The Duel

XXI

Three months or more passed.

The day appointed for Von Koren’s departure had arrived. Since early morning, heavy, cold rain had been falling, northeaster winds had been blowing, creating enormous waves out at sea. Word was, it’s unlikely a steamship would set sail in such weather. According to schedule, it was supposed to come at nine in the morning, but as Von Koren walked out onto the embankment at noon, having dined, he could see nothing through his binoculars except for the gray waves and the rain obscuring the horizon.

By the end of the day the rain had stopped and the wind was beginning to die down noticeably. Von Koren had made peace with the notion that he would not be leaving today and settled down to a game of chess with Samoylenko; but when it had begun to grow dark, the valet announced that lights could be seen out at sea and that they had seen the rocket-boat.

Von Koren began to hurry it up. He hung his little handbag on his shoulder, kissed Samoylenko and the deacon farewell, unnecessarily checked all the rooms, bid the valet and scullery maid farewell and walked out onto the street with a feeling that he had forgotten something either at the doctor’s or in his own apartments. He walked down the street alongside Samoylenko, behind them was the deacon with the trunk, and behind everyone was the valet with two suitcases. Only Samoylenko and the valet could discern the dim lights out at sea; the others looked out into the darkness and saw nothing. The steamship had dropped anchor far from shore.

“Hurry, hurry,” Von Koren rushed. “I’m afraid that it’ll sail away!”

Walking past a house with three windows that Laevsky had moved into soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist and peered in through the window. Laevsky was sitting hunched over the table, his back to the window and writing.

“I’m amazed,” the zoologist said quietly, “by how he’s turned himself around!”

“Yes, it merits amazement,” Samoylenko sighed. “He sits like that morning to night, just sits there and works. He wants to settle his debts. And he lives, brother, worse off than a pauper.”

Half a minute passed in silence. The zoologist, the doctor and the Deacon all stood at the window and stared at Laevsky.

“He didn’t leave this place after all, poor little guy,” Samoylenko said. “Remember how he railed?”

“Yes, he’s really turned himself around,” Von Koren repeated. “His wedding, this round-the-clock work of his for a crust of bread, there’s some new expression on his face and even his gait is different—all of this is so extremely unusual that I don’t even know what to call it.” The zoologist took Samoylenko by the sleeve and continued in an agitated voice: “You tell him and his wife that as I was leaving, I was amazed by them, wished them the very best … and ask him that he, if at all possible, not regard me with scorn. He knows me. He knows that if I could have foreseen this change in him, then I would have become his best friend.”

“Go drop in on him, say goodbye.”

“No. That would be inconvenient.”

“Why not? God only knows if you’ll ever see him again.”

The zoologist thought for a moment, then said:

“That’s true.”

Samoylenko quietly tapped his fingers on the window. Laevsky started and looked behind him.

“Vanya, Nikolai Vasilievich wishes to say goodbye to you,” Samoylenko said. “He’s leaving right now.”

Laevsky rose from the table and walked to the vestibule to open the door. Samoylenko, Von Koren and the deacon entered the house.

“I’ll only be just a minute,” the zoologist began, removing his galoshes in the vestibule and immediately wishing that he had not yielded to desire and entered this home uninvited. I feel as though I’m imposing, he thought, but that’s foolish. “Please pardon me for disturbing you,” he said, following Laevsky into his room, “but I’m leaving right now, and I was drawn here to you. God only knows if we’ll ever see each other again.”

“I’m very glad … Please, allow me,” Laevsky said, and awkwardly arranged chairs for his guests, as though wishing to obstruct their paths, then stopped in the center of the room, rubbing his hands.

It was wrong of me to not leave the witnesses in the street, Von Koren thought, and said definitively: “Do not remember me with scorn, Ivan Andreich. To forget the past, of course, can’t be done, it is too sad, and I didn’t come here for that, to make excuses or to assure you that it wasn’t my fault. I acted sincerely and have not changed my convictions since then … It’s true, as I see to my great joy, that I was wrong concerning you, it’s possible to get tripped up even if the road is straight, and that is the fate of mankind after all: if you don’t make major mistakes, then you’ll make mistakes in the details. No one knows the real truth.”

“Yes, no one knows the truth …” Laevsky said.

“Well, goodbye … May all good things come to you, God willing.”

Von Koren offered his hand to Laevsky, who took it and bowed.

“Do not remember me with scorn,” Von Koren said. “Give my regards to your wife and tell her that I deeply regret I could not say goodbye to her in person.”

“She’s home.”

Laevsky went to the door and spoke into the next room:

“Nadya, Nikolai Vasilievich wishes to say goodbye to you.”

Nadezhda Fyodorovna entered; she stopped near the door and timidly looked at the guests. Her face was guilty and frightened, and she held her hands like a schoolgirl about to be scolded.

“I’m leaving now, Nadezhda Fyodorovna,” Von Koren said, “and have come to bid farewell.”

She extended her hand to him with uncertainty as Laevsky bowed.

How pathetic they both are still! Von Koren thought. This life won’t come easy for them. “I’ll be in Moscow and in Petersburg.” Then he asked, “Is there anything that you need sent from there?”

“Well?” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said, and nervously exchanged looks with her husband. “It seems that we don’t need anything …”

“Yes, nothing …” Laevsky said, rubbing his hands. “Give our regards.”

Von Koren did not know what else could or should be said, as earlier, when he had entered, he had thought that he would say many good, warm and meaningful things. He silently squeezed Laevsky’s hand and that of his wife and left them, with a heavy heart.

“These people!” the deacon said under his breath, walking behind the rest. “My Lord, these people! The right hand of God truly has planted a vineyard here! God Almighty! One has defeated one thousand, the other a multitude. Nikolai Vasilievich,” he said enthusiastically, “do you know that today you conquered the greatest of mankind’s enemies—pride!”

“Enough, Deacon! What kind of conquerors are he and I? Conquerors resemble eagles, but he’s pathetic, timid, defeated, he bows, like some Chinese figurine, and as for me … I’m sad.”

They heard footsteps behind them. It was Laevsky catching up to them to see him off. The valet was waiting at the dock with the two suitcases; next to him a little further away, four oarsmen.

“By the way, it’s quite windy … brrr!” Samoylenko said. “There’ll be a hell of a storm out at sea—oy, oy! You’ve picked a great time to travel, Kolya.”

“I have no fear of seasickness.”

“It’s not that … Be sure these fools don’t capsize you. The best thing to do is to go on the envoy’s dinghy. Where’s the envoy’s dinghy?” he called out to the oarsmen.

“It’s gone, Your Excellency.”

“What about the customs officer’s dinghy?”

“It’s gone too.”

“Why didn’t you make the announcement?” Samoylenko asked, growing angry. “Blockheads!”

“It’s all right, don’t worry …” Von Koren said. “Let’s say our goodbyes. God protect you.”

Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the sign of the cross over him three times.

“Don’t forget us, Kolya … Write … We’ll expect you next spring.”

“Goodbye, Deacon,” Von Koren said, squeezing the deacon’s hand. “Thank you for the company and for the good conversation. Do think about the expedition.”

“Yes, for God’s sake, to the ends of the earth!” the deacon laughed. “Who said I was opposed to the idea?”

Von Koren recognized Laevsky in the darkness and wordlessly extended his hand. The oarsmen were already standing below bracing the boat, which beat against the pilings, though the jetty protected it from large swells. Von Koren lowered himself by the boat’s ladder, hopped into the boat and sat at the rudder.

“Write!” Samoylenko called out to him. “Guard your health!”

No one knows the real truth, Laevsky thought, raising his coat collar and thrusting his hands into the sleeves of his coat.

The boat rounded the wharf adroitly and exited out onto the expanse. It disappeared among the waves, then immediately reappeared from a deep ditch and slid down a tall swell, so that the people and even the oars were discernable. The boat advanced three fathoms, then was tossed two fathoms back.

“Write!” Samoylenko called out. “You really didn’t get lucky with this weather!”

Yes, no one knows the real truth …, Laevsky thought, looking out at the unquiet, dark sea with an expression of melancholy.

The boat is thrown back, he thought, it takes two steps forward and one step back, but the oarsmen are tenacious, they tirelessly thrash their oars and have no fear of the tall waves. The boat advances further and further, it’s not even visible now, a half hour from now, and the oarsmen will clearly see the lights of the steamship, in an hour from now they’ll be at the ship’s ladder. That’s how it is with life … In search of the truth, people take two steps forward, one step back. Suffering, mistakes and ennui throw them back, but a thirst for the truth and a tenacious will advance them further and further. And who knows? They may just row far enough to reach real truth …

“Goodby-y-ye!” Samoylenko called out.

“There’s neither sight nor sound of them,” the deacon said. “Have a good journey!”

The rain began to fall.

1891