AND now we had climbed to the summit of the projecting cliff. The ledge was covered with fine sand, as if on purpose for a duel. All around, like an innumerable herd, crowded the mountains, their summits lost to view in the golden mist of the morning; and towards the south rose the white mass of Elbruz, closing the chain of icy peaks, among which fibrous clouds, which had rushed in from the east, were already roaming. I walked to the extremity of the ledge and gazed down. My head nearly swam. At the foot of the precipice all seemed dark and cold as in a tomb; the moss-grown jags of the rocks, hurled down by storm and time, were awaiting their prey.
The ledge on which we were to fight formed an almost regular triangle. Six paces were measured from the projecting corner, and it was decided that whichever had first to meet the fire of his opponent should stand in the very corner with his back to the precipice; if he was not killed the adversaries would change places.
I determined to relinquish every advantage to Grushnitski; I wanted to test him. A spark of magnanimity might awake in his soul—and then all would have been settled for the best. But his vanity and weakness of character had perforce to triumph!... I wished to give myself the full right to refrain from sparing him if destiny were to favour me. Who would not have concluded such an agreement with his conscience?
“Cast the lot, doctor!” said the captain.
The doctor drew a silver coin from his pocket and held it up.
“Tail!” cried Grushnitski hurriedly, like a man suddenly aroused by a friendly nudge.
“Head,” I said.
The coin spun in the air and fell, jingling. We all rushed towards it.
“You are lucky,” I said to Grushnitski. “You are to fire first! But remember that if you do not kill me I shall not miss—I give you my word of honour.”
He flushed up; he was ashamed to kill an unarmed man. I looked at him fixedly; for a moment it seemed to me that he would throw himself at my feet, imploring forgiveness; but how to confess so base a plot?... One expedient only was left to him—to fire in the air! I was convinced that he would fire in the air! One consideration alone might prevent him doing so—the thought that I would demand a second duel.
“Now is the time!” the doctor whispered to me, plucking me by the sleeve. “If you do not tell them now that we know their intentions, all is lost. Look, he is loading already... If you will not say anything, I will”...
“On no account, doctor!” I answered, holding him back by the arm. “You will spoil everything. You have given me your word not to interfere... What does it matter to you? Perhaps I wish to be killed”...
He looked at me in astonishment.
“Oh, that is another thing!... Only do not complain of me in the other world”...
Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols and given one to Grushnitski, after whispering something to him with a smile; the other he gave to me.
I placed myself in the corner of the ledge, planting my left foot firmly against the rock and bending slightly forward, so that, in case of a slight wound, I might not fall over backwards.
Grushnitski placed himself opposite me and, at a given signal, began to raise his pistol. His knees shook. He aimed right at my forehead... Unutterable fury began to seethe within my breast.
Suddenly he dropped the muzzle of the pistol and, pale as a sheet, turned to his second.
“I cannot,” he said in a hollow voice.
“Coward!” answered the captain.
A shot rang out. The bullet grazed my knee. Involuntarily I took a few paces forward in order to get away from the edge as quickly as possible.
“Well, my dear Grushnitski, it is a pity that you have missed!” said the captain. “Now it is your turn, take your stand! Embrace me first: we shall not see each other again!”
They embraced; the captain could scarcely refrain from laughing.
“Do not be afraid,” he added, glancing cunningly at Grushnitski; “everything in this world is nonsense... Nature is a fool, fate a turkeyhen, and life a copeck!”31
After that tragic phrase, uttered with becoming gravity, he went back to his place. Ivan Ignatevich, with tears, also embraced Grushnitski, and there the latter remained alone, facing me. Ever since then, I have been trying to explain to myself what sort of feeling it was that was boiling within my breast at that moment: it was the vexation of injured vanity, and contempt, and wrath engendered at the thought that the man now looking at me with such confidence, such quiet insolence, had, two minutes before, been about to kill me like a dog, without exposing himself to the least danger, because had I been wounded a little more severely in the leg I should inevitably have fallen over the cliff.
For a few moments I looked him fixedly in the face, trying to discern thereon even a slight trace of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was restraining a smile.
“I should advise you to say a prayer before you die,” I said.
“Do not worry about my soul any more than your own. One thing I beg of you: be quick about firing.”
“And you do not recant your slander? You do not beg my forgiveness?... Bethink you well: has your conscience nothing to say to you?”
“Mr. Pechorin!” exclaimed the captain of dragoons. “Allow me to point out that you are not here to preach... Let us lose no time, in case anyone should ride through the gorge and we should be seen.”
“Very well. Doctor, come here!”
The doctor came up to me. Poor doctor! He was paler than Grushnitski had been ten minutes before.
The words which followed I purposely pronounced with a pause between each—loudly and distinctly, as the sentence of death is pronounced:
“Doctor, these gentlemen have forgotten, in their hurry, no doubt, to put a bullet in my pistol. I beg you to load it afresh—and properly!”
“Impossible!” cried the captain, “impossible! I loaded both pistols. Perhaps the bullet has rolled out of yours... That is not my fault! And you have no right to load again... No right at all. It is altogether against the rules, I shall not allow it”...
“Very well!” I said to the captain. “If so, then you and I shall fight on the same terms”...
He came to a dead stop.
Grushnitski stood with his head sunk on his breast, embarrassed and gloomy.
“Let them be!” he said at length to the captain, who was going to pull my pistol out of the doctor’s hands. “You know yourself that they are right.”
In vain the captain made various signs to him. Grushnitski would not even look.
Meanwhile the doctor had loaded the pistol and handed it to me. On seeing that, the captain spat and stamped his foot.
“You are a fool, then, my friend,” he said: “a common fool!... You trusted to me before, so you should obey me in everything now... But serve you right! Die like a fly!”...
He turned away, muttering as he went:
“But all the same it is absolutely against the rules.”
“Grushnitski!” I said. “There is still time: recant your slander, and I will forgive you everything. You have not succeeded in making a fool of me; my self-esteem is satisfied. Remember—we were once friends”...
His face flamed, his eyes flashed.
“Fire!” he answered. “I despise myself and I hate you. If you do not kill me I will lie in wait for you some night and cut your throat. There is not room on the earth for both of us”...
I fired.
When the smoke had cleared away, Grushnitski was not to be seen on the ledge. Only a slender column of dust was still eddying at the edge of the precipice.
There was a simultaneous cry from the rest.
“Finita la commedia!” I said to the doctor.
He made no answer, and turned away with horror.
I shrugged my shoulders and bowed to Grushnitski’s seconds.
AS I descended by the path, I observed Grushnitski’s bloodstained corpse between the clefts of the rocks. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes.
Untying my horse, I set off home at a walking pace. A stone lay upon my heart. To my eyes the sun seemed dim, its beams were powerless to warm me.
I did not ride up to the village, but turned to the right, along the gorge. The sight of a man would have been painful to me: I wanted to be alone. Throwing down the bridle and letting my head fall on my breast, I rode for a long time, and at length found myself in a spot with which I was wholly unfamiliar. I turned my horse back and began to search for the road. The sun had already set by the time I had ridden up to Kislovodsk—myself and my horse both utterly spent!
My servant told me that Werner had called, and he handed me two notes: one from Werner, the other... from Vera.
I opened the first; its contents were as follows:
“Everything has been arranged as well as could be; the mutilated body has been brought in; and the bullet extracted from the breast. Everybody is convinced that the cause of death was an unfortunate accident; only the Commandant, who was doubtless aware of your quarrel, shook his head, but he said nothing. There are no proofs at all against you, and you may sleep in peace... if you can.... Farewell!”...
For a long time I could not make up my mind to open the second note... What could it be that she was writing to me?... My soul was agitated by a painful foreboding.
Here it is, that letter, each word of which is indelibly engraved upon my memory:
“I am writing to you in the full assurance that we shall never see each other again. A few years ago on parting with you I thought the same. However, it has been Heaven’s will to try me a second time: I have not been able to endure the trial, my frail heart has again submitted to the well-known voice... You will not despise me for that—will you? This letter will be at once a farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tell you everything that has been treasured up in my heart since it began to love you. I will not accuse you—you have acted towards me as any other man would have acted; you have loved me as a chattel, as a source of joys, disquietudes and griefs, interchanging one with the other, without which life would be dull and monotonous. I have understood all that from the first... But you were unhappy, and I have sacrificed myself, hoping that, some time, you would appreciate my sacrifice, that some time you would understand my deep tenderness, unfettered by any conditions. A long time has elapsed since then: I have fathomed all the secrets of your soul... and I have convinced myself that my hope was vain. It has been a bitter blow to me! But my love has been grafted with my soul; it has grown dark, but has not been extinguished.
“We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure that I shall never love another. Upon you my soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears, its hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look without a certain disdain upon other men, not because you have been better than they, oh, no! but in your nature there is something peculiar—belonging to you alone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, whatever the words spoken, there is an invincible power. No one can so constantly wish to be loved, in no one is wickedness ever so attractive, no one’s glance promises so much bliss, no one can better make use of his advantages, and no one can be so truly unhappy as you, because no one endeavours so earnestly to convince himself of the contrary.
“Now I must explain the cause of my hurried departure; it will seem of little importance to you, because it concerns me alone.
“This morning my husband came in and told me about your quarrel with Grushnitski. Evidently I changed countenance greatly, because he looked me in the face long and intently. I almost fainted at the thought that you had to fight a duel to-day, and that I was the cause of it; it seemed to me that I should go mad... But now, when I am able to reason, I am sure that you remain alive: it is impossible that you should die, and I not with you—impossible! My husband walked about the room for a long time. I do not know what he said to me, I do not remember what I answered... Most likely I told him that I loved you... I only remember that, at the end of our conversation, he insulted me with a dreadful word and left the room. I heard him ordering the carriage... I have been sitting at the window three hours now, awaiting your return... But you are alive, you cannot have died!... The carriage is almost ready... Good-bye, good-bye!... I have perished—but what matter? If I could be sure that you will always remember me—I no longer say love—no, only remember... Good-bye, they are coming!... I must hide this letter.
“You do not love Mary, do you? You will not marry her? Listen, you must offer me that sacrifice. I have lost everything in the world for you”...
Like a madman I sprang on the steps, jumped on my Circassian horse which was being led about the courtyard, and set off at full gallop along the road to Pyatigorsk. Unsparingly I urged on the jaded horse, which, snorting and all in a foam, carried me swiftly along the rocky road.
The sun had already disappeared behind a black cloud, which had been resting on the ridge of the western mountains; the gorge grew dark and damp. The Podkumok, forcing its way over the rocks, roared with a hollow and monotonous sound. I galloped on, choking with impatience. The idea of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck my heart like a hammer. For one minute, again to see her for one minute, to say farewell, to press her hand... I prayed, cursed, wept, laughed... No, nothing could express my anxiety, my despair!... Now that it seemed possible that I might be about to lose her for ever, Vera became dearer to me than aught in the world—dearer than life, honour, happiness! God knows what strange, what mad plans swarmed in my head... Meanwhile I still galloped, urging on my horse without pity. And, now, I began to notice that he was breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled once or twice on level ground... I was five versts from Essentuki—a Cossack village where I could change horses.
All would have been saved had my horse been able to hold out for another ten minutes. But suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulley where the road emerges from the mountains at a sharp turn, he fell to the ground. I jumped down promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged at his bridle—in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst through his clenched teeth; in a few moments he expired. I was left on the steppe, alone; I had lost my last hope. I endeavoured to walk—my legs sank under me; exhausted by the anxieties of the day and by sleeplessness, I fell upon the wet grass and burst out crying like a child.
For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, without attempting to restrain my tears and sobs. I thought my breast would burst. All my firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; my soul grew powerless, my reason silent, and, if anyone had seen me at that moment, he would have turned aside with contempt.
When the night-dew and the mountain breeze had cooled my burning brow, and my thoughts had resumed their usual course, I realized that to pursue my perished happiness would be unavailing and unreasonable. What more did I want?—To see her?—Why? Was not all over between us? A single, bitter, farewell kiss would not have enriched my recollections, and, after it, parting would only have been more difficult for us.
Still, I am pleased that I can weep. Perhaps, however, the cause of that was my shattered nerves, a night passed without sleep, two minutes opposite the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach.
It is all for the best. That new suffering created within me a fortunate diversion—to speak in military style. To weep is healthy, and then, no doubt, if I had not ridden as I did and had not been obliged to walk fifteen versts on my way back, sleep would not have closed my eyes on that night either.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o’clock in the morning, threw myself on my bed, and slept the sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo.
By the time I awoke it was dark outside. I sat by the open window, with my jacket unbuttoned—and the mountain breeze cooled my breast, still troubled by the heavy sleep of weariness. In the distance beyond the river, through the tops of the thick lime trees which overshadowed it, lights were glancing in the fortress and the village. Close at hand all was calm. It was dark in Princess Ligovski’s house.
The doctor entered; his brows were knit; contrary to custom, he did not offer me his hand.
“Where have you come from, doctor?”
“From Princess Ligovski’s; her daughter is ill—nervous exhaustion... That is not the point, though. This is what I have come to tell you: the authorities are suspicious, and, although it is impossible to prove anything positively, I should, all the same, advise you to be cautious. Princess Ligovski told me to-day that she knew that you fought a duel on her daughter’s account. That little old man—what’s his name?—has told her everything. He was a witness of your quarrel with Grushnitski in the restaurant. I have come to warn you. Good-bye. Maybe we shall not meet again: you will be banished somewhere.”
He stopped on the threshold; he would gladly have pressed my hand... and, had I shown the slightest desire to embrace him, he would have thrown himself upon my neck; but I remained cold as a rock—and he left the room.
That is just like men! They are all the same: they know beforehand all the bad points of an act, they help, they advise, they even encourage it, seeing the impossibility of any other expedient—and then they wash their hands of the whole affair and turn away with indignation from him who has had the courage to take the whole burden of responsibility upon himself. They are all like that, even the best-natured, the wisest...
NEXT morning, having received orders from the supreme authority to betake myself to the N——Fortress, I called upon Princess Ligovski to say good-bye.
She was surprised when, in answer to her question, whether I had not anything of special importance to tell her, I said I had come to wish her good-bye, and so on.
“But I must have a very serious talk with you.”
I sat down in silence.
It was clear that she did not know how to begin; her face grew livid, she tapped the table with her plump fingers; at length, in a broken voice, she said:
“Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you are a gentleman.”
I bowed.
“Nay, I am sure of it,” she continued, “although your behaviour is somewhat equivocal, but you may have reasons which I do not know; and you must now confide them to me. You have protected my daughter from slander, you have fought a duel on her behalf—consequently you have risked your life... Do not answer. I know that you will not acknowledge it because Grushnitski has been killed”—she crossed herself. “God forgive him—and you too, I hope... That does not concern me... I dare not condemn you because my daughter, although innocently, has been the cause. She has told me everything... everything, I think. You have declared your love for her... She has admitted hers to you.”—Here Princess Ligovski sighed heavily.—“But she is ill, and I am certain that it is no simple illness! Secret grief is killing her; she will not confess, but I am convinced that you are the cause of it... Listen: you think, perhaps, that I am looking for rank or immense wealth—be undeceived, my daughter’s happiness is my sole desire. Your present position is unenviable, but it may be bettered: you have means; my daughter loves you; she has been brought up in such a way that she will make her husband a happy man. I am wealthy, she is my only child... Tell me, what is keeping you back?... You see, I ought not to be saying all this to you, but I rely upon your heart, upon your honour—remember she is my only daughter... my only one”...
She burst into tears.
“Princess,” I said, “it is impossible for me to answer you; allow me to speak to your daughter, alone”...
“Never!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair in violent agitation.
“As you wish,” I answered, preparing to go away.
She fell into thought, made a sign to me with her hand that I should wait a little, and left the room.
Five minutes passed. My heart was beating violently, but my thoughts were tranquil, my head cool. However assiduously I sought in my breast for even a spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were of no avail!
Then the door opened, and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed since I had last seen her—and that but a short time ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she staggered. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and led her to a chair.
I stood facing her. We remained silent for a long time; her large eyes, full of unutterable grief, seemed to be searching in mine for something resembling hope; her wan lips vainly endeavoured to smile; her tender hands, which were folded upon her knees, were so thin and transparent that I pitied her.
“Princess,” I said, “you know that I have been making fun of you?... You must despise me.”
A sickly flush suffused her cheeks.
“Consequently,” I continued, “you cannot love me”...
She turned her head away, leaned her elbows on the table, covered her eyes with her hand, and it seemed to me that she was on the point of tears.
“Oh, God!” she said, almost inaudibly.
The situation was growing intolerable. Another minute—and I should have fallen at her feet.
“So you see, yourself,” I said in as firm a voice as I could command, and with a forced smile, “you see, yourself, that I cannot marry you. Even if you wished it now, you would soon repent. My conversation with your mother has compelled me to explain myself to you so frankly and so brutally. I hope that she is under a delusion: it will be easy for you to undeceive her. You see, I am playing a most pitiful and ugly role in your eyes, and I even admit it—that is the utmost I can do for your sake. However bad an opinion you may entertain of me, I submit to it... You see that I am base in your sight, am I not?... Is it not true that, even if you have loved me, you would despise me from this moment?”...
She turned round to me. She was pale as marble, but her eyes were sparkling wondrously.
“I hate you”... she said.
I thanked her, bowed respectfully, and left the room.
An hour afterwards a postal express was bearing me rapidly from Kislovodsk. A few versts from Essentuki I recognized near the roadway the body of my spirited horse. The saddle had been taken off, no doubt by a passing Cossack, and, in its place, two ravens were sitting on the horse’s back. I sighed and turned away...
And now, here in this wearisome fortress, I often ask myself, as my thoughts wander back to the past: why did I not wish to tread that way, thrown open by destiny, where soft joys and ease of soul were awaiting me?... No, I could never have become habituated to such a fate! I am like a sailor born and bred on the deck of a pirate brig: his soul has grown accustomed to storms and battles; but, once let him be cast upon the shore, and he chafes, he pines away, however invitingly the shady groves allure, however brightly shines the peaceful sun. The livelong day he paces the sandy shore, hearkens to the monotonous murmur of the onrushing waves, and gazes into the misty distance: lo! yonder, upon the pale line dividing the blue deep from the grey clouds, is there not glancing the longed-for sail, at first like the wing of a seagull, but little by little severing itself from the foam of the billows and, with even course, drawing nigh to the desert harbour?
THE preface to a book serves the double purpose of prologue and epilogue. It affords the author an opportunity of explaining the object of the work, or of vindicating himself and replying to his critics. As a rule, however, the reader is concerned neither with the moral purpose of the book nor with the attacks of the Reviewers, and so the preface remains unread. Nevertheless, this is a pity, especially with us Russians! The public of this country is so youthful, not to say simple-minded, that it cannot understand the meaning of a fable unless the moral is set forth at the end. Unable to see a joke, insensible to irony, it has, in a word, been badly brought up. It has not yet learned that in a decent book, as in decent society, open invective can have no place; that our present-day civilisation has invented a keener weapon, none the less deadly for being almost invisible, which, under the cloak of flattery, strikes with sure and irresistible effect. The Russian public is like a simple-minded person from the country who, chancing to overhear a conversation between two diplomatists belonging to hostile courts, comes away with the conviction that each of them has been deceiving his Government in the interest of a most affectionate private friendship.
The unfortunate effects of an over-literal acceptation of words by certain readers and even Reviewers have recently been manifested in regard to the present book. Many of its readers have been dreadfully, and in all seriousness, shocked to find such an immoral man as Pechorin set before them as an example. Others have observed, with much acumen, that the author has painted his own portrait and those of his acquaintances!... What a stale and wretched jest! But Russia, it appears, has been constituted in such a way that absurdities of this kind will never be eradicated. It is doubtful whether, in this country, the most ethereal of fairy-tales would escape the reproach of attempting offensive personalities.
Pechorin, gentlemen, is in fact a portrait, but not of one man only: he is a composite portrait, made up of all the vices which flourish, fullgrown, amongst the present generation. You will tell me, as you have told me before, that no man can be so bad as this; and my reply will be: “If you believe that such persons as the villains of tragedy and romance could exist in real life, why can you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you admire fictions much more terrible and monstrous, why is it that this character, even if regarded merely as a creature of the imagination, cannot obtain quarter at your hands? Is it not because there is more truth in it than may be altogether palatable to you?”
You will say that the cause of morality gains nothing by this book. I beg your pardon. People have been surfeited with sweetmeats and their digestion has been ruined: bitter medicines, sharp truths, are therefore necessary. This must not, however, be taken to mean that the author has ever proudly dreamed of becoming a reformer of human vices. Heaven keep him from such impertinence! He has simply found it entertaining to depict a man, such as he considers to be typical of the present day and such as he has often met in real life—too often, indeed, unfortunately both for the author himself and for you. Suffice it that the disease has been pointed out: how it is to be cured—God alone knows!
1 (return)[ A retail shop and tavern combined.]
2 (return)[ A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet.]
3 (return)[ Ermolov, i.e. General Ermolov. Russians have three names—Christian name, patronymic and surname. They are addressed by the first two only. The surname of Maksim Maksimych (colloquial for Maksimovich) is not mentioned.]
4 (return)[ The bell on the duga, a wooden arch joining the shafts of a Russian conveyance over the horse’s neck.]
5 (return)[ Rocky Ford.]
6 (return)[ A kind of beer made from millet.]
7 (return)[ i.e. acknowledging Russian supremacy.]
8 (return)[ A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.]
9 (return)[ “Good—very good.”]
10 (return)[ Turkish for “Black-eye.”]
11 (return)[ “No!”]
12 (return)[ A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.]
13 (return)[ King—a title of the Sultan of Turkey.]
14 (return)[ I beg my readers’ pardon for having versified Kazbich’s song, which, of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is second nature. (Author’s note.)]
151 (return)[ “No! Russian—bad, bad!”]
15 (return)[ Krestov is an adjective meaning “of the cross” (Krest=cross); and, of course, is not the Russian for “Christophe.”]
16 (return)[ A legendary Russian hero whose whistling knocked people down.]
17 (return)[ Lezghian dance.]
18 (return)[ In Russian—okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate!]
19 (return)[ The duga.]
20 (return)[ “Thou” is the form of address used in speaking to an intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal “you.”]
21 (return)[ Team of three horses abreast.]
22 (return)[ Desyatnik, a superintendent of ten (men or huts), i.e. an officer like the old English tithing-man or headborough.]
23 (return)[ Card-games.]
24 (return)[ A Caucasian wine.]
25 (return)[ Pushkin. Compare Shelley’s Adonais, xxxi. 3: “as the last cloud of an expiring storm.”]
26 (return)[ The Snake, the Iron and the Bald Mountains.]
27 (return)[ Nizhegorod is the “government” of which Nizhniy Novgorod is the capital.]
271 (return)[ A popular phrase, equivalent to: “How should I think of doing such a thing?”]
272 (return)[ Published by Senkovski, and under the censorship of the Government.]
273 (return)[ Civil servants of the ninth (the lowest) class.]
28 (return)[ i.e. serfs.]
29 (return)[ Pushkin: Eugene Onyegin.]
30 (return)[ Canto XVIII, 10: ]
“Quinci al bosco t’ invia, dove cotanti]Son fantasmi inganne vole e bugiardi”...]
301 (return)[ None of the Waverley novels, of course, bears this title. The novel referred to is doubtless “Old Mortality,” on which Bellini’s opera, “I Puritani di Scozia,” is founded.]
31 (return)[ Popular phrases, equivalent to: “Men are fools, fortune is blind, and life is not worth a straw.”]