No More Learning

“I will tell you the whole truth,” I answered. “I will not justify
myself, nor explain my actions: I do not love you. ”

Her lips grew slightly pale.

“Leave me,” she said, in a scarcely audible voice.

I shrugged my shoulders, turned round, and walked away.




CHAPTER XVI. 25th June.

I SOMETIMES despise myself. . . Is not that the reason why I despise
others also? . . . I have grown incapable of noble impulses; I am afraid of
appearing ridiculous to myself. In my place, another would have offered
Princess Mary son coeur et sa fortune; but over me the word “marry” has
a kind of magical power. However passionately I love a woman, if she
only gives me to feel that I have to marry her--then farewell, love! My
heart is turned to stone, and nothing will warm it anew. I am prepared
for any other sacrifice but that; my life twenty times over, nay, my
honour I would stake on the fortune of a card. . . but my freedom I will
never sell. Why do I prize it so highly? What is there in it to me? For
what am I preparing myself? What do I hope for from the future? . . . In
truth, absolutely nothing. It is a kind of innate dread, an inexplicable
prejudice. . . There are people, you know, who have an unaccountable dread
of spiders, beetles, mice. . . Shall I confess it? When I was but a child,
a certain old woman told my fortune to my mother. She predicted for me
death from a wicked wife. I was profoundly struck by her words at the
time: an irresistible repugnance to marriage was born within my soul. . .
Meanwhile, something tells me that her prediction will be realized; I
will try, at all events, to arrange that it shall be realized as late in
life as possible.




CHAPTER XVII. 26th June.

YESTERDAY, the conjurer Apfelbaum arrived here. A long placard made its
appearance on the door of the restaurant, informing the most respected
public that the above-mentioned marvellous conjurer, acrobat, chemist,
and optician would have the honour to give a magnificent performance on
the present day at eight o’clock in the evening, in the saloon of the
Nobles’ Club (in other words, the restaurant); tickets--two rubles and a
half each.

Everyone intends to go and see the marvellous conjurer; even Princess
Ligovski has taken a ticket for herself, in spite of her daughter being
ill.

After dinner to-day, I walked past Vera’s windows; she was sitting by
herself on the balcony. A note fell at my feet:

“Come to me at ten o’clock this evening by the large staircase. My
husband has gone to Pyatigorsk and will not return before to-morrow
morning. My servants and maids will not be at home; I have distributed
tickets to all of them, and to the princess’s servants as well. I await
you; come without fail. ”

“Aha! ” I said to myself, “so then it has turned out at last as I thought
it would. ”

At eight o’clock I went to see the conjurer. The public assembled before
the stroke of nine. The performance began. On the back rows of chairs
I recognized Vera’s and Princess Ligovski’s menservants and maids. They
were all there, every single one. Grushnitski, with his lorgnette, was
sitting in the front row, and the conjurer had recourse to him every
time he needed a handkerchief, a watch, a ring and so forth.

For some time past, Grushnitski has ceased to bow to me, and to-day
he has looked at me rather insolently once or twice. It will all be
remembered to him when we come to settle our scores.

Before ten o’clock had struck, I stood up and went out.

It was dark outside, pitch dark. Cold, heavy clouds were lying on the
summit of the surrounding mountains, and only at rare intervals did
the dying breeze rustle the tops of the poplars which surrounded
the restaurant. People were crowding at the windows. I went down the
mountain and, turning in under the gate, I hastened my pace. Suddenly it
seemed to me that somebody was following my steps. I stopped and looked
round. It was impossible to make out anything in the darkness. However,
out of caution, I walked round the house, as if taking a stroll. Passing
Princess Mary’s windows, I again heard steps behind me; a man wrapped in
a cloak ran by me. That rendered me uneasy, but I crept up to the flight
of steps, and hastily mounted the dark staircase. A door opened, and a
little hand seized mine. . .

“Nobody has seen you? ” said Vera in a whisper, clinging to me.

“Nobody. ”

“Now do you believe that I love you? Oh! I have long hesitated, long
tortured myself. . . But you can do anything you like with me. ”

Her heart was beating violently, her hands were cold as ice. She broke
out into complaints and jealous reproaches. She demanded that I should
confess everything to her, saying that she would bear my faithlessness
with submission, because her sole desire was that I should be happy. I
did not quite believe that, but I calmed her with oaths, promises and so
on.

“So you will not marry Mary? You do not love her? . . . But she thinks. . .
Do you know, she is madly in love with you, poor girl! ”. . .

*****

About two o’clock in the morning I opened the window and, tying two
shawls together, I let myself down from the upper balcony to the lower,
holding on by the pillar. A light was still burning in Princess Mary’s
room. Something drew me towards that window. The curtain was not quite
drawn, and I was able to cast a curious glance into the interior of the
room. Mary was sitting on her bed, her hands crossed upon her knees;
her thick hair was gathered up under a lace-frilled nightcap; her white
shoulders were covered by a large crimson kerchief, and her little feet
were hidden in a pair of many-coloured Persian slippers. She was sitting
quite still, her head sunk upon her breast; on a little table in front
of her was an open book; but her eyes, fixed and full of inexpressible
grief, seemed for the hundredth time to be skimming the same page whilst
her thoughts were far away.

At that moment somebody stirred behind a shrub. I leaped from the
balcony on to the sward. An invisible hand seized me by the shoulder.

“Aha! ” said a rough voice: “caught! . . . I’ll teach you to be entering
princesses’ rooms at night! ”

“Hold him fast! ” exclaimed another, springing out from a corner.

It was Grushnitski and the captain of dragoons.

I struck the latter on the head with my fist, knocked him off his feet,
and darted into the bushes. All the paths of the garden which covered
the slope opposite our houses were known to me.

“Thieves, guard! ”. . . they cried.

A gunshot rang out; a smoking wad fell almost at my feet.

Within a minute I was in my own room, undressed and in bed. My
manservant had only just locked the door when Grushnitski and the
captain began knocking for admission.

“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there? ”. . . cried the captain.

“I am in bed,” I answered angrily.

“Get up! Thieves! . . . Circassians! ”. . .

“I have a cold,” I answered. “I am afraid of catching a chill. ”

They went away. I had gained no useful purpose by answering them: they
would have been looking for me in the garden for another hour or so.

Meanwhile the alarm became terrific. A Cossack galloped up from the
fortress. The commotion was general; Circassians were looked for in
every shrub--and of course none were found. Probably, however, a good
many people were left with the firm conviction that, if only more
courage and despatch had been shown by the garrison, at least a score of
brigands would have failed to get away with their lives.




CHAPTER XVIII. 27th June.

THIS morning, at the well, the sole topic of conversation was the
nocturnal attack by the Circassians. I drank the appointed number of
glasses of Narzan water, and, after sauntering a few times about the
long linden avenue, I met Vera’s husband, who had just arrived from
Pyatigorsk. He took my arm and we went to the restaurant for breakfast.
He was dreadfully uneasy about his wife.

“What a terrible fright she had last night,” he said. “Of course, it was
bound to happen just at the very time when I was absent. ”

We sat down to breakfast near the door leading into a corner-room in
which about a dozen young men were sitting. Grushnitski was amongst
them. For the second time destiny provided me with the opportunity of
overhearing a conversation which was to decide his fate. He did not
see me, and, consequently, it was impossible for me to suspect him of
design; but that only magnified his fault in my eyes.

“Is it possible, though, that they were really Circassians? ” somebody
said. “Did anyone see them? ”

“I will tell you the whole truth,” answered Grushnitski: “only please do
not betray me. This is how it was: yesterday, a certain man, whose name
I will not tell you, came up to me and told me that, at ten o’clock in
the evening, he had seen somebody creeping into the Ligovskis’ house. I
must observe that Princess Ligovski was here, and Princess Mary at home.
So he and I set off to wait beneath the windows and waylay the lucky
man. ”

I confess I was frightened, although my companion was very busily
engaged with his breakfast: he might have heard things which he would
have found rather displeasing, if Grushnitski had happened to guess the
truth; but, blinded by jealousy, the latter did not even suspect it.

“So, do you see? ” Grushnitski continued. “We set off, taking with us a
gun, loaded with blank cartridge, so as just to give him a fright.
We waited in the garden till two o’clock. At length--goodness knows,
indeed, where he appeared from, but he must have come out by the glass
door which is behind the pillar; it was not out of the window that he
came, because the window had remained unopened--at length, I say, we saw
someone getting down from the balcony. . . What do you think of Princess
Mary--eh? Well, I admit, it is hardly what you might expect from Moscow
ladies! After that what can you believe? We were going to seize him, but
he broke away and darted like a hare into the shrubs. Thereupon I fired
at him. ”

There was a general murmur of incredulity.

“You do not believe it? ” he continued. “I give you my word of honour as
a gentleman that it is all perfectly true, and, in proof, I will tell
you the man’s name if you like. ”

“Tell us, tell us, who was he? ” came from all sides.

“Pechorin,” answered Grushnitski.

At that moment he raised his eyes--I was standing in the doorway
opposite to him. He grew terribly red. I went up to him and said, slowly
and distinctly:

“I am very sorry that I did not come in before you had given your word
of honour in confirmation of a most abominable calumny: my presence
would have saved you from that further act of baseness. ”

Grushnitski jumped up from his seat and seemed about to fly into a
passion.

“I beg you,” I continued in the same tone: “I beg you at once to retract
what you have said; you know very well that it is all an invention. I
do not think that a woman’s indifference to your brilliant merits should
deserve so terrible a revenge.
Bethink you well: if you maintain your
present attitude, you will lose the right to the name of gentleman and
will risk your life. ”

Grushnitski stood before me in violent agitation, his eyes cast down.
But the struggle between his conscience and his vanity was of short
duration. The captain of dragoons, who was sitting beside him, nudged
him with his elbow. Grushnitski started, and answered rapidly, without
raising his eyes:

“My dear sir, what I say, I mean, and I am prepared to repeat. . . I am
not afraid of your menaces and am ready for anything. ”

“The latter you have already proved,” I answered coldly; and, taking the
captain of dragoons by the arm, I left the room.

“What do you want? ” asked the captain.

“You are Grushnitski’s friend and will no doubt be his second? ”

The captain bowed very gravely.

“You have guessed rightly,” he answered.

“Moreover, I am bound to be his second, because the insult offered
to him touches myself also. I was with him last night,” he added,
straightening up his stooping figure.

“Ah! So it was you whose head I struck so clumsily? ”. . .

He turned yellow in the face, then blue; suppressed rage was portrayed
upon his countenance.

“I shall have the honour to send my second to you to-day,” I added,
bowing adieu to him very politely, without appearing to have noticed his
fury.

On the restaurant-steps I met Vera’s husband. Apparently he had been
waiting for me.

He seized my hand with a feeling akin to rapture.

“Noble young man! ” he said, with tears in his eyes. “I have heard
everything. What a scoundrel! Ingrate! . . . Just fancy such people
being admitted into a decent household after this! Thank God I have no
daughters! But she for whom you are risking your life will reward you.
Be assured of my constant discretion,” he continued. “I have been young
myself and have served in the army: I know that these affairs must take
their course. Good-bye. ”

Poor fellow! He is glad that he has no daughters! . . .

I went straight to Werner, found him at home, and told him the whole
story--my relations with Vera and Princess Mary, and the conversation
which I had overheard and from which I had learned the intention of
these gentlemen to make a fool of me by causing me to fight a duel with
blank cartridges. But, now, the affair had gone beyond the bounds of
jest; they probably had not expected that it would turn out like this.

The doctor consented to be my second; I gave him a few directions with
regard to the conditions of the duel. He was to insist upon the
affair being managed with all possible secrecy, because, although I am
prepared, at any moment, to face death, I am not in the least disposed
to spoil for all time my future in this world.

After that I went home. In an hour’s time the doctor returned from his
expedition.

“There is indeed a conspiracy against you,” he said. “I found the
captain of dragoons at Grushnitski’s, together with another gentleman
whose surname I do not remember. I stopped a moment in the ante-room,
in order to take off my goloshes. They were squabbling and making a
terrible uproar. ‘On no account will I agree,’ Grushnitski was saying:
‘he has insulted me publicly; it was quite a different thing before’. . .

“‘What does it matter to you? ’ answered the captain. ‘I will take it all
upon myself. I have been second in five duels, and I should think I know
how to arrange the affair. I have thought it all out. Just let me alone,
please. It is not a bad thing to give people a bit of a fright. And why
expose yourself to danger if it is possible to avoid it? ’. . .

“At that moment I entered the room. They suddenly fell silent. Our
negotiations were somewhat protracted. At length we decided the matter
as follows: about five versts from here there is a hollow gorge; they
will ride thither tomorrow at four o’clock in the morning, and we
shall leave half an hour later. You will fire at six paces--Grushnitski
himself demanded that condition. Whichever of you is killed--his death
will be put down to the account of the Circassians. And now I must tell
you what I suspect: they, that is to say the seconds, may have made
some change in their former plan and may want to load only Grushnitski’s
pistol. That is something like murder, but in time of war, and
especially in Asiatic warfare, such tricks are allowed. Grushnitski,
however, seems to be a little more magnanimous than his companions. What
do you think? Ought we not to let them see that we have guessed their
plan? ”

“Not on any account, doctor! Make your mind easy; I will not give in to
them. ”

“But what are you going to do, then? ”

“That is my secret. ”

“Mind you are not caught. . . six paces, you know! ”

“Doctor, I shall expect you to-morrow at four o’clock. The horses will
be ready. . . Goodbye. ”

I remained in the house until the evening, with my door locked. A
manservant came to invite me to Princess Ligovski’s--I bade him say that
I was ill.

*****

Two o’clock in the morning. . . I cannot sleep. . . Yet sleep is what I
need, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow. However, at six paces
it is difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnitski, your wiles will not
succeed! . . . We shall exchange roles: now it is I who shall have to seek
the signs of latent terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have you
yourself appointed these fatal six paces? Think you that I will tamely
expose my forehead to your aim? . . .

No, we shall cast lots. . . And then--then--what if his luck should
prevail? If my star at length should betray me? . . . And little wonder if
it did: it has so long and faithfully served my caprices.

Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the world will not be great;
and I myself am already downright weary of everything. I am like a guest
at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, simply because
his carriage has not come for him. But now the carriage is here. . .
Good-bye! . . .

My whole past life I live again in memory, and, involuntarily, I ask
myself: ‘why have I lived--for what purpose was I born? ’. . . A purpose
there must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted destiny, because
I feel that within my soul are powers immeasurable. . . But I was not able
to discover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried away by the
allurements of passions, inane and ignoble. From their crucible I
issued hard and cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of noble
aspirations--the fairest flower of life. And, from that time forth, how
often have I not played the part of an axe in the hands of fate! Like an
implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the head of doomed victims,
often without malice, always without pity. . . To none has my love brought
happiness, because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of
those I have loved: for myself alone I have loved--for my own pleasure.
I have only satisfied the strange craving of my heart, greedily draining
their feelings, their tenderness, their joys, their sufferings--and
I have never been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent with
hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees before him sumptuous viands
and sparkling wines; he devours with rapture the aerial gifts of the
imagination, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. Let him but awake:
the vision vanishes--twofold hunger and despair remain!

And to-morrow, it may be, I shall die! . . . And there will not be left on
earth one being who has understood me completely. Some will consider me
worse, others, better, than I have been in reality. . . Some will say:
‘he was a good fellow’; others: ‘a villain. ’ And both epithets will be
false. After all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live--out
of curiosity! We expect something new. . . How absurd, and yet how
vexatious!




CHAPTER XIX

IT is now a month and a half since I have been in the N----Fortress.

Maksim Maksimych is out hunting. . . I am alone. I am sitting by the
window. Grey clouds have covered the mountains to the foot; the sun
appears through the mist as a yellow spot. It is cold; the wind is
whistling and rocking the shutters. . . I am bored! . . . I will continue my
diary which has been interrupted by so many strange events.

I read the last page over: how ridiculous it seems! . . . I thought to die;
it was not to be. I have not yet drained the cup of suffering, and now I
feel that I still have long to live.

How clearly and how sharply have all these bygone events been stamped
upon my memory! Time has not effaced a single line, a single shade.

I remember that during the night preceding the duel I did not sleep a
single moment. I was not able to write for long: a secret uneasiness
took possession of me. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat
down and opened a novel by Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It
was “The Scottish Puritans. ” [301] At first I read with an effort; then,
carried away by the magical fiction, I became oblivious of everything
else.

At last day broke. My nerves became composed. I looked in the glass:
a dull pallor covered my face, which preserved the traces of harassing
sleeplessness; but my eyes, although encircled by a brownish shadow,
glittered proudly and inexorably. I was satisfied with myself.

I ordered the horses to be saddled, dressed myself, and ran down to the
baths.