Mikhail Lermontov - A Hero of Our Time

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

I went straight to Werner, whom I found at home, and told him everything-my relations with Vera and Princess Mary and the conversation I had overheard, which showed me these gentlemen's intentions to make a fool of me by having us shoot it out with blank charges. Now, however, that affair had overstepped the bounds of a joke. They probably had not expected it to end like this.

The doctor agreed to act as my second. I gave him a few instructions concerning the conditions of the duel-he was to insist on the greatest secrecy, for, though I am always ready to risk my life, I am not disposed in the slightest to spoil my future in this world for all time to come.

Afterwards I went home. An hour later the doctor returned from his expedition.

"There is indeed a conspiracy against you," he said. "I found the captain of dragoons and another gentleman, whose name I do not remember, at Grushnitsky's. I stopped for a moment in the hallway to take off my galoshes. Inside there was a terrific noise and argument going on. 'I will not agree on any account!' Grushnitsky was saying. 'He insulted me publicly; previously it was an entirely different matter...' 'Why should it concern you?' replied the captain. 'I'm taking everything upon myself. I've been a second in five duels and know how these things are arranged. I've thought it out in every detail. Only be so good as not to interfere with me. It'll do him good to give him a fright. So why should you run a risk if you don't have to?..." At that point I walked in. They immediately fell silent. Our negotiations lasted for quite a while, and finally we came to the following arrangement: about three miles from here there is a lonely gorge. They'll go there tomorrow morning at four o'clock, and we are to leave half an hour later. You'll fire at six paces-Grushnitsky insisted on that distance himself. The dead man is to be credited to the Circassians. Now I'll tell you what I suspect: they, the seconds, I mean, have apparently amended the earlier scheme somewhat and want to put a bullet only into Grushnitsky's pistol. It looks rather like murder, but cunning is permitted in wartime, particularly in an Asiatic war. I dare say, though, that Grushnitsky is a slightly better man than his comrades. What do you think? Should we let them know that we have guessed their stratagem?"

"Not for anything in the world, doctor! You can rest assured I won't give in to them."

"What do you intend to do?"

"That's my secret."

"Take care you don't fall into a trap... Remember the distance is only six paces!"

"Doctor, I'll expect you tomorrow at four. The horses will be saddled. Goodbye!"

I sat at home until evening, locked up in my room. A footman came with an invitation from Princess Ligovskaya, but I said I was ill.

It is two o'clock in the morning, but I can't fall asleep. I know I should rest, so that my hand will be steady tomorrow. It'll be hard to miss at six paces though. Ah, Mr. Grushnitsky, your plots won't succeed! We will exchange roles, and now it'll be for me to look for signs of secret terror on your pale face. Why did you insist on these fatal six paces? You think that I'll submissively offer you my brow as a target... but we'll draw lots! And then... then... but what if fortune smiles on him? What if my star fails me at last? And little wonder if it did-it has faithfully served my caprices long enough: there is no more constancy in the heavens than on earth.

Ah, well! If I must die, I must! The world will lose little, and I am weary enough of it all. I am like a man who yawns at a ball and doesn't go home to sleep only because his carriage hasn't come. But now the carriage is here-goodbye!

I run through my past life in my mind and involuntarily ask myself: Why have I lived? For what purpose was I born? There must have been a purpose, and certainly fate must have something noble in store for me, for I am conscious of untapped powers within me... But I didn't figure out my destination. I allowed myself to be carried away by the temptation of vain and frivolous passions. I emerged from their crucible hard and cold like iron, but gone forever was the ardor of noble aspirations-life's finest flower. How often since then have I played the role of an ax in the hands of fate! Like an instrument of execution I have fallen upon the heads of the condemned, often without malice, always without regret... My love has never made anyone happy, for I have never sacrificed anything for those I loved; I have loved only for myself, for my own pleasure. I have striven only to satisfy a strange craving of the heart, greedily absorbing their emotions, their tenderness, their joys and sufferings-and have never been fully satisfied. I have been like the starving man who falls into a stupor from sheer exhaustion and dreams of luxurious foods and sparkling wines-exultingly he shovels in these ephemeral gifts of the imagination, and seems to feel better-but when he awakes the vision is gone... and redoubled hunger and despair remain!

Perhaps I will die tomorrow, and there won't be anyone left on earth who understands me fully. Some think of me worse, others better, than I really am. Some will say: he was a good fellow; others: he was a scoundrel. And both will be wrong. Is it worth the trouble to live after this? And yet you go on living-out of curiosity, in expectation of something new... How ludicrous and how vexatious!

A month and a half has passed since I arrived at the fort of N-. Maksim Maksimich has gone out hunting... I am all alone. I am sitting at the window. Outside, the gray clouds have concealed the mountains to their very base. The sun looks like a yellow blotch through the mist. It is cold. The wind is sighing and rattling the shutters... How wearisome it all is! I'll resume writing my journal, which has been interrupted by so many strange events.

Reading over the last page, it strikes me as amusing. I thought I would die-but that was out of the question, for I have not yet drained my cup of misery to the dregs and now I feel that I still have long to live.

How clearly and sharply everything that has happened is imprinted in my memory! Time hasn't obliterated a single line or nuance.

I recall that on the night before the duel I didn't sleep a wink. A mysterious uneasiness took hold of me and I couldn't write for long. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat down and opened a novel by Walter Scott that had lain on my table: it was Old Mortality [107] read in French translation (though Lermontov knew some English). . At first I read with an effort, then, carried away by the enchanting fiction, I was soon oblivious to everything. Surely, the Scottish bard is rewarded in heaven for every joyous minute his book gives to the reader...

At last day broke. My nerves had grown calm. I examined my face in the mirror; a dull white had spread over my features, which still showed traces of a racking sleepless night, but my eyes, though encircled by dark shadows, shone proudly and remorselessly. I was satisfied with myself.

Ordering the horses to be saddled, I dressed and hurried to the baths. As I immersed myself in the cold Narzan water, I felt my physical and spiritual strength returning. I left the baths as refreshed and vigorous as if about to attend a ball. After this, no one can tell me that the soul is not dependent on the body!

On returning home, I found the doctor there. He was wearing gray riding pants, a light jacket gathered in at the waist and a Circassian cap. I burst out laughing at the sight of his slight body beneath the enormous shaggy cap. His face is anything but warlike, and this time he looked more dejected than usual.

"Why so sad, doctor?" I said to him. "Haven't you seen people off to the next world a hundred times with the greatest indifference? Imagine that I have a bilious fever, and that I have equal chances of recovering or succumbing. Both outcomes are in the order of things. Try to regard me as a patient stricken with a disease you have not yet diagnosed-that will stimulate your curiosity to the utmost. You may now make some important physiological observations on me... Isn't expectation of death by violence a real illness in itself?"