No More Learning

Werner clung on to his bridle with both hands,
and we set off. In a trice we had galloped past the fortress, through
the village, and had ridden into the gorge. Our winding road was
half-overgrown with tall grass and was intersected every moment by a
noisy brook, which we had to ford, to the great despair of the doctor,
because each time his horse would stop in the water.

A morning more fresh and blue I cannot remember! The sun had scarce
shown his face from behind the green summits, and the blending of the
first warmth of his rays with the dying coolness of the night produced
on all my feelings a sort of sweet languor. The joyous beam of the young
day had not yet penetrated the gorge; it gilded only the tops of the
cliffs which overhung us on both sides. The tufted shrubs, growing in
the deep crevices of the cliffs, besprinkled us with a silver shower
at the least breath of wind. I remember that on that occasion I loved
Nature more than ever before. With what curiosity did I examine every
dewdrop trembling upon the broad vine leaf and reflecting millions of
rainbowhued rays! How eagerly did my glance endeavour to penetrate the
smoky distance! There the road grew narrower and narrower, the cliffs
bluer and more dreadful, and at last they met, it seemed, in an
impenetrable wall.

We rode in silence.

“Have you made your will? ” Werner suddenly inquired.

“No. ”

“And if you are killed? ”

“My heirs will be found of themselves. ”

“Is it possible that you have no friends, to whom you would like to send
a last farewell? ”. . .

I shook my head.

“Is there, really, not one woman in the world to whom you would like to
leave some token in remembrance? ”. . .

“Do you want me to reveal my soul to you, doctor? ” I answered. . . “You
see, I have outlived the years when people die with the name of the
beloved on their lips and bequeathing to a friend a lock of pomaded--or
unpomaded--hair. When I think that death may be near, I think of myself
alone; others do not even do as much. The friends who to-morrow will
forget me or, worse, will utter goodness knows what falsehoods about me;
the women who, while embracing another, will laugh at me in order not
to arouse his jealousy of the deceased--let them go! Out of the storm of
life I have borne away only a few ideas--and not one feeling. For a
long time now I have been living, not with my heart, but with my head.
I weigh, analyse my own passions and actions with severe curiosity, but
without sympathy. There are two personalities within me: one lives--in
the complete sense of the word--the other reflects and judges him; the
first, it may be, in an hour’s time, will take farewell of you and the
world for ever, and the second--the second? . . . Look, doctor, do you
see those three black figures on the cliff, to the right? They are our
antagonists, I suppose? ”. . .

We pushed on.

In the bushes at the foot of the cliff three horses were tethered; we
tethered ours there too, and then we clambered up the narrow path to the
ledge on which Grushnitski was awaiting us in company with the captain
of dragoons and his other second, whom they called Ivan Ignatevich. His
surname I never heard.

“We have been expecting you for quite a long time,” said the captain of
dragoons, with an ironical smile.

I drew out my watch and showed him the time.

He apologized, saying that his watch was fast.

There was an embarrassing silence for a few moments. At length the
doctor interrupted it.

“It seems to me,” he said, turning to Grushnitski, “that as you have
both shown your readiness to fight, and thereby paid the debt due to the
conditions of honour, you might be able to come to an explanation and
finish the affair amicably. ”

“I am ready,” I said.

The captain winked to Grushnitski, and the latter, thinking that I was
losing courage, assumed a haughty air, although, until that moment, his
cheeks had been covered with a dull pallor. For the first time since our
arrival he lifted his eyes on me; but in his glance there was a certain
disquietude which evinced an inward struggle.

“Declare your conditions,” he said, “and anything I can do for you, be
assured”. . .

“These are my conditions: you will this very day publicly recant your
slander and beg my pardon”. . .

“My dear sir, I wonder how you dare make such a proposal to me? ”

“What else could I propose? ”. . .

“We will fight. ”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Be it so; only, bethink you that one of us will infallibly be killed. ”

“I hope it will be you”. . .

“And I am so convinced of the contrary”. . .

He became confused, turned red, and then burst out into a forced laugh.

The captain took his arm and led him aside; they whispered together for
a long time. I had arrived in a fairly pacific frame of mind, but all
this was beginning to drive me furious.

The doctor came up to me.

“Listen,” he said, with manifest uneasiness, “you have surely forgotten
their conspiracy! . . . I do not know how to load a pistol, but in
this case. . . You are a strange man! Tell them that you know their
intention--and they will not dare. . . What sport! To shoot you like a
bird”. . .

“Please do not be uneasy, doctor, and wait awhile. . . I shall arrange
everything in such a way that there will be no advantage on their side.
Let them whisper”. . .

“Gentlemen, this is becoming tedious,” I said to them loudly: “if we are
to fight, let us fight; you had time yesterday to talk as much as you
wanted to. ”

“We are ready,” answered the captain. “Take your places, gentlemen!
Doctor, be good enough to measure six paces”. . .

“Take your places! ” repeated Ivan Ignatevich, in a squeaky voice.

“Excuse me! ” I said. “One further condition. As we are going to fight
to the death, we are bound to do everything possible in order that
the affair may remain a secret, and that our seconds may incur no
responsibility. Do you agree? ”. . .

“Quite. ”

“Well, then, this is my idea. Do you see that narrow ledge on the top of
the perpendicular cliff on the right? It must be thirty fathoms, if not
more, from there to the bottom; and, down below, there are sharp rocks.
Each of us will stand right at the extremity of the ledge--in such
manner even a slight wound will be mortal: that ought to be in
accordance with your desire, as you yourselves have fixed upon six
paces. Whichever of us is wounded will be certain to fall down and be
dashed to pieces; the doctor will extract the bullet, and, then, it will
be possible very easily to account for that sudden death by saying it
was the result of a fall. Let us cast lots to decide who shall fire
first. In conclusion, I declare that I will not fight on any other
terms. ”

“Be it so! ” said the captain after an expressive glance at Grushnitski,
who nodded his head in token of assent. Every moment he was changing
countenance. I had placed him in an embarrassing position. Had the duel
been fought upon the usual conditions, he could have aimed at my leg,
wounded me slightly, and in such wise gratified his vengeance without
overburdening his conscience. But now he was obliged to fire in the air,
or to make himself an assassin, or, finally, to abandon his base plan
and to expose himself to equal danger with me. I should not have liked
to be in his place at that moment. He took the captain aside and said
something to him with great warmth. His lips were blue, and I saw them
trembling; but the captain turned away from him with a contemptuous
smile.

“You are a fool,” he said to Grushnitski rather loudly. “You can’t
understand a thing! . . . Let us be off, then, gentlemen! ”

The precipice was approached by a narrow path between bushes, and
fragments of rock formed the precarious steps of that natural staircase.
Clinging to the bushes we proceeded to clamber up. Grushnitski went in
front, his seconds behind him, and then the doctor and I.

“I am surprised at you,” said the doctor, pressing my hand vigorously.
“Let me feel your pulse! . . . Oho! Feverish! . . . But nothing noticeable
on your countenance. . . only your eyes are gleaming more brightly than
usual. ”

Suddenly small stones rolled noisily right under our feet. What was it?
Grushnitski had stumbled; the branch to which he was clinging had broken
off, and he would have rolled down on his back if his seconds had not
held him up.

“Take care! ” I cried. “Do not fall prematurely: that is a bad sign.
Remember Julius Caesar! ”




CHAPTER XX

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.




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.