I’ll have to write her a little letter …, he thought.
The flag above the dukhan was wet from the rain and drooped, and with its roof wet the dukhan itself seemed darker and lower than it had been before. An arba stood near the door; Kerbalay, two Abkhazian strangers and a young Tartar woman in wide pants, probably the wife or daughter of Kerbalay, were carrying sacks filled with something from out of the dukhan and placing them onto corn straw in the arba. A pair of donkeys stood to the right of the arba with their heads lowered. Having positioned the sacks, the Abkhazians and the Tartar woman began covering them with straw as Kerbalay took to the task of quickly harnessing the oxen. Contraband, I suppose, thought the deacon.
Here is the fallen tree with the dried pineneedles, there the black burn mark left by the campfire. The memory of the picnic came back to him in all its detail, the fire, the singing of the Abkhazians, the sweet aspirations of clerical promotion and of the church procession … The small Black River had become even blacker and wider from the rain. The deacon carefully crossed the small wet bridge, already overtaken by a mane of soot-filled waves, and climbed up the little ladder to the drying shed.
What a glorious head! he thought, stretching out on the straw and recollecting Von Koren. A good head; God willing, sound. Only there is cruelty in him …
What reason does he have for hating Laevsky, and vice versa? What are they fighting a duel for? If they had known privation, such as the deacon had since childhood, if they had been raised amongst the ignorant, the hard-hearted, those greedy for gain, who would begrudge you a piece of bread, the vulgar and ill mannered, who spat on the floor and belched during dinner and in the middle of prayer, if they hadn’t been coddled since childhood by good domestic surroundings and an elite circle of people, then they would grab hold of one another, would readily forgive mutual shortcomings and would value that which each one had in him. But even superficially decent people are lacking in this world! It’s true, Laevsky is loony, undisciplined, strange, but it seemed that he would never steal, would never spit on the floor loudly, would never reproach his wife with, “You scarf it down, but you won’t work,” would never beat his child with reins or feed his servants putrid cured beef—is this really not reason enough to treat him with indulgence? What’s more, he’s the first to suffer from his own shortcomings, as a sick man suffers from his sores. Instead of seeking out degeneration, extinction, heredity and whatever else in one another as a result of ennui and some sort of misunderstanding which, incidentally, no one else can follow, wouldn’t it be better for them to descend a bit and direct their hatred and wrath to where entire streets buzz with the groans of vulgar ignorance, greed, reproach, filth, profanity, the cries of women …
A coach was heard knocking about and interrupted the deacon’s thoughts. He peeked out through the door and saw the carriage contained three: Laevsky, Sheshkovsky and the master of the postal and telegraph office.
“Stop!” Sheshkovsky said.
All three climbed out of the carriage and looked at one another.
“They’re not here yet,” Sheshkovsky said, dusting himself off. “What say, before the trial gets under way, we go and find a comfortable place. There’s no space to move about here.”
They walked further upland along the river and were soon hidden from view. A Tartar driver sat in the carriage, rested his head on his shoulder and slept. Having waited about ten minutes, the deacon exited the drying shed and, removing his black hat, so that he would not be noticed, crouching and looking all around, made his way along the shore between the bushes and the strips of corn stalks; fat droplets of water sprinkled on him from the trees and the bushes, the grass and the corn stalks were wet.
“Shameful!” he muttered, gathering up his wet and dirty frock. “Had I known, I wouldn’t have come.”
Soon he heard voices and saw people. Laevsky, his hands thrust in his sleeves and hunched over, quickly paced to and fro along the smallish clearing; his seconds stood at the edge of the bank and rolled cigarettes.
How strange …, the Deacon thought, unfamiliar with Laevsky’s gait. I would have thought him to be an old man.
“How impolite this is on their part!” the postmaster said, looking at his watch. “Perhaps, in the ways of the learned, it’s good to be late, but in my opinion, it’s swinish.”
Sheshkovsky, a fat man with a black beard, paid heed and said:
“They’re coming!”
XIX
“It’s the first time in my life that I’ve seen this! How glorious!” Von Koren said, appearing in the clearing and stretching both arms to the east. “Look: green rays of light!”
To the east two green rays of light extended from the mountains, and this, in actuality, was lovely. The sun rose.
“Greetings!” the zoologist continued, nodding his head at Laevsky’s seconds. “I’m not late, am I?”
His own seconds walked behind him, two very young officers of identical height, Boyko and Govorovsky, in white service jackets, and the emaciated, misanthropic doctor Ustimovich, who carried something tied up in a knot in one hand, the other he kept behind his back; as was his habit, a cane stretched lengthwise along his back. Placing the knot down on the ground, and without a word of greeting to anyone, he put his other hand behind his back and began to stride about the clearing.
Laevsky felt the weariness and unease of a man who may soon be dead and so drew everyone’s attention. He very much wanted either to be killed quickly or to be taken home. He was watching the sunrise now for the first time in his life; this early morning, the green rays of light, the damp and the people in wet boots all seemed superfluous to his life, unnecessary and a hindrance to him; none of this had anything to do with the night he’d just survived, with his thoughts and his feelings of guilt, and this is why he would have gladly left, not bothering to wait for the duel.
Von Koren was noticeably excited and attempted to conceal it by giving the appearance that the green rays of light excited him more than anything else. The seconds were confused and exchanged looks, as though inquiring why they were there and what they were expected to do.
“I fancy, gentlemen, that we need not go any further,” Sheshkovsky said. “Here’s all right.”
“Yes, of course,” Von Koren agreed.
Silence set in. Ustimovich, taking full strides, all of a sudden turned abruptly to Laevsky and, breathing in his face, said in a low voice:
“There’s probably not been time for you to be advised of my terms. Each side pays me fifteen rubles; if one of the opponents should die the one left alive pays the entire thirty.”
Laevsky had been acquainted with this man earlier, but it was only just now that he distinctly saw his lackluster eyes, his coarse whiskers and emaciated, consumptive neck: he was a usurer and not a doctor! His breath had an unpleasant, beefy scent to it.
The world is filled with all sorts of people, thought Laevsky, and answered: