Fathers and Children, Ivan Turgenev [best book reader .TXT] 📗

Something whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same instant there was the sound of a shot. “I heard it, so it must be all right,” had time to flash through Bazarov’s brain. He took one more step, and without taking aim, pressed the spring.

Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers.

Bazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. “Are you wounded?” he said.

“You had the right to call me up to the barrier,” said Pavel Petrovitch, “but that’s of no consequence. According to our agreement, each of us has the right to one more shot.”

“All right, but, excuse me, that’ll do another time,” answered Bazarov, catching hold of Pavel Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale. “Now, I’m not a duellist, but a doctor, and I must have a look at your wound before anything else. Piotr! come here, Piotr! where have you got to?”

“That’s all nonsense.⁠ ⁠… I need no one’s aid,” Pavel Petrovitch declared jerkily, “and⁠ ⁠… we must⁠ ⁠… again⁠ ⁠…” He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost consciousness.

“Here’s a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!” Bazarov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. “Let’s have a look what’s wrong.” He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound.⁠ ⁠… “The bone’s not touched,” he muttered through his teeth; “the ball didn’t go deep; one muscle, vastus externus, grazed. He’ll be dancing about in three weeks!⁠ ⁠… And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!”

“Is he killed?” the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his back.

Bazarov looked round. “Go for some water as quick as you can, my good fellow, and he’ll outlive us yet.”

But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did not stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. “He will die!” whispered Piotr, and he began crossing himself.

“You are right⁠ ⁠… What an imbecile countenance!” remarked the wounded gentleman with a forced smile.

“Well, go for the water, damn you!” shouted Bazarov.

“No need.⁠ ⁠… It was a momentary vertigo.⁠ ⁠… Help me to sit up⁠ ⁠… there, that’s right.⁠ ⁠… I only need something to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot, or you can send a droshky for me. The duel, if you are willing, shall not be renewed. You have behaved honourably⁠ ⁠… today, today⁠—observe.”

“There’s no need to recall the past,” rejoined Bazarov; “and as regards the future, it’s not worth while for you to trouble your head about that either, for I intend being off without delay. Let me bind up your leg now; your wound’s not serious, but it’s always best to stop bleeding. But first I must bring this corpse to his senses.”

Bazarov shook Piotr by the collar, and sent him for a droshky.

“Mind you don’t frighten my brother,” Pavel Petrovitch said to him; “don’t dream of informing him.”

Piotr flew off; and while he was running for a droshky, the two antagonists sat on the ground and said nothing. Pavel Petrovitch tried not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be reconciled to him in any case; he was ashamed of his own haughtiness, of his failure; he was ashamed of the whole position he had brought about, even while he felt it could not have ended in a more favourable manner. “At any rate, there will be no scandal,” he consoled himself by reflecting, “and for that I am thankful.” The silence was prolonged, a silence distressing and awkward. Both of them were ill at ease. Each was conscious that the other understood him. That is pleasant to friends, and always very unpleasant to those who are not friends, especially when it is impossible either to have things out or to separate.

“Haven’t I bound up your leg too tight?” inquired Bazarov at last.

“No, not at all; it’s capital,” answered Pavel Petrovitch; and after a brief pause, he added, “There’s no deceiving my brother; we shall have to tell him we quarrelled over politics.”

“Very good,” assented Bazarov. “You can say I insulted all anglomaniacs.”

“That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man thinks of us now?” continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the same peasant, who had driven the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel, and going back again along the road, took off his cap at the sight of the “gentlefolk.”

“Who can tell!” answered Bazarov; “it’s quite likely he thinks nothing. The Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom Mrs. Radcliffe used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn’t understand himself!”

“Ah! so that’s your idea!” Pavel Petrovitch began; and suddenly he cried, “Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! Here’s my brother galloping up to us!”

Bazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai Petrovitch, who was sitting in the droshky. He jumped out of it before it had stopped, and rushed up to his brother.

“What does this mean?” he said in an agitated voice. “Yevgeny Vassilyitch, pray, what is this?”

“Nothing,” answered Pavel Petrovitch; “they have alarmed you for nothing. I had a little dispute with Mr. Bazarov, and I have had to pay for it a little.”

“But what was it all about, mercy on us!”

“How can I tell you? Mr. Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel. I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all this, while Mr. Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.”

“But you’re covered with blood, good Heavens!”

“Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this bloodletting is positively beneficial to me. Isn’t that so, doctor? Help me to get into the droshky, and don’t give way to melancholy. I shall be quite well tomorrow. That’s it; capital. Drive on, coachman.”

Nikolai Petrovitch walked after the