Men -- Russia -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
“Yes. It was an awful sight. The wall was splashed with blood and
brains, and his face was utterly disfigured. Sanine must have given him
a teaser.” He laughed. “A tough customer is that lad!”
Ivanoff nodded approvingly.
“He’s strong enough, I warrant you.”
“Coarse brute!” said Yourii, in disgust.
Sina glanced timidly at him.
“In my opinion it was not his fault,” she said. “He couldn’t possibly
wait until…”
“Yes, yes,” replied Riasantzeff, “but to hit a fellow like that!
Sarudine had challenged him.”
“There you go!” exclaimed Ivanoff irritably, as he shrugged his
shoulders.
“If you come to think of it, duelling is absurd!” said Yourii.
“Of course it is!” chimed in Sina.
To his surprise, Yourii noticed that Sina seemed pleased to take
Sanine’s part.
“At any rate, it’s….” The right phrase failed him wherewith to
disparage Sanine.
“A brutal thing,” suggested Riasantzeff.
Though Yourii thought Riasantzeff was little better than a brute to
himself, he was glad to hear the latter abuse Sanine to Sina when she
defended him. However, as she noticed Yourii’s look of annoyance, she
said no more. Secretly, she was much pleased by Sanine’s strength and
pluck, and was quite unwilling to accept Riasantzeff’s denouncement of
duelling as just. Like Yourii, she did not consider that he was
qualified to lay down the law like that.
“Wonderfully civilized, certainly,” sneered Ivanoff, “to shoot a man’s
nose off, or run him through the body.”
“Is a blow in the face any better?”
“I certainly think that it is. What harm can a fist do? A bruise is
soon healed. You won’t find that a blow with the fist ever hurt anybody
much.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then, what is, pray?” said Ivanoff, his thin lips curled with scorn.
“I don’t believe in fighting at all, myself, but, if it must be, then
one ought to draw the line at severe bodily injuries. That’s quite
clear.”
“He almost knocked the other’s eye out. I suppose you don’t call that
severe bodily injury?” retorted Riasantzeff sarcastically.
“Well, of course, to lose an eye is a bad job, but it’s not the same as
getting a bullet through your body. The loss of an eye is not a fatal
injury.”
“But Sarudine is dead?”
“Ah! that’s because he wished to die.”
Yourii nervously plucked at his moustache.
“I must frankly confess,” he said, quite pleased at his own sincerity,
“that personally, I have not made up my mind as regards this question.
I cannot say how I should have behaved in Sanine’s place. Of course,
duelling’s stupid, and to fight with fists is not much better.”
“But what is a man to do if he’s compelled to fight?” said Sina.
Yourii shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s for Soloveitchik that we ought to be sorry,” said Riasantzeff,
after a pause. The words contrasted strangely with his cheerful
countenance. Then all at once, they remembered that not one of them had
asked about Soloveitchik.
“Where did he hang himself? Do you know?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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