“What is the meaning of that, sir? Kindly explain yourself.”
“Gladly. It means that if you want Masha Mironov to meet you after dark, then instead of tender verses, give her a pair of earrings.”
My blood boiled.
“And why do you have such an opinion of her?” I asked, barely controlling my indignation.
“Because,” he replied with an infernal grin, “I know her ways and habits from experience.”
“You’re lying, scoundrel!” I cried in fury. “You’re lying most shamelessly!”
Shvabrin’s countenance changed.
“That you will not get away with,” he said, gripping my arm. “You will give me satisfaction.”
“Very well; whenever you like!” I replied joyfully. At that moment I was ready to tear him to pieces.
I went at once to Ivan Ignatyich and found him with a needle in his hand: on orders from the commandant’s wife, he was stringing mushrooms to be dried for winter.
“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said, seeing me. “Welcome! What good fortune brings you here? And on what business, may I ask?”
I explained to him in a few words that I had quarreled with Alexei Ivanych, and asked him, Ivan Ignatyich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened to me attentively, goggling his only eye at me.
“You’re pleased to be saying,” he said to me, “that you want to skewer Alexei Ivanyich and wish me to be a witness to it? Is that it, may I ask?”
“Exactly.”
“For pity’s sake, Pyotr Andreich! What are you getting into! You and Alexei Ivanych have quarreled? It’s no big thing! Bad words don’t stick. He called you names, and you swore at him; he punches you in the nose, you box him on the ear two, three times—and you go your own ways; and we’ll get you to make peace. Or else what: is it a good thing to skewer your neighbor, may I ask? And good enough if you skewer him: God help Alexei Ivanych; I’m no great fancier of him myself. But what if he puts a hole in you? How will that be? Who’ll be the fool then, may I ask?”
The sensible lieutenant’s reasoning did not make me waver. I clung to my intention.
“As you like,” said Ivan Ignatyich, “do what you’ve a mind to. But why should I be a witness to it? What on earth for? Men fight, so what else is new, may I ask? Good God, I went to war with the Swedes and the Turks: I’ve seen it all.”
I tried to explain to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me.
“Have it your way,” he said. “If I’m to get mixed up in this business, I’d better go to Ivan Kuzmich and dutifully inform him that there’s some evildoing afoot in the fortress, contrary to official interest: might it be the commandant’s goodwill to take suitable measures…”
I became frightened and started begging Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the commandant. I barely managed to persuade him. He gave me his word, and I decided to let it go at that.
I spent the evening, as was my habit, at the commandant’s. I tried to seem cheerful and indifferent, so as not to arouse any suspicions and avoid importunate questions; but I confess, I did not have the composure of which those in my position almost always boast. That evening I was disposed to tenderness and affection. I liked Marya Ivanovna more than usual. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time endowed her, in my eyes, with something touching. Shvabrin, too, showed up. I drew him aside and informed him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatyich.
“What do we need seconds for?” he said to me drily. “We’ll do without them.”
We arranged to fight behind the haystacks near the fortress, and to meet there by seven the next morning. We seemed to be conversing so amicably that Ivan Ignatyich, in his joy, almost blurted everything out.
“None too soon,” he said to me, looking pleased. “Better a bad peace than a good quarrel; the less honor, the more health.”
“What, what, Ivan Ignatyich?” asked the commandant’s wife, who was in the corner telling fortunes with cards. “I didn’t quite hear.”
Ivan Ignatyich, seeing signs of displeasure in me and remembering his promise, became confused and did not know how to reply. Shvabrin rushed to his aid.
“Ivan Ignatyich,” he said, “approves of our peacemaking.”
“And who did you quarrel with, my dear?”
“I had a rather big argument with Pyotr Andreich.”
“Over what?”
“Over a mere trifle: over a little song, Vasilisa Egorovna.”
“What a thing to quarrel over! A little song!…How did it happen?”
“Like this: Pyotr Andreich recently composed a song and today he sang it for me, and I struck up my favorite:
O Captain’s daughter, hark,
Don’t go wand’ring after dark…
It turned into a disagreement. Pyotr Andreich was angry at first, but then he decided that everybody’s free to sing what he likes. And the matter ended there.”
