Dressed in a light checked coat and snow-white trousers, he was walking quickly along the road; under his arm he carried a box wrapped in green cloth.
“Excuse me, I think I have kept you waiting,” he said, bowing first to Bazarov and then to Pyotr, whom he treated respectfully at that moment as representing some kind of second. “I did not want to wake up my man.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bazarov. “We’ve only just arrived ourselves.”
“Ah! so much the better!” Pavel Petrovich looked around. “There’s no one in sight; no one to interfere with us . . we can proceed?”
“Let us proceed.”
“You don’t demand any more explanations, I suppose.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Would you like to load?” inquired Pavel Petrovich, taking the pistols out of the box.
“No; you load, and I will measure out the paces.
My legs are longer,” added Bazarov with a smile. “One, two, three . . .”
“Evgeny Vassilich,” stammered Pyotr with difficulty (he was trembling as if he had fever), “say what you like, but I am going farther off.”
“Four, five . . . all right, move away, my good fellow; you can even stand behind a tree and stop up your ears, only don’t shut your eyes; and if anyone falls, run and pick him up.
Six . . . seven . . . eight . . .” Bazarov stopped. “Is that enough?” he asked, turning to Pavel Petrovich, “or shall I add two paces more?”
“As you like,” replied the latter, pressing the second bullet into the barrel.
“Well, we’ll make two paces more,” Bazarov drew a line on the ground with the toe of his boot. “There’s the barrier.
By the way, how many paces may each of us go back from the barrier?
That’s an important question too.
It was not discussed yesterday.”
“I suppose, ten,” replied Pavel Petrovich, handing Bazarov both pistols. “Will you be so good as to choose?”
“I will be so good.
But you must admit, Pavel Petrovich, that our duel is unusual to the point of absurdity.
Only look at the face of our second.”
“You are disposed to laugh at everything,” answered Pavel Petrovich. “I don’t deny the strangeness of our duel, but I think it is my duty to warn you that I intend to fight seriously.
A bon entendeur, salut!”
“Oh! I don’t doubt that we’ve made up our minds to do away with each other; but why not laugh and unite utile dulci?
So you can talk to me in French and I’ll reply in Latin.”
“I intend to fight seriously,” repeated Pavel Petrovich and he walked off to his place.
Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from the barrier and stood still.
“Are you ready?” asked Pavel Petrovich.
“Perfectly.”
“We can approach each other.”
Bazarov moved slowly forward and Pavel Petrovich walked towards him, his left hand thrust in his pocket, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol . . .
“He’s aiming straight at my nose,” thought Bazarov, “and how carefully he screws up his eyes, the scoundrel!
Not an agreeable sensation.
I’d better look at his watch-chain Something whizzed by sharply close to Bazarov’s ear, and a shot rang out at that moment.
“I heard it, so it must be all right,” managed to flash through Bazarov’s brain.
He took one more step, and without taking aim, pressed the trigger.
Pavel Petrovich swayed slightly and clutched at his thigh.
A thin stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers.
Bazarov threw his pistol aside and went up to his antagonist.
“Are you wounded?” he asked.
“You had the right to call me up to the barrier,” said Pavel Petrovich. “This is a trifle.
According to our agreement, each of us has the right to one more shot.”
“Well, but excuse me, we’ll leave that to another time,” answered Bazarov, and caught hold of Pavel Petrovich, who was beginning to turn pale. “Now I’m no longer a duelist but a doctor, and first of all I must have a look at your wound.
Pyotr! Come here, Pyotr! Where have you hidden yourself?”
“What nonsense . . . I need help from nobody,” said Pavel Petrovich jerkily, “and — we must — again . . .” He tried to pull at his mustache, but his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he fainted.
“Here’s a pretty pass.
A fainting-fit!
What next!” Bazarov exclaimed involuntarily as he laid Pavel Petrovich on the grass. “Let’s see what is wrong.” He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began to feel around the wound . . . “The bone’s not touched,” he muttered through his teeth, “the bullet didn’t go deep; only one muscle vastus externus grazed.
He’ll be dancing about in three weeks.