The Duellist Page #2

"The Duelist" by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev is a poignant short story that explores themes of honor, pride, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in 19th-century Russia, it follows the life of the protagonist, a young officer who becomes embroiled in a series of duels that reflect his internal struggles and societal pressures. Through his experiences, Turgenev examines the absurdity of the code of honor and the impact of confrontation on personal identity and authenticity. The narrative showcases Turgenev's eloquent prose and deep psychological insight, making it a significant work in the realm of Russian literature.

								

pleased by the young officer's pluck, or whether a feeling akin to
remorse was roused in his soul--it's hard to say... but from the time of
his duel with Kister, Avdey Ivanovitch scarcely left his side, and
called him first Fyodor, and afterwards simply Fedya. In his presence he
became quite another man and--strange to say!--the change was not in his
favour. It did not suit him to be gentle and soft. Sympathy he could not
call forth in any one anyhow; such was his destiny! He belonged to that
class of persons to whom has somehow been granted the privilege of
authority over others; but nature had denied him the gifts essential for
the justification of such a privilege. Having received no education, not
being distinguished by intelligence, he ought not to have revealed
himself; possibly his malignancy had its origin in his consciousness of
the defects of his bringing up, in the desire to conceal himself
altogether under one unchanging mask. Avdey Ivanovitch had at first
forced himself to despise people, then he began to notice that it was
not a difficult matter to intimidate them, and he began to despise them
in reality. Lutchkov enjoyed cutting short by his very approach all but
the most vulgar conversation. 'I know nothing, and have learned nothing,
and I have no talents,' he said to himself; 'and so you too shall know
nothing and not show off your talents before me....' Kister, perhaps,
had made Lutchkov abandon the part he had taken up--just because before
his acquaintance with him, the bully had never met any one genuinely
idealistic, that is to say, unselfishly and simple-heartedly absorbed in
dreams, and so, indulgent to others, and not full of himself.

Avdey Ivanovitch would come sometimes to Kister, light a pipe and
quietly sit down in an arm-chair. Lutchkov was not in Kister's company
abashed by his own ignorance; he relied--and with good reason--on his
German modesty.

'Well,' he would begin, 'what did you do yesterday? Been reading, I'll
bet, eh?'

'Yes, I read....'

'Well, and what did you read? Come, tell away, old man, tell away.'
Avdey Ivanovitch kept up his bantering tone to the end.

'I read Kleist's Idyll. Ah, what a fine thing it is! If you don't
mind, I'll translate you a few lines....' And Kister translated with
fervour, while Lutchkov, wrinkling up his forehead and compressing his
lips, listened attentively.... 'Yes, yes,' he would repeat hurriedly,
with a disagreeable smile,'it's fine... very fine... I remember, I've
read it... very fine.'

'Tell me, please,' he added affectedly, and as it were reluctantly,
'what's your view of Louis the Fourteenth?'

And Kister would proceed to discourse upon Louis the Fourteenth, while
Lutchkov listened, totally failing to understand a great deal,
misunderstanding a part... and at last venturing to make a remark....
This threw him into a cold sweat; 'now, if I'm making a fool of myself,'
he thought. And as a fact he often did make a fool of himself. But
Kister was never off-hand in his replies; the good-hearted youth was
inwardly rejoicing that, as he thought, the desire for enlightenment was
awakened in a fellow-creature. Alas! it was from no desire for
enlightenment that Avdey Ivanovitch questioned Kister; God knows why he
did! Possibly he wished to ascertain for himself what sort of head he,
Lutchkov, had, whether it was really dull, or simply untrained. 'So I
really am stupid,' he said to himself more than once with a bitter
smile; and he would draw himself up instantly and look rudely and
insolently about him, and smile malignantly to himself if he caught some
comrade dropping his eyes before his glance. 'All right, my man, you're
so learned and well educated,...' he would mutter between his teeth.
'I'll show you... that's all....'

The officers did not long discuss the sudden friendship of Kister and
Lutchkov; they were used to the duellist's queer ways. 'The devil's made
friends with the baby,' they said.... Kister was warm in his praises of
his friend on all hands; no one disputed his opinion, because they were
afraid of Lutchkov; Lutchkov himself never mentioned Kister's name
before the others, but he dropped his intimacy with the perfumed
adjutant.

II

The landowners of the South of Russia are very keen on giving balls,
inviting officers to their houses, and marrying off their daughters.

About seven miles from the village of Kirilovo lived just such a country
gentleman, a Mr. Perekatov, the owner of four hundred souls, and a
fairly spacious house. He had a daughter of eighteen, Mashenka, and a
wife, Nenila Makarievna. Mr. Perekatov had once been an officer in the
cavalry, but from love of a country life and from indolence he had
retired and had begun to live peaceably and quietly, as landowners of
the middling sort do live. Nenila Makarievna owed her existence in a not
perfectly legitimate manner to a distinguished gentleman of Moscow.

Her protector had educated his little Nenila very carefully, as it is
called, in his own house, but got her off his hands rather hurriedly, at
the first offer, as a not very marketable article. Nenila Makarievna was
ugly; the distinguished gentleman was giving her no more than ten
thousand as dowry; she snatched eagerly at Mr. Perekatov. To Mr.
Perekatov it seemed extremely gratifying to marry a highly educated,
intellectual young lady... who was, after all, so closely related to so
illustrious a personage. This illustrious personage extended his
patronage to the young people even after the marriage, that is to say,
he accepted presents of salted quails from them and called Perekatov 'my
dear boy,' and sometimes simply, 'boy.' Nenila Makarievna took complete
possession of her husband, managed everything, and looked after the
whole property--very sensibly, indeed; far better, any way, than Mr.
Perekatov could have done. She did not hamper her partner's liberty too
much; but she kept him well in hand, ordered his clothes herself, and
dressed him in the English style, as is fitting and proper for a country
gentleman. By her instructions, Mr. Perekatov grew a little Napoleonic
beard on his chin, to cover a large wart, which looked like an over-ripe
raspberry. Nenila Makarievna, for her part, used to inform visitors that
her husband played the flute, and that all flute-players always let the
beard grow under the lower lip; they could hold their instrument more
comfortably. Mr. Perekatov always, even in the early morning, wore a
high, clean stock, and was well combed and washed. He was, moreover,
well content with his lot; he dined very well, did as he liked, and
slept all he could. Nenila Makarievna had introduced into her household
'foreign ways,' as the neighbours used to say; she kept few servants,
and had them neatly dressed. She was fretted by ambition; she wanted at
least to be the wife of the marshal of the nobility of the district; but
the gentry of the district, though they dined at her house to their
hearts' content, did not choose her husband, but first the retired
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