‘‘Yes, of course,’’ agreed von Koren.
Silence ensued. Ustimovich, as he paced, suddenly turned sharply to Laevsky and said in a low voice, breathing in his face:
‘‘They probably haven’t had time to inform you of my conditions. Each side pays me fifteen roubles, and in case of the death of one of the adversaries, the one who is left alive pays the whole thirty.’’
Laevsky had made this man’s acquaintance earlier, but only now did he see distinctly for the first time his dull eyes, stiff mustache, and lean, consumptive neck: a moneylender, not a doctor! His breath had an unpleasant, beefy smell.
‘‘It takes all kinds to make a world,’’ thought Laevsky and replied:
‘‘Very well.’’
The doctor nodded and again began pacing, and it was clear that he did not need the money at all, but was asking for it simply out of hatred. Everyone felt that it was time to begin, or to end what had been begun, yet they did not begin or end, but walked about, stood, and smoked. The young officers, who were present at a duel for the first time in their lives and now had little faith in this civil and, in their opinion, unnecessary duel, attentively examined their tunics and smoothed their sleeves. Sheshkovsky came up to them and said quietly:
‘‘Gentlemen, we should make every effort to keep the duel from taking place. They must be reconciled.’’
He blushed and went on:
‘‘Last night Kirilin came to see me and complained that Laevsky had caught him last night with Nadezhda Fyodorovna and all that.’’
‘‘Yes, we also know about that,’’ said Boiko.
‘‘Well, so you see...Laevsky’s hands are trembling and all that... He won’t even be able to hold up a pistol now. It would be as inhuman to fight with him as with a drunk man or someone with typhus. If the reconciliation doesn’t take place, then, gentlemen, we must at least postpone the duel or something . . . It’s such a devilish thing, I don’t even want to look.’’
‘‘Speak with von Koren.’’
‘‘I don’t know the rules of dueling, devil take them all, and I don’t want to know them; maybe he’ll think Laevsky turned coward and sent me to him. But anyhow, he can think what he likes, I’ll go and speak with him.’’
Irresolutely, limping slightly, as though his foot had gone to sleep, Sheshkovsky went over to von Koren, and as he walked and grunted, his whole figure breathed indolence.
‘‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you, sir,’’ he began, attentively studying the flowers on the zoologist’s shirt. ‘‘It’s confidential . . . I don’t know the rules of dueling, devil take them all, and I don’t want to know them, and I’m reasoning not as a second and all that but as a human being, that’s all.’’
‘‘Right. So?’’
‘‘When seconds suggest making peace, usually nobody listens to them, looking on it as a formality. Amour propre and nothing more. But I humbly beg you to pay attention to Ivan Andreich. He’s not at all in a normal state today, so to speak, not in his right mind, and quite pitiful. A misfortune has befallen him. I can’t bear gossip,’’ Sheshkovsky blushed and looked around, ‘‘but in view of the duel, I find it necessary to tell you. Last night, in Miuridov’s house, he found his lady with . . . a certain gentleman.’’
‘‘How revolting!’’ murmured the zoologist; he turned pale, winced, and spat loudly: ‘‘Pah!’’
His lower lip trembled; he stepped away from Sheshkovsky, not wishing to hear any more, and, as if he had accidentally sampled something bitter, again spat loudly, and for the first time that morning looked at Laevsky with hatred. His agitation and awkwardness passed; he shook his head and said loudly:
‘‘Gentlemen, what are we waiting for, may I ask? Why don’t we begin?’’
Sheshkovsky exchanged glances with the officers and shrugged his shoulders.
‘‘Gentlemen!’’ he said loudly, not addressing anyone. ‘‘Gentlemen! We suggest that you make peace!’’
‘‘Let’s get through the formalities quickly,’’ said von Koren. ‘‘We’ve already talked about making peace. What’s the next formality now? Let’s hurry up, gentlemen, time won’t wait.’’
‘‘But we still insist on making peace,’’ Sheshkovsky said in a guilty voice, like a man forced to interfere in other people’s business; he blushed, put his hand to his heart, and went on: ‘‘Gentlemen, we see no causal connection between the insult and the duel. An offense that we, in our human weakness, sometimes inflict on each other and a duel have nothing in common. You’re university and cultivated people, and, of course, you yourselves see nothing in dueling but an outdated and empty formality and all that. We look at it the same way, otherwise we wouldn’t have come, because we can’t allow people to shoot at each other in our presence, that’s all.’’ Sheshkovsky wiped the sweat from his face and went on: ‘‘Let’s put an end to your misunderstanding, gentlemen, offer each other your hands, and go home and drink to peace. Word of honor, gentlemen!’’
Von Koren was silent. Laevsky, noticing that they were looking at him, said:
‘‘I have nothing against Nikolai Vassilievich. If he finds me to blame, I’m ready to apologize to him.’’
Von Koren became offended.
‘‘Obviously, gentlemen,’’ he said, ‘‘you would like Mr. Laevsky to return home a magnanimous and chivalrous man, but I cannot give you and him that pleasure. And there was no need to get up early and go seven miles out of town only to drink to peace, have a bite to eat, and explain to me that dueling is an outdated formality. A duel is a duel, and it ought not to be made more stupid and false than it is in reality. I want to fight!’’
Silence ensued. Officer Boiko took two pistols from a box; one was handed to von Koren, the other to Laevsky, and after that came perplexity, which briefly amused the zoologist and the seconds. It turned out that of all those present, not one had been at a duel even once in his life, and no one knew exactly how they should stand and what the seconds should say and do. But then Boiko remembered and, smiling, began to explain.
‘‘Gentlemen, who remembers how it’s described in Lermontov?’’ von Koren asked, laughing. ‘‘In Turgenev, too, Bazarov exchanged shots with somebody or other . . .’’
