The Duellist Page #5

"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.

								

Fyodor Fedoritch pressed the tips of her fingers respectfully.

'He must be a very queer person!' observed Masha, and again she propped
her elbows on the frame.

'Queer?'

'Of course; he interests me just because he is queer!' Masha added
slily.

'Lutchkov is a noble, a remarkable man,' Kister rejoined solemnly. 'They
don't know him in our regiment, they don't appreciate him, they only see
his external side. He's embittered, of course, and strange and
impatient, but his heart is good.'

Masha listened greedily to Fyodor Fedoritch.

'I will bring him to see you, I'll tell him there's no need to be afraid
of you, that it's absurd for him to be so shy... I'll tell him... Oh!
yes, I know what to say... Only you mustn't suppose, though, that I
would...' (Kister was embarrassed, Masha too was embarrassed.)...
'Besides, after all, of course you only... like him....'

'Of course, just as I like lots of people.'

Kister looked mischievously at her.

'All right, all right,' he said with a satisfied air; 'I'll bring him to
you....'

'Oh, no....'

'All right, I tell you it will be all right.... I'll arrange
everything.'

'You are so...' Masha began with a smile, and she shook her finger at
him. Mr. Perekatov yawned and opened his eyes.

'Why, I almost think I've been asleep,' he muttered with surprise. This
doubt and this surprise were repeated daily. Masha and Kister began
discussing Schiller.

Fyodor Fedoritch was not however quite at ease; he felt something like a
stir of envy within him... and was generously indignant with himself.
Nenila Makarievna came down into the drawing-room. Tea was brought in.
Mr. Perekatov made his dog jump several times over a stick, and then
explained he had taught it everything himself, while the dog wagged its
tail deferentially, licked itself and blinked. When at last the great
heat began to lessen, and an evening breeze blew up, the whole family
went out for a walk in the birch copse. Fyodor Fedoritch was continually
glancing at Masha, as though giving her to understand that he would
carry out her behests; Masha felt at once vexed with herself, and happy
and uncomfortable. Kister suddenly, apropos of nothing, plunged into a
rather high-flown discourse upon love in the abstract, and upon
friendship... but catching Nenila Makarievna's bright and vigilant eye
he, as abruptly, changed the subject. The sunset was brilliant and
glowing. A broad, level meadow lay outstretched before the birch copse.
Masha took it into her head to start a game of 'catch-catch.'
Maid-servants and footmen came out; Mr. Perekatov stood with his wife,
Kister with Masha. The maids ran with deferential little shrieks; Mr.
Perekatov's valet had the temerity to separate Nenila Makarievna from
her spouse; one of the servant-girls respectfully paired off with her
master; Fyodor Fedoritch was not parted from Masha. Every time as he
regained his place, he said two or three words to her; Masha, all
flushed with running, listened to him with a smile, passing her hand
over her hair. After supper, Kister took leave.

It was a still, starlight night. Kister took off his cap. He was
excited; there was a lump in his throat. 'Yes,' he said at last, almost
aloud; 'she loves him: I will bring them together; I will justify her
confidence in me.' Though there was as yet nothing to prove a definite
passion for Lutchkov on Masha's part, though, according to her own
account, he only excited her curiosity, Kister had by this time made up
a complete romance, and worked out his own duty in the matter. He
resolved to sacrifice his feelings--the more readily as 'so far I have
no other sentiment for her but sincere devotion,' thought he. Kister
really was capable of sacrificing himself to friendship, to a recognised
duty. He had read a great deal, and so fancied himself a person of
experience and even of penetration; he had no doubt of the truth of his
suppositions; he did not suspect that life is endlessly varied, and
never repeats itself. Little by little, Fyodor Fedoritch worked himself
into a state of ecstasy. He began musing with emotion on his mission. To
be the mediator between a shy, loving girl and a man possibly embittered
only because he had never once in his life loved and been loved; to
bring them together; to reveal their own feelings to them, and then to
withdraw, letting no one know the greatness of his sacrifice, what a
splendid feat! In spite of the coolness of the night, the simple-hearted
dreamer's face burned....

Next day he went round to Lutchkov early in the morning.

Avdey Ivanovitch was, as usual, lying on the sofa, smoking a pipe.
Kister greeted him.

'I was at the Perekatovs yesterday,' he said with some solemnity.

'Ah!' Lutchkov responded indifferently, and he yawned.

'Yes. They are splendid people.'

'Really?'

'We talked about you.'

'Much obliged; with which of them was that?'

'With the old people... and the daughter too.'

'Ah! that... little fat thing?'

'She's a splendid girl, Lutchkov.'

'To be sure, they're all splendid.'

'No, Lutchkov, you don't know her. I have never met such a clever, sweet
and sensitive girl.'

Lutchkov began humming through his nose:

  'In the Hamburg Gazette,
   You've read, I dare say,
   How the year before last,
   Munich gained the day....'

'But I assure you....'

'You 're in love with her, Fedya,' Lutchkov remarked sarcastically.

'Not at all. I never even thought of it.'

'Fedya, you're in love with her!'

'What nonsense! As if one couldn't...'

'You're in love with her, friend of my heart, beetle on my hearth,'
Avdey Ivanovitch chanted drawling.

'Ah, Avdey, you really ought to be ashamed!' Kister said with vexation.

With any one else Lutchkov would thereupon have kept on more than
before; Kister he did not tease. 'Well, well, sprechen Sie deutsch, Ivan
Andreitch,' he muttered in an undertone, 'don't be angry.'

'Listen, Avdey,' Kister began warmly, and he sat down beside him. 'You
know I care for you.' (Lutchkov made a wry face.) 'But there's one
thing, I'll own, I don't like about you... it's just that you won't make
friends with any one, that you will stick at home, and refuse all
intercourse with nice people. Why, there are nice people in the world,
hang it all! Suppose you have been deceived in life, have been
embittered, what of it; there's no need to rush into people's arms, of
course, but why turn your back on everybody? Why, you'll cast me off
some day, at that rate, I suppose.'

Lutchkov went on smoking coolly.

'That's how it is no one knows you... except me; goodness knows what
some people think of you... Avdey!' added Kister after a brief silence;
'do you disbelieve in virtue, Avdey?'

'Disbelieve... no, I believe in it,'... muttered Lutchkov.

Kister pressed his hand feelingly.

'I want,' he went on in a voice full of emotion, 'to reconcile you with
life. You will grow happier, blossom out... yes, blossom out. How I
shall rejoice then! Only you must let me dispose of you now and then, of
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