The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

XI

‘You look as if you’ve come to arrest me,’ von Koren said when he saw Samoylenko entering in full regalia.

‘I was passing by and thought, why don’t I drop in and have a taste of zoology?’ Samoylenko said as he sat at the large table that the zoologist had knocked together himself from some simple boards. ‘Good day, Your Grace!’ he said, nodding to the deacon who was sitting by the window copying something out. ‘I’ll just stay for a few minutes, then I must rush home to see to lunch. It’s time already… I’m not disturbing you, I hope?’

‘Not at all,’ the zoologist answered, laying out some papers covered with fine handwriting over the table. ‘We’re busy copying up some notes.’

‘Oh… my God, my God…’ Samoylenko sighed. From the table he gingerly picked up a dusty book, on top of which was a dry, dead insect, like a spider, and said, ‘Really! Just imagine some little green beetle going about its business when along comes this frightful object. I can imagine how horrified it would be!’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Is it equipped with poison to defend itself from its enemies?’

‘Yes, for protection and for attacking as well.’

‘Well, well, well… And everything in nature, my dear gentlemen, has its function and reason,’ Samoylenko sighed. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand. You’re a terribly clever man, so please explain this. You know, there are some small animals, no larger than rats, quite pretty to look at but extremely vicious and immoral. Let’s suppose one of these tiny creatures is making its way through a forest. It sees a bird, catches it and eats it. It moves on and sees a small nest in the grass with eggs in it. It’s not hungry any more as it’s eaten its fill, but it bites into one of the eggs and pushes the others out of the nest with its paw. Then it meets a frog, has a little game with it. After tormenting it, off it goes licking its lips and then along comes a beetle. It crushes it with its paw. And so it harms and destroys everything in its path. And it clambers into other animals’ lairs, ruins ant-hills just for the fun of it, cracks snails open with its teeth… If it comes across a rat, it starts a fight. If it sees a small snake or a baby mouse it just has to throttle them. And so it goes on, all day long. Tell me then, what’s the use of such an animal? Why was it created?’

‘I don’t know what animal you’re talking about,’ von Koren said, ‘most likely an insectivore. Well now, the bird was caught because it was careless. It destroyed the nest of eggs because the bird was stupid, built its nest badly and did not succeed in camouflaging it. And there was most likely some defect in the frog’s colouring, otherwise your animal wouldn’t have spotted it, and so on. Your animal destroys only weak, stupid, careless creatures – briefly, creatures with defects that nature doesn’t consider necessary to hand down to posterity. Only the most artful, cautious, strong and developed animals survive. Therefore, quite unaware of the fact, your little animal serves a magnificent end – progress towards perfection.’

‘Yes, yes… By the way, old boy,’ Samoylenko said casually, ‘lend me a hundred roubles, will you?’

‘All right. Among the insectivores there’s some very interesting examples. Take the mole. It’s said to be useful because it destroys harmful insects. There’s a story about some German who sent Kaiser Wilhelm I a moleskin coat, but it seems the Kaiser ordered him to be reprimanded for destroying so many useful animals. However, the mole can be just as cruel as your little beast and it’s also a very great nuisance, as it wreaks havoc in the fields.’

Von Koren opened a money-box and took out a hundred-rouble note.

‘Moles have a powerful thorax, like bats,’ he went on, shutting the box, ‘tremendously developed bones and muscles and unusually well-armed mouths. If they were as big as elephants they would be invincible, capable of annihilating everything. It’s interesting – when two moles meet underground they both start digging a little platform for themselves, as if they’d agreed on it beforehand. They need this platform to make it easier to fight. When it’s finished they battle away furiously and fight until the weaker drops.’ Von Koren lowered his voice as he added, ‘Now, take your hundred roubles, but on condition it’s not for Layevsky.’

‘And supposing it is for Layevsky!’ Samoylenko said, flaring up. ‘Is that any of your business?’

‘I can’t let you have money if it’s to help Layevsky. I know your fondness for lending people money. You’d lend any old bandit money if he asked you. I’m sorry, I can’t help you in that direction.’

‘Yes, it is for Layevsky!’ Samoylenko said, standing up and brandishing his right arm. ‘Yes, for Layevsky! What the hell, no one has the right to damned well try and teach me what to do with my money! You don’t want to lend me it, eh?’

The deacon burst out laughing.

‘Don’t get so excited, just think a minute,’ the zoologist said. ‘Doing Mr Layevsky a good turn is just as silly in my opinion as watering weeds or feeding locusts.’

‘I think it’s our duty to help our neighbours,’ Samoylenko shouted.

‘In that case, help that starving Turk lying beneath the fence! He’s a labourer and he’s more valuable, more useful than your Layevsky. Let him have the hundred roubles. Or contribute a hundred towards my expedition!’

‘I’m asking you, are you going to let me have it or not?’

‘Tell me frankly, what does he need the money for?’

‘It’s no secret. He has to travel to St Petersburg on Saturday.’

‘Oh, so that’s it!’ von Koren drawled. ‘Aha… we understand. And is she going with him, or what?’

‘She’s staying on for the time being. He’s going to straighten his affairs out in St Petersburg and send her money, and then she’ll go as well.’

‘Very neat!’ the zoologist said with a short, high-pitched laugh. ‘Very neat. A brilliant idea.’

He rushed over to Samoylenko, faced up to him and stared him right in the eye. ‘Tell me honestly, now,’ he asked: ‘he doesn’t love her any more, does he? No?’

‘No,’ Samoylenko said, breaking into a sweat.

‘How revolting!’ von Koren said and his face clearly showed his disgust. ‘There are two alternatives, Alexander: either you’ve both hatched this plot together or – pardon me for saying so – you’re a stupid ass. Can’t you see he’s making a fool of you, in the most shameless fashion, as though you were a little boy? Surely it’s clear as daylight that he wants to get rid of her and abandon her here. She’ll be hanging round your neck and it’s also clear as anything that you’ll have to send her to St Petersburg at your own expense. Surely that fine friend of yours can’t have dazzled you so much with his virtues that you’re blind to what’s patently obvious?’

‘These are mere conjectures,’ Samoylenko said, sitting down.

‘Conjectures? But why is he travelling alone and not with her? And ask him why she shouldn’t go on ahead, with him following afterwards? The crafty devil!’

Overcome by sudden doubts and misgivings about his friend, Samoylenko’s spirits fell, and he lowered his voice.

‘But that’s impossible!’ he said, recalling the night when Layevsky had stayed with him. ‘He’s going through so much!’

‘What of it? Thieves and arsonists also suffer!’

‘Let’s suppose you’re right,’ Samoylenko said reflectively. ‘Granted… On the other hand, he’s a young man in a strange country… a student… we’re students as well and he had no one to turn to here for help besides us.’

‘Help him perpetrate his filthy tricks just because you were both at university at different times and neither of you did a stroke of work there! What nonsense!’

‘Hold on, let’s consider it calmly.’ Shaking his fingers, Samoylenko worked it all out. ‘Perhaps we could manage it like this… I’ll give him the money, but I’ll insist he gives me his word of honour to send Nadezhda the money for her fare within one week.’

‘And he’ll give you his word, he’ll even shed a tear or two and convince himself it’s all genuine. But what is his word worth? He won’t keep it, and when you meet him a year or so from now, on Nevsky Prospekt, with his new lady-love on his arm, he’ll start defending himself, saying civilization has crippled him and that he’s a chip off the same block as Rudin.¹⁸ Give him up, for God’s sake! Steer clear of this muck, don’t go raking around in it!’

Samoylenko pondered for a moment and then said in a determined voice, ‘I’m going to lend him the money all the same. You do as you like, but I’m in no position to refuse someone on the basis of mere suppositions.’

‘That’s excellent. So go and embrace him if you like.’

‘Well, give me the hundred roubles, then,’ Samoylenko timidly asked.

‘No, I won’t.’

Silence followed. Samoylenko felt quite weak. His face took on a guilty, ashamed, ingratiating expression and somehow it was strange to see a huge man like him, with epaulettes and medals, looking so pathetic and bewildered, just like a child.

As he laid down his pen the deacon said, ‘The local bishop doesn’t do his parish rounds in a carriage, but on horseback. He makes a terribly moving sight, sitting on his little horse. His simplicity and humility are permeated with biblical grandeur.’

‘Is he a good man?’ von Koren asked, glad of a change of subject.

‘Well what do you think? If he weren’t how come that he’s a bishop?’

‘There are some very fine and talented bishops about,’ von Koren said. ‘The only pity is, though, many of them have this weakness – they imagine they’re state dignitaries. One tries to Russianize everything, another criticizes science. It’s not their business. They’d do better if they looked in at the consistory more often.’

‘Laymen aren’t qualified to judge bishops.’

‘But why not, deacon? A bishop is a man, like myself.’

‘He is and yet he isn’t,’ the deacon replied in an injured voice, picking up his pen. ‘If you were the same, then divine grace would have descended on you, and you yourself would be a bishop. But as you’re not a bishop that means you can’t be such a man.’

‘Don’t talk rot, deacon!’ Samoylenko said, becoming very upset. ‘Listen, I have an idea,’ he added, turning to von Koren. ‘Don’t lend me the hundred roubles. As you’ll be eating here for another three months before winter’s here, you can pay a quarter in advance.’

‘I won’t do it.’

Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson. Mechanically, he drew the book with the spider on it over towards him and inspected it. Then he stood up and reached for his hat.

Von Koren felt sorry for him. ‘Living and working with a man like that!’ the zoologist said, and indignantly kicked a piece of paper into the corner. ‘Please try and understand that this is not goodness of heart or love, but cowardice, poison! Whatever reason achieves, it’s wrecked by your ineffectual, half-baked emotions! When I had typhoid as a schoolboy, my aunt was so sorry she stuffed me with pickled mushrooms and I nearly died. Both my aunt and yourself should see that love for one’s neighbour should not be in the heart or the pit of the stomach or the small of the back, but here!’ von Koren tapped his forehead. ‘Take it!’ he said and flung a hundred-rouble note in front of him.

‘Now don’t upset yourself, Nicholas,’ Samoylenko said meekly as he folded the banknote. ‘I understand you very well, but… put yourself in my position.’

‘You’re an old woman, that’s what!’

The deacon burst out laughing.

‘Listen, Alexander, a last request!’ von Koren said heatedly. ‘You should make one condition when you give that swindler the money: either he takes his lady friend with him or he sends her on ahead. Otherwise don’t let him have it. You can’t stand on ceremony with him. Tell him that, but if you don’t, then on my word of honour, I’ll go to his office and throw him down the stairs. And I won’t have anything more to do with you! So there!’

‘All right. If he travels with her or sends her on ahead, that will suit him all the more,’ Samoylenko said. ‘He’ll even be glad. Well, goodbye.’

He made a fond farewell and left, but before shutting the door behind him he looked round at von Koren, pulled a terrible face and said:

‘It’s the Germans who’ve corrupted you, my friend. Yes, the Germans!’

XII

Next day, a Thursday, Marya Konstantinova was celebrating her son Kostya’s birthday. Everyone had been invited for pies at midday and for chocolate in the evening. When Layevsky and Nadezhda arrived in the evening, the zoologist was already sitting in the drawing-room drinking chocolate.

‘Have you spoken to him?’ he asked Samoylenko.

‘Not yet.’

‘Now be careful, don’t stand on ceremony with him. The cheek of these people really defeats me! Surely they know very well what the Bityugovs think of their liaison, yet still they sneak their way in.’

‘If you let yourself be ruled by every little prejudice, then you shouldn’t go anywhere,’ Samoylenko said.

‘Is the mass’s revulsion for extra-marital love and dissipation a prejudice then?’

‘Of course. Prejudice and the readiness to hate. When soldiers spot a girl of easy virtue they guffaw and whistle. But just ask them how they carry on.’

‘They don’t whistle for nothing. Young girls strangle their illegitimate babies and go off to hard labour, Anna Karenina threw herself under a train, in villages gates are smeared with tar. Both of us – I don’t know why – admire Katya’s purity, everyone has a vague need for pure love, although he knows that such love doesn’t exist. Surely all of that can’t be prejudice? My dear fellow, all that’s survived from natural selection. And if it weren’t for that mysterious force that regulates sexual relationships, people like Layevsky would have shown you what’s what and humanity would have gone to the dogs within two years.’

Layevsky came into the drawing-room. He greeted everyone and smiled an oily smile as he shook von Koren’s hand. He waited for the right moment and told Samoylenko, ‘Excuse me, Alexander, I have something to say to you.’

Samoylenko stood up, put his arm around his waist and they both went into Nikodim Aleksandrych’s study.

‘It’s Friday tomorrow,’ Layevsky said, biting his nails. ‘Did you get me what you promised?’

‘Only two hundred and ten. I’ll have the rest today or tomorrow. Don’t worry.’

‘Thank God!’ Layevsky sighed and his hands shook with joy. ‘You’re my salvation, Alexander, and I swear by God, by my own happiness and by anything else you care to name that I’ll send you the money the moment I arrive. And I’ll settle my old debt as well.’

‘Look here, Ivan,’ Samoylenko said, turning red in the face as he took hold of one of his buttons. ‘Forgive me for meddling in your private affairs but… why don’t you take Nadezhda with you?’

‘You’re so silly, how could I! One of us has to stay behind, or the creditors will start kicking up a fuss. After all, I owe the shops seven hundred roubles, perhaps more. You wait, I’ll send them the money and keep them quiet, then she can leave as well.’

‘Oh… But why can’t you send her on ahead?’

‘Good Lord, how could I do that?’ Layevsky asked, horrified. ‘After all, she’s a woman, what could she do there on her own? What does she understand? It would only hold things up and be a waste of money.’

‘That makes sense,’ Samoylenko thought, but he remembered his conversation with von Koren, looked down and said gloomily, ‘I can’t agree with you. Either travel with her or send her on ahead… or… or… I shan’t lend you the money. That’s my last word on the subject.’

As he retreated he banged his back on the door and went into the drawing-room red-faced and dreadfully embarrassed.

‘Friday… Friday,’ Layevsky thought as he went back to the drawing-room. ‘Friday…’

He was served a cup of chocolate; the hot liquid burnt his lips and tongue as he kept thinking, ’Friday… Friday…’ For some reason he could not get the word Friday out of his mind; he could think of nothing else and all he knew (his heart, not his head, told him) was that he would not be leaving on Saturday.

Looking very neat and tidy, his hair brushed down over his temples, Nikodim Aleksandrych stood before him and asked, ‘Please have something to eat… Please.’

Marya Konstantinova was showing her guests Katya’s school marks, remarking in her drawling voice, ‘They make things so terribly, terribly hard for students these days! They ask so much of them!’

‘Mama!’ groaned Katya, not knowing where to put herself for embarrassment.

Layevsky also looked at the marks and complimented her. Scripture, Russian Language, Conduct – ‘excellents’ and ‘very goods’ danced before his eyes: all this and the perpetually nagging thought of that Friday, Nikodim’s hair brushed down over his temples and Katya’s red cheeks, struck him as such an immense, crushing bore that he was ready to cry out loud in despair. ‘Will it, will it really be impossible for me to escape from this place?’ he asked himself.

Two card-tables were placed side by side and they sat down to play Post Office.

‘Friday… Friday…’ he thought, smiling as he took a pencil from his pocket. ‘Friday…’

He wanted to weigh his position up carefully, but he was too frightened to think. The realization that the doctor had found him out in that deception he had so long and so carefully concealed from himself, terrified him. Whenever he contemplated the future he did not let his thoughts run away with him. He would just enter a railway carriage and leave – in that way he would solve the problem of his life, and he would not allow his thoughts to wander any further. Like a dim light in distant fields, now and then the thought flashed through his mind that somewhere (in a St Petersburg back street, in the remote future) he would have to resort to some little lie in order to get rid of Nadezhda and settle his debts. Only once would he have to lie and then he would experience a completely new lease of life. That would be a good thing: at the price of some trivial little lie he would be able to purchase absolute respectability.

But now that the doctor had, in his refusal, crudely brought his duplicity to light, he realized that he would need to lie not only in the remote future, but today, in a month’s time, and until the day he died perhaps. In fact, in order to make his escape, he would have to lie to Nadezhda, his creditors and his superiors at the office, and afterwards, to obtain money in St Petersburg, he would have to lie to his mother and tell her that he’d already broken with Nadezhda. His mother wouldn’t let him have more than five hundred roubles, which meant he had already cheated the doctor, as he wouldn’t be able to send him any money in the near future. And then, when Nadezhda arrived in St Petersburg, he would have to resort to a whole series of petty and major lies to get rid of her. Once again there would be more tears, boredom, that wretched existence again, remorse and consequently no new lease of life. It was all a great sham, nothing more. An enormous mountain of lies loomed up in Layevsky’s mind, and he would have to take drastic measures to leap over it in one bound without lying in instalments. For example, he would have to get up from his seat, put his cap on and leave straight away without the money and without a word to anyone. But Layevsky felt he was not equal to that. ‘Friday, Friday,’ he thought. ‘Friday.’

The guests wrote little notes, folded them in two and dropped them into Nikodim Aleksandrych’s old top hat. When it was full Kostya pretended to be a postman and walked round the table handing them out. The deacon, Katya and Kostya were in raptures as they received comical messages and tried to reply with even funnier ones.

‘We must have a talk,’ Nadezhda read in her note. She exchanged glances with Marya Konstantinova, who produced one of her sugary smiles and nodded.

‘What is there to talk about?’ Nadezhda thought. ‘If the whole thing can’t be discussed then there’s no point in saying anything.’

Before coming to the party she had knotted Layevsky’s tie and this insignificant act had filled her heart with tenderness and sorrow. His anxious expression, his distraught glances, his pale face and the incomprehensible change that had recently come over him, the fact that she was harbouring a terrible, loathsome secret from him, the way her hands had trembled when she tried to tie the knot – all this told her that their days together were numbered. She looked at him fearfully and penitently, as if he were an icon. ‘Forgive me, forgive me…’ she thought. Achmianov could not keep his black, amorous eyes off her from across the table. Desires troubled her, she was ashamed of herself, afraid that one day even her anguish and sorrow would not prevent her from yielding to lust, afraid that, like a confirmed drunkard, she was powerless to control herself.

Unwilling to carry on an existence which was shameful for her and insulting to Layevsky, she decided that she would leave. Tearfully she would beg him to let her go, and if he offered opposition, she would leave secretly. She would not tell him what had happened: at least let him have pure memories of her to cherish.

‘I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love,’ she read. ‘That’s from Achmianov.’

She would go and live in some backwater, work, and send Layevsky money, embroidered shirts and tobacco anonymously, and only when he was old – or if he were dangerously ill and needed a nurse – would she return to him. In his old age he would find out the reason why she had refused to be his wife, why she had left him – then he would appreciate the sacrifice she had made and he would forgive her.

‘You’ve got a long nose.’ That must be the deacon or Kostya.

Nadezhda imagined firmly embracing Layevsky as she said goodbye, kissing his hand and vowing to love him forever. And later, among strangers in her backwater, she would think every single day that she had a friend somewhere, a man she loved, pure, noble, highly idealistic, who held unsullied memories of her.

‘If you won’t meet me today, then I shall take steps, I swear it. Please understand, one doesn’t behave like this with respectable people.’ That was from Kirilin.

XIII

Layevsky received two notes. He unfolded one of them and read, ‘Don’t leave, my dear chap.’ ‘Who could have written that?’ he wondered. ‘Not Samoylenko of course… And it’s not the deacon, he doesn’t know I want to go away. Von Koren perhaps?’

The zoologist bent over the table and drew a pyramid. Layevsky thought he could detect a smile in his eyes.

‘Samoylenko’s let the cat out of the bag, most likely,’ Layevsky thought.

The next note was in the same rough handwriting, with long tails and flourishes: ‘Someone won’t be leaving on Saturday.’

‘What stupid insults,’ Layevsky thought. ‘Friday, Friday…’

Something stuck in his throat. He touched his collar and tried to cough, but broke into loud laughter instead.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ he guffawed. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ ‘What am I laughing at?’ he asked himself. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

He tried to control himself by covering his face with one hand, but his chest and neck were choking with laughter and he did not succeed. ‘How stupid, though!’ he thought, roaring with laughter. ‘Have I gone out of my mind?’

His guffaws became shriller and shriller until they sounded like a small spaniel yapping. He tried to get up from the table, but his legs would not obey him and strangely, as though it were pleasing itself, his right arm started jumping about on the table, convulsively trying to grab hold of the notes and crumple them up. The astonished glances, Samoylenko’s serious, frightened face, the zoologist’s coldly contemptuous sneers, told him he was having hysterics. ‘How scandalous, how disgraceful,’ he thought, feeling warm tears on his face. ‘Oh, oh, what a disgrace! Nothing like this has ever happened to me.’

They supported him under the arms and led him off somewhere, holding his head from behind; a glass sparkled before his eyes and knocked against his teeth. Water spilled onto his chest; then he saw a small room with two beds standing in the middle, covered with clean, snow-white bedspreads. He slumped onto one of them and burst out sobbing.

‘It’s nothing, nothing…’ Samoylenko was saying. ‘It’s quite common, quite common.’

At the bedside stood Nadezhda, frightened out of her wits, trembling all over and expecting something terrible.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong? For God’s sake, tell me.’ ‘Did Kirilin write to him?’ she wondered.

‘It’s nothing,’ Layevsky said, laughing and crying. ‘Leave me, dear…’

His face expressed neither hatred nor disgust – this meant he knew nothing. Nadezhda calmed down a little and went back to the drawing-room.

‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear!’ Marya Konstantinova said, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. ‘It will pass. Men are just as weak as we sinful women. You’re both going through a crisis at the moment, it’s so understandable! Well, my dear, I’m waiting for an answer. Let’s have a talk.’

‘No, let’s not,’ Nadezhda said, listening to Layevsky’s sobs. ‘I’m so depressed… Please let me leave now.’

‘What are you saying my dear!’ Marya said, taking fright. ‘Surely you don’t think I would let you go without any supper? Let’s have something to eat, then you can go.’

‘I feel so depressed,’ Nadezhda whispered, clutching the back of her chair to stop herself falling.

‘He’s had a fit!’ von Koren said gaily as he came into the drawing-room, but the sight of Nadezhda embarrassed him and he left.

When the fit was over Layevsky sat on the strange bed thinking: ‘What a disgrace, howling like a silly schoolgirl! I must look so stupid and disgusting. I’ll leave by the back door. No, that would mean I’m taking the fit seriously. I should try and make a joke of it.’

He had a look in the mirror, sat for a little while and then went into the drawing-room.

‘Here I am!’ he said, smiling. He suffered torments of shame and felt that his presence made the others feel ashamed too. ‘Things like that happen,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘I was just sitting there when suddenly I had a terrible stabbing pain in my side… absolutely unbearable, my nerves couldn’t take it and… what happened was so stupid! Ours is a neurotic age, can’t be helped!’

He drank wine at supper, chatted and now and then – to the accompaniment of convulsive sighs – kept stroking his side as if to show he still had pain. And no one – except Nadezhda – believed him and he saw it. After nine o’clock everyone went walking along the boulevard. Fearing that Kirilin might attempt to talk to her, Nadezhda tried to stay close by Marya Konstantinova and her children. Fear and dejection weakened her and she felt a fever was coming on; she was very weary and could hardly move her legs. But she did not go home, since she was convinced she would be followed by Kirilin or Achmianov, or both of them. Kirilin was walking behind, with Nikodim Aleksandrych, softly chanting, ‘I wo-on’t allow myself to be tri-fled with! I wo-n’t allow it!’

They turned off the boulevard towards the Pavilion and walked along the beach. For a long time they watched the phosphorescent glow of the sea. Von Koren started explaining the reason for the phosphorescence.

XIV

‘But it’s time I was off to whist… They’re waiting,’ Layevsky said. ‘Goodbye, everyone.’

‘Wait, I’m coming with you,’ Nadezhda said, taking his arm. They said goodbye to the others and left. Kirilin also made his farewell, saying he was going the same way and walked along with them.

‘Whatever will be, will be,’ Nadezhda thought. ‘Let it be…’ She felt that all the nasty memories had left her mind and were walking by her side, breathing heavily in the dark, while she was like a fly that has fallen into an ink-pot, crawling along the road and staining Layevsky’s side and arm black. If Kirilin does something horrible, she thought, then she would be to blame, not he. After all, there was a time when no man would talk to her like Kirilin and it was she who had severed this period like a thread, destroying it for ever. But who was to blame? Stupefied by her desires, she had begun to smile at a complete stranger, most probably because he was tall and well-built. After two meetings he bored her, and she dropped him – surely that entitled him to behave as he liked to her, she thought.

‘I must say goodbye here, my dear,’ Layevsky said, stopping. ‘Ilya Mikhaylich will see you home.’ He bowed to Kirilin, quickly crossed the boulevard, went across the street to Sheshkovsky’s house, where the lights were burning in the windows. Then he could be heard banging the gate.

‘I want to have a little talk with you,’ Kirilin began. ‘I’m not a street urchin, not a mere nobody… I demand serious attention!’

Nadezhda’s heart pounded away. She did not answer.

‘At first I ascribed the sharp change in your attitude to flirtatiousness,’ Kirilin continued, ‘but now I see that you simply don’t know how to behave towards respectable people. You simply wanted a little game with me, like that Armenian boy, but I’m a respectable man and demand to be treated as such. And so, I’m at your service.’

‘I feel so depressed,’ Nadezhda said, and burst into tears. To hide them she turned away.

‘I’m depressed as well, what of it?’ Kirilin paused for a moment and then said distinctly and deliberately, ‘I repeat, my dear lady. If you don’t grant me a rendezvous today, I shall make a scene this evening.’

‘Just let me off for today,’ Nadezhda said in such a plaintive, thin voice, she did not recognize it.

‘I must teach you a lesson. Excuse my bad manners, but I have to teach you a lesson. Yes, Madam, you must be taught a lesson. I demand two meetings – tonight and tomorrow. The day after you’ll be quite free to go where the hell you like, with whoever you like. Tonight and tomorrow.’

Nadezhda went over to her gate and stopped. ‘Let me go!’ she whispered, trembling all over and unable to see anything in front of her in the dark except a white tunic. ‘You’re right, I’m a dreadful woman… I’m to blame, but let me go, I beg you.’ She touched his cold hand and shuddered. ‘I beg you.’

‘Unfortunately, no!’ Kirilin sighed. ‘No! It’s not my intention to let you go. I only want to teach you a lesson, to make you understand. Besides, Madam, I really don’t trust women.’

‘I feel so depressed.’

Nadezhda listened hard to the steady roar of the sea, glanced up at the star-strewn sky and felt she wanted to finish with everything there and then, to rid herself of the wretched sensation of a life of sea, stars, men, fevers.

‘But not in my house,’ she said coldly. ‘Take me somewhere else.’

‘Let’s go to Myuridov’s, that’s the best place.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Near the old rampart.’

She walked rapidly down the street and then turned up a side-street leading to the mountains. It was dark. Pale patches of light from illuminated windows lay here and there on the road and she felt like a fly, perpetually falling into an ink-pot and then crawling out again into the light. Kirilin was following her. At one spot he stumbled, nearly fell and burst out laughing.

‘He’s drunk,’ Nadezhda thought. ‘So what… So what… So be it.’

Achmianov had also quickly taken leave of the company and had followed Nadezhda to invite her to go boating with him. He went up to her house and peered across the fence. The windows were wide open and there were no lights. ‘Nadezhda!’ he called. A minute passed. He called out again.

‘Who’s there?’ – it was Olga.

‘Is Nadezhda home?’

‘No, hasn’t come back yet.’

‘Strange… very strange,’ Achmianov thought, beginning to feel terribly anxious. ‘She was on her way home…’

He went along the boulevard, down the street and then he looked into Sheshkovsky’s windows. Layevsky was sitting at the table, without a frock-coat, staring at his cards.

‘That’s strange, most strange…’ Achmianov muttered and he felt ashamed when he remembered Layevsky’s fit. ‘If she’s not at home, then where is she?’

Again he went over to Nadezhda’s house and looked at the dark windows. ‘I’ve been tricked,’ he thought, remembering that when they had met at midday at the Bityugovs she had promised to go boating with him in the evening.

The windows in Kirilin’s house were dark and a policeman sat fast asleep on the bench by the gate. One glance at the windows and the policeman and everything became clear to Achmianov. He decided to go home and started off, but once again found he was near Nadezhda’s flat. He sat down on a bench there and took his hat off; his head seemed to be burning with jealousy and injured pride.

The parish church clock struck only twice every twenty-four hours: at noon and midnight. Soon after it had struck midnight there came the sound of hurried footsteps.

‘So it’s at Myuridov’s again, tomorrow evening,’ Achmianov heard and he recognized Kirilin’s voice. ‘Eight o’clock. Until then, Madam.’

Nadezhda came into sight near the garden fence. Not noticing Achmianov on the bench, she flitted past like a ghost, opened the gate and entered the house, leaving the gate open. In her room she lit a candle and quickly undressed. But she did not lie on her bed, but fell on her knees in front of a chair, embraced it and pressed her forehead to it.

Layevsky came home after two in the morning.

XV

Layevsky had decided not to tell her the pack of lies all at once, but gradually, and the next day, after one o’clock, he went to Samoylenko’s to ask for the money that would enable him to travel that Saturday, without fail. After yesterday’s fit, which had added a further sharp feeling of shame to his already deeply depressed state of mind, staying any longer in that town was out of the question. If Samoylenko insisted on his conditions, he thought, then he might possibly agree to them and take the money. Tomorrow he could tell him at the very last moment, just when he was about to leave, that Nadezhda had refused to go with him. That evening he could try and persuade her that it was all in her best interests. But if Samoylenko, obviously under von Koren’s influence, refused point-blank to give him the money or stipulated new conditions, then he could possibly leave for New Athos or Novorossiysk that same day on some cargo ship, or even a sailing-boat. From there he would have to swallow his pride and send his mother a telegram and stay there until she sent him his fare.

When he called at Samoylenko’s he found von Koren in the drawing-room. The zoologist had just arrived for lunch and as usual he had opened the album and was studying pictures of men in top hats and ladies in lace caps.

‘What a nuisance,’ Layevsky thought on seeing him. ‘He might get in my way.’

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Good morning,’ von Koren replied, without looking up.

‘Is Samoylenko home?’

‘Yes, he’s in the kitchen.’

Layevsky went towards the kitchen, but as he looked through the doorway he saw Samoylenko was busy making a salad; he went back to the drawing-room and sat down. He had always felt ill at ease with the zoologist and now he was afraid of having to talk about the fit. More than a minute passed in silence. Suddenly von Koren looked up at Layevsky and asked, ‘How do you feel after what happened yesterday?’

‘Excellent,’ Layevsky replied, turning red. ‘It was really nothing very much.’

‘Before yesterday I’d always thought that only ladies had hysterics, that’s why I supposed at first you had St Vitus’s dance.’

Layevsky smiled obsequiously and thought, ‘How tactless of him. He knows only too well how bad I’m feeling.’

‘Yes, strange thing to happen,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve been laughing about it all morning. The curious thing about hysterics is that you know they’re ridiculous, you laugh deep down about them, yet they still make you cry. In this neurotic age we’re slaves of our nerves. They are our masters and do what they like with us. Civilization has doublecrossed us there!’

As Layevsky went on he was not pleased that von Koren was listening to him seriously and attentively, watching him intently, without blinking an eyelid, as if he were an object for study. And he was annoyed with himself for being totally unable to drive that obsequious smile from his face, despite his dislike for von Koren.

‘However, I must confess,’ he went on, ‘there were some more immediate reasons for the hysterics, and fairly substantial ones at that. My health has recently had a severe shake-up. Add to that boredom, eternal poverty, lack of congenial company with mutual interests… My position is worse than a governor’s.’

‘Yes, your position is hopeless,’ von Koren said.

These calm, cold words, partly mocking, partly prophetic, were insulting for Layevsky. As he recalled the contemptuous, disgusted way the zoologist had looked at him the day before, he paused for a moment and then asked, no longer smiling, ‘And how did you find out about my position?’

‘You mentioned it yourself only just now, and your friends take such a burning interest in you it’s all one hears about all day long.’

‘Which friends? Do you mean Samoylenko?’

‘Yes, he’s one.’

‘I’d prefer it if Samoylenko and all the rest didn’t worry about me so much.’

‘Here’s Samoylenko now; ask him to stop worrying about you so much.’

‘I don’t like your tone of voice,’ Layevsky muttered, as if he realized only now that the zoologist hated and despised him, was taunting him and that he was his most deadly, most implacable enemy. ‘Please reserve that tone of voice for someone else,’ he said softly, without the strength to speak out loud for the hatred that was already choking his heart and chest – just like yesterday’s urge to laugh.

In came Samoylenko, without his frock-coat, sweaty and crimson-faced from the hot kitchen. ‘Oh, so you’re here,’ he said. ‘Hullo, my dear chap. Had lunch? Now don’t be shy, tell me if you’ve eaten.’

‘Alexander,’ Layevsky said, standing up, ‘if I came to you with an intimate request, it doesn’t mean I’ve freed you from your obligation to be discreet and respect other people’s secrets.’

‘What’s wrong, then?’ Samoylenko said in astonishment.

‘If you don’t have the money,’ Layevsky went on, raising his voice and excitedly shifting from one foot to the other, ‘then don’t lend me any, refuse me. But why do you have to spread it all over town that my position’s hopeless and so on? I cannot bear these acts of charity, good turns from people who talk big and in the end give you nothing! You can boast to your heart’s content about your good deeds, but no one ever gave you the right to reveal my secrets!’

‘What secrets?’ Samoylenko asked in bewilderment, losing his temper. ‘If you’ve come here for a slanging-match then you’d better leave now. Why don’t you come back later?’

He remembered the rule, that when one is angry with a close friend, counting mentally up to a hundred has a calming effect. And he started counting, quickly.

‘I beg you not to concern yourself about me!’ Layevsky went on. ‘Don’t take any notice. And what business is it of anyone’s who I am and what kind of life I lead? Yes, I want to get away! Yes, I run up debts, drink, live with another man’s wife. I have fits, I’m a vulgar person, and I’m not as profound as some other people. But whose business is that? You should respect individuals!’

‘Forgive me, my friend,’ Samoylenko said when he had counted to thirty-five, ‘but…’

‘Respect individuals!’ Layevsky interrupted. ‘To hell with all this bitchiness, all these “oohs” and “ahs”, this constant hounding, eavesdropping, this friendly sympathizing! They lend me money and then subject me to conditions as if I were a child! I’m treated like God knows what! I don’t want anything!’

Layevsky started shouting and he staggered from agitation, afraid he might have another fit. The thought, ‘So I shan’t be leaving this Saturday’, flashed through his mind. ‘I don’t want anything! All I ask, if it’s all the same with you, is to be spared this supervision. I’m not a child, I’m not insane and I ask you to end this surveillance!’

The deacon entered and when he saw pale-faced Layevsky waving his arms and addressing these strange words to Prince Vorontsov’s portrait, he stood by the door, as if rooted to the spot.

‘This continual prying into my soul,’ Layevsky went on, ‘offends my dignity as a human being and I ask these volunteer sleuths to stop spying! It’s enough!’

‘What… what did you say?’ Samoylenko asked – having counted to a hundred he grew crimson-faced as he walked over to Layevsky.

‘It’s enough!’ Layevsky repeated, gasping for breath as he picked his cap up.

‘I’m a Russian gentleman, doctor and colonel,’ Samoylenko said slowly and deliberately. ‘I have never spied on anyone and I won’t allow myself to be insulted!’ he shouted in a broken voice, laying particular stress on the last word. ‘So will you shut up!’

The deacon, who had never seen the doctor look so magnificent, proud, crimson-faced and fearsome, put his hand over his mouth, ran out into the hall and stood roaring with laughter. As though he were peering through a mist, Layevsky saw von Koren stand up, put his hands in his trouser pockets and stay in that position, as if waiting to see what would happen next. The calmness of his posture struck Layevsky as provocative and insulting in the extreme.

‘Please take back what you just said!’ Samoylenko shouted.

Layevsky, who could no longer remember what he had said, replied, ‘Leave me in peace! I want nothing! All I want is for you and these German–Jewish immigrants to leave me in peace! If not, I shall take steps! I will fight!’

‘Now I understand,’ von Koren said as he rose from the table. ‘Before he departs, Mr Layevsky wishes to amuse himself with a little duelling. I can accord him that pleasure. Mr Layevsky, I accept your challenge.’

‘Challenge?’ Layevsky softly enunciated as he went over to the zoologist and looked hatefully at his dark forehead and curly hair. ‘Challenge? If that’s what you want. I hate you! I hate you!’

‘Absolutely delighted. First thing tomorrow morning, near Kerbalay’s, please yourself about the details. And now beat it!’

‘I hate you!’ Layevsky said softly, breathing heavily. ‘I’ve hated you for a long time. A duel! Yes!’

‘Get him out of here, Alexander, or I shall have to leave,’ von Koren said. ‘He might bite me.’

Von Koren’s cool tone calmed the doctor. Suddenly he recovered his senses and he gripped Layevsky around the waist, muttering in an affectionate voice that shook with emotion as he led him away from the zoologist. ‘My friends… my good, kind friends… You’ve just got a little excited, let’s call it a day… it’s enough. My friends…’

When he heard that soft, friendly voice Layevsky felt that something quite unprecedented and monstrous had happened to him, as if he’d nearly been run over by a train. He was close to tears, waved his arm in capitulation and ran out of the room.

‘God, how dreadful to be the target of someone’s hatred and to make the most pathetic, despicable, helpless spectacle of oneself in front of him!’ he thought soon after as he sat in the Pavilion. And he felt as if the feeling of hatred that this man had just stirred in him had left a deposit of rust on his body. ‘God, how idiotic!’

Some brandy with cold water cheered him up. He clearly pictured von Koren’s calm, arrogant face, the expression he had worn the day before, his carpet-like shirt, his voice, his white hands, and an intense, passionate, all-consuming hatred welled up inside him and sought gratification. He imagined knocking von Koren to the ground and stamping on him. Down to the very last details, he recalled everything that had happened and was amazed how he could have smiled so obsequiously at that nonentity, how he could have valued the opinions of those obscure little nobodies living in a wretched dump that apparently was not even on the map and which no self-respecting Petersburger had ever heard of. If that nasty little town were suddenly to vanish or burn down, the telegram bearing this news would have been read in central Russia with the same boredom as any advert for second-hand furniture. Killing von Koren tomorrow, sparing his life, did not matter a damn, it was equally pointless and boring. He would wound him in the leg or arm, then have a good laugh at him; just as an insect with a torn-off leg loses its way in the grass, so he would be lost with his mute suffering in that sea of nonentities, all as insignificant as himself.

Layevsky went to Sheshkovsky’s, told him everything and invited him to act as second. Then they both went off to the local postmaster’s, invited him to be a second and stayed for lunch, over which they cracked a great deal of jokes and had a good laugh together. Layevsky poked fun at himself, saying he hardly knew how to fire a pistol and dubbing himself ‘Royal Marksman’ and ‘William Tell’.

‘That man must be taught a lesson,’ he said.

After lunch they sat down to cards. Layevsky joined in, drank wine, and reflected how stupid and senseless duels were, all things considered, as they never solved any problem, but only aggravated them; all the same, at times there was no other course of action. For example, he couldn’t report von Koren to the Justice of the Peace for that kind of thing! And the impending duel seemed all the more attractive, as after it he could not possibly stay any longer in that town. He grew slightly tipsy, amused himself at cards and felt everything was fine.

But when the sun set and it became dark, he was overcome by uneasiness. This was not fear of death, since while he was lunching and playing cards he felt confident somehow that the duel would come to nothing. It was fear of the unknown, of what was bound to happen the following morning for the first time in his life, and fear of the approaching night… He knew the night would be long and sleepless, and that not only would he have to think of von Koren and his hatred, but about that mountain of lies he would have to surmount and which he had neither the skill nor strength to avoid. It was as though he had suddenly been taken ill. All at once he lost interest in the cards and the other players, fidgeted and asked if he could go home. He wanted to be in bed as soon as possible, to lie quite still and to prepare his thoughts for the night that lay ahead. Sheshkovsky and the postmaster saw him home, then went to von Koren’s to discuss the duel.

Layevsky met Achmianov near his flat. The young man was out of breath and excited.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Ivan Andreich!’ he said. ‘Please come quickly.’

‘Where?’

‘A gentleman you don’t know has some very urgent business with you. He begs you to drop in for just a minute, there’s something he wants to discuss with you… It’s a matter of life and death to him…’

In his excitement Achmianov pronounced these words with a strong Armenian accent, making two syllables out of ‘life’.

‘Who is he?’ Layevsky asked.

‘He told me not to reveal his name.’

‘Say I’m too busy at the moment. I’ll come tomorrow, if that suits him.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Achmianov said, horrified. ‘He wants to tell you something that is so very important to you… very important! It will be disastrous if you don’t go.’

‘That’s strange,’ Layevsky muttered, unable to understand why Achmianov should be so worked up and what manner of secrets could be lurking in that dull, nasty little town that no one wanted. ‘That’s strange,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘All right, let’s go. It’s all the same to me.’

Achmianov quickly went on ahead and Layevsky followed. They went down the main street, then an alley.

‘What a bore,’ Layevsky said.

‘Any moment now, we’re nearly there.’

Near the old rampart they went along a narrow alley between two fenced patches of waste ground; then they entered a kind of large courtyard and went over to a small house.

‘That’s Myuridov’s, isn’t it?’ Layevsky asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But why are we going in the back way? I don’t understand. We could have come in from the street, it’s quicker.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Layevsky found it odd too when Achmianov led him round to the back door and waved his hand at him, as if asking him to step softly and not make a sound.

‘In here, in here,’ Achmianov said, cautiously opening a door and tiptoeing into the hall. ‘Quietly please, I beg you… they might hear.’

He listened hard, took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Open this door and go in… Don’t be scared.’

Bewildered, Layevsky opened the door and entered a room with a low ceiling and curtained windows. A candle stood on the table.

‘Who do you want?’ someone asked in the next room. ‘Is that you, Myuridov?’

Layevsky went into the room and saw Kirilin, with Nadezhda beside him. He didn’t hear what was said to him, moved backwards and didn’t realize when he was back in the street again. His hatred for von Koren and his anxiety had completely disappeared. On his way home he clumsily waved his right arm and carefully inspected the ground under his feet, trying to walk where it was smooth. Back in his study he paced up and down, rubbing his hands together and awkwardly jerking his shoulders and neck, as if his waistcoat and shirt were too tight. Then he lit a candle and sat down at the table.

XVI

‘The humane studies you’re talking about will only satisfy men’s thinking when they converge with the exact sciences as they advance and go along arm in arm with them. Whether they’ll meet under the microscope or in the soliloquies of a new Hamlet, or in some new religion, I can’t say. But I do think that another ice age will be upon us before that comes about. The most stable and vital part of all humane studies is the teaching of Christ, of course, but just look at the diversity of interpretations! Some scholars teach us to love our neighbours, but make an exception for soldiers, criminals and the insane. They make it legal for the first to be killed in war, the second to be locked up or executed, and the last to be prohibited from marrying. Other commentators teach us to love our neighbours without exception, irrespective of the pros and cons. According to them, if a consumptive or murderer or epileptic comes up to you and proposes to your daughter, you must give your consent. If cretins wage war on the sound in body and mind, the healthy must lay their heads on the block. If this advocacy of love for love’s sake, like art for art’s sake, were to grow strong, it would lead in the end to the total extinction of mankind and as a result one of the most enormous crimes ever to be seen on this earth would have been committed. There are countless different teachings and if this is so, then no serious mind can ever be satisfied with any one of them and would hasten to add its own commentary to the sum total. So, you should never base a question on philosophical or so-called Christian premises, as you call them, or you’ll only stray further from the correct solution.’

The deacon listened attentively to the zoologist’s words and inquired after a moment’s thought, ‘Is the moral law, that is inherent in everyone, an invention of the philosophers, or did God create it together with the body?’

‘I don’t know. But this law is so common to all nations and epochs it strikes me it has to be recognized as an organic part of man. It is not an invention, it exists and will continue to do so. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that one day we’ll be able to see it under the microscope, but there’s already evidence that proves its organic links. Serious illness of the brain and all the so-called mental illnesses manifest themselves first and foremost in violations of the moral law, as far as I know.

‘Very well. So, just as the stomach wants food, the moral sense requires us to love our neighbours. Right? But our natural self resists the voice of conscience and reason out of sheer selfishness and many ticklish questions arise as a result. And to whom should we turn for the solution of these problems if you don’t want us to deal with them from a philosophical standpoint?

‘Take note of the small store of precise knowledge that we in fact do possess. Trust what you can see, and the logic of facts. True, it’s not much to go on, but on the other hand it’s not as shaky and vague as philosophy. Let’s suppose the moral law demands that you should love people. What then? Love should lie in the elimination of everything that in any way harms people and threatens them with present or future danger. Knowledge and what we can observe tell us that humanity is threatened by the morally and physically abnormal. If that is correct, then you must do battle with these freaks of nature. If you can’t raise them to the norm, you’ll at least have the strength and ability to render them harmless – by that I mean exterminate them.’

‘That’s to say, love is when the strong conquer the weak?’

‘Without any doubt.’

‘But it was the strong who crucified our Lord Jesus Christ!’ the deacon retorted heatedly.

‘That’s just the point, it wasn’t the strong who crucified him, but the weak. Civilization has weakened the struggle for existence and natural selection, which it is trying to annihilate. That gives rise to the rapid multiplication of the weak and their superiority over the strong. Just imagine if you succeeded in instilling bees with crude, raw human ideals. Where would it lead? The drones, who should be killed, would survive, eat all the honey, and corrupt and smother the others, and as a result we’d have the weak holding sway over the strong, so that the latter became extinct. Exactly the same is happening to humanity now, the weak oppress the strong. The savage who is strongest, wisest and who has the highest moral standards, who is as yet untouched by culture – he’s the one who makes the most progress; he is the leader and master. But we civilized men crucified Christ and keep on crucifying him. That’s to say, we are lacking in something… And this “something” must be restored or there’ll be no end to this folly.’

‘But what’s your criterion for distinguishing between the strong and the weak?’

‘Knowledge and the evidence of my senses. Consumptives and the scrofulous are known by their symptoms and the immoral and insane are judged by their actions.’

‘But surely mistakes can happen!’

‘Yes, but there’s no point in worrying about getting your feet wet when a flood is threatening.’

‘That’s philosophy,’ the deacon laughed.

‘Not at all. You’ve been so spoiled by seminary philosophy that you see fog just everywhere. The abstract studies which your young head is stuffed with are only called this because they abstract your mind from reality. Look the devil straight in the eye and if it is the devil then say so and don’t go running off to Kant or Hegel for an explanation.’

The zoologist stopped for a moment and then went on, ‘Twice two are four and a stone’s a stone. Tomorrow there’s going to be a duel. It’s all very well for us to say how stupid and ridiculous it is, that duels have outlived their time, that the nobleman’s duel is essentially no different from a drunken tavern brawl. All the same, we won’t wait, we’ll go off and fight. That means there’s a power which is stronger than all our discussions on the subject. We cry out that war is robbery, barbarity, horror, fratricide and we faint at the sight of blood. But the French or the Germans only have to insult us and immediately our spirits soar, we cheer passionately and throw ourselves on the enemy. You’ll invoke God’s blessing on our guns while our valour will arouse universal and genuine elation. Once again, that means there’s a power, if not loftier, then at least stronger than us and our philosophy. We are as powerless to stop it as that cloud over there coming in from the sea. Don’t be hypocritical, don’t stick your tongue out at it behind its back and don’t say, “Oh, it’s stupid, it’s out of date, it doesn’t agree with the Scriptures!” Look it straight in the eye and acknowledge that it’s reasonable and in the rightful order of things. And when for example it wishes to destroy some feeble, scrofulous, depraved tribe, don’t hinder it with all your medical remedies and quotations from imperfectly understood Gospels. Leskov has a highly virtuous character called Danila,¹⁹ who feeds a leper he found outside the town and keeps him warm in the name of love and Christ. If this Danila had really loved people, he would have hauled that leper as far away from the town as he could and thrown him into a ditch. Then he would have gone off to lend a hand to the healthy. Christ preached the love that is sensible, meaningful and useful, that’s what I hope.’

‘Get on with you!’ the deacon laughed. ‘You don’t believe in Christ, so why do you mention him so much?’

‘No, I do believe in him. But in my own special way, not yours. Oh, deacon, deacon,’ the zoologist said, laughing, as he put his arm round the deacon and gaily added, ‘Well, what now? Are you going to that duel tomorrow?’

‘My cloth doesn’t allow it, or I would come.’

‘What do you mean cloth?’

‘I’m in holy orders, by God’s grace.’

‘Oh, deacon, deacon!’ von Koren repeated, laughing. ‘I love talking to you.’

‘You say you have faith,’ the deacon said. ‘But what is it? Now, I have an uncle, just an ordinary parish priest, whose faith is such that when he goes into the fields to pray for rain during a drought, he takes his umbrella and a leather coat to avoid a soaking on the way home. There’s faith for you! When he speaks of Christ there’s a halo over his head and all the peasant men and women sob their hearts out. He would have made that cloud stop and put any of your powers to flight. Yes… faith moves mountains.’

The deacon burst out laughing and slapped the zoologist on the shoulder. ‘And so,’ he went on, ‘that’s what you’re teaching the whole time, plumbing the depths of the ocean, sorting out the weak from the strong, writing pamphlets and challenging people to duels. But everything stays where it was. You wait, though, one old man only has to whisper a word in the name of the Holy Spirit – or some new Muhammad to come galloping out of Arabia, scimitar in hand – and everything will be turned upside down, leaving not one stone standing on another in Europe.’

‘But that’s a load of rot, deacon!’

‘Faith without actions is dead and actions without faith are even worse, a sheer waste of time, nothing more.’

The doctor appeared on the front. Seeing the deacon and the zoologist he went up to them.

‘Everything’s arranged, it seems,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘Govorovsky and Boyko will be seconds. They’ll be here at five tomorrow morning. What a lot of clouds!’ he said, looking at the sky. ‘Can’t see a thing. We’re in for a shower any minute now.’

‘I hope you’re coming with us,’ von Koren asked.

‘No, God forbid. I’m just plain exhausted. Ustimovich is going instead. I’ve already spoken to him.’

Far over the sea lightning flashed and there were hollow peals of thunder.

‘It’s so close before a storm!’ von Koren said. ‘I’ll wager you’ve already been round to cry on Layevsky’s shoulder.’

‘Why should I go there?’ the doctor replied, taken aback. ‘Well, what next!’

Before sunset he had walked up and down the boulevard and street several times, hoping to meet Layevsky. He was ashamed of his outburst and of that sudden benevolent impulse that had followed. He wanted to apologize to Layevsky in jocular vein – to give him a little ticking-off, to calm him down and to tell him that duelling was a relic of medieval barbarism, but that Providence itself had shown them that duelling was a means of reconciliation. The next day the two of them, both fine, highly intelligent men, would – after exchanging shots – come to appreciate each other’s integrity and become friends.

‘But why should I go to see him?’ Samoylenko repeated. ‘I didn’t insult him, he insulted me. Tell me, if you don’t mind, why did he attack me? Have I ever done him any harm? I merely went into the drawing-room and suddenly, without rhyme or reason, he called me a spy! A fine thing! Tell me, what started it? What did you say to him?’

‘I told him that his situation was hopeless. And I was right. Only honest people and crooks can escape from any situation, but anyone wanting to be crooked and honest at one and the same time will never find a way out. However, it’s eleven already, gentlemen, and we have to be up early tomorrow.’

There was a sudden gust of wind. It raised clouds of dust on the sea front, whirled them round and drowned the sound of the sea with its howling.

‘A squall!’ the deacon said. ‘Let’s go, or I’ll have my eyes full of dust.’

When they had gone, Samoylenko sighed and said, gripping his hat, ‘I probably won’t sleep now.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the zoologist laughed. ‘You can relax, the duel will come to nothing. Layevsky will magnanimously fire into the air – he can’t do anything else – and most likely I shan’t fire at all. To find myself in court because of that Layevsky, wasting my time because of him – the game’s not worth the candle. By the way, what’s the penalty for duelling?’

‘Arrest, and should your opponent die, up to three years in prison.’

‘The Peter and Paul?’

‘No, a military prison, I think.’

‘That young puppy should be taught a lesson!’

Lightning flashed on the sea behind them and for a brief moment lit up the roofs of the houses and the mountains. Near the boulevard the friends parted. When the doctor had disappeared in the darkness and his footsteps had already begun to die away, von Koren shouted after him, ‘I’m scared the weather might spoil things tomorrow.’

‘It might well do that. Let’s hope it does!’

‘Good night.’

‘What? What did you say?’

It was difficult to hear anything against the roaring wind and sea, and the thunderclaps.

‘Oh, nothing!’ shouted the zoologist, and hurried home.

XVII

… a crowd of oppressive thoughts²⁰

Throngs my anguished mind; silently

Before me, Memory unfolds its long scroll;

And with loathing, reading the chronicle of my life,

I tremble and curse, and shed bitter tears,

But I do not wash away these sad lines.

PUSHKIN

Whether he was killed in the morning or made to look a fool – that is, allowed to go on living – it was all finished now. That dishonoured woman might kill herself in despair and shame, or she might drag out her wretched existence – either way she too was finished.

These were Layevsky’s thoughts as he sat late that evening at his table, rubbing his hands together as always. The window suddenly banged open, the strong wind burst into the room and the papers flew off the table. Layevsky shut the window and bent down to pick them up. He experienced a new kind of sensation, a kind of awkwardness which he had never known before and his movements seemed foreign to him. He walked about gingerly, thrusting his elbows to each side, twitching his shoulders. When he sat down at the table he started rubbing his hands again. His body had lost its suppleness.

Letters should be written to close relatives the day before one is going to die and Layevsky remembered this. He took his pen and wrote ‘Dear Mother!’ with trembling hand.

He wanted to ask his mother, in the name of all-merciful God in whom she believed, to shelter and give the warmth of her affection to that unfortunate, lonely, impoverished and weak woman whom he had dishonoured, to forget and forgive everything, and at least partly expiate her son’s terrible sin by her sacrifice. But then he remembered how his mother, a plump, heavily built old lady in a lace cap, used to go from house to garden in the morning, followed by her companion with a lapdog. He remembered how she would bully her gardener and servants in that imperious voice of hers and how proud and arrogant her face was. All this he remembered and he crossed out what he had written.

The lightning flashed vividly in all three windows, followed by a deafening roll of thunder – indistinct at first, but then crashing and crackling so violently that the window panes rattled. Layevsky stood up, went over to the window, and pressed his forehead to the glass. Outside, a mighty, beautiful storm was raging. On the distant horizon lightning constantly darted out of the clouds on to the sea in white ribbons, illuminating the towering black waves for miles around. To the left and right, and probably over the house as well, the lightning flashed.

‘A thunderstorm!’ Layevsky whispered, feeling an urge to pray to someone or something, even if only to the lightning or the clouds. ‘What a lovely storm!’

He remembered how once when he was a child a storm had made him run bareheaded into the garden with two fair-headed blue-eyed girls chasing after him, how they were all soaked by the rain. They laughed with delight, but then came a violent thunderclap and the girls trustfully snuggled up close to him as he crossed himself and hurriedly started reciting, ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ Oh, where have you gone, in what ocean have you foundered, first glimmerings of beautiful, innocent life? No longer did he fear thunderstorms, he had no love for nature, he had no God, and all those trustful girls he had once known had long since been ruined by himself and his friends. Never had he planted one sapling, never had he grown one blade of grass in his garden at home and never in his life had he spared a single fly even, but had only wrecked, ruined, and told lies, lies, lies…

‘Is there anything in my past life except vice?’ he asked himself, trying to cling to some bright memory, as a man falling over a precipice clutches at bushes.

And the high school? The university? It was all a deception. He had been a bad student and had forgotten what he had been taught. And what of his service to the community? That was deception as well, since he had never done any work and received a salary for doing nothing, so his ‘service’ was nothing more than disgraceful embezzlement of government funds which goes unpunished in court. He had no need for the truth and had never sought it. Under the spell of vice and deception, his conscience had either slept or remained silent. Like a stranger or an alien from another planet, he had done nothing to help people in their everyday life, was indifferent to their sufferings, ideas, religion, knowledge, searchings, strivings; never had he spoken a kind word to anyone, never had he written one line that was not cheap or worthless, never had he done a thing for others. Instead, he had eaten their food, drunk their wine, seduced their wives, copied their ideas. And to justify his despicable, parasitical life in his own eyes and theirs, he had always tried to give the impression of being a nobler, superior kind of being. Lies, lies, lies… He clearly recalled what he had witnessed that evening at Myuridov’s and he felt unbearably sick with loathing and anguish. Kirilin and Achmianov were repulsive, but they were after all carrying on what he had begun. They were his accomplices and pupils. He had taken a young weak woman, who had trusted him more than her own brother, away from her husband, her circle of friends, her native land, and had brought her to this place, to endure stifling heat, fever, boredom. Day after day she had come to mirror his idleness, loose living and lying in herself – her feeble, dull, wretched life consisted of this, and only this. Later on, when he had had enough of her, he began to hate her, but was not man enough to drop her, and so he redoubled his efforts to entangle her in a web of lies… The people here added the finishing touches.

Layevsky first sat at the table, then went over to the window again. Then he would snuff the candle and light it again. He cursed himself out loud, wept, complained, asked for forgiveness. Several times he ran despairingly over to the table and wrote, ‘Mother!’

Apart from his mother, he had no blood relatives or close friends at all. But how could his mother help him? And where was she? He felt like running to Nadezhda, falling at her feet, kissing her hands and feet and begging her to forgive him. But she was his victim and he feared her, just as though she were dead.

‘My life is ruined!’ he muttered, rubbing his hands. ‘For God’s sake, why am I still alive!’

He had cast down his dim star from the sky, it had faded and its trail merged with the darkness of night. Never would it return to the heavens again, as life is given only once and is never repeated. If he were able now to bring back all those days and years that had passed he would replace all the lies they held with the truth, all the idleness with work, all the boredom with joy; he would return innocence to those he had robbed of it, and he would have found God and justice. But this was as impossible as putting that fading star back in the sky and the hopelessness of ever achieving this reduced him to despair.

When the storm had passed he sat by the open window and calmly considered what was going to happen to him. Von Koren would kill him, most likely. That man’s lucid, cold outlook admitted the extermination of the weak and the useless. And if this frame of mind deserted him at the critical moment, he could call on the hatred and revulsion Layevsky aroused in him. But if he missed, or merely wounded him, just to make a laughing-stock of his odious opponent, or if he fired into the air, what could he do then? Where could he go?

‘Should I go to St Petersburg?’ Layevsky asked himself. ‘But that would mean starting that damnable old life all over again. Whoever seeks salvation by going somewhere else, like a bird of passage, will find nothing, since things will be the same wherever he goes. Should I seek salvation among people? But from whom and how? Samoylenko’s kindness and goodness of heart will do as little to save me as that deacon’s laughing at everything or von Koren’s hatred. Salvation must be sought in oneself alone, and if I fail there’s no point in wasting any more time. I will have to kill myself, that’s all…’

He heard the sound of a carriage. It was already growing light. The carriage passed, turned and with wheels crunching over the damp sand came to a stop by the house. Two people were sitting in it.

‘Wait a moment, I’m coming!’ Layevsky told them through the window. ‘I haven’t slept. Surely it’s not time already?’

‘Yes, it’s four o’clock. By the time we get there…’

Layevsky put on his coat and cap, stuffed some cigarettes into his pocket and stopped to think for a moment. There was still something he had to do, it seemed. In the street the seconds were quietly chatting, the horses snorted. These early morning sounds, on a damp day, when everyone was asleep and dawn was breaking, filled Layevsky with a feeling of despondency that was just like an evil omen. He stood thinking for a little while and then went into the bedroom.

Nadezhda was lying stretched full length on the bed with a rug up to her head. She lay so still that she looked like an Egyptian mummy – her head in particular. Silently watching her, Layevsky inwardly prayed for her to forgive him and he thought that if heaven was not an empty place, if God really did exist, then he would stay with her. But if God did not exist, then she might as well perish, as she would have nothing to live for.

Suddenly she started and sat up in bed. She raised her pale face, gave Layevsky a horrified look and asked, ‘Is that you? Is the storm over?’

‘Yes.’

She remembered what had happened, came to her senses, placed both hands on her head and trembled all over.

‘I feel so miserable!’ she said. ‘If only you knew how miserable I feel!’ She screwed her eyes up and continued, ‘I was expecting you to kill me, or drive me out into the rain and the storm, but you seem to be hesitating, hesitating.’

Impulsively, he gave her a violent embrace, showered her knees and hands with kisses. After she had murmured something, shuddering as she recollected the past events, he smoothed her hair and as he gazed into her face he came to realize that this unhappy, depraved woman was the only person in his life who was near and dear to him and who could not be replaced.

When he left the house and sat in the carriage he felt he wanted to come back alive.

XVIII

The deacon got up, dressed, took his thick, knotty walking-stick, and quietly slipped out of the house. It was dark and at first he could not even see his white stick as he walked down the street. Not a star was in the sky and it looked like rain again. There was a smell of moist sand and sea.

‘I hope I’m not attacked by Chechens,’ the deacon thought as he listened to the lonely, ringing sound of his stick as it clattered on the road in the silence of the night.

When he was out of the town he began to make out both the road and his stick. Here and there in the black sky there were dim patches of light and before long a single star peeped out and timidly winked. The deacon was walking along a high rocky cliff-top, from which he could not see the sea down below; invisible waves lazily, heavily, broke on the beach and seemed to be sighing in pain. And how slowly they rolled in! One wave broke on the beach and the deacon counted eight paces before the next arrived; six paces later came a third wave. The world was probably like this when nothing was visible, with only the lazy, sleepy sound of the sea in the darkness; and he was conscious of that infinitely remote, unimaginable time when God hovered over the void.

The deacon felt nervous, thinking that God might punish him for associating with unbelievers and because he was even going to watch a duel, which would be trivial, bloodless and ludicrous. In any case, it was a pagan spectacle and it was quite unbecoming for a member of the clergy to be present at such an event. He stopped and wondered if he should go back. But a keen, restless curiosity overcame his doubts and he continued on his way.

He comforted himself by saying, ‘Although they are unbelievers, they are still good people and will be saved.’

Then he lit a cigarette and said out loud, ‘They’re bound to be saved.’

What criterion was needed to assess people’s virtues, so as to arrive at a fair judgement? The deacon remembered his enemy, an inspector at the school for sons of the clergy, who believed in God, never fought duels, lived a chaste life, but who once gave the deacon some bread with sand in it and who had once almost torn his ear off. If human life had turned out to be so inane that everyone respected that cruel, dishonest inspector who stole government flour and prayed in school for his health and salvation – how could he be justified in steering clear of people like Layevsky and von Koren just because they were unbelievers?

The deacon tried to solve this problem, but he remembered how comical Samoylenko had looked yesterday and this disrupted his train of thought. What a good laugh they would have later on! The deacon imagined himself sitting among the bushes watching them and when von Koren started boasting over lunch he could have a good laugh as he told him every single detail of the duel.

‘How do you know all that?’ the zoologist would ask. ‘That’s a good question,’ he would reply. ‘I was at home, but I know.’

It would be great fun to pen a comical description of the duel. His father-in-law would be amused when he read it – he was the type who would go hungry, as long as someone told him or sent him a story that was funny.

The Yellow River valley opened out before him. The rain had made the river wider and angrier, and it no longer grumbled but roared instead. Dawn began to break. The dull grey sky, those clouds scurrying towards the west to catch up with a bank of storm clouds, the mountains girdled with mist, the wet trees – all this struck the deacon as ugly and evil-looking. He washed himself in a stream, said his morning prayers and conceived a sudden longing for the tea and hot buns filled with sour cream served every morning at his father-in-law’s table. He thought of the deaconess and that piece Lost Hope she played on the piano. What kind of person was she really? In just one week he had been introduced, engaged and married to her. He had lived with her less than a month, then he was sent here, so that up to now he hadn’t had a chance to find out what sort of person she was. All the same, it was rather boring without her. ‘I ought to drop her a few lines,’ he thought.

The flag over the inn was soaked with rain and hung limply. And the inn’s wet roof made it seem darker and lower than before. A bullock cart stood by the door. Kerbalay, two Abkhazians and a young Tatar girl in wide trousers (probably Kerbalay’s wife or daughter) were carrying sacks filled with something from the inn and laying them on maize straw in the cart. Two asses were standing near the cart, heads bowed. When the sacks were loaded, the Abkhazians and the Tatar girl started covering them over with straw and Kerbalay hastily began to harness the asses. ‘Contraband, most likely,’ the deacon thought.

Here was the uprooted tree with its dry needles and over there a black patch where the bonfire had been. He recalled every detail of the picnic, the fire, the Abkhazians’ songs, those sweet dreams of becoming a bishop and the church procession. The rain had turned the Black River even blacker and wider. The deacon cautiously crossed the rickety bridge which was now washed by the crests of the turbid waves and clambered up the short ladder into the drying-room.

‘That man has a wonderful brain!’ he thought as he stretched out on the straw and thought of von Koren. ‘A wonderful brain, God bless him! Only he does have a cruel streak…’

Why did von Koren hate Layevsky, and why did Layevsky hate him? Why were they going to fight a duel? Had they known the poverty the deacon had suffered from early childhood; had they been brought up among ignorant, soulless, grasping people who begrudged them every scrap of food, who were rough and uncouth, who spat on the floor and belched during dinner and prayers; had they not been spoilt since childhood by living in comfort among a select circle of friends – how they would cling to each other, how eagerly they would overlook each other’s faults and truly value what was best in every one of them! But there are so few even superficially decent people in the world! True, Layevsky was wild, dissolute, strange, but at least even he wouldn’t steal, spit loudly on the floor or tell his wife, ‘You like to guzzle all right, but you won’t do any work.’ He would never whip his child with horse reins or feed his servants with stinking salt beef. Surely all that was enough to earn him some sort of indulgence? What’s more, wasn’t he the first to suffer from his own shortcomings, like a sick person suffers from his own wounds? Instead of an absurd searching for degeneracy, decline, inherited failings and the rest of it in each other, just because they were bored, and for lack of understanding, wouldn’t they do better to set their sights lower and direct their hatred and anger where entire streets reverberated with barbaric ignorance, greed, reproaches, filth, abuse, women’s screams…?

The sound of a carriage broke the deacon’s train of thought. He peered through the doorway and saw a barouche with three men in it – Layevsky, Sheshkovsky and the local postmaster.

‘Stop!’ Sheshkovsky said.

All three climbed out of the carriage and surveyed one another.

‘They haven’t arrived yet,’ Sheshkovsky said, wiping the mud off. ‘All right, then. Until proceedings commence, let’s find a suitable spot. It’s impossible to move here.’

They went upstream and were soon out of sight. The Tatar coachman went inside the carriage, laid his head to one side and fell asleep. After waiting about ten minutes the deacon came out of the shed, took his black hat off so as not to be seen and made his way along the river bank, squatting in the bushes and maize and looking around. Heavy raindrops fell on him from the trees and bushes, and the grass and maize were wet.

‘How degrading!’ he muttered, lifting his wet, muddy skirts. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.’

Soon he heard voices and saw people. Layevsky, stooping, and with his hands in his sleeves, was swiftly pacing back and forth across the small clearing. His seconds stood right by the river bank rolling cigarettes.

‘Most peculiar…’ thought the deacon, not recognizing Layevsky’s walk. ‘Just like an old man.’

‘How rude of them!’ the postmaster said, looking at his watch. ‘Perhaps those smart alecs think it’s clever to be late, but if you ask me, they’re behaving like pigs.’

Sheshkovsky, a fat man with a black beard, pricked his ears up and said, ‘They’re coming!’

XIX

‘I’ve never seen anything like that before! How magnificent!’ von Koren said as he appeared in the clearing and held out both hands to the east. ‘Just look at those green rays!’

In the east two green rays stretched out from behind the mountains and they were truly beautiful. The sun was rising.

‘Good morning!’ the zoologist continued, nodding to Layevsky’s seconds. ‘I hope I’m not late.’

He was followed by his seconds, Boyko and Govorovsky, two very young officers of identical height, in white tunics, and the thin unsociable Dr Ustimovich, who was carrying a bundle of some sort in one hand, while he kept the other behind him. Putting the bundle on the ground, without a word of greeting to anyone, he placed his other arm behind his back and paced backwards and forwards across the clearing.

Layevsky experienced the weariness and awkwardness of a man who perhaps was soon going to die and therefore was the centre of attention. He wanted to have the killing over and done with, as soon as possible, or to be taken home. It was the first time in his life he had seen the sunrise. The early morning, the green rays, the damp and those men in wet jackboots were no part of his life at all, he had no need of them, and they had a cramping effect. None of this had the least connection with the night he had just lived through, with his trains of thought and feelings of guilt, and consequently he would gladly have left without waiting for the duel.

Von Koren was visibly excited and tried to hide this by pretending he was interested in those green rays. The seconds were embarrassed, exchanging glances as if to ask why they were there and what they had to do.

‘I don’t think there’s any point in going on further, gentlemen,’ Sheshkovsky said. ‘It’s fine here.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ von Koren agreed.

Silence followed. Ustimovich suddenly halted, turned sharply towards Layevsky and breathed into his face as he said in an undertone, ‘Most likely they haven’t managed to inform you of my terms. Each side pays me fifteen roubles and in the event of the death of one of the parties the survivor will pay the whole thirty.’

Layevsky knew this man from before, but only now did he have the first clear view of his lacklustre eyes, wiry moustache and his gaunt, wasted neck. This was a usurer, not a doctor! His breath smelt unpleasantly of beef.

‘There are some peculiar people in this world,’ Layevsky thought as he answered, ‘All right.’

The doctor nodded and strode off again. It was obvious he did not need money at all, but had simply demanded it out of hatred. Everyone felt it was high time they began or finished what had been put in motion, but they did neither, merely walked around or stood smoking.

The young officers who were attending a duel for the first time and who now felt very sceptical about a contest between two civilians, which was quite unnecessary in their opinion, carefully inspected their tunics and smoothed down their sleeves. Sheshkovsky went over to them and said softly, ‘Gentlemen, we must make every effort to stop this duel. We must reconcile them.’ He blushed and went on, ‘Yesterday Kirilin called on me to complain that Layevsky had caught him with Nadezhda, and all that.’

‘Yes, we know,’ Boyko said.

‘Well, just have a look… Layevsky’s hands are shaking, and all that. He can’t even pick his pistol up. Fighting him would be as inhuman as fighting a drunk or someone with typhus. If they can’t be reconciled, gentlemen, then perhaps we should postpone the duel… It’s all damned stupid, I don’t think I can even look.’

‘You’d better have a word with von Koren.’

‘I don’t know the rules of duelling, blast it, and I don’t want to know. Perhaps he’ll think Layevsky’s got cold feet and sent me over. He can think what he likes, however. I’ll talk to him.’

Hesitantly and limping slowly, as though he had pins and needles in his foot, Sheshkovsky went towards von Koren and he looked the very embodiment of laziness as he sauntered over, clearing his throat. ‘There is something I must tell you, sir,’ he began, closely studying the floral pattern on the zoologist’s shirt. ‘It’s confidential… I don’t know the rules of duelling, damn it, and I don’t want to know, so I’m not speaking as a second, and all that, but as a man, that’s all.’

‘Yes. Well what?’

‘When seconds propose a reconciliation they are usually ignored as it’s considered a formality. Pride, and all that. But I most humbly beg you to take a look at Ivan Layevsky. He’s not normal today, he’s not in his right mind, in a manner of speaking he’s just pathetic. He’s had a terrible misfortune. I cannot stand scandal’ (here Sheshkovsky blushed and took a look round) ‘but I have to tell you this because of the duel. Yesterday evening he found his lady friend at Myuridov’s with a… certain gentleman.’

‘How shocking!’ the zoologist muttered. He went pale, frowned and spat noisily. ‘Ugh!’

His lower lip quivered. He walked away from Sheshkovsky, not wishing to hear any more and once again, as if he had accidentally eaten something bitter, spat loudly. For the first time that morning he gave Layevsky a hateful look. His excitement and embarrassment passed and he shook his head and said in a loud voice, ‘Gentlemen, I ask you, why are we waiting? Why don’t we begin?’

Sheshkovsky exchanged glances with the officers and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Gentlemen!’ he said out loud, without addressing anyone in particular, ‘Gentlemen! We suggest you settle your differences!’

‘Let’s get the formalities over with,’ von Koren said. ‘We’ve already discussed a reconciliation. What’s next on the agenda? Now, let’s get a move on, gentlemen, there’s no time to waste.’

‘All the same, we insist you make it up,’ Sheshkovsky said, in the guilty tone of someone forced to get involved in other people’s business. Blushing and placing his hand over his heart he continued, ‘Gentlemen, we cannot find any causal connection between the insult and the duel. Insults which we sometimes inflict on each other out of human frailty have nothing to do with duels. You are educated, university men and naturally you see duels as an outmoded, empty formality, and all that. We see it like that too, otherwise we wouldn’t have come, since we cannot allow people to shoot at each other in our presence, and all that.’ Sheshkovsky wiped the sweat from his brow and went on, ‘Please settle your differences, gentlemen, shake hands and let’s all go home and have a drink on it. Honestly, gentlemen!’

Von Koren said nothing. When Layevsky saw them looking at him he said, ‘I’ve nothing against Nikolay Vasilyevich. If he thinks I’m the guilty party, then I’m prepared to apologize.’

Von Koren took offence at this. ‘Obviously, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you would like to see Mr Layevsky return home as the chivalrous knight, but I cannot afford either him or you that pleasure. And there was no need to get up at the crack of dawn and ride six miles out of town just for a friendly drink and bite to eat, and to be told duels are outmoded formalities. Duels are duels and we should not make them out to be even more stupid and artificial than they actually are. I wish to fight!’

Silence followed. Officer Boyko took two pistols from a box, one was handed to von Koren and the other to Layevsky. Then followed a state of confusion which amused the zoologist and the seconds for a while. It turned out that not one of the whole assembled company had ever attended a duel before and no one knew precisely how they should stand, or what the seconds should say or do. But then Boyko remembered and he smiled as he began to explain.

‘Gentlemen, who remembers Lermontov’s description?’ von Koren asked, laughing. ‘And in Turgenev, Bazarov had a duel with someone or other…’²¹

‘Why bring all that up now?’ Ustimovich asked impatiently as he halted. ‘Just measure out your distances, that’s all.’

He took three steps as if to show how measuring should be done. Boyko counted out the paces, while his fellow officer bared his sword and scratched the ground at the extreme ends to mark the barrier.

Amid general silence the two opponents took up their positions.

‘Moles!’ the deacon recalled as he sat in the bushes.

Sheshkovsky said something, Boyko explained something further, but Layevsky did not hear; rather, he probably heard but did not understand. When the moment arrived he cocked the cold heavy pistol and pointed it upwards. He had forgotten to unbutton his coat and felt terribly cramped around the shoulders and armpits, and he raised his arm so awkwardly the sleeve seemed to be made of metal. He remembered the hatred he had felt yesterday for that swarthy forehead and curly hair and reflected that even then, when his hatred and anger were at boiling-point, he could never have fired at a man. Afraid the bullet might accidentally hit von Koren, he raised his pistol higher and higher, feeling that this terribly ostentatious show of magnanimity was tactless and not at all magnanimous; but he was incapable of acting in any other way. As he watched the pale, mocking face of von Koren, who was evidently convinced from the start that his opponent would fire into the air, Layevsky thought that it would be all over any moment, thank God, and that he only had to squeeze the trigger a little harder…

The pistol recoiled violently against his shoulder, a shot rang out and back came the echo from the mountains.

Von Koren cocked his pistol and looked towards Ustimovich, who was still striding back and forwards, hands behind his back, oblivious of everything.

‘Doctor,’ the zoologist said, ‘please be so good as to stop going up and down like a pendulum. You’re giving me spots before the eyes!’

The doctor stopped. Von Koren began taking aim at Layevsky.

‘It’s all over now!’ Layevsky thought.

The barrel which was directed right at his face, the hatred and scorn in von Koren’s whole bearing and posture, the murder that was about to be committed by a decent man in broad daylight in the presence of other decent men, the silence, that strange power that compelled Layevsky to stand firm and not run away – how mysterious, incomprehensible and terrifying all this was!

The time von Koren took to aim seemed longer to Layevsky than the whole night. He looked imploringly at the seconds; their faces were pale and they did not move.

‘Hurry up and fire!’ Layevsky thought, sensing that his pale, trembling, pathetic face must arouse even deeper loathing in von Koren.

‘I’ll kill him right now,’ von Koren thought, aiming at the forehead and already feeling the trigger. ‘Yes, of course I will…’

‘He’s going to kill him!’ a desperate cry came from somewhere quite close.

At once the shot rang out. When they saw Layevsky still standing in the same place everyone looked where the cry had come from – and they saw the deacon.

Pale-faced, soaked, covered in mud, his wet hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks, the deacon was standing in the maize on the far bank, smiling peculiarly and waving his wet hat. Sheshkovsky laughed for joy, burst into tears and walked to one side.

XX

Shortly afterwards von Koren and the deacon met near the bridge. The deacon was disturbed, breathing heavily and avoiding people’s eyes. He was ashamed of being so scared, and of his wet, muddy clothes.

‘I thought you wanted to kill him,’ he muttered. ‘How alien to human nature! How extremely unnatural!’

‘But where on earth did you come from?’ the zoologist asked.

‘Don’t ask!’ the deacon said, waving his arm. ‘The devil’s to blame, he tempted me here. So off I went and I nearly died of fright in the maize. But now, thank God, thank God… I’m very pleased with you,’ the deacon muttered. ‘And Grandpa Tarantula will be pleased too… What a laugh, eh, what a laugh! But I beg of you, most earnestly, not to breathe a word to a soul that I was here or I’ll get it in the neck from the authorities. They’ll say a deacon acted as second.’

‘Gentlemen!’ said von Koren. ‘The deacon requests you not to tell anyone you saw him here. It could have unpleasant consequences for him.’

‘How alien to human nature!’ the deacon sighed. ‘Please be generous and forgive me – but from the way you looked I thought you were definitely going to kill him.’

‘I was strongly tempted to have finished with that scoundrel,’ von Koren said, ‘but your shout put me off, and I missed. I’m just not used to all this repulsive procedure, it’s worn me out, deacon. I feel terribly weak. Let’s drive back now.’

‘No, please permit me to walk. I must dry myself out, I’m soaked and frozen stiff.’

‘Well, please yourself,’ the exhausted zoologist said wearily as he climbed into the carriage and closed his eyes. ‘As you like.’

While they were walking round the carriages and taking their seats, Kerbalay stood by the roadside, clasped his stomach with both hands, made a low bow and showed his teeth. He thought that the gentlemen had come to enjoy the beauties of nature and to drink tea, and he could not fathom why they were getting back into their carriages. The procession moved off in complete silence; only the deacon stayed behind at the inn.

‘Me come to inn, me drink tea,’ he said to Kerbalay. ‘Me want eat.’

Kerbalay knew Russian well, but the deacon thought that the Tatar would understand broken Russian better.

‘You make fried egg, you serve cheese…’

‘Come on, come on, Father,’ Kerbalay said, bowing. ‘I’ll give you everything… There’s cheese and wine… Eat what you like.’

‘What’s Tatar for “God”?’ the deacon asked as he entered the inn.

‘Your God, my God – just the same,’ Kerbalay said, not understanding. ‘God same for everyone, only people different. Some are Russians, some Turks, some English, there’s all kinds of different people, but God is one.’

‘All right then. If all nations worship the same God, then why do you Muslims treat Christians as your eternal enemies?’

‘Why you angry?’ Kerbalay asked, clutching his belly with both hands. ‘You’re priest, me Muslim, you say “I want to eat” and I give you food… Only the rich man make difference which your God, which my God. But it’s all the same for the poor man. Please eat.’

While this theological discussion was in progress at the inn, Layevsky was driving home and he realized how terrifying it had been travelling at dawn, when the road, rocks and mountains were wet and dark, and an unknown future had held the terrors of a seemingly bottomless abyss. But now the raindrops hanging from the grass and stones sparkled like diamonds in the sun, nature smiled joyfully and that terrifying future was left behind. He looked at Sheshkovsky’s gloomy, tear-stained face, at the two barouches in front with von Koren, his seconds and the doctor in them and it seemed they were all returning from a cemetery where they had buried some dreadful bore who had been a thorn in everyone’s side.

‘It’s all over,’ he thought, reflecting on his past and gingerly running his fingers over his neck.

On the right side of his neck, near the collar, a small swelling had come up as long and wide as his little finger and it was so painful it seemed someone had passed a hot iron over it. This was the bruise from the bullet.

And then, when he arrived home, a long, strange, sweet day stretched out in front of him, as vague as oblivion. As though released from prison or hospital, he scrutinized long-familiar objects and was astonished that tables, windows, chairs, light and sea brought him a keen, childlike joy that he had not known for such a long time. Nadezhda, pale and terribly thin, did not understand his gentle voice and strange walk. She hurried to tell him all that had happened to her. He probably couldn’t hear her properly, she thought, and didn’t understand her – if he knew everything he would curse and kill her. But he listened, stroked her face and hair, looked into her eyes and said, ‘I’ve no one besides you.’

Afterwards they sat for a long time in the front garden, snuggling close to one another, saying nothing. Or they would give voice to their dreams of the happy life that lay ahead, speaking in brief, broken sentences, and he felt that never before had he spoken so long and so eloquently.

XXI

More than three months passed.

The day of von Koren’s departure arrived. From early morning there had been a cold, heavy rain, a north-easterly had blown up and a strong sea was running. In that kind of weather, people said, a steamer would have difficulty in getting into the roadstead. According to the timetable, it should have arrived at ten in the morning, but when he went down to the quay at noon and after lunch, von Koren could make out nothing through his binoculars except grey waves and rain veiling the horizon.

By the end of the day the rain had stopped and the wind dropped appreciably. Von Koren had already reconciled himself to the fact that he would not be leaving that day and sat down to a game of chess with Samoylenko. But after dark the batman reported that lights had been sighted out at sea and that a flare had been seen.

Von Koren began to hurry. He slung a knapsack over his shoulders, kissed Samoylenko and the deacon, went round all the rooms for no reason at all, said goodbye to his batman and cook, and went out into the street feeling as if he had left something behind at the doctor’s or at his flat. He walked at Samoylenko’s side, the deacon following with a chest and the batman bringing up the rear with two suitcases. Only Samoylenko and the batman could make out the tiny, dim lights at sea, the others peered into the darkness without seeing a thing. The steamer anchored far from the shore.

‘Come on now, quicker!’ von Koren said, hurrying along. ‘I don’t want to miss it!’

Passing the little three-windowed house into which Layevsky had moved soon after the duel, von Koren could not resist taking a look through one of the windows. Layevsky was sitting writing, hunched up at a table, his back to the window.

‘Well, I’m amazed!’ the zoologist said quietly. ‘Just look how he’s pulled himself together!’

‘Yes, you may well be amazed,’ Samoylenko sighed. ‘He sits like that from morn till night, just sits and works. He wants to pay off his debts. But he’s living worse than a pauper, my dear chap!’

About half a minute passed in silence. The zoologist, the doctor and the deacon stood at the window, all watching Layevsky.

‘So the poor devil didn’t manage to get away,’ Samoylenko said. ‘Do you remember how hard he tried?’

‘Yes, he’s really pulled himself together,’ von Koren repeated. ‘His marriage, this daylong sweating and slaving for a crust of bread, that new look on his face, his walk even – it’s all so extraordinary, words just fail me.’ The zoologist grabbed Samoylenko’s sleeve and went on in an emotional voice, ‘Please tell him and his wife that I left this place full of admiration and that he has my very best wishes… and please ask him, if that’s possible, not to bear any grudges. He knows me very well. He knows that had I foreseen the change in him at the time, I might have become his best friend.’

‘Go in and say goodbye.’

‘No, that would be embarrassing.’

‘But why? God knows, you might never see him again.’

The zoologist pondered for a moment and said, ‘That’s true.’

Samoylenko softly tapped on the window. Layevsky shuddered and turned round.

‘Ivan, Nikolay Vasilyevich wants to say goodbye,’ Samoylenko said. ‘He’s just leaving.’

Layevsky got up from the table and went into the hall to open the door. Samoylenko, von Koren and the deacon went in.

‘I’ve just dropped in for a moment,’ the zoologist began as he took off his galoshes in the hall, already regretting that he had bowed to sentiment and called uninvited. ‘I feel I’m intruding,’ he thought; ‘it’s silly.’

‘Forgive me for disturbing you,’ he said, following Layevsky into his room, ‘but I’m on my way now and I felt I had to come and see you. God knows if we’ll ever meet again.’

‘Delighted… Please come in…’ Layevsky said, clumsily putting chairs in front of his guests as though wanting to bar their way. He stopped in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.

‘I should have left the others in the street,’ von Koren thought.

‘Don’t think too badly of me, Layevsky,’ he said firmly. ‘Of course, one can’t forget the past, it’s too sad and I haven’t come to apologize or to try and assure you I wasn’t to blame. I acted in all sincerity and have since stuck to my convictions. It’s true, and I’m delighted to see it, that I was mistaken about you, the best of us can take a tumble – that’s only human destiny. If you don’t trip on the main things, you’ll stumble over the small. No one knows the real truth of the matter.’

‘Yes, no one knows the truth…’ Layevsky said.

‘Well, goodbye… Good luck and God be with you.’

Von Koren offered Layevsky his hand; he shook it and bowed.

‘Don’t think too badly of me,’ von Koren said. ‘Remember me to the wife and tell her I was very sorry I didn’t manage to say goodbye.’

‘She’s here.’

Layevsky went to the door and spoke into the next room.

‘Nadezhda, Nikolay Vasilyevich wishes to say goodbye.’

Nadezhda came in. She stopped by the door and timidly surveyed the visitors. Her face was frightened and guilty and she held her hands to her sides, like a schoolgirl being told off.

‘I’m leaving now, Nadezhda,’ von Koren said, ‘and I’ve come to say goodbye.’

Hesitantly she held her hand out to him, while Layevsky bowed.

‘What a pathetic pair!’ von Koren thought. ‘They don’t have an easy life.’

‘I’ll be in Moscow and St Petersburg,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can send you?’

‘But what?’ Nadezhda said and exchanged anxious glances with her husband. ‘I can’t think of anything…’

‘No, there’s nothing,’ Layevsky said, rubbing his hands. ‘Give them our regards.’

Von Koren did not know what else he could or should say, but when he first came in he had contemplated saying a great deal of uplifting, kindly, significant things. Silently he shook Layevsky’s and his wife’s hands and went away feeling heavy at heart.

‘What people!’ the deacon whispered as he followed the others. ‘Heavens, what people! “Verily the Lord’s right hand hath sown this vine… Oh Lord, one hath conquered thousands, the other tens of thousands”.’ Solemnly he continued, ‘Von Koren, you should know that today you overcame mankind’s most powerful enemy – pride!’

‘That’s enough, deacon! What sort of conquerors do you think Layevsky and I are? Conquerors look down like eagles from their heights, but he’s pathetic, timid, downtrodden and he bows like a Chinese dummy… I feel very sad.’

They heard footsteps behind them. Layevsky wanted to see von Koren off and was trying to catch them up. The batman stood on the quayside with the two suitcases and a little way off were four oarsmen.

‘It’s really blowing hard… brrrrr!’ Samoylenko said. ‘There must be a real gale out there. Oh dear! You’ve picked a fine time to leave, Nikolay!’

‘I’m not scared of seasickness.’

‘I don’t mean that. I only hope those idiots don’t have you in the water. You should have taken the agent’s boat. Where is the agent’s boat?’ he shouted to the oarsmen.

‘It’s gone, General.’

‘And the Customs boat?’

‘She’s gone too.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ Samoylenko said furiously. ‘Blockheads!’

‘It doesn’t matter, don’t let it upset you,’ von Koren said. ‘Well, goodbye, God protect you.’

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

‘Now don’t forget us, Nikolay… write… we’ll expect you in the spring.’

‘Goodbye, deacon,’ von Koren said, shaking his hand. ‘Thanks for your company and all the excellent conversations. Think about the expedition.’

‘Yes, even to the very ends of the earth!’ the deacon laughed. ‘I didn’t say no, did I?’

Von Koren recognized Layevsky in the dark and silently offered him his hand. The oarsmen were already down below holding the boat which banged against the wooden piles, although the pier offered protection from the main swell. Von Koren went down the ladder, leapt into the boat and sat by the rudder.

‘Do write!’ Samoylenko shouted. ‘And look after yourself!’

‘No one knows the real truth,’ Layevsky thought, raising his collar and stuffing his hands into his sleeves.

The boat jauntily rounded the quay and went out into the open sea. It disappeared among the waves, then immediately rose up from a deep trough to the crest of a high wave, so that the men and even the oars were visible. For every eighteen feet the boat moved forward, she was thrown back twelve.

‘Write!’ Samoylenko shouted. ‘What the hell possessed you to travel in this weather!’

‘Yes, no one knows the real truth…’ Layevsky thought, dejectedly surveying the restless, dark sea.

‘The boat’s tossed back,’ he thought; ‘it makes two movements forward and one back, but the oarsmen don’t give up, they swing the oars tirelessly and have no fear of the high waves. The boat moves on and on, now it’s disappeared from view. In half an hour the rowers will be able to see the ship’s lights clearly and within an hour they’ll be alongside the ladder. Life is like that… As they search for truth people take two paces forward and one back. Suffering, mistakes and life’s tedium throw them back, but thirst for the truth and stubborn willpower drive them on and on. And who knows? Perhaps they’ll arrive at the real truth in the end.’

‘Goodbye!’ shouted Samoylenko.

‘No sight or sound of them now,’ the deacon said. ‘Safe journey!’

It began to drizzle.