“I don’t believe in fighting at all, myself, but, if it must be, then one ought to draw the line at severe bodily injuries. That’s quite clear.”
“He almost knocked the other’s eye out. I suppose you don’t call that severe bodily injury?” retorted Riasantzeff sarcastically.
“Well, of course, to lose an eye is a bad job, but it’s not the same as getting a bullet through your body. The loss of an eye is not a fatal injury.”
“But Sarudine is dead?”
“Ah! that’s because he wished to die.”
Yourii nervously plucked at his moustache.
“I must frankly confess,” he said, quite pleased at his own sincerity, “that personally, I have not made up my mind as regards this question. I cannot say how I should have behaved in Sanine’s place. Of course, duelling’s stupid, and to fight with fists is not much better.”
“But what is a man to do if he’s compelled to fight?” said Sina.
Yourii shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s for Soloveitchik that we ought to be sorry,” said Riasantzeff, after a pause. The words contrasted strangely with his cheerful countenance. Then all at once, they remembered that not one of them had asked about Soloveitchik.