‘‘What is there to remember?’’ Ustimovich said impatiently, stopping. ‘‘Measure out the distance—that’s all.’’
And he made three paces, as if showing them how to measure. Boiko counted off the paces, and his comrade drew his saber and scratched the ground at the extreme points to mark the barrier.
In the general silence, the adversaries took their places.
‘‘Moles,’’ recalled the deacon, who was sitting in the bushes.
Sheshkovsky was saying something, Boiko was explaining something again, but Laevsky did not hear or, more precisely, heard but did not understand. When the time for it came, he cocked and raised the heavy, cold pistol, barrel up. He forgot to unbutton his coat, and it felt very tight in the shoulder and armpit, and his arm was rising as awkwardly as if the sleeve was made of tin. He remembered his hatred yesterday for the swarthy forehead and curly hair, and thought that even yesterday, in a moment of intense hatred and wrath, he could not have shot at a man. Fearing that the bullet might somehow accidentally hit von Koren, he raised the pistol higher and higher, and felt that this much too ostentatious magnanimity was neither delicate nor magnanimous, but he could not and would not do otherwise. Looking at the pale, mockingly smiling face of von Koren, who had evidently been sure from the very beginning that his adversary would fire into the air, Laevsky thought that soon, thank God, it would all be over, and that he had only to squeeze the trigger harder . . .
There was a strong kick in his shoulder, a shot rang out, and in the mountains the echo answered: ka-bang!
Von Koren, too, cocked his pistol and glanced in the direction of Ustimovich, who was pacing as before, his hands thrust behind him, paying no attention to anything.
‘‘Doctor,’’ said the zoologist, ‘‘kindly do not walk like a pendulum. You flash in my eyes.’’
The doctor stopped. Von Koren started aiming at Laevsky.
‘‘It’s all over!’’ thought Laevsky.
The barrel of the pistol pointing straight at his face, the expression of hatred and contempt in the pose and the whole figure of von Koren, and this murder that a decent man was about to commit in broad daylight in the presence of decent people, and this silence, and the unknown force that made Laevsky stand there and not run away—how mysterious, and incomprehensible, and frightening it all was! The time von Koren took to aim seemed longer than a night to Laevsky. He glanced imploringly at the seconds; they did not move and were pale.
‘‘Shoot quickly!’’ thought Laevsky, and felt that his pale, quivering, pitiful face must arouse still greater hatred in von Koren.
‘‘Now I’ll kill him,’’ thought von Koren, aiming at the forehead and already feeling the trigger with his finger. ‘‘Yes, of course, I’ll kill him . . .’’
‘‘He’ll kill him!’’ a desperate cry was suddenly heard somewhere very nearby.
Just then the shot rang out. Seeing that Laevsky was standing in the same place and did not fall, everyone looked in the direction the cry had come from, and saw the deacon. Pale, his wet hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks, all wet and dirty, he was standing on the other bank in the corn, smiling somehow strangely and waving his wet hat. Sheshkovsky laughed with joy, burst into tears, and walked away...
XX
A LITTLE LATER, von Koren and the deacon came together at the little bridge. The deacon was agitated, breathed heavily, and avoided looking him in the eye. He was ashamed both of his fear and of his dirty, wet clothes.
‘‘It seemed to me that you wanted to kill him . . .’’ he mumbled. ‘‘How contrary it is to human nature! Unnatural to such a degree!’’
‘‘How did you get here, though?’’ asked the zoologist.
‘‘Don’t ask!’’ the deacon waved his hand. ‘‘The unclean one led me astray: go, yes, go . . . So I went and almost died of fright in the corn. But now, thank God, thank God...I’m quite pleased with you,’’ the deacon went on mumbling. ‘‘And our grandpa tarantula will be pleased...Funny, so funny! Only I beg you insistently not to tell anyone I was here, or else I may get it in the neck from my superiors. They’ll say: the deacon acted as a second.’’
‘‘Gentlemen!’’ said von Koren. ‘‘The deacon asks you not to tell anybody you saw him here. He may get in trouble.’’
‘‘How contrary it is to human nature!’’ sighed the deacon. ‘‘Forgive me magnanimously, but you had such a look on your face that I thought you were certainly going to kill him.’’
‘‘I was strongly tempted to finish the scoundrel off,’’ said von Koren, ‘‘but you shouted right then, and I missed. However, this whole procedure is revolting to someone unaccustomed to it, and it’s made me tired, Deacon. I feel terribly weak. Let’s go . . .’’
‘‘No, kindly allow me to go on foot. I’ve got to dry out, I’m all wet and chilly.’’
‘‘Well, you know best,’’ the weakened zoologist said in a weary voice, getting into the carriage and closing his eyes. ‘‘You know best . . .’’
While they were walking around the carriages and getting into them, Kerbalai stood by the road and, holding his stomach with both hands, kept bowing low and showing his teeth; he thought the gentlemen had come to enjoy nature and drink tea, and did not understand why they were getting into the carriages. In the general silence, the train started, and the only one left by the dukhan was the deacon.
‘‘Went dukhan, drank tea,’’ he said to Kerbalai. ‘‘Mine wants eat.’’
Kerbalai spoke Russian well, but the deacon thought the Tartar would understand him better if he spoke to him in broken Russian.
‘‘Fried eggs, gave cheese . . .’’
‘‘Come in, come in, pope,’’ Kerbalai said, bowing, ‘‘I’ll give you everything . . . There’s cheese, there’s wine . . . Eat whatever you like.’’
‘‘What’s God in Tartar?’’ the deacon asked as he went into the dukhan.
