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 sou
r 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 pe
rhaps 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?’
The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Page 42
