The Duel by ANTON CHEKHOV Page B

people immediately. They came into view in parts, here a shaggy hat and a gray beard, there a blue shirt, here rags from shoulders to the knees and a dagger across the stomach, there a young swarthy face with black eyebrows so bushy and gruff, they appeared to have been drawn with charcoal. Five of them sat on the ground in a circle around the campfire, while the other five continued on to the drying shed. One of them stood in the doorway with his back to the campfire, hands folded behind his back, and began to tell a story that must have been very interesting, because when Samoylenko added kindling to the fire it flared up shooting off sparks and brightly illuminating the drying shed; two tranquil countenances appearing to pay close attention became visible in the doorway, likewise those sitting in the circle turned and began to listen to the story. Not long after, those seated in the circle began to sing, something drawn-out, melodic, similar to the hymn of receiving the host, the deacon realized what would become of him in ten years’ time when he had returned from the expedition—he, the young Hieromonk-missionary, an author with a name and a remarkable past. He’s beengranted the appointment of Archimandrite, then Architrave. He presents the liturgy in a cathedral-esque church. In a golden mitre with the Panagia he steps out onto the ambo with the trikerion and the dikerion and makes the sign of the cross before a mass of people. He proclaims: “Look down from Heaven, O God, and behold this vineyard, as it was Your right hand that planted it!” While children with angelic voices sing a response of: “Holy God …”
    “Deacon, where’s the fish?” Samoylenko’s voice was heard.
    Returning to the fire, the deacon imagined a pageant procession along a dusty road on a hot July day following the path of the cross. The men carry a gonfalon up ahead, and the women and girls, icons. Next the choirboys and the sexton, his jaw tied and straw in his hair. Next, according to sequence, comes he, the deacon. Behind him the priest in a skull-cap and cross, and behind him a crowd of men, women and little boys fill the air with dust. There in the crowd are the priest’s wife and the deaconess, their heads covered by shawls. The singing of the choir, the wails of the children, the cries of the quail, the skylarks’ warble … Now they stop and the flock is doused with holy water … They proceed and in genuflection pray for rain. Later a snack, conversation …
    And that’s good too …
, the deacon thought.

VII
    Kirilin and Achmianov made their way up the mountain along a little path. Achmianov lingered and stopped, but Kirilin approached Nadezhda Fyodorovna.
    “Good evening!” he said, touching the visor of his cap.
    “Good evening.”
    “Yes, milady!” Kirilin said, looking up at the sky and thinking.
    “What do you mean—’Yes, milady’?” asked Nadezhda Fyodorovna, who was momentarily silent, noticing that Achmianov was observing them both.
    “Well, what I mean is,” the officer spoke, slowly, “it seems that our love has withered before ever having blossomed, so to speak. This is what you expect me to understand? The coquetry was all from your side. It’s the way of your kind. Unless you consider me a vagrant, with whom you may act however you please.”
    “It was all a mistake! Leave me alone!” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said harshly, on this brilliant evening full of wonder, looking at him with fear and asking herself in bewilderment: Could it be that in fact there was a moment when she had liked this man and he had been close to her?
    “There you have it, then!” Kirilin said. He stood for a bit in silence, thought, then said: “Come, now. We can wait until you’re in a better mood, but in the meantime you can believe me when I say that I am a respectable man and I won’t allow anyone to question it. You cannot toy with me! Adieu!”
    He touched the visor of his cap and walked off to theside,