No More Learning

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.

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?





APPENDIX

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

(By the Author)

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!