No More Learning

“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.




CHAPTER XXI

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. . .




CHAPTER XXII

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.