Going down the path, I noticed Grushnitsky’s bloody corpse between fissures in the rock. I couldn’t help closing my eyes . . . Leading my horse away, I set off for home at a walking pace. There was a stone in my heart. The sun seemed dim to me, its rays didn’t warm me.
Before reaching the
slobodka,
I turned right along the gully. The sight of another person would have been distressing to me. I wanted to be alone. Having let go of the reins and lowered my head onto my breast, I rode for a long time, and finally found myself in a place that was entirely unknown to me. I turned the horse around and started to search for the road. The sun was already setting when I rode up toward Kislovodsk, worn out, on a worn-out horse.
My lackey told me that Werner had come by and delivered two notes. One from him, the other . . . from Vera.
I unsealed the first, and it had the following contents:
Everything was arranged as best as it could have been. The body has been brought back, disfigured, the bullet pulled from its breast. Everyone is convinced that the cause of his death was an unfortunate accident. The commandant, to whom our disagreement is probably known, only shook his head but didn’t say anything. There is no evidence of any kind against you, and you can sleep peacefully . . . If you are able . . . Farewell . . .
I took a long time in deciding to open the second note . . . What could she have written to me? . . . A heavy foreboding worried my soul.
This is it, the letter, of which each word is indelibly marked onto my memory:
I am writing to you in the full certainty that we will never see each other again. I thought the same several years or so ago upon parting ways with you. But it pleased the heavens to test me a second time. I didn’t withstand this test—my weak heart submitted again to that familiar voice . . . you won’t despise me for this, isn’t that true? This letter will take the place of a farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tell you everything that has accumulated in my heart since the moment it started loving you. I won’t begin by accusing you. You have behaved with me as any other man would have behaved with me. You loved me as property, as a source of joy, anxiety, and sadness, all mutually exchangeable, without which life is tedious and monotonous. I understood this at the beginning. But you were unhappy and I sacrificed myself, hoping that at some point you would value my sacrifice, that at some point you would understand my profound affection, which didn’t come with any conditions. Much time has passed since then. I penetrated every secret of your soul . . . and became convinced that it had been a useless aspiration. How bitter it was for me! But my love had grown into my soul. It had dimmed but it had not gone out.
We are parting forever. However, you can be sure that I will never love another. My soul spent all of its treasures on you, its tears and its hopes too. Having once loved you, it is impossible for me to look at other men without a certain contempt—not because you are better than them—oh no! But there is something in your nature that is special, that belongs to you alone, something proud and mysterious. In your voice, no matter what you have said, there is an invincible power. No one is capable of wanting to be loved as much as you. Evil is not as attractive in anyone but you, no one’s gaze promises as much bliss, no one is able to use their advantages better, and no one can be as sincerely unhappy as you, because no one strives as much to convince himself of the contrary.
Now I should explain to you the reason for my hasty departure. It will seem of little importance to you, because it affects me alone.
This morning, my husband came to me and told me about your disagreement with Grushnitsky. Evidently, my face changed very much, because he looked me in the eyes, long and hard. I nearly fainted at the thought that you were to fight today and that I was the reason for it. It seemed to me that I would go mad . . . but now that I can reason, I am sure that you will remain alive. It is impossible that you would die without me, impossible! My husband paced the room for a long time. I don’t know what he was saying to me, I don’t remember what I was saying in reply . . . I probably told him that I love you . . . I only remember that near the end of our conversation, he insulted me with the most terrible words and left. I listened as he ordered the carriage to be harnessed . . . And here it is already three o’clock as I sit at the window and wait for your return . . . But you are alive—you cannot die! . . . The carriage is almost ready . . . Farewell, farewell . . . I am perished—but what does it matter? . . . If only I could be sure that you will always remember me—I won’t speak of love—no, only remembering . . . Farewell. They’re coming . . . I must hide this letter . . .
Is it true that you are not in love with Mary? You won’t marry her? Listen, you must do this for me as a sacrifice: I have lost everything in this world to you . . .
Like a lunatic, I leapt out onto the veranda and jumped on my Circassian horse, who was being led around the courtyard, and set off at full tilt along the road to Pyatigorsk. I spurred the worn-out horse mercilessly onward, and he rushed me along the rocky road, snorting and covered with foam.
The sun had already concealed itself in the black clouds that were resting on the ridge of the western mountains. It was becoming dark and damp in the gully. The Podkumok River forced its way through the rocks, bellowing darkly and monotonously. I rode at a furious pace, gasping for breath out of impatience. The thought of not finding her in Pyatigorsk was beating me like a hammer on the heart!
One minute, just to see her for one more minute, to bid farewell, to squeeze her hand . . . I prayed, I cursed, I wept, I laughed . . . No, nothing could express my troubled mind, my desperation! . . . Before the possibility of losing her forever, Vera became dearer to me than everything in the world—dearer than life itself, than honor, than happiness! God knows what peculiar, what mad ideas swarmed in my head . . . And meanwhile, I continued to ride at a furious pace, spurring my horse mercilessly onward. And then I started to notice that my horse was breathing more heavily. He had already stumbled twice on even ground . . . There were five
verst
s more to Essentukov—a Cossack station, where I could exchange my horse.
All would have been saved had my horse had enough strength for another ten minutes! But suddenly, passing up out of a small gully, at an egress from the mountains, on a tight bend, he crashed to the ground. I swiftly jumped off—at this point I wanted to get him up and was holding the reins—all in vain. A faint moan escaped from between his clenched teeth; after a few minutes, he expired. I was left alone on the Steppe, having lost my last hope. I tried to continue on foot; my legs gave way, exhausted with the distress of the day and insomnia, then I fell onto the wet grass and cried like an infant.
For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, not making any attempt to restrain my tears and sobbing. I thought that my breast would explode. All my hardness, all my cool indifference, disappeared like smoke. My soul lost its strength, my reason went quiet, and if someone had seen me at that minute, they would have turned away in disdain.
When the dew of night and the mountain wind had refreshed my hot head, and my thoughts had returned to regular order, I understood that chasing after a perished happiness was useless and heedless. What did I need? To see her? Why? Had not everything ended between us? One bitter departing kiss wouldn’t distill my memories, and would only make it harder to part ways thereafter.
It was pleasant, to me, however, that I could cry! As for the rest, it may be that the cause of this was shattered nerves, a night without sleep, two minutes in the face of a pistol’s muzzle, and an empty stomach.
All will be better! This new suffering, to use a military idiom, has given me a fortunate diversion. Weeping is healthy. And moreover, it is likely that, had I not set off on horseback, and not been made to walk fifteen
verst
s back, then sleep wouldn’t have closed my eyes that night.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o’clock in the morning, threw myself on my bed, and slept the sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo.
When I wakened, it was already dark in the courtyard. I sat by the open window, unbuttoned my
arkhaluk,
and the mountain wind refreshed my breast, which had still not calmed with the heavy sleep of fatigue. The lights of the fortress and the
slobodka
twinkled in the distance, beyond the river, through the tops of the thick linden trees that overshadowed it. All was quiet in our courtyard; it was dark in the house of the Princess Ligovsky.
The doctor came by. His brow was crossed, and he did not extend his hand to me as he would usually.
“Where have you come from, Doctor?”
“From the Princess Ligovsky. Her daughter is ill—with a weakening of the nerves . . . But that is not the matter, this is: the town authorities have guessed the truth, even though they can’t positively prove anything. However, I advise you to be more careful. The Princess Ligovsky was telling me today that she knows that you dueled for her daughter’s sake. That little old man told her everything . . . what was his name? He was witness to your skirmish with Grushnitsky in the restaurant. I have come to warn you. Farewell. It may be that we will never see each other again, that they will dispatch you somewhere.”
He stopped at the threshold. He wanted to shake my hand . . . and if I had given him the slightest indication of such a desire on my part, he would have thrown his arms around my neck. But I stayed cold, like a rock—and he walked out.
People! They are all the same: they know all the bad aspects to a deed in advance, and they help you, advise you, even approve of it, seeing that no other way is possible—and then they wash their hands of it and turn away with indignation from the person who had the courage to take the whole burden of responsibility onto himself. They are all the same, even the kindest, the most intelligent of them!
The next morning, having received an order from the authorities to take myself to the Fortress N——, I went to the Princess Ligovsky to bid them farewell.
She was astonished when, to her question of whether I had something especially important to say to her, I replied that I wished her happiness, et cetera.
“Well, I need to speak with you about something very serious.”
I sat down, saying nothing.
It was obvious that she didn’t know how to begin. Her face turned crimson, her plump fingers tapped the table. Finally she started like this, in a broken voice:
“Listen, Monsieur Pechorin! I think that you are a noble man.”
I bowed.
“Indeed I am convinced of it,” she continued, “though your behavior has been somewhat dubious. But you may have your reasons, which I don’t know, and you must now confide them to me. You defended my daughter from slander, you dueled for her sake—which is to say that you risked your life for her . . . Don’t say anything, I know that you won’t admit to it, because Grushnitsky is killed (she made the sign of the cross). God will forgive him—and, I hope He will forgive you too! . . . But this is not my concern, I cannot judge you because my daughter, though she was innocent, was nonetheless the cause of it. She told me everything . . . I think it was everything. You declared your love for her . . . she confessed hers to you (here the princess exhaled heavily). But she is ill, and I am sure that this is not a simple illness! A secret sadness is killing her. She doesn’t admit to it, but I am sure that you are the cause of it . . . Listen, you may think that I am seeking an official with enormous wealth for her—disabuse yourself! I only want the happiness of my daughter. Your current situation is unenviable, but it can be righted. You have means. My daughter loves you, she is brought up to make a husband happy. I am wealthy, and she is my only child . . . Tell me, what is holding you back? You see, I wasn’t supposed to tell you all of this, but I count upon your heart, upon your honor. Remember that I have only one daughter . . . only one . . .”
She started to weep.
“Princess,” I said. “It is impossible for me to answer you. Allow me please to speak with your daughter alone . . .”
“Never!” she exclaimed, getting up from her chair with great emotion.
“As you wish,” I replied, preparing myself to leave.
She became distracted, gestured to me with her hand that I should wait, and went out.
About five minutes passed. My heart was pounding, but my thoughts were calm, my head was cold. As much as I tried to find a spark of love in my heart toward the lovely Mary, my strivings were in vain.
Then the doors opened, and she came in. Good God! How she had changed since I had last seen her—was it that long ago?
Walking to the middle of the room, she swayed. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and led her to an armchair.
I stood opposite her. We were silent for a long time. Her big eyes, filled with indescribable sorrow it seemed, were looking into mine with something resembling hope. Her pale lips tried to smile in vain. Her delicate hands, crossed on her knees, were so thin and transparent that I felt pity for her.
“Princess,” I said, “did you know that I was mocking you? . . . You should despise me.”
A sickly flush appeared in her cheeks.