Nocturne [antikvár]

1I was present at the duel as Prince Myatlev's second. The prince was shooting it out with an officer from the Horse Guards, a foolish and shallow man. I won't describe now what led them to resort to pistols; the time for that will come. In any case, the real reason was their not having anything to do; duels had long lost their cachet, and therefore the entire incident was like a game and almost ludicrous.The Guardsman puffed and preened and looked threatening, and for a minute I was afraid that the pistols were loaded and that that turkey-cock would actually shoot in earnest. However, both combatants shot into the autumn sky, and the duel was over. The rivals shook hands. The Guardsman still looked threatening, while the prince tried to smile, twisting his lips and blushing deeply.It was time to go. People might turn up in this desolate spot, no matter how desolate it was; and since people always want to know what is going on, an encounter boded ill for us.The touching stillness of an October morning filled the air. The duel seemed an empty fantasy.We sat down; the coachman urged on the horses; and the carriage moved slowly and silently in the yellow grass.2We had been friends for many years, a decade to be precise, probably more, ever since that infamous year when a young but already famous poet fell in a duel in the Caucasus,1