Текст книги "Demons"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 56 страниц)

The captain had stretched things a bit when he said that she had seen to her toilette. She was wearing the same dark dress as on Sunday at Varvara Petrovna's. Her hair was done up in the same way, in a tiny knot at the nape; her long and dry neck was bared in the same way. The black shawl given her by Varvara Petrovna lay on the sofa, carefully folded. As usual, she was crudely made up with white and rouge. Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not been standing there even a minute when she suddenly awoke, as if she had felt his gaze on her, opened her eyes, and quickly sat up straight. But something strange must also have happened with the visitor: he went on standing in the same spot by the door; with a fixed and piercing look he stared silently and persistently into her face. Perhaps this look was excessively stern, perhaps it expressed loathing, even a malicious delight in her fear– unless the half-awake Marya Timofeevna was simply imagining it– but suddenly, after almost a minute-long pause, the poor woman's face took on an expression of complete horror; spasms ran across it, she raised her hands, shaking them, and suddenly began to cry, exactly like a frightened child; another moment and she would have screamed. But the visitor came to his senses; in an instant his face changed, and he approached the table with a most amiable and tender smile.

"I'm sorry I frightened you, Marya Timofeevna, by coming in unexpectedly while you were asleep," he said, giving her his hand.

The sound of these tender words produced its effect, her fright vanished, though she still looked at him with fear, apparently trying to understand something. Fearfully, she also gave him her hand. At last a smile stirred timidly on her lips.

"Greetings, Prince," she whispered, peering at him somehow strangely.

"You must have been having a bad dream?" he went on smiling with ever more amiability and tenderness.

"And how did you know I was dreaming about that?. .."

And she suddenly trembled again and recoiled, raising her hand in front of her as if to protect herself, and preparing to cry again.

"Pull yourself together, enough, there's nothing to fear, didn't you recognize me?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich tried to persuade her, but this time it took him some while to persuade her; she looked at him silently, with the same tormenting bewilderment, with a heavy thought in her poor head, still straining to think her way through to something. She would drop her eyes, then suddenly look him over with a quick, embracing glance. Finally, she seemed not so much to calm down as to reach a decision.

"Sit here, next to me, I beg you, so that I can have a good look at you afterwards," she said quite firmly, with some new and obvious purpose. "And don't worry now, I won't look at you, I'll look down. And don't you look at me either, until I myself ask you to. Do sit," she added, even impatiently.

A new sensation seemed to be taking more and more possession of her.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat down and waited; there was quite a long silence.

"Hm! It seems all strange to me," she muttered suddenly, almost in disgust. "I am full of bad dreams, of course; only why should you come into my dreams in such a way?"

"Well, let's leave dreams out of it," he said impatiently, turning to her despite her prohibition, and perhaps the former expression flashed in his eyes again. He saw that several times she would have liked, and liked very much, to glance at him, but that she stubbornly resisted and looked down.

"Listen, Prince," she raised her voice suddenly, "listen, Prince..."

"Why did you turn away, why don't you look at me, what is this comedy about?" he cried, unable to help himself.

But it was as if she had not heard him at all.

"Listen, Prince," she repeated for the third time, in a firm voice, with an unpleasant, preoccupied look on her face. "When you told me in the carriage then that the marriage would be announced, I felt afraid right then that the secret would be over. Now I really don't know; I kept thinking, and I see clearly that I'm not fit at all. I could dress up, I could receive people, too, perhaps—it's not so hard to invite people for a cup of tea, especially if there are servants. But, still, how will they look at it from outside? I noticed a lot in that house then, that Sunday morning. That pretty young lady watched me all the time, especially when you came in. It was you who came in then, eh? Her mother's just a funny little old society lady. My Lebyadkin also distinguished himself; so as not to burst out laughing, I had to keep looking up at the ceiling; the ceiling there is nicely decorated. Hismother ought to be the superior of a convent; I'm afraid of her, though she gave me her black shawl. It must be they all attested me then from an unexpected side; I'm not angry, only I was sitting there then and thinking: what kind of relation am I to them? Of course, what's required of a countess is only qualities of soul—because for housekeeping she has lots of servants—and some bit of worldly coquetry besides, so as to be able to receive foreign travelers. But, still, that Sunday they looked at me hopelessly. Only Dasha is an angel. I'm very afraid they may upset himwith some imprudent comment on my account."

"Don't be afraid or worried," Nikolai Vsevolodovich twisted his mouth.

"Anyway, for me it won't matter much even if he should be a little ashamed of me, because there's always more pity in it than shame, depending on the person, of course. He does know that I ought rather to pity them than they me."

"You seem to be very offended with them, Marya Timofeevna?" "Who, me? No," she smiled simpleheartedly. "Not a bit. I looked at you all then: you're all angry, you're all quarreling; you get together and can't even laugh from the heart. So much wealth and so little joy—it's all loathsome to me. But, anyway, I don't pity anyone now except my own self."

"I've heard your life with your brother was bad without me?" "Who told you so? Nonsense; it's much worse now; my dreams are not so good now, and they became not so good because you arrived. Why, tell me, please, did you appear, if I may ask?" "And don't you want to go back to the convent?" "Well, I could just feel they were going to offer me the convent again! As if I haven't seen your convent! And why should I go there, what will I bring with me? I'm as alone as can be now! It's too late for me to begin a third life."

"You are very angry about something, perhaps you're afraid I've stopped loving you?"

"I don't care about you at all. I'm afraid I myself may well stop loving someone."

She grinned contemptuously.

"I must be guilty before himin some very big way," she added suddenly, as if to herself, "only I don't know what I'm guilty of, that is my whole grief forever. Always, always, for all these five years I've feared day and night that I'm guilty before him for something. I've prayed sometimes, prayed and kept thinking about my great guilt before him. And so it's turned out to be true."

"But what is it?"

"I'm only afraid there may be something on hispart," she went on without answering his question, not even hearing it at all. "Again, he couldn't really become close with such paltry people. The countess would gladly eat me, even though she put me in her carriage. They're all in the conspiracy—is he, too? Has he, too, betrayed me?" (Her lips and chin began to tremble.) "Listen, you: have you read about Grishka Otrepev, who was cursed at the seven councils?" ^[102]

Nikolai Vsevolodovich did not answer.

"Anyway, I'll now turn and look at you," she suddenly seemed to make up her mind. "You also turn and look at me, only look more intently. I want to make sure for the last time."

"I've been looking at you for a long time."

"Hm," said Marya Timofeevna, studying him closely, "you've grown fatter ..."

She wanted to say something more, but then again, for the third time, the same fright instantly distorted her face, and she again recoiled, raising her hand in front of her.

"What's the matter with you?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich cried out, almost in rage.

But the fright lasted only an instant; her face twisted into some strange smile, suspicious, unpleasant.

"I beg you, Prince, to get up and come in," she suddenly said, in a firm and insistent voice.

"How, come in?Come in where?"

"All these five years I've only been imagining how hewould come in. Get up now and go out the door, into the other room. I'll sit here as if I'm not expecting anything and take a book in my hands, and suddenly you will come in after five years of traveling. I want to see how it will be."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich gnashed his teeth to himself and growled something incomprehensible.

"Enough," he said, slapping the table with his palm. "I beg you to listen to me, Marya Timofeevna. Kindly collect all your attention, if you can. You're not completely mad, after all!" he burst out impatiently. "Tomorrow I am announcing our marriage. You will never live in a mansion, don't deceive yourself. Would you like to live with me all your life, only very far from here? It's in the mountains, in Switzerland, there's a place there... Don't worry, I'll never abandon you or send you to the madhouse. I have enough money to live without begging. You'll have a maid; you won't do any work. Everything you want that's possible, you will be given. You will pray, go wherever you like, and do whatever you like. I won't touch you. I also won't stir from the place all my life. If you want, I won't speak to you all my life; if you want, you can tell me your stories every evening, as you did in those corners in Petersburg. I'll read books to you if you wish. But realize that it will be so all your life, in one place, and the place is a gloomy one. Do you want to? Are you resolved? You won't repent, you won't torment me with tears, curses?"

She heard him out with great curiosity, and thought silently for a long time.

"It's all incredible to me," she said at last, mockingly and disgustedly. "I might live like that for forty years in those mountains." She laughed.

"Well, so we'll live there for forty years," Nikolai Vsevolodovich scowled deeply.

"Hm. I won't go for anything."

"Not even with me?"

"And what are you that I should go with you? To sit with him on a mountain for forty years on end—I see what he's up to! Really, what patient people we've got nowadays! No, it can't be that my falcon has turned into an owl. My prince is not like that!" She raised her head proudly and solemnly.

Something seemed to dawn on him.

"Why do you call me prince, and... whom do you take me for?" he asked quickly.

"What? You're not a prince?"

"And I never have been."

"So you, you yourself, admit right to my face that you're not a prince?"

"I tell you, I never have been."

"Lord!" she clasped her hands, "I expected anything from hisenemies, but such boldness—never! Is he alive?" she cried out in a frenzy, moving upon Nikolai Vsevolodovich. "Have you killed him, or not? Confess!"

"Whom do you take me for!" he jumped up from his seat, his face distorted; but by now it was difficult to frighten her, she was triumphant:

"Who knows who you are or where you popped up from! Only my heart, my heart sensed the whole intrigue all these five years! And I'm sitting here, wondering: what's this blind owl up to? No, my dear, you're a bad actor, even worse than Lebyadkin. Go bow as low as you can to the countess for me, and tell her to send someone cleaner than you. Did she hire you? Speak! Does she keep you in the kitchen for charity? I see through your whole deception, I know you all, to a man!"

He seized her firmly by the arm, above the elbow; she was laughing loudly in his face:

"You look very much like him, you do, maybe you might be his relative—sly people! Only mineis a bright falcon and a prince, and you are a barn owl and a little merchant! Mine will bow to God if he wishes, and won't if he doesn't, and you have had your face slapped by Shatushka (he's a dear, a sweet man, my darling!), my Lebyadkin told me. And why did you get scared then, as you walked in? Who frightened you then? As soon as I saw your mean face, when I fell and you picked me up—it was as if a worm crept into my heart: not him,I thought, it's not him! My falcon would never be ashamed of me in front of a fashionable young lady! Oh, Lord! but this alone has kept me happy all these five years, that my falcon lives and flies somewhere beyond the mountains, and gazes on the sun... Tell me, impostor, how much did you get? Did you agree for a big sum? I wouldn't give you a kopeck. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Ohh, idiot!" rasped Nikolai Vsevolodovich, still firmly holding her arm.

"Away, impostor!" she cried commandingly. "I am my prince's wife, your knife doesn't frighten me!"

"Knife!"

"Yes, knife! you have a knife in your pocket. You thought I was asleep, but I saw it: tonight, as you came in, you pulled out your knife!"

"What are you saying, wretched woman, is this the sort of dreams you have?" he cried out, and pushed her away from him with all his might, so that her head and shoulders even struck painfully against the sofa. He bolted; but she jumped up at once and went after him, limping and hopping, trying to overtake him, and from the porch, while the frightened Lebyadkin tried with all his might to restrain her, she managed to shout after him into the darkness, shrieking and laughing:

"Grishka Otrepev, anathema!"

IV

"A knife, a knife!" he repeated, in unquenchable spite, striding broadly over mud and puddles without looking where he was going. True, at moments he wanted terribly to laugh, loudly, furiously; but for some reason he controlled himself and restrained his laughter. He came to his senses only on the bridge, just at the spot where he had previously met Fedka; the very same Fedka was again waiting for him there, and, seeing him, took off his cap, gaily bared his teeth, and at once began jabbering about something, perkily and gaily. Nikolai Vsevolodovich at first walked past without stopping, and for some time did not even listen at all to the tramp, who again tagged after him. He was suddenly struck by the thought that he had completely forgotten about him, and forgotten precisely at the time when he was repeating every moment to himself: "A knife, a knife!" He seized the tramp by the scruff of the neck and, with all his pent-up anger, dashed him against the bridge as hard as he could. For a moment the man thought of putting up a fight, but realizing almost at once that he was something like a straw compared with his adversary, who, moreover, had attacked unexpectedly—he quieted down and fell silent, without offering the least resistance. On his knees, pressed to the ground, his elbows wrenched behind his back, the sly tramp calmly waited for the denouement, apparently not believing there was any danger at all.

He was not mistaken. Nikolai Vsevolodovich had already taken off his warm scarf with his left hand, to tie his captive's arms, but suddenly, for some reason, abandoned him and pushed him away. The man jumped to his feet at once, turned around, and a short, broad cobbler's knife, which instantly appeared from somewhere, flashed in his hand.

"Away with the knife, put it away, now!" Nikolai Vsevolodovich ordered,with an impatient gesture, and the knife vanished as instantly as it had appeared.

Nikolai Vsevolodovich went on his way again, silently and without turning around; but the stubborn scoundrel still did not leave him alone, though, true, he no longer jabbered, and even respectfully observed a distance of one full step behind. Thus they crossed the bridge and came out on the bank, turning left this time into another long and obscure back lane, which was a shorter way to the center of town than the previous way down Bogoyavlensky Street.

"Is it true what they say, that you robbed a church the other day, somewhere here in the district?" Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly asked.

"Well, I mean, as a matter of fact, I stopped in firstly to pray, sir," the tramp answered sedately and deferentially, as if nothing had happened; not even sedately, but almost dignifiedly. There was no trace of the former "friendly" familiarity. One glimpsed a practical and serious man, who, though unjustly offended, was capable of forgetting offenses.

"Then, once the Lord had brought me there," he went on, "I thought, ah, what a heavenly blessing! It's owing to my being an orphan that this thing has happened, because in my destiny it's quite impossible without assistance. And then, by God, sir, it was my loss, the Lord punished me for my sins: all I got for the swinger and the swatter and the deacon's girth was twelve roubles. Nicholas the Wonder-worker's pure silver getup went for nothing: they said it was similor." ^[103]

"You killed the beadle?"

"I mean, we bagged it together, me and that beadle; it was only towards morning, by the river, we got to quarreling mutually, who should carry the sack. I sinned, I lightened his load for him."

"Kill more, steal more."

"That's the same thing Pyotr Stepanovich advises me, sir, word for word just what you say, because he's an extremely stingy and hardhearted man when it comes to assistance, sir. Besides from the fact that he doesn't have even a straw of belief in the heavenly creator who made us out of earthly dust, sir, but says nature alone arranged it all, supposedly even to the last beast, and what's more he doesn't understand that in my destiny it's quite impossible to do entirely without beneficent assistance, sir. I start explaining it to him, and he stares like a sheep at water, you can only wonder at him. Now, would you believe it, sir, with this Captain Lebyadkin, where you just visited, if you please, sir, when he was still living at Filippov's before you, sir, his door sometimes stood wide open all night, sir, he himself lying dead drunk and money spilling out of all his pockets onto the floor. I happened to observe it with my own eyes, because the way my life is, it's quite impossible without assistance, sir..."

"How, with your own eyes? Did you go in there at night, or what?"

"Maybe I did, only nobody knows."

"Why didn't you put a knife in him?"

"After making a reckoning, I steadied myself, sir. Because once I knew for sure that I could take out about a hundred and fifty roubles anytime, then how should I venture into such a thing when I can take out the whole fifteen hundred, provided I just wait a bit? Since Captain Lebyadkin (I heard it with my own ears, sir) always had gr-r-reat hopes of you in his drunken state, sir, and there's no such tavern establishment around here, not even the lowest pot-house, where he wouldn't announce as much, being in that same state, sir. So that, hearing about it from many lips, I, too, began to place all my hopes in Your Excellency. I'm telling it to you, sir, as I would to my own father or brother, because Pyotr Stepanovich will never find it out from me, and neither will a single soul else. So then, how about three little roubles, Your Excellency, would you be so kind, sir, or not? You'd unbind me, sir, so that I'd know the real truth, I mean, because it's quite impossible for me without assistance, sir."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich guffawed loudly, and taking from his pocket a wallet that contained as much as fifty roubles in small bills, he pulled one out of the wad for him, then another, a third, a fourth. Fedka caught them in the air, rushed about, the bills rained down into the mud, Fedka caught at them with little cries: "Ah, ah!" Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally threw the whole wad at him, and, still guffawing, set off down the lane, this time alone. The tramp stayed behind, fussing on his knees in the mud, picking up the bills that had scattered on the wind or sunk in puddles, and for a whole hour one could hear his abrupt little cries from the darkness: "Ah, ah!"

3: The Duel

1

The next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, the proposed duel took place. ^[104]The speedy outcome of the affair was furthered by Artemy Pavlovich Gaganov's indomitable desire to fight at all costs. He did not understand his adversary's conduct, and was furious. For a whole month he had been insulting him with impunity, and was still unable to make him lose patience. He needed a challenge from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, because he had no direct pretext for a challenge himself. And for some reason he was embarrassed to admit his secret motive—that is, simply a morbid hatred of Stavrogin for the family insult of four years ago. And he himself considered this pretext impossible, especially in view of the humble apologies already twice offered by Nikolai Vsevolodovich. Inwardly he set Stavrogin down as a shameless coward; he simply could not understand how he could suffer a slap from Shatov; and thus he finally resolved to send that letter, remarkable in its rudeness, which finally prompted Nikolai Vsevolodovich to suggest a meeting himself. Having sent this letter the day before, and awaiting the challenge with feverish impatience, morbidly reckoning up his chances for it, now hopeful, now despairing, he provided himself, just in case, on the previous evening, with a second—namely, Mavriky Nikolaevich Drozdov, his friend from school days and a man he particularly respected. So it was that when Kirillov came with his errand the next day at nine o'clock in the morning, he found the ground quite prepared. All the apologies and unheard-of concessions of Nikolai Vsevolodovich were rejected at once, from the first word, and with remarkable vehemence. Mavriky Nikolaevich, who had learned only the day before of the course the affair had taken, gaped in astonishment at such unheard-of offers, and wanted to insist at once on a reconciliation, but noticing that Artemy Pavlovich, who guessed his intentions, almost started shaking in his chair, he kept silent and said nothing. Had it not been for the word he had given his friend, he would have walked out immediately; he stayed solely in hopes of helping at least with something in the outcome of the affair. Kirillov conveyed the challenge; all the conditions stipulated for the meeting by Stavrogin were accepted at once, literally, without the least objection. Only one addition was made, albeit a very cruel one—namely, that if nothing decisive occurred at the first shots, they would begin over again; if it ended with nothing the second time, they would begin a third time. Kirillov frowned, bargained a little about the third time, but, having bargained unsuccessfully, agreed, on condition, however, that "three times was possible, but four absolutely not." This they conceded. And so, at two o'clock in the afternoon, the meeting took place at Brykovo, that is, a little woods outside town, between Skvoreshniki on one side and the Shpigulins' factory on the other. Yesterday's rain had stopped entirely, but it was wet, damp, and windy. Low, dull, broken clouds raced quickly across the cold sky; the trees rustled densely and rollingly at their tops, and creaked on their roots; the morning was very melancholy.

Gaganov and Mavriky Nikolaevich arrived at the place in a jaunty char-à-banc and pair, driven by Artemy Pavlovich; they had a servant with them. At almost the same moment, Nikolai Vsevolodovich and Kirillov appeared, not in a carriage but on horseback, and also accompanied by a mounted servant. Kirillov, who had never mounted a horse before, sat bold and straight in the saddle, clutching in his right hand the heavy pistol box, which he would not entrust to the servant, and with his left hand, for want of skill, constantly twisting and pulling at the reins, causing the horse to toss its head and display a desire to rear, which, however, did not frighten the rider in the least. The insecure Gaganov, who took offense quickly and deeply, considered this arrival on horseback a new offense to himself, implying that his enemies therefore hoped for success, since they did not even assume the need for a carriage in case a wounded man had to be transported. He got down from his char-à-banc all yellow with anger, and felt his hands trembling, of which he informed Mavriky Nikolaevich. He did not respond at all to Nikolai Vsevolodovich's bow and turned away. The seconds cast lots: the lot fell on Kirillov's pistols. The barriers were measured out, the adversaries were placed, the carriage and horses were sent with the servants about three hundred paces off. The weapons were loaded and handed to the adversaries.

It is a pity the story must move on more quickly and there is no time for descriptions; but it is impossible to do without observations entirely. Mavriky Nikolaevich was melancholy and preoccupied. Kirillov, on the other hand, was perfectly calm and indifferent, very precise in the details of the duty he had assumed, but without the least fussiness, and almost without curiosity as to the fatal and so imminent outcome of the affair. Nikolai Vsevolodovich was paler than usual, dressed rather lightly in an overcoat and a white beaver hat. He seemed very tired, frowned from time to time, and did not find it at all necessary to conceal his unpleasant mood. But the most remarkable one at that moment was Artemy Pavlovich, so that it is altogether impossible not to say a few words about him quite separately.

II

We have had no occasion as yet to mention his appearance. He was a man of large stature, white-skinned, well-fed, as simple folk say, almost flabby, with thin blond hair, some thirty-three years old, and perhaps even handsome of feature. He had retired as a colonel, and had he attained the rank of general, he would have looked even more imposing as a general, and it may well be that a good combat general would have come out of him.

One cannot omit, in characterizing the man, that the main reason for his retirement was the thought of his family disgrace, which haunted him long and painfully after the offense inflicted on his father four years ago in the club by Nikolai Stavrogin. In all conscience, he considered it dishonorable to continue in the service, and was inwardly convinced that he was a blot on his regiment and his comrades, though none of them even knew of the event. True, once before he had also wanted to leave the service, way back, long before the offense, and for a totally different reason, but he kept hesitating. Strange though it is to write it, this initial intention, or, better, impulse, to retire came from the manifesto of February nineteenth on the emancipation of the peasants. Artemy Pavlovich, the wealthiest landowner of our province, who did not even lose very much after the manifesto, who, moreover, was himself capable of being convinced of the humaneness of the measure and almost of understanding the economic advantages of the reform, suddenly, after the appearance of the manifesto, felt himself personally offended, as it were. This was something unconscious, like a sort of feeling, but all the stronger the more unaccountable it was. Before his father's death, however, he did not decide to undertake anything decisive; but in Petersburg he became known for his "noble" way of thinking to many notable persons with whom he assiduously maintained connections. This was a man withdrawn, closed up in himself. Another trait: he was one of those strange but still surviving Russian noblemen who greatly value the antiquity and purity of their noble lineage and are all too seriously interested in it. At the same time he could not bear Russian history, and regarded all Russian customs in general as somewhat swinish. Already in his childhood, in that special military school for wealthier and more aristocratic pupils in which he had the honor of beginning and ending his education, certain poetic attitudes took root in him: he became fond of castles, medieval life, the whole operatic side of it, chivalry; even then he all but wept for shame that in the time of the Muscovite kingdom the tsar could corporally punish a Russian boyar, ^[105]and he blushed at the comparison. This taut, extremely strict man, who knew his service and discharged his duties remarkably well, in his soul was a dreamer. It was maintained that he could speak at meetings and had the gift of eloquence; yet he had kept silent in himself for all his thirty-three years. He bore himself with remarkable arrogance even in that grand Petersburg milieu in which he had moved of late. His meeting in Petersburg with Nikolai Vsevolodovich, who had just returned from abroad, almost drove him out of his mind. At the present moment, standing at the barrier, he was in terrible anxiety. He kept fancying that the thing might somehow not take place after all, and the slightest delay sent tremors through him. His face bore a pained expression when Kirillov, instead of giving the signal for the battle to begin, suddenly began to speak, for the sake of form, true, as he himself declared for all to hear:

"Just for the sake of form; now that pistols have been taken and the command must be given, for the last time, do you care to reconcile? The duty of a second."

As if on purpose, Mavriky Nikolaevich, who until then had been silent, but had been suffering inwardly since the previous day for his compliance and connivance, suddenly picked up Kirillov's thought and also spoke:

"I subscribe completely to Mr. Kirillov's words... the notion that it's impossible to reconcile standing at the barrier is a prejudice fit for Frenchmen ... Be it as you will, but I do not understand what the offense is and have long wanted to say ... because all kinds of apologies are being offered, aren't they?"

He blushed all over. Rarely had he chanced to speak so much and in such agitation.

"I again confirm my offer to present all possible apologies," Nikolai Vsevolodovich picked up with great haste.

"How is this possible?" Gaganov cried out furiously, turning to Mavriky Nikolaevich and frenziedly stamping his foot. "Do explain to this man, if you are my second and not my enemy, Mavriky Nikolaevich" (he jabbed his pistol in the direction of Nikolai Vsevolodovich) "that such concessions only add to the offense! He does not find it possible to be offended by me! ... He does not find it a disgrace to walk away from a duel with me! Who does he take me for after that, in your eyes... and you are my second! You're simply irritating me so that I'll miss." He stamped his foot again; spittle sprayed from his lips.