Bazarov, who had stood up to meet Pavel Petrovich, sat down on the edge of the table and folded his arms.
“My view is,” he said, “that from the theoretical point of view dueling is absurd; but from the practical point of view — well, that’s quite another matter.”
“So, you mean to say, if I understand you rightly, that whatever theoretical views you may hold about dueling, you would in practice not allow yourself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction?”
“You have guessed my meaning completely.”
“Very good.
I am very glad to hear that from you.
Your words release me from a state of uncertainty . . ”
“Of indecision, do you mean?”
“That is all the same; I express myself in order to be understood; I . . . am not a seminary rat.
Your words have saved me from a rather grievous necessity.
I have made up my mind to fight you.”
Bazarov opened his eyes wide.
“Me?”
“Undoubtedly you.”
“And what for, may I ask?”
“I could explain the reason to you,” began Pavel Petrovich, “but I prefer to keep silent about it.
To my mind your presence here is superfluous. I find you intolerable, I despise you, and if that is not enough for you . . .”
Pavel Petrovich’s eyes flashed . . . Bazarov’s too were glittering.
“Very good,” he said. “Further explanations are unnecessary.
You’ve taken it into your head to try out on me your chivalrous spirit.
I could refuse you this pleasure — but it can’t be helped!”
“I am sensible of my obligations to you,” answered Pavel Petrovich, “and I may count then on your accepting my challenge, without compelling me to resort to violent measures?”
“That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?” Bazarov remarked coolly. “That is entirely correct.
You have no need to insult me; indeed it would not be quite safe . . . you can remain a gentleman . . .
I accept your challenge also like a gentleman.” “Excellent,” observed Pavel Petrovich, and put his stick down in the corner.
“We will say a few words now about the conditions of our duel; but I should first like to know whether you consider it necessary to resort to the formality of a trifling dispute which might serve as a pretext for my challenge?”
“No, it’s better without formalities.”
“I also think so.
I suggest it is also inappropriate to dwell further on the real reason for our skirmish.
We cannot endure one another.
What more is necessary?”
“What more is necessary?” repeated Bazarov ironically.
“As regards the conditions of the duel itself, since we shall have no seconds — for where could we get them?”
“Exactly, where could we get any?”
“I therefore have the honor to put the following proposals to you; we shall fight early tomorrow morning, at six, let us say, behind the plantation, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces . . .”
“At ten paces? That will do; we can still hate each other at that distance.”
“We could make it eight,” remarked Pavel Petrovich.
“We could; why not?”
“We fire twice, and to be prepared for everything, let each put a letter in his pocket, accepting responsibility for his own end.”
“I don’t quite agree with that,” said Bazarov. “It smacks too much of a French novel, a bit unreal.”
“Perhaps.
You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur the suspicion of murder?”
“I agree.
But there is a means of avoiding that painful accusation.
We shall have no seconds, but we could have a witness.”
“And who, may I ask?”
“Why, Pyotr.”
“Which Pyotr?”
“Your brother’s valet.
He’s a man standing at the height of contemporary culture, who would play his part in such an affair with all the necessary; repeated Vassily comilfo .”