? That, too, was a sham, for he did nothing in the Service, took a salary for doing nothing, and it was an abominable swindling of the State for which one