A Hero of Our Time, page 15
He looked at me in amazement.
"Oh, that's another matter! Only don't blame me in the next world…"
Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols. One he gave Grushnitsky, smilingly whispering something to him, the other to me.
I took my place at the far corner of the ledge, firmly bracing my left foot against the rock and leaning slightly forward so as not to fall backwards in case I was lightly wounded.
Grushnitsky took his place opposite me, and when the signal was given, started to raise the pistol. His knees shook. He aimed straight at my forehead...
Savage anger sprang up in my heart.
Suddenly he lowered the muzzle of his pistol and, going as white as a sheet, turned to his second.
"I can't do it," he said hoarsely.
"Coward!" replied the captain.
The shot rang out. The bullet scratched my knee. Involuntarily, I took a few steps forward, to get away from the brink as quickly as possible.
"Well, brother Grushnitsky, it's a pity you missed!" said the captain. "Now it's your turn; take your place! Embrace me before you go, for we will meet no more!" They embraced, the captain scarcely able to restrain himself from laughter. "Don't be afraid," he added, with a sly look at Grushnitsky, "everything in the world's a pack of nonsense! Nature, fate, life itself: all are naught but worthless pelf!"
This tragic utterance made with due solemnity, the captain withdrew to his place. With tears in his eyes, Ivan Ignatyevich also embraced Grushnitsky, and now the latter remained alone facing me. To this day I have tried to explain to myself the emotion that then surged in my breast: it was the vexation of injured vanity, and contempt, and wrath born of the realization that this man, who was now eyeing me so coolly, with such calm insolence, two minutes before had sought to kill me like a dog without endangering himself in the slightest-for had I been wounded a little more severely in the leg, I would certainly have toppled over the cliff.
I looked him squarely in the face for a few minutes, trying to detect the slightest sign of repentance. Instead I thought I saw him suppressing a smile.
"I advise you to say your prayers before you die," I told him then.
"You need not be more concerned about my soul than about your own. I only beg of you to fire with the least delay."
"And you will not retract your slander? Or apologize to me? Think well, has your conscience nothing to say to you?"
"Mr Pechorin!" shouted the captain of dragoons. "You are not here to take confession, allow me to observe... Let us get it over and done with as quickly as possible. Someone might ride through the gorge and see us."
"Very well. Doctor, will you come to me?"
The doctor came over. Poor doctor! He was paler than Grushnitsky had been ten minutes before.
I spoke the following words with deliberation, loudly and distinctly, as sentences of death are pronounced: "Doctor, these gentlemen, no doubt in their haste, forgot to put a bullet into my pistol. Would you please reload it-and do it thoroughly!"
"It can't be!" cried the captain. "It can't be! I loaded both pistols; the bullet may have rolled out of yours... That's not my fault! And you have no right to reload... no right whatsoever... it is most decidedly against the rules. I will not allow it…"
"Very good!" I said to the captain. "In that case, you and I will shoot it out on the same terms... ."
He didn't know what to say.
Grushnitsky stood there, his head sunk on his breast, embarrassed and gloomy.
"Let them do as they wish!" he finally said to the captain, who was trying to grab my pistol from the doctor's hand. "You know yourself that they are right."
In vain did the captain make signs to him. Grushnitsky did not even look up.
Meanwhile the doctor loaded the pistol and handed it to me.
Seeing this, the captain spat and stamped his foot. "You are a fool, my friend," he said, "a darned fool. If you're counting on me, you should do everything I say... You're getting what you deserve, so go ahead and be wiped out like a fly!" He turned away, muttering: "But it's altogether against the rules."
"Grushnitsky!" said I. "There's still time; retract your false insult and I'll forgive you everything. You've failed to make a fool of me, and my vanity is satisfied. Remember that once we were friends..."
His face twisted with passion, his eyes flashed.
"Fire!" he replied. "I despise myself and hate you. If you don't kill me, I'll stab you in the back some night. The world is too small to hold us both…"
I fired.
When the smoke cleared, there was no Grushnitsky on the ledge. Only a thin pillar of dust curled over the brink of the precipice.
Everybody cried out at once.
"Finita la commedia![109]" I said to the doctor.
He did not reply, but turned away in horror.
I shrugged my shoulders and bowed to Grushnitsky's seconds.
As I came down the path I saw Grushnitsky's bloodstained corpse between the clefts in the rocks. Involuntarily I closed my eyes.
Untying my horse, I set out for home at a walking pace. My heart was heavy within me. The sun seemed to have lost its brilliance and its rays did not warm me.
Before reaching the settlement I turned into a gorge on my right. I could not have endured the sight of anyone just then-I wanted to be alone. With the reins hanging loose and my head sunk on my breast, I rode on for some time, until I found myself in an entirely unfamiliar spot. I turned back and sought the road. The sun was setting when I reached Kislovodsk, a spent man on a spent horse.
My manservant told me that Werner had called and gave me two notes, one from him, and the other from Vera.
I opened the first; it contained the following:
Everything has been arranged as well as possible. The mutilated body has been brought in and the bullet removed from the chest. Everybody believes that his death was accidental. Only the commandant, who probably knows of your quarrel, shook his head, but said nothing. There is no evidence against you and you may sleep peacefully... if you can. Goodbye...
I hesitated long before opening the second note. What could she have to write to me? An ominous presentiment racked my soul.
Here it is, that letter whose every word ineffaceably seared itself into my memory:
I am writing to you quite certain that we will never see each other again. When we parted several years ago, I thought the same; but it pleased heaven to try me a second time; I did not withstand the test, my weak heart was again conquered by that familiar voice... but you will not despise me for this, will you? This letter is at once a farewell and a confession: I must tell you everything that has been stored in my heart ever since it first learned to love you. I will not accuse you – you behaved to me as any other man might have done: you loved me as your property, as a source of the reciprocal joys, fears and sorrows without which life would be wearisome and monotonous. I realized this from the very beginning... But you were unhappy, and I sacrificed myself in the hope that some day you would appreciate my sacrifice, that some day you would understand my infinite tenderness which nothing could affect. Much time has passed since then. I have fathomed all the secrets of your soul... and I see that mine was a vain hope. How it hurt me! But my love and my soul have melted into one: the flame is dimmer, but it has not died.
We are parting forever, yet you may be certain that I will never love another. My soul has spent all its treasures, its tears and hopes on you. She who has once loved you cannot but regard other men with some measure of contempt, not because you are better than they – oh no! – but because there is something unique in your nature, something peculiar to you alone, something so proud and unfathomable. Whatever you may be saying, your voice holds an invincible power. In no one is the desire to be loved so constant as in you. In no one is evil so attractive. In no one's glance is there such a promise of bliss. Nobody knows better than you how to use his advantages, and no one else can be so genuinely unhappy as you, because nobody tries so hard as you to convince himself of the contrary.
Now I must explain the reason for my hasty departure; it will strike you as of little consequence, because it concerns me alone.
This morning my husband came to me and told me about your quarrel with Grushnitsky. My face must have given me away, for he looked me straight in the eye long and searchingly. I nearly fainted at the thought that you were having to fight a duel and that I was the cause. I thought I would lose my mind... Now, however, when I can reason clearly, I am certain that you will live – it is impossible that you would die without me, impossible! My husband paced the room for a long time; I don't know what he said to me, nor do I remember what I replied... I probably told him that I loved you... I only remember that at the end of our conversation he insulted me with a terrible word and left the room. I heard him order the carriage... For three hours now I have been sitting at the window and awaiting your return... But you're alive, you can't die! The carriage is almost ready... Farewell, farewell! I'm lost – but what of it? If I could be certain that you will always remember me – I say nothing of loving me, no – only remember... Goodbye! Someone is coming... I have to hide this letter...
You don't love Mary, do you? You won't marry her? Oh, but you must make this sacrifice for me – I have given up everything in the world for your sake...
Like a madman I dashed outside, leapt into the saddle of my horse who was being led across the courtyard, and set off at full gallop along the road to Pyatigorsk. I mercilessly spurred on the exhausted beast, which, panting and covered with froth, sped me along the rocky road.
The sun had vanished into a black cloud resting on the mountain range in the west, and it turned dark and damp in the gorge. The Podkumok River picked its way through the rocks with a dull and monotonous roar. Breathless with impatience I galloped on. The thought that I might not find her in Pyatigorsk pounded like a sledgehammer at my heart. Oh, but to see her for a minute, only one more minute, to say goodbye, to clasp her hand... I prayed, I cursed, I cried, I laughed... no, no words can express my anxiety, my despair! Now that I realized I might lose her forever, Vera became for me the most precious thing on earth, more precious than life, honor or happiness! God only knows what odd, wild ideas swarmed in my head... And all the while I rode on, spurring my horse mercilessly. Finally I noticed that the animal was breathing more laboriously, and once or twice he stumbled on a level stretch. There still remained three miles to Essentuki, a Cossack hamlet where I could get another mount.
Everything would have been redeemed had my horse had the strength to carry on for another ten minutes. But suddenly, at a sharp bend in the road coming up from a shallow ravine as we were emerging from the hills, he crashed to the ground. I leapt nimbly out of the saddle, but try as I might to get him up, pull as I might at the reins, my efforts were in vain. A scarcely audible groan escaped from between his clenched teeth and a few minutes later he was dead. I was left alone in the steppe, my last hope gone. I tried to continue on foot, but my knees gave way and, exhausted by the day's anxieties and the sleepless night, I fell on to the wet grass and sobbed like a child.
I lay there for a long time motionless and cried bitterly, without trying to check the tears and sobs. I thought my heart would be torn apart. All my resolution, all my composure vanished like smoke-my spirit was impotent, my reason paralyzed, and had someone seen me at that moment he would have turned away in contempt.
When the night dew and mountain breeze had cooled my fevered brow and I had collected my thoughts once more, I realized that it was useless and senseless to pursue a happiness that was lost. What more did I want? To see her? Why? Wasn't everything over between us? One bitter farewell kiss wouldn't make my memories sweeter, and it'd be only the harder to part.
It's pleasant for me to know, however, that I can weep! Although the real reason was perhaps frayed nerves, the sleepless night, the two minutes I had stood looking into the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach.
Everything works out for the best. As for this new sensation of pain, it served as a happy diversion, to employ a military term. It does one good to cry, and had I not ridden my horse to death and then been compelled to walk the ten miles back, I perhaps would not have closed my eyes that night either.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o'clock in the morning, threw myself on the bed and slept like Napoleon after Waterloo.
When I awoke, it was dark outside. Unfastening my jacket, I sat at an open window-and the breeze from the mountains cooled my breast, which was not yet becalmed even by the sleep of heavy fatigue. Far away beyond the river the lights of the fort and the village twinkled through the thick crowns of the overshadowing lindens. The courtyard was deadly still, and in the Princess Ligovskaya's house all was in darkness.
The doctor entered. His brow was furrowed, and contrary to his usual practice he did not offer me his hand.
"Where have you come from, doctor?"
"From Princess Ligovskaya's. Her daughter is ill-nervous breakdown... But that's not why I am here. The trouble is that the authorities are beginning to suspect, and though nothing definite can be proved I would advise you to be more cautious. The princess just told me that she was aware you fought a duel over her daughter. That old man-what's his name?-told her. He witnessed your altercation with Grushnitsky in the restaurant. I came to warn you. So goodbye-perhaps we will not see each other again-very likely you'll be sent away."
He paused on the threshold. He wanted to shake my hand. And had I given him the slightest encouragement he would have flung himself on my neck, but I remained as cold as a stone, and he went away.
That is just like human beings! They are all alike; though fully aware in advance of all the evil aspects of a deed, they aid and abet and even give their approval to it when they see there is no other way out-and then they wash their hands of it and turn away with disapproval from him who dared assume the full burden of responsibility. They are all alike, even the kindest and wisest of them!
The following morning, when I had received orders from my superiors to report at the fort of N-, I dropped in at Princess Ligovskaya's to say goodbye.
Princess Ligovskaya was taken aback when in reply to her question whether I had anything important to tell her I merely said that I wished her all the best, and so forth.
"I must have a very serious talk with you, however."
I sat down without saying a word.
She was obviously at a loss how to begin. Her face turned red and she drummed her pudgy fingers on the table. Finally she began haltingly: "Monsieur Pechorin, I believe you are an honorable man."
I bowed.
"I am even certain of it," she continued, "though your conduct has been somewhat questionable. You may have your reasons, however, of which I am not aware, and if so, you must share them with me now. You protected my daughter's reputation, engaged in a duel on her behalf, and risked your life in doing so... Pray do not reply, for I know you will not admit it because Grushnitsky is dead." (She crossed herself.) "God forgive him, and you too, I hope! That is none of my concern... I have no right to condemn you, for it was my daughter, blameless though she is, who was the cause. She has told me everything... everything, I am sure. You have declared you love her, and she has confessed her love for you." (Here the princess drew a deep sigh.) "But she is ill and I am certain that it is not an ordinary malady. Some secret grief is killing her-she doesn't admit it, but I am certain that you are the cause... Listen to me: you perhaps think that I am after rank and immense riches-if so, you are mistaken. I seek only my daughter's happiness. Your present position is unenviable, but it may mend. You are wealthy. My daughter loves you, and her upbringing is such that she can make her husband happy. I am rich, and she is my only child... Tell me, what is it that is stopping you? I would not have told you all this, but I rely upon your heart and honor-remember that I have only one daughter... only one. . ."
She began to sob.
"Princess," I said, "I cannot answer you-allow me to speak to your daughter alone."
"Never!" she cried, rising from her chair in great agitation.
"As you wish," replied I, preparing to leave.
She thought it over, motioned me to wait, and left the room.
Some five minutes passed; my heart pounded, but my thoughts were orderly and my head cool. Search as I might in my heart for even the tiniest spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were hopeless.
The door opened and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed since I saw her last-and that but a short while ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she swayed. I leapt to her side, offered her my arm and led her to an armchair.
I stood facing her. For a long time neither of us said a word. Her big eyes full of ineffable sorrow seemed to search mine for something akin to hope. In vain her pale lips tried to smile. Her delicate hands folded on her knees were so fragile and transparent that I began to feel sorry for her.
"Princess," said I, "you know I have mocked you, do you not? You must despise me."
A feverish red colored her cheeks.
"Hence, you cannot love me..." I continued.
She turned away, leaned her elbows on the table and covered her eyes with her hand, and I thought I saw tears glistening in them.
"Oh God!" she said scarcely audibly.
The situation was growing unbearable. In another minute I would have thrown myself at her feet.
"So you see for yourself," I said in as steady a voice as I could, forcing a smile, "you see for yourself that I can't marry you. Even if you wished to do so now, you'd regret the decision very soon. The talk I had with your mother compels me to speak to you now so frankly and brutally. I hope she is mistaken, but you can easily undeceive her. As you can see I am playing a most contemptible and disgusting role in your eyes, and I admit it-that is the most I can do for you. However bad your opinion may be of me, I'll accept it. You see I am abasing myself before you... Even if you did love me, you would despise me from this moment-now, wouldn't you?"
