A Hero of Our Time [72]
. .
Two o'clock in the morning. . . I cannot sleep. . . Yet sleep is what I need, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow. However, at six paces it is difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnit- ski, your wiles will not succeed! . . . We shall exchange roles: now it is I who shall have to seek the signs of latent terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have you yourself appointed these fatal six paces? Think you that I will tamely expose my forehead to your aim? . . .
No, we shall cast lots. . . And then -- then -- what if his luck should prevail? If my star at length should betray me? . . . And little wonder if it did: it has so long and faithfully served my caprices.
Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the world will not be great; and I myself am already downright weary of everything. I am like a guest at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, simply because his carriage has not come for him. But now the carriage is here. . . Good-bye! . . .
My whole past life I live again in memory, and, involuntarily, I ask myself: 'why have I lived -- for what purpose was I born?' . . . A purpose there must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted destiny, because I feel that within my soul are powers immeasurable. . . But I was not able to discover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions, inane and ignoble. From their crucible I issued hard and cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of noble aspirations -- the fairest flower of life. And, from that time forth, how often have I not played the part of an axe in the hands of fate! Like an implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the head of doomed victims, often without malice, always without pity. . . To none has my love brought happiness, because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those I have loved: for myself alone I have loved -- for my own pleasure. I have only satisfied the strange craving of my heart, greedily draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joys, their sufferings -- and I have never been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent with hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees before him sumptuous viands and sparkling wines; he de- vours with rapture the aerial gifts of the imagina- tion, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. Let him but awake: the vision vanishes -- twofold hunger and despair remain!
And to-morrow, it may be, I shall die! . . . And there will not be left on earth one being who has understood me completely. Some will con- sider me worse, others, better, than I have been in reality. . . Some will say: 'he was a good fellow'; others: 'a villain.' And both epithets will be false. After all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live -- out of curiosity! We expect something new. . . How absurd, and yet how vexatious!
CHAPTER XIX
IT is now a month and a half since I have been in the N---- Fortress.
Maksim Maksimych is out hunting. . . I am alone. I am sitting by the window. Grey clouds have covered the mountains to the foot; the sun appears through the mist as a yellow spot. It is cold; the wind is whistling and rocking the shutters. . . I am bored! . . . I will continue my diary which has been interrupted by so many strange events.
I read the last page over: how ridiculous it seems! . . . I thought to die; it was not to be. I have not yet drained the cup of suffering, and now I feel that I still have long to live.
How clearly and how sharply have all these bygone events been stamped upon my memory! Time has not effaced a single line, a single shade.
I remember that during the night preceding the duel I did not sleep a single moment. I was not able to write for long: a secret uneasiness took possession of me. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat down and opened a novel by Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It was "The Scottish Puritans."[1] At first I read with an effort; then, carried away by the magical fiction, I became oblivious of every- thing else.
[1] None
Two o'clock in the morning. . . I cannot sleep. . . Yet sleep is what I need, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow. However, at six paces it is difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnit- ski, your wiles will not succeed! . . . We shall exchange roles: now it is I who shall have to seek the signs of latent terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have you yourself appointed these fatal six paces? Think you that I will tamely expose my forehead to your aim? . . .
No, we shall cast lots. . . And then -- then -- what if his luck should prevail? If my star at length should betray me? . . . And little wonder if it did: it has so long and faithfully served my caprices.
Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the world will not be great; and I myself am already downright weary of everything. I am like a guest at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, simply because his carriage has not come for him. But now the carriage is here. . . Good-bye! . . .
My whole past life I live again in memory, and, involuntarily, I ask myself: 'why have I lived -- for what purpose was I born?' . . . A purpose there must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted destiny, because I feel that within my soul are powers immeasurable. . . But I was not able to discover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions, inane and ignoble. From their crucible I issued hard and cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of noble aspirations -- the fairest flower of life. And, from that time forth, how often have I not played the part of an axe in the hands of fate! Like an implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the head of doomed victims, often without malice, always without pity. . . To none has my love brought happiness, because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those I have loved: for myself alone I have loved -- for my own pleasure. I have only satisfied the strange craving of my heart, greedily draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joys, their sufferings -- and I have never been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent with hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees before him sumptuous viands and sparkling wines; he de- vours with rapture the aerial gifts of the imagina- tion, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. Let him but awake: the vision vanishes -- twofold hunger and despair remain!
And to-morrow, it may be, I shall die! . . . And there will not be left on earth one being who has understood me completely. Some will con- sider me worse, others, better, than I have been in reality. . . Some will say: 'he was a good fellow'; others: 'a villain.' And both epithets will be false. After all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live -- out of curiosity! We expect something new. . . How absurd, and yet how vexatious!
CHAPTER XIX
IT is now a month and a half since I have been in the N---- Fortress.
Maksim Maksimych is out hunting. . . I am alone. I am sitting by the window. Grey clouds have covered the mountains to the foot; the sun appears through the mist as a yellow spot. It is cold; the wind is whistling and rocking the shutters. . . I am bored! . . . I will continue my diary which has been interrupted by so many strange events.
I read the last page over: how ridiculous it seems! . . . I thought to die; it was not to be. I have not yet drained the cup of suffering, and now I feel that I still have long to live.
How clearly and how sharply have all these bygone events been stamped upon my memory! Time has not effaced a single line, a single shade.
I remember that during the night preceding the duel I did not sleep a single moment. I was not able to write for long: a secret uneasiness took possession of me. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat down and opened a novel by Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It was "The Scottish Puritans."[1] At first I read with an effort; then, carried away by the magical fiction, I became oblivious of every- thing else.
[1] None