Vladímir Kladunov, a tall, graceful young man, twenty-two years of
age, almost boyish in appearance, with a handsome face and thick, fair
curls, dressed in the uniform of an officer and in long riding boots,
minus overcoat and cap, stood upon a meadow covered with new-fallen
snow, and gazed at another officer, a tall, red-faced, mustached man,
who faced him at a distance of thirty paces, and was slowly lifting his
hand in which he held a revolver, and aimed it straight at Vladímir.
With his arms crossed over his breast and also holding in one hand
a revolver, Kladunov, almost with indifference, awaited the shot
of his opponent. His handsome, young face, though a little paler
than usual, was alight with courage, and wore a scornful smile. His
dangerous position, and the merciless determination of his adversary,
the strenuous attention of the seconds who silently stood at one
side, and the imminence of death, made the moment one of terrible
intensity--mysterious, almost solemn. A question of honor was to be
decided. Every one felt the importance of the question; the less they
understood what they were doing, the deeper seemed the solemnity of the
moment.
A shot was fired; a shiver ran through all. Vladímir threw his hands
about, bent his knees, and fell. He lay upon the snow, shot through the
head, his hands apart, his hair, face, and even the snow around his
head covered with blood. The seconds ran toward him and lifted him; the
doctor certified his death, and the question of honor was solved. It
only remained to announce the news to the regiment and to inform, as
tenderly and carefully as possible, the mother, who was now left alone
in the world, for the boy that had been killed was her only son. Before
the duel no one had given her even a thought; but now they all became
very thoughtful. All knew and loved her, and recognized the fact that
she must be prepared by degrees for the terrible news. At last Iván
Golubenko was chosen as most fit to tell the mother, and smooth out
matters as much as possible.
* * * * *
Pelageia Petrovna had just risen, and was preparing her morning tea
when Iván Golubenko, gloomy and confused, entered the room.
“Just in time for tea, Iván Ivanovich!” amiably exclaimed the old lady,
rising to meet her guest. “You have surely called to see Vladímir!”
“No, I--in passing by--” Golubenko stammered, abashed.
“You will have to excuse him, he is still asleep. He walked up and down
his room the whole of last night, and I told the servant not to wake
him, as it is a--holy day. But probably you came on urgent business?”
“No, I only stepped in for a moment in passing--”
“If you wish to see him, I will give the order to wake him up.”
“No, no, do not trouble yourself!”
But Pelageia Petrovna, believing that he had called to see her son on
some business or other, left the room, murmuring to herself.
Golubenko walked excitedly to and fro, wringing his hands, not knowing
how to tell her the terrible news. The decisive moment was quickly
approaching, but he lost control of himself, was frightened, and cursed
fate that had so mixed him up with the whole business.
“Now! How can a body trust you young people!” good-naturedly exclaimed
Pelageia Petrovna to her guest, reentering the room. “Here I have been
taking care not to make the least noise with the cups and saucers, and
asking you not to wake my boy, and he has long ago departed without
leaving a trace! But why do you not take a seat, Iván Ivanovich, and
have a cup of tea? You have been neglecting us terribly lately!”
She smiled as with a secret joy, and added in a low voice:
“And we have had so much news during that time!--Vladímir surely could
not keep it. He must have told you all about it by this; for he is very
straightforward and open-hearted, my Vladímir. I was thinking last
night, in my sinful thoughts: ‘Well, when my Vladímir paces the room
the whole night--that means that he is dreaming of Lenochka!’ That is
always the case with him: if he paces the room the whole night, he will
surely leave to-morrow--Ah, Iván Ivanovich, I only ask the Lord to send
me this joy in my old age. What more does an old woman need? I have but
one desire, one joy--and it seems to me I shall have nothing more to
pray for after Vladímir and Lenochka are married. So joyful and happy
it would make me!--I do not need anything besides Vladímir; there is
nothing dearer to me than his happiness.”
The old lady became so effected that she had to wipe away the tears
which came to her eyes.
“Do you remember,” she continued, “things did not go well in the
beginning--either between the two or on account of the money--You
young officers are not even allowed to marry without bonds--Well,
now everything has been arranged: I have obtained the necessary five
thousand rubles for Vladímir, and they could go to the altar even
to-morrow! Yes, and Lenochka has written such a lovely letter to me--My
heart is rejoicing!”
Continuing to speak, Pelageia Petrovna took a letter out of her pocket,
which she showed to Golubenko, and then put back again.
“She is such a dear girl! And so good!”
Iván Golubenko, listening to her talk, sat as if on red-hot coals. He
wanted to interrupt her flow of words, to tell her that everything
was at an end, that her Vladímir was dead, and that in one short hour
nothing would remain to her of all her bright hopes; but he listened
to her and kept silent. Looking upon her good, gentle face, he felt a
convulsive gripping in his throat.
“But why are you looking so gloomy to-day?” the old lady at last asked.
“Why, your face looks as black as night!”
Iván wanted to say “Yes! And yours will be the same when I tell you!”
but instead of telling her anything, he turned his head away, and began
to twirl his mustaches.
Pelageia Petrovna did not notice it, and, wholly absorbed in her own
thoughts, continued:
“I have a greeting for you. Lenochka writes that I should give Iván
Ivanovich her regards, and should compel him to come with Vladímir
and pay her a visit--You know yourself how she likes you, Iván
Ivanovich!--No, it seems I am not able to keep it to myself. I must
show you the letter. Just see for yourself how loving and sweet it is.”
And Pelageia Petrovna again took out the package of letters from her
pocket, took from it a thin letter-sheet, closely written, and unfolded
it before Iván Golubenko, whose face had become still gloomier, and
he tried to push away with his hand the extended note, but Pelageia
Petrovna had already started to read:
“Dear Pelageia Petrovna--When will the time arrive when I will be
able to address you, not as above, but as my dear, sweet mother! I am
anxiously awaiting the time, and hope so much that it will soon come
that even now I do not want to call you otherwise than mama--”
Pelageia Petrovna lifted her head, and, ceasing to read, looked at
Golubenko with eyes suffused with tears.
“You see, Iván Ivanovich!” she added; but seeing that Golubenko was
biting his mustaches, and that his eyes too were moist, she rose,
placed a trembling hand upon his hair, and quietly kissed him on the
forehead. “Thank you, Iván Ivanovich,” she whispered, greatly moved. “I
always thought that you and Vladímir were more like brothers than like
simple friends--Forgive me--I am so very happy, God be thanked!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Iván Golubenko was so disturbed
and confused that he could only catch in his own her cold, bony hand
and cover it with kisses; tears were suffocating him, and he could not
utter a word, but in this outburst of motherly love he felt such a
terrible reproach to himself that he would have preferred to be lying
himself upon the field, shot through the head, than to hear himself
praised for his friendship by this woman who would in half an hour find
out the whole truth; what would she then think of him? Did not he,
the friend, the almost brother, stand quietly by when a revolver was
pointed at Vladímir? Did not this brother himself measure the space
between the two antagonists and load the revolvers? All this he did
himself, did consciously; and now this friend and brother silently sat
there without having even the courage to fulfil his duty.
He was afraid; at this moment he despised himself, but could not
prevail upon himself to say even one word. His soul was oppressed by a
strange lack of harmony; he felt sick at heart and stifling. And in
the meanwhile time flew--he knew it, and the more he knew it the less
had he the courage to deprive Pelageia Petrovna of her few last happy
moments. What should he say to her? How should he prepare her? Iván
Golubenko lost his head entirely.
He had had already time enough to curse in his thoughts all duels, all
quarrels, every kind of heroism, and all kinds of so-called questions
of honor, and he at last rose from his seat ready to confess or to run
away. Silently and quickly he caught the hand of Pelageia Petrovna, and
stooping over it to touch it with his lips, thus hid his face, over
which a torrent of tears suddenly streamed down; impetuously, without
another thought, he ran out into the corridor, snatching his great
coat, and then out of the house without having said a word.
Pelageia Petrovna looked after him with astonishment, and thought:
“He also must be in love, poor fellow--Well, that is their young
sorrow--before happiness!” ...
And she soon forgot him, absorbed in her dreams of the happiness which
seemed to her so inviolable and entire.