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.