The Duellist Page #4

"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.

								

difficult task for him to win love.... A hard and difficult task for him
to win love, but easy and simple enough to wear a mask of indifference,
of silent haughtiness. Avdey Ivanovitch was unattractive and no longer
young; but on the other hand he enjoyed a terrible reputation--and
consequently he had every right to pose. He was used to the bitter,
unspoken enjoyment of grim loneliness. It was not the first time he had
attracted the attention of women; some had even tried to get upon more
friendly terms with him, but he repelled their advances with exasperated
obstinacy; he knew that sentiment was not in his line (during tender
interviews, avowals, he first became awkward and vulgar, and, through
anger, rude to the point of grossness, of insult); he remembered that
the two or three women with whom he had at different times been on a
friendly footing had rapidly grown cool to him after the first moment of
closer intimacy, and had of their own impulse made haste to get away
from him... and so he had at last schooled himself to remain an enigma,
and to scorn what destiny had denied him.... This is, I fancy, the only
sort of scorn people in general do feel. No sort of frank, spontaneous,
that is to say good, demonstration of passion suited Lutchkov; he was
bound to keep a continual check on himself, even when he was angry.
Kister was the only person who was not disgusted when Lutchkov broke
into laughter; the kind-hearted German's eyes shone with the generous
delight of sympathy, when he read Avdey his favourite passages from
Schiller, while the bully would sit facing him with lowering looks, like
a wolf.... Kister danced till he was worn out, Lutchkov never left his
corner, scowled, glanced stealthily at Masha, and meeting her eyes, at
once threw an expression of indifference into his own. Masha danced
three times with Kister. The enthusiastic youth inspired her with
confidence. She chatted with him gaily enough, but at heart she was not
at ease. Lutchkov engrossed her thoughts.

A mazurka tune struck up. The officers fell to bounding up and down,
tapping with their heels, and tossing the epaulettes on their shoulders;
the civilians tapped with their heels too. Lutchkov still did not stir
from his place, and slowly followed the couples with his eyes, as they
whirled by. Some one touched his sleeve... he looked round; his
neighbour pointed him out Masha. She was standing before him with
downcast eyes, holding out her hand to him. Lutchkov for the first
moment gazed at her in perplexity, then he carelessly took off his
sword, threw his hat on the floor, picked his way awkwardly among the
arm-chairs, took Masha by the hand, and went round the circle, with no
capering up and down nor stamping, as it were unwillingly performing an
unpleasant duty.... Masha's heart beat violently.

'Why don't you dance?' she asked him at last.

'I don't care for it,' answered Lutchkov.

'Where's your place?'

'Over there.'

Lutchkov conducted Masha to her chair, coolly bowed to her and coolly
returned to his corner... but there was an agreeable stirring of the
spleen within him.

Kister asked Masha for a dance.

'What a strange person your friend is!'

'He does interest you...' said Fyodor Fedoritch, with a sly twinkle of
his blue and kindly eyes.

'Yes... he must be very unhappy.'

'He unhappy? What makes you suppose so?' And Fyodor Fedoritch laughed.

'You don't know... you don't know...' Masha solemnly shook her head with
an important air.

'Me not know? How's that?'...

Masha shook her head again and glanced towards Lutchkov. Avdey
Ivanovitch noticed the glance, shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly,
and walked away into the other room.

III

Several months had passed since that evening. Lutchkov had not once been
at the Perekatovs'. But Kister visited them pretty often. Nenila
Makarievna had taken a fancy to him, but it was not she that attracted
Fyodor Fedoritch. He liked Masha. Being an inexperienced person who had
not yet talked himself out, he derived great pleasure from the
interchange of ideas and feelings, and he had a simple-hearted faith in
the possibility of a calm and exalted friendship between a young man and
a young girl.

One day his three well-fed and skittish horses whirled him rapidly along
to Mr. Perekatov's house. It was a summer day, close and sultry. Not a
cloud anywhere. The blue of the sky was so thick and dark on the horizon
that the eye mistook it for storm-cloud. The house Mr. Perekatov had
erected for a summer residence had been, with the foresight usual in the
steppes, built with every window directly facing the sun. Nenila
Makarievna had every shutter closed from early morning. Kister walked
into the cool, half-dark drawing-room. The light lay in long lines on
the floor and in short, close streaks on the walls. The Perekatov family
gave Fyodor Fedoritch a friendly reception. After dinner Nenila
Makarievna went away to her own room to lie down; Mr. Perekatov settled
himself on the sofa in the drawing-room; Masha sat near the window at
her embroidery frame, Kister facing her. Masha, without opening her
frame, leaned lightly over it, with her head in her hands. Kister began
telling her something; she listened inattentively, as though waiting for
something, looked from time to time towards her father, and all at once
stretched out her hand.

'Listen, Fyodor Fedoritch... only speak a little more softly... papa's
asleep.'

Mr. Perekatov had indeed as usual dropped asleep on the sofa, with his
head hanging and his mouth a little open.

'What is it?' Kister inquired with curiosity.

'You will laugh at me.'

'Oh, no, really!...'

Masha let her head sink till only the upper part of her face remained
uncovered by her hands and in a half whisper, not without hesitation,
asked Kister why it was he never brought Mr. Lutchkov with him. It was
not the first time Masha had mentioned him since the ball.... Kister did
not speak. Masha glanced timorously over her interlaced fingers.

'May I tell you frankly what I think?' Kister asked her.

'Oh, why not? of course.'

'It seems to me that Lutchkov has made a great impression on you.'

'No!' answered Masha, and she bent over, as though wishing to examine
the pattern more closely; a narrow golden streak of light lay on her
hair; 'no... but...'

'Well, but?' said Kister, smiling.

'Well, don't you see,' said Masha, and she suddenly lifted her head, so
that the streak of light fell straight in her eyes; 'don't you see...
he...'

'He interests you....'

'Well... yes...' Masha said slowly; she flushed a little, turned her
head a little away and in that position went on talking. 'There is
something about him so... There, you're laughing at me,' she added
suddenly, glancing swiftly at Fyodor Fedoritch.

Fyodor Fedoritch smiled the gentlest smile imaginable.

'I tell you everything, whatever comes into my head,' Masha went on: 'I
know that you are a very'... (she nearly said great) 'good friend of
mine.'

Kister bowed. Masha ceased speaking, and shyly held out her hand to him;
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