Mikhail Lermontov - A Hero of Our Time

"All you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing," said the old major. "After all, none of you witnessed any of the strange happenings which you try to use to support your views, did you?"

"Of course not," several said. "But we have it on reliable authority!"

"Nonsense!" someone said. "Where is the reliable authority who has seen the scroll on which the hour of our death is appointed? And if there is such a thing as predestination, why have we been given will and reason? Why are we held accountable for our actions?"

At this point an officer who had been sitting in a corner of the room stood up, walked slowly over to the table, and surveyed us all with a calm, solemn look. He was a Serb by birth, as you could tell from his name.

Lieutenant Vulić's appearance was in keeping with his character. His tall stature and the swarthiness of his complexion, black hair, black, piercing eyes, and the large but regular nose typical of his nation, the cold, melancholy smile that eternally played on his lips-all this was as if designed to endow him with the appearance of an unusual person, incapable of sharing his thoughts and emotions with those whom fate had made his comrades.

He was brave, he spoke little but bluntly. He confided his intimate and family secrets to no one. He scarcely ever drank any wine, and he never paid court to the young Cossack women, whose charms must be seen to be appreciated. It was said nevertheless that the colonel's wife was not indifferent to his expressive eyes, but he was always angered by hints to that effect.

There was only one passion that he didn't conceal-his passion for gambling. At a green-topped table he was oblivious to the world. He usually lost, but persistent bad luck only fed his obstinacy. It was said that one night, during an expedition, when he was keeping the bank on a pillow and having a terrific run of luck, shots suddenly rang out, the alarm was given, and everyone sprang up and rushed for their weapons. "Stake the pool!" cried Vulić, who had not moved, to one of the most involved players. "Seven!" replied the latter as he dashed off. In spite of the general confusion, Vulić dealt to the end; he turned up a seven for the player.

When he reached the skirmish line, the firing was already heavy. Vulić paid no attention either to the bullets or the Chechen sabers. He was searching for his lucky player.

"It was a seven!" Vulić shouted, catching sight of him at last in the firing line, that was beginning to dislodge the enemy from a wood. Going up to him, he pulled out his wallet and gave it to the winner, in spite of the latter's objections to this ill-timed settlement. Having performed this unpleasant duty, Vulić dashed forward at the head of the soldiers and with the utmost calm exchanged fire with the Chechens to the very end of the engagement.

When Lieutenant Vulić walked up to the table everybody fell silent, expecting something original from him.

"Gentlemen!" he said (his voice was calm though it was pitched lower than usual). "Gentlemen, why this idle argument? You wish for proof: I propose we test it out on ourselves whether a man can do what he wants with his own life, or whether the fateful moment has been preordained for each of us... Who wants to try?"

"Not I, not I!" was the response from all sides. "What a card! Of all the things to think of!"

"I suggest a wager," I said in jest.

"What sort of a wager?"

"I maintain there is no such thing as predestination," I said, emptying some twenty gold pieces on the table from my pockets-all that I happened to have on me.

"Done!" replied Vulić in a low voice. "Major, you be the umpire-here are fifteen gold pieces. You owe me five, so will you do me the favor of making up the difference?"

"Very well," said the major. "Though I haven't the slightest idea what it's all about, or how you propose to settle the matter."

Without a word Vulić went into the major's bedroom, we following him. Going over to a wall hung with weapons, he took down at random from its nail one of the pistols, of which there were several of different calibers. We didn't realize what he was up to at first, but when he cocked the weapon and primed it, several of us involuntarily stepped up and grabbed him by the arms.

"What are you going to do? Are you mad?" we shouted at him.

"Gentlemen!" he said with deliberation, disengaging his arms. "Which of you would care to pay twenty gold pieces for me?"

Everyone fell silent and drew back.

Vulić went into the next room and sat down at the table. The rest of us followed him. He motioned us to take our seats around the table. We obeyed him in silence, for at this moment he had acquired some mysterious power over us. I looked intently into his eyes, but they met my searching gaze calmly and unwaveringly, and his pale lips smiled; yet in spite of his composure I thought I could read the seal of death on his dull white face. I have observed, and many old soldiers have confirmed the observation, that frequently the face of a person who is to die in a few hours' time bears some strange mark of his inevitable fate, which an experienced eye can hardly fail to detect.

"You will die today," I said to him. He turned sharply to me, but replied with calm deliberation: "I may, and then again I may not..."

Then, turning to the major, he asked whether the pistol was loaded. In his confusion, the major couldn't remember exactly.

"That's enough, Vulić!" someone cried. "It must be loaded since it hung at the head of the bed. What sort of a joke is this!"

"A stupid joke!" threw in another.

"I'll wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!" a third shouted.

Fresh bets were made.

I got tired of this endless ceremony. "Look here," I said, "either fire or hang the pistol back in its place and let's go to bed."

"That's right," many exclaimed. "Let's go to bed."

"Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move!" said Vulić, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. We were all petrified.

"Mr Pechorin," he went on, "will you take a card and throw it up in the air."

As I recall now, I picked up an ace of hearts from the table and threw it up. We watched with bated breath, our eyes, wide with fear and an indefinable curiosity, shifting back and forth between the pistol and the fateful ace which was now slowly fluttering downwards. The moment it touched the table, Vulić pulled the trigger-but the pistol didn't go off.

"Thank God!" several voices cried. "It wasn't loaded..."

"We'll see about that," said Vulić. Again he cocked the weapon and aimed at a cap hanging above the window. A shot rang out and smoke filled the room, and when it dispersed the cap was taken down-there was the hole in the very center of it and the bullet had imbedded itself deep in the wall.

For a good three minutes no one could utter a word. Vulić calmly poured my money into his purse.

Speculation began as to why the pistol did not go off the first time. Some claimed that the pan must have been clogged, others whispered that the powder was damp at first, and that Vulić had afterwards sprinkled some fresh powder on it. I, however, assured them that the latter supposition was incorrect, for I had not taken my eyes off the pistol for a moment.

"You have gambler's luck!" I said to Vulić.

"For the first time in my life," he replied, smiling complacently. "This is better than faro or shtoss [111] gambling card games. ."

"But slightly more dangerous."

"Well? Have you begun to believe in predestination?"

"I do believe in it. Only I don't understand why it seemed to me that you were doomed to die today …"

The very same man, who so short a time before had with supreme indifference aimed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly flared up and looked disconcerted.