Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (147 page)

The prince looked at me with contemptuous surprise, took my arm again, and making a show of re - conducting me to my seat, answered coldly, ‘I?’

‘Yes, you!’ I went on in a whisper, obeying, however -
 
- that is to say, following him to my place; ‘you; but I do not intend to permit any empty - headed Petersburg upstart -
 
- ‘

The prince smiled tranquilly, almost condescendingly, pressed my arm, whispered, ‘I understand you; but this is not the place; we will have a word later,’ turned away from me, went up to Bizmyonkov, and led him up to Liza. The pale little official turned out to be the chosen partner. Liza got up to meet him.

Sitting beside my partner with the dejected beetle on her head, I felt almost a hero. My heart beat violently, my breast heaved gallantly under my starched shirt front, I drew deep and hurried breaths, and suddenly gave the local lion near me such a magnificent glare that there was an involuntary quiver of his foot in my direction. Having disposed of this person, I scanned the whole circle of dancers. . . . I fancied two or three gentlemen were staring at me with some perplexity; but, in general, my conversation with the prince had passed unnoticed. . . . My rival was already back in his chair, perfectly composed, and with the same smile on his face. Bizmyonkov led Liza back to her place. She gave him a friendly bow, and at once turned to the prince, as I fancied, with some alarm. But he laughed in response, with a graceful wave of his hand, and must have said something very agreeable to her, for she flushed with delight, dropped her eyes, and then bent them with affectionate reproach upon him.

The heroic frame of mind, which had suddenly developed in me, had not disappeared by the end of the mazurka; but I did not indulge in any more epigrams or ‘quizzing.’ I contented myself with glancing occasionally with gloomy severity at my partner, who was obviously beginning to be afraid of me, and was utterly tongue - tied and continuously blinking by the time I placed her under the protection of her mother, a very fat woman with a red cap on her head. Having consigned the scared maiden lady to her natural belongings, I turned away to a window, folded my arms, and began to await what would happen. I had rather long to wait. The prince was the whole time surrounded by his host -
 
- surrounded, simply, as England is surrounded by the sea, -
 
- to say nothing of the other members of the marshal’s family and the rest of the guests. And besides, he could hardly go up to such an insignificant person as me and begin to talk without arousing a general feeling of surprise. This insignificance, I remember, was positively a joy to me at the time. ‘All right,’ I thought, as I watched him courteously addressing first one and then another highly respected personage, honoured by his notice, if only for an ‘instant’s flash,’ as the poets say; -
 
- ‘all right, my dear . . . you’ll come to me soon -
 
- I’ve insulted you, anyway.’ At last the prince, adroitly escaping from the throng of his adorers, passed close by me, looked somewhere between the window and my hair, was turning away, and suddenly stood still, as though he had recollected something. ‘Ah, yes!’ he said, turning to me with a smile, ‘by the way, I have a little matter to talk to you about.’

Two country gentlemen, of the most persistent, who were obstinately pursuing the prince, probably imagined the ‘little matter’ to relate to official business, and respectfully fell back. The prince took my arm and led me apart. My heart was thumping at my ribs.

‘You, I believe,’ he began, emphasising the word
you,
and looking at my chin with a contemptuous expression, which, strange to say, was supremely becoming to his fresh and handsome face, ‘you said something abusive to me?’

‘I said what I thought,’ I replied, raising my voice.

‘Sh . . . quietly,’ he observed; ‘decent people don’t bawl. You would like, perhaps, to fight me?’

‘That’s your affair,’ I answered, drawing myself up.

‘I shall be obliged to challenge you,’ he remarked carelessly, ‘if you don’t withdraw your expressions, . . .’

‘I do not intend to withdraw from anything,’ I rejoined with pride.

‘Really?’ he observed, with an ironical smile. ‘In that case,’ he continued, after a brief pause, ‘I shall have the honour of sending my second to you to - morrow.’

‘Very good,’ I said in a voice, if possible, even more indifferent.

The prince gave a slight bow.

‘I cannot prevent you from considering me empty - headed,’ he added, with a haughty droop of his eyelids; ‘but the Princes N -
 
-
 
-
 
- cannot be upstarts. Good - bye till we meet, Mr, . . . Mr. Shtukaturin.’

He quickly turned his back on me, and again approached his host, who was already beginning to get excited.

Mr. Shtukaturin! . . . My name is Tchulkaturin, . . . I could think of nothing to say to him in reply to this last insult, and could only gaze after him with fury. ‘Till to - morrow,’ I muttered, clenching my teeth, and I at once looked for an officer of my acquaintance, a cavalry captain in the Uhlans, called Koloberdyaev, a desperate rake, and a very good fellow. To him I related, in few words, my quarrel with the prince, and asked him to be my second. He, of course, promptly consented, and I went home.

I could not sleep all night -
 
- from excitement, not from cowardice. I am not a coward. I positively thought very little of the possibility confronting me of losing my life -
 
- that, as the Germans assure us, highest good on earth. I could think only of Liza, of my ruined hopes, of what I ought to do. ‘Ought I to try to kill the prince?’ I asked myself; and, of course, I wanted to kill himÄnot from revenge, but from a desire for Liza’s good. ‘But she will not survive such a blow,’ I went on. ‘No, better let him kill me!’ I must own it was an agreeable reflection, too, that I, an obscure provincial person, had forced a man of such consequence to fight a duel with me.

The morning light found me still absorbed in these reflections; and, not long after it, appeared Koloberdyaev.

‘Well,’ he asked me, entering my room with a clatter, ‘where’s the prince’s second?’

‘Upon my word,’ I answered with annoyance, ‘it ‘s seven o’clock at the most; the prince is still asleep, I should imagine.’ ‘In that case,’ replied the cavalry officer, in nowise daunted, ‘order some tea for me. My head aches from yesterday evening, . . . I’ve not taken my clothes off all night. Though, indeed,’ he added with a yawn, ‘I don’t as a rule often take my clothes off.’

Some tea was given him. He drank off six glasses of tea and rum, smoked four pipes, told me he had on the previous day bought, for next to nothing, a horse the coachman refused to drive, and that he was meaning to drive her out with one of her fore legs tied up, and fell asleep, without undressing, on the sofa, with a pipe in his mouth. I got up and put my papers to rights. One note of invitation from Liza, the one note I had received from her, was on the point of putting in my bosom, but on second thoughts I flung it in a drawer. Koloberdyaev was snoring feebly, with his head hanging from the leather pillow, . . . For a long while, I remember, I scrutinised his unkempt, daring, careless, and good - natured face. At ten o’clock the man announced the arrival of Bizmyonkov. The prince had chosen him as second.

We both together roused the soundly sleeping cavalry officer. He sat up, stared at us with dim eyes, in a hoarse voice demanded vodka. He recovered himself, and exchanging greetings with Bizmyonkov, he went with him into the next room to arrange matters. The consultation of the worthy seconds did not last long. A quarter of an hour later, they both came into my bedroom. Koloberdyaev announced to me that ‘we’re going to fight to - day at three o’clock with pistols.’ In silence I bent my head, in token of my agreement Bizmyonkov at once took leave of us, and departed. He was rather pale and inwardly agitated, like a man unused to such jobs, but he was, nevertheless, very polite and chilly. I felt, as it were, conscience - stricken in his presence, and did not dare look him in the face. Koloberdyaev began telling me about his horse. This conversation was very welcome to me. I was afraid he would mention Liza. But the good - natured cavalry officer was not a gossip, and, moreover, he despised all women, calling them, God knows why, green stuff. At two o’clock we had lunch, and at three we were at the place fixed upon -
 
- the very birch copse in which I had once walked with Liza, a couple of yards from the precipice.

We arrived first; but the prince and Bizmyonkov did not keep us long waiting. The prince was, without exaggeration, as fresh as a rose; his brown eyes looked out with excessive cordiality from under the peak of his cap. He was smoking a cigar, and on seeing Koloberdyaev shook his hand in a friendly way. Even to me he bowed very genially. I was conscious, on the contrary, of being pale, and my hands, to my terrible vexation, were slightly trembling . . . my throat was parched. . . . I had never fought a duel before. ‘O God!’ I thought; ‘if only that ironical gentleman doesn’t take my agitation for timidity!’ I was inwardly cursing my nerves; but glancing, at last, straight in the prince’s face, and catching on his lips an almost imperceptible smile, I suddenly felt furious again, and was at once at my ease. Meanwhile, our seconds were fixing the barrier, measuring out the paces, loading the pistols. Koloberdyaev did most; Bizmyonkov rather watched him. It was a magnificent day -
 
- as fine as the day of that ever - memorable walk. The thick blue of the sky peeped, as then, through the golden green of the leaves. Their lisping seemed to mock me. The prince went on smoking his cigar, leaning with his shoulder against the trunk of a young lime - tree, . . .

‘Kindly take your places, gentlemen; ready,’ Koloberdyaev pronounced at last, handing us pistols.

The prince walked a few steps away, stood still, and, turning his head, asked me over his shoulder, ‘You still refuse to take back your words, then?’

I tried to answer him; but my voice failed me, and I had to content myself with a contemptuous wave of the hand. The prince smiled again, and took up his position in his place. We began to approach one another. I raised my pistol, was about to aim at my enemy’s chest -
 
- but suddenly tilted it up, as though some one had given my elbow a shove, and fired. The prince tottered, and put his left hand to his left temple -
 
- a thread of blood was flowing down his cheek from under the white leather glove. Bizmyonkov rushed up to him.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, taking off his cap, which the bullet had pierced; ‘since it’s in the head, and I’ve not fallen, it must be a mere scratch.’

He calmly pulled a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, and put it to his blood - stained curls.

I stared at him, as though I were turned to stone, and did not stir.

‘Go up to the barrier, if you please!’ Koloberdyaev observed severely. I obeyed.

‘Is the duel to go on?’ he added, addressing Bizmyonkov.

Bizmyonkov made him no answer. But the prince, without taking the handkerchief from the wound, without even giving himself the satisfaction of tormenting me at the barrier replied with a smile, ‘The duel is at an end,’ and fired into the air. I was almost crying with rage and vexation. This man by his magnanimity had utterly trampled me in the mud; he had completely crushed me. I was on the point of making objections, on the point of demanding that he should fire at me. But he came up to me, and held out his hand.

‘It’s all forgotten between us, isn’t it?’ he said in a friendly voice.

I looked at his blanched face, at the blood - stained handkerchief, and utterly confounded, put to shame, and annihilated, I pressed his hand.

‘Gentlemen!’ he added, turning to the seconds, ‘everything, I hope, will be kept secret?’

‘Of course!’ cried Koloberdyaev; ‘but, prince, allow me . . .’

And he himself bound up his head.

The prince, as he went away, bowed to me once more. But Bizmyonkov did not even glance at me. Shattered -
 
- morally shattered -
 
- I went homewards with Koloberdyaev.

‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ the cavalry captain asked me. ‘Set your mind at rest; the wound’s not serious. He’ll be able to dance by to - morrow, if you like. Or are you sorry you didn’t kill him? You’re wrong, if you are; he’s a first - rate fellow.’

‘What business had he to spare me!’ I muttered at last.

‘Oh, so that’s it!’ the cavalry captain rejoined tranquilly. . . . ‘Ugh, you writing fellows are too much for me!’