The Duel Aleksandr Kuprin (best inspirational books .txt) đ
- Author: Aleksandr Kuprin
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âShe reproached me for my friendship with Nasanski. Well, I shall just for that very reason pay him a visit.â
He raised eyes to heaven, and said to himself passionately, as he pressed his hands against his heartâ â
âI swearâ âI swear that today I have visited them for the last time. I will no longer endure this mortification.â
And immediately afterwards he added mentally, as was his ingrained habitâ â
âHis expressive black eyes glistened with resolution and contempt.â
But Romashovâs eyes, unfortunately, were neither âblackâ nor âexpressive,â but of a very common colour, slightly varying between yellow and green.
Nasanski tenanted a room in a comradeâsâ âLieutenant SiĂ©gerschtâsâ âhouse. This SiĂ©gerscht was most certainly the oldest lieutenant in the whole Russian Army. Notwithstanding his unimpeachable conduct as an officer and the fact of his having served in the war with Turkey, through some unaccountable disposition of fate, his military career seemed closed, and every hope of further advancement was apparently lost. He was a widower, with four little children and forty-eight roubles a month, on which sum, strangely enough, he managed to get along. It was his practice to hire large flats which he afterwards, in turn, let out to his brother officers. He took in boarders, fattened and sold fowls and turkeys, and no one understood better than he how to purchase wood and other necessaries cheap and at the right time. He bathed his children himself in a common trough, prescribed for them from his little medicine-chest when they were ill, and, with his sewing-machine, made them tiny shirts, under-vests, and drawers. Like many other officers, SiĂ©gerscht had, in his bachelor days, interested himself in womanâs work, and acquired a readiness with his needle that proved very useful in hard times. Malicious tongues went so far as to assert that he secretly and stealthily sold his handiwork.
Notwithstanding all his economy and closeness, his life was full of troubles. Epidemic diseases ravaged his fowl-house, his numerous rooms stood unlet for long periods; his boarders grumbled at their bad food and refused to pay. The consequence of this was that, three or four times a year, SiĂ©gerschtâ âtall, thin, and unshaven, with cheerless countenance and a forehead dripping with cold sweatâ âmight be seen on his way to the town to borrow some small sum. And all recognized the low, regimental cap that resembled a pancake, always with its peak askew, as well as the antiquated cloak, modelled on those worn in the time of the Emperor Nicholas, which waved in the breeze like a couple of huge wings.
A light was burning in SiĂ©gerschtâs flat, and as Romashov approached the window, he saw him sitting by a round table under a hanging-lamp. The bald head, with its gentle, worn features, was bent low over a little piece of red cloth which was probably destined to form an integral part of a Little Russian roubashka.6 Romashov went up and tapped at the window. SiĂ©gerscht started up, laid aside his work, rose from the table, and went up to the window.
âIt is I, Adam Ivanichâ âopen the window a moment.â
Siégerscht opened a little pane and looked out.
âWell, itâs you, Sublieutenant Romashov. Whatâs up?â
âIs Nasanski at home?â
âOf course heâs at homeâ âwhere else should he be? Ah! your friend Nasanski cheats me nicely, I can tell you. For two months I have kept him in food, but, as for his paying for it, as yet Iâve only had grand promises. When he moved here, I asked him most particularly that, to avoid unpleasantness and misunderstandings, he shouldâ ââ
âYes, yes, we know all about that,â interrupted Romashov; âbut tell me now how he is. Will he see me?â
âYes, certainly, that he will; he does nothing but walk up and down his room.â SiĂ©gerscht stopped and listened for a second. âYou yourself can hear him tramping about. You see, I said to him, âTo prevent unpleasantness and misunderstandings, it will be best forâ ââââ
âExcuse me, Adam Ivanich; but weâll talk of that another time. Iâm in a bit of a hurry,â said Romashov, interrupting him for the second time, and meanwhile continuing his way round the corner. A light was burning in one of Nasanskiâs windows; the other was wide open. Nasanski himself was walking, in his shirt sleeves and without a collar, backwards and forwards with rapid steps. Romashov crept nearer the wall and called him by name.
âWhoâs there?â asked Nasanski in a careless tone, leaning out of the window. âOh, itâs you, Georgie Alexievich. Come in through the window. Itâs a long and dark way round through that door. Hold out your hand and Iâll help you.â
Nasanskiâs dwelling was if possible more wretched that Romashovâs. Along the wall by the window stood a low, narrow, uncomfortable bed, the bulging, broken bottom of which was covered by a coarse cotton coverlet; on the other wall one saw a plain unpainted table with two common chairs without backs. High up in one corner of the room was a little cupboard fixed to the wall. A brown leather trunk, plastered all over with address labels and railway numbers, lay in state. There was not a single thing in the room except these articles and the lamp.
âGood evening, my friend,â said Nasanski, with a hearty handshake and a warm glance from his beautiful, deep blue eyes. âPlease sit down on this bed. As youâve already heard, I have handed in my sick-report.â
âYes, I heard it just now from NikolĂ€iev.â
Again Romashov called to mind Stepanâs insulting remark, the painful memory of which was reflected in his face.
âOh, you come from the NikolĂ€ievs,â cried Nasanski and with visible interest. âDo you often visit them?â
The
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