“Fire; don’t detain your adversary!” cried Mavriky Nikolaevitch in extreme agitation, seeing that Stavrogin seemed to have forgotten to fire, and was examining the hat with Kirillov. Stavrogin started, looked at Gaganov, turned round and this time, without the slightest regard for punctilio, fired to one side, into the copse. The duel was over. Gaganov stood as though overwhelmed. Mavriky Nikolaevitch went up and began saying something to him, but he did not seem to understand. Kirillov took off his hat as he went away, and nodded to Mavriky Nikolaevitch. But Stavrogin forgot his former politeness. When he had shot into the copse he did not even turn towards the barrier. He handed his pistol to Kirillov and hastened towards the horses. His face looked angry; he did not speak. Kirillov, too, was silent. They got on their horses and set off at a gallop.
III
“Why don’t you speak?” he called impatiently to Kirillov, when they were not far from home.
“What do you want?” replied the latter, almost slipping off his horse, which was rearing.
Stavrogin restrained himself.
“I didn’t mean to insult that … fool, and I’ve insulted him again,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you’ve insulted him again,” Kirillov jerked out, “and besides, he’s not a fool.”
“I’ve done all I can, anyway.”
“No.”
“What ought I to have done?”
“Not have challenged him.”
“Accept another blow in the face?”
“Yes, accept another.”
“I can’t understand anything now,” said Stavrogin wrathfully. “Why does everyone expect of me something not expected from anyone else? Why am I to put up with what no one else puts up with, and undertake burdens no one else can bear?”
“I thought you were seeking a burden yourself.”
“I seek a burden?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve … seen that?”
“Yes.”
“Is it so noticeable?”
“Yes.”
There was silence for a moment. Stavrogin had a very preoccupied face. He was almost impressed.
“I didn’t aim because I didn’t want to kill anyone. There was nothing more in it, I assure you,” he said hurriedly, and with agitation, as though justifying himself.
“You ought not to have offended him.”
“What ought I to have done then?”
“You ought to have killed him.”
“Are you sorry I didn’t kill him?”
“I’m not sorry for anything. I thought you really meant to kill him. You don’t know what you’re seeking.”
“I seek a burden,” laughed Stavrogin.
“If you didn’t want blood yourself, why did you give him a chance to kill you?”
“If I hadn’t challenged him, he’d have killed me simply, without a duel.”
“That’s not your affair. Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Only have beaten me?”
“That’s not your business. Bear your burden. Or else there’s no merit.”
“Hang your merit. I don’t seek anyone’s approbation.”
“I thought you were seeking it,” Kirillov commented with terrible unconcern.
They rode into the courtyard of the house.
“Do you care to come in?” said Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch.
“No; I’m going home. Goodbye.”
He got off the horse and took his box of pistols under his arm.
“Anyway, you’re not angry with me?” said Stavrogin, holding out his hand to him.
“Not in the least,” said Kirillov, turning round to shake hands with him. “If my burden’s light it’s because it’s from nature; perhaps your burden’s heavier because that’s your nature. There’s no need to be much ashamed; only a little.”
“I know I’m a worthless character, and I don’t pretend to be a strong one.”
“You’d better not; you’re not a strong person. Come and have tea.”
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went into the house, greatly perturbed.
IV
He learned at once from Alexey Yegorytch that Varvara Petrovna had been very glad to hear that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch had gone out for a ride—the first time he had left the house after eight days’ illness. She had ordered the carriage, and had driven out alone for a breath of fresh air “according to the habit of the past, as she had forgotten for the last eight days what it meant to breathe fresh air.”
“Alone, or with Darya Pavlovna?” Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch interrupted the old man with a rapid question, and he scowled when he heard that Darya Pavlovna “had declined to go abroad on account of indisposition and was in her rooms.”
“Listen, old man,” he said, as though suddenly making up his mind. “Keep watch over her all today, and if you notice her coming to me, stop her at once, and tell her that I can’t see her for a few days at least … that I ask her not to come myself. … I’ll let her know myself, when the time comes. Do you hear?”
“I’ll tell her, sir,” said Alexey Yegorytch, with distress in his voice, dropping his eyes.
“Not till you see clearly she’s meaning to come and see me of herself, though.”
“Don’t be afraid, sir, there shall be no mistake. Your interviews have all passed through me, hitherto. You’ve always turned to me for help.”
“I know. Not till she comes of herself, anyway. Bring me some tea, if you can, at once.”
The old man had hardly gone out, when almost at the same instant the door reopened, and Darya Pavlovna appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were tranquil, though her face was pale.
“Where have you come from?” exclaimed Stavrogin.
“I was standing there, and waiting for him to go out, to come in to you. I heard the order you gave him, and when he came out just now I hid round the corner, on the right, and he didn’t notice me.”
“I’ve long meant to break off with you, Dasha … for a while … for the present. I couldn’t see you last night, in spite of your note. I meant to write to you myself, but I don’t know how to write,” he added with vexation, almost as though with disgust.
“I thought myself that we must break it off. Varvara Petrovna is too suspicious of our relations.”
“Well, let her be.”
“She mustn’t be worried. So now we part till the end comes.”
“You still insist on expecting the end?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“But nothing in the world ever has an end.”
“This will have an end. Then call me. I’ll come. Now, goodbye.”
“And what sort of end
