Two hours later he knocked at Bazarov’s door.

“I must apologize for hindering you in your scientific researches,” he began, seating himself in a chair by the window and leaning with both hands on a handsome walking-stick with an ivory knob (he usually walked without a stick), “but I am obliged to ask you to spare me five minutes of your time . . . no more.”

“All my time is at your disposal,” answered Bazarov, whose face quickly changed its expression the moment Pavel Petrovich crossed the threshold.

“Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put one question to you.”

“A question? What about?”

“I will tell you if you will be good enough to listen to me. At the beginning of your stay in my brother’s house, before I had renounced the pleasure of conversing with you, I had occasion to hear your opinion on many subjects; but as far as I can remember, neither between us, nor in my presence, was the subject of singlecombats or dueling discussed. Allow me to hear what are your views on that subject?”

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 .”

“I think you are joking, sir.”

“Not in the least. If you think over my suggestion you will be convinced that it is full of common sense and simplicity. Murder will out — but I can undertake to prepare Pyotr in a suitable manner and bring him to the field of battle.”

“You persist in joking,” said Pavel Petrovich, getting up from his chair. “But after the courteous readiness you have shown, I have no right to claim . . . so everything is arranged . . . by the way, I suppose you have no pistols?”

“How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovich? I’m not an army man.”

“In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that I have not shot with them for five years.”

“That’s a very consoling piece of news. — ”

Pavel Petrovich picked up his stick . . . “And now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have the honor to take leave of you.”

“Until we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,” said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.

Pavel Petrovich went out; Bazarov remained standing for a moment in front of the door, then suddenly exclaimed, “What the devil — How fine and how stupid! A pretty farce we’ve been acting; like trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. But it was out of the question to refuse; I really believe he would have struck me, and then . . .” (Bazarov turned pale at the very thought; all his pride stood up on end.) “I might have had to strangle him like a kitten.” He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating fast and the composure so essential for accurate observation had disappeared. “He saw us today,” he thought, “but can it be that he would do all this on account of his brother? And how serious a matter is it — a kiss? There must be something else in it. Bah! Isn’t he in love with her himself? Obviously he’s in love — it’s as clear as daylight. What a mess, just think . . . it’s a bad business!” he decided at last. “It’s bad from whatever angle one looks at it. In the first place to risk a bullet through one’s brain, and then in any case to go away from here; and what about Arkady . . . and that good-natured creature Nikolai Petrovich? It’s a bad business.”

The day passed in a peculiar calm and dullness. Fenichka gave no sign of life at all; she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole. Nikolai Petrovich had a careworn look. He had just heard that his wheat crop on which he had set high hopes had begun to show signs of blight, Pavel Petrovich overwhelmed everyone, even Prokovich, with his icy politeness. Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up and threw it under the table. “If I die,” he thought, “they will hear about it; but I shan’t die; no, I shall struggle along in this world for a long time yet.” He gave Pyotr an order to come to him on important business the next morning as soon as it was light. Pyotr imagined that Bazarov wanted to take him to Petersburg. Bazarov went to bed late, and all night long he was oppressed by disordered dreams . . . Madame Odintsov kept on appearing in them; now she was his mother and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten was really Fenichka; then Pavel Petrovich took the shape of a great forest, with which he had still to fight. Pyotr woke him at four o’clock; he dressed at once and went out with him.

It was a lovely fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds stood overhead like fleecy lambs in the clear blue sky; fine dewdrops lay on the leaves and grass, sparkling like silver on the spiders’ webs; the damp dark earth seemed still to preserve the rosy traces of the dawn; the songs of larks poured down from all over the sky. Bazarov walked as far as the plantation, sat down in the shade at its edge and only then disclosed to Pyotr the nature of the service he expected from him. The cultured valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov quieted him down by the assurance that he would have nothing to do except to stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility. “And besides,” he added, “only think what an important part you have to play.” Pyotr threw up his hands, cast down his eyes, and leaned against a birch tree, looking green with terror.

The road from Maryino skirted the plantation; a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov found himself staring along this road, picking and chewing a piece of grass, and he kept on repeating to himself: “What a piece of idiocy!” The morning chill made him shiver twice . . . Pyotr looked at him dismally, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not frightened.

The tramp of horses’ hoofs could be heard coming along the road . . . A peasant came into sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses hobbled together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely, without removing his cap, which evidently disturbed Pyotr, as an unlucky omen.

“There’s someone else up early too,” thought Bazarov, “but he at least has got up for work while we . . .”

“It seems the gentleman is coming,” whispered Pyotr suddenly.

Bazarov raised his head and caught sight of Pavel Petrovich. 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. Fainting! Oh these nervous people! Fancy, what a delicate skin.”

“Is he killed?” whispered the trembling voice of Pyotr behind his back.

Bazarov looked round.

“Go for some water quickly, my good fellow, and he’ll outlive you and me yet.”

But the perfect servant failed apparently to understand his words and did not move from the spot. Pavel Petrovich slowly opened his eyes. “He’s dying,” murmured Pyotr and started crossing himself. “You are right . . . what an idiotic face!” remarked the wounded gentleman with a forced smile.

“Go and fetch the water, damn you!” shouted Bazarov.

“There’s no need . . . it was a momentary vertigo. Help me to sit up . . . there, that’s right . . . I only need something to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot, or else you can send for a droshky for me. The duel, if you agree, need not be renewed. You have behaved honorably . . . today, today — take note.”

“There’s no need to recall the past,” answered Bazarov, “and as regards the future, it’s not worth breaking your head about that either, for I intend to move off from here immediately. Let me bind up your leg now; your wound — is not dangerous, but it’s always better to stop the bleeding. But first I must bring this corpse to his senses.”

Bazarov shook Pyotr by the collar and sent him off to fetch a droshky.

“Mind you don’t frighten my brother,” Pavel Petrovich said to him; “don’t inform him on any account.”

Pyotr dashed off, and while he was running for a droshky, the two antagonists sat on the ground in silence. Pavel Petrovich tried not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be reconciled to him in any case; he felt ashamed of his own arrogance, of his failure; he was ashamed of the whole affair he had arranged even though he realized it could not have ended more auspiciously. “At least he won’t go on hanging around here,” he consoled himself by thinking: “one should be thankful even for that.” The prolonged silence was oppressive and awkward. Both of them felt ill at ease; each was conscious that the other understood him. For friends such a feeling is agreeable, but for those who are not friends it is most unpleasant, especially when it is impossible either to come to an understan............