“My view is,” he said, “that from the theoretical standpoint, duelling is absurd; from the practical standpoint, now—it’s quite a different matter.”
“That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that whatever your theoretical views on duelling, you would not in practice allow yourself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction?”
“You have guessed my meaning absolutely.”
“Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words relieve me from a state of incertitude.”
“Of uncertainty, you mean to say.”
“That is all the same! I express myself so as to be understood; I … am not a seminary rat. Your words save me from a rather deplorable necessity. I have made up my mind to fight you.”
Bazarov opened his eyes wide. “Me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But what for, pray?”
“I could explain the reason to you,” began Pavel Petrovitch, “but I prefer to be silent about it. To my idea your presence here is superfluous; I cannot endure you; I despise you; and if that is not enough for you …”
Pavel Petrovitch’s eyes glittered … Bazarov’s too were flashing.
“Very good,” he assented. “No need of further explanations. You’ve a whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this pleasure, but—so be it!”
“I am sensible of my obligation to you,” replied Pavel Petrovitch; “and may reckon then on your accepting my challenge without compelling me to resort to violent measures.”
“That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?” Bazarov remarked coolly. “That is precisely correct. It’s quite unnecessary for you to insult me. Indeed, it would not be a perfectly safe proceeding. You can remain a gentleman. … I accept your challenge, too, like a gentleman.”
“That is excellent,” observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his stick in the corner. “We will say a few words directly about the conditions of our duel; but I should like first to know whether you think it necessary to resort to the formality of a trifling dispute, which might serve as a pretext for my challenge?”
“No; it’s better without formalities.”
“I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the real grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more is necessary?”
“What more, indeed?” repeated Bazarov ironically.
“As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall have no seconds—for where could we get them?”
“Exactly so; where could we get them?”
“Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you: The combat to take place early tomorrow, at six, let us say, behind the copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces. …”
“At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that distance.”
“We might have it eight,” remarked Pavel Petrovitch.
“We might.”
“To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter in his pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end.”
“Now, that I don’t approve of at all,” observed Bazarov. “There’s a slight flavour of the French novel about it, something not very plausible.”
“Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur a suspicion of murder?”
“I agree as to that. But there is a means of avoiding that painful reproach. We shall have no seconds, but we can have a witness.”
“And whom, allow me to inquire?”
“Why, Piotr.”
“What Piotr?”
“Your brother’s valet. He’s a man who has attained to the acme of contemporary culture, and he will perform his part with all the comilfo (comme il faut) necessary in such cases.”
“I think you are joking, sir.”
“Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be convinced that it’s full of common sense and simplicity. You can’t hide a candle under a bushel; but I’ll undertake to prepare Piotr in a fitting manner, and bring him on to the field of battle.”
“You persist in jesting still,” Pavel Petrovitch declared, getting up from his chair. “But after the courteous readiness you have shown me, I have no right to pretend to lay down. … And so, everything is arranged. … By the way, perhaps you have no pistols?”
“How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I’m not in the army.”
“In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that it’s five years now since I shot with them.”
“That’s a very consoling piece of news.”
Pavel Petrovitch took up his stick. … “And now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have the honour to take leave of you.”
“Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,” said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.
Pavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing a minute before the door, and suddenly exclaimed, “Pish, well, I’m dashed! how fine, and how foolish! A pretty farce we’ve been through! Like trained dogs dancing on their hind-paws. But to decline was out of the question; why, I do believe he’d have struck me, and then …” (Bazarov turned white at the very thought; all his pride was up in arms at once)—“then it might have come to my strangling him like a cat.” He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating, and the composure necessary for taking observations had disappeared. “He caught sight of us today,” he thought; “but would he really act like this on his brother’s account? And what a mighty matter is it—a kiss? There must be something else in it. Bah! isn’t he perhaps in love with her himself? To be sure, he’s in love; it’s as clear as day. What a complication! It’s a nuisance!” he decided at last; “it’s a bad job, look at it which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet through one’s brains, and in any case to go away; and then Arkady … and that dear innocent pussy, Nikolai Petrovitch. It’s a bad job, an awfully bad job.”
The day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. Fenitchka gave no sign of her existence; she sat in her little room
