A Hero of Our Time [76]
seemed to me that he would throw himself at my feet, imploring forgiveness; but how to confess so base a plot? . . . One expe- dient only was left to him -- to fire in the air! I was convinced that he would fire in the air! One consideration alone might prevent him doing so -- the thought that I would demand a second duel.
"Now is the time!" the doctor whispered to me, plucking me by the sleeve. "If you do not tell them now that we know their intentions, all is lost. Look, he is loading already. . . If you will not say anything, I will" . . .
"On no account, doctor!" I answered, hold- ing him back by the arm. "You will spoil every- thing. You have given me your word not to interfere. . . What does it matter to you? Perhaps I wish to be killed" . . .
He looked at me in astonishment.
"Oh, that is another thing! . . . Only do not complain of me in the other world" . . .
Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols and given one to Grushnitski, after whispering something to him with a smile; the other he gave to me.
I placed myself in the corner of the ledge, plant- ing my left foot firmly against the rock and bend- ing slightly forward, so that, in case of a slight wound, I might not fall over backwards.
Grushnitski placed himself opposite me and, at a given signal, began to raise his pistol. His knees shook. He aimed right at my forehead. . . Un- utterable fury began to seethe within my breast.
Suddenly he dropped the muzzle of the pistol and, pale as a sheet, turned to his second.
"I cannot," he said in a hollow voice.
"Coward!" answered the captain.
A shot rang out. The bullet grazed my knee. Involuntarily I took a few paces forward in order to get away from the edge as quickly as possible.
"Well, my dear Grushnitski, it is a pity that you have missed!" said the captain. "Now it is your turn, take your stand! Embrace me first: we shall not see each other again!"
They embraced; the captain could scarcely re- frain from laughing.
"Do not be afraid," he added, glancing cun- ningly at Grushnitski; "everything in this world is nonsense. . . Nature is a fool, fate a turkey- hen, and life a copeck!"[1]
[1] Popular phrases, equivalent to: "Men are fools, fortune is blind, and life is not worth a straw."
After that tragic phrase, uttered with becoming gravity, he went back to his place. Ivan Ignate- vich, with tears, also embraced Grushnitski, and there the latter remained alone, facing me. Ever since then, I have been trying to explain to myself what sort of feeling it was that was boiling within my breast at that moment: it was the vexation of injured vanity, and contempt, and wrath en- gendered at the thought that the man now look- ing at me with such confidence, such quiet inso- lence, had, two minutes before, been about to kill me like a dog, without exposing himself to the least danger, because had I been wounded a little more severely in the leg I should inevitably have fallen over the cliff.
For a few moments I looked him fixedly in the face, trying to discern thereon even a slight trace of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was restraining a smile.
"I should advise you to say a prayer before you die," I said.
"Do not worry about my soul any more than your own. One thing I beg of you: be quick about firing."
"And you do not recant your slander? You do not beg my forgiveness? . . . Bethink you well: has your conscience nothing to say to you?"
"Mr. Pechorin!" exclaimed the captain of dragoons. "Allow me to point out that you are not here to preach. . . Let us lose no time, in case anyone should ride through the gorge and we should be seen."
"Very well. Doctor, come here!"
The doctor came up to me. Poor doctor! He was paler than Grushnitski had been ten minutes before.
The words which followed I purposely pro- nounced with a pause between each -- loudly and distinctly, as the sentence of death is pro- nounced:
"Doctor, these gentlemen have forgotten, in their hurry, no doubt, to put a bullet in my pistol. I beg you
"Now is the time!" the doctor whispered to me, plucking me by the sleeve. "If you do not tell them now that we know their intentions, all is lost. Look, he is loading already. . . If you will not say anything, I will" . . .
"On no account, doctor!" I answered, hold- ing him back by the arm. "You will spoil every- thing. You have given me your word not to interfere. . . What does it matter to you? Perhaps I wish to be killed" . . .
He looked at me in astonishment.
"Oh, that is another thing! . . . Only do not complain of me in the other world" . . .
Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols and given one to Grushnitski, after whispering something to him with a smile; the other he gave to me.
I placed myself in the corner of the ledge, plant- ing my left foot firmly against the rock and bend- ing slightly forward, so that, in case of a slight wound, I might not fall over backwards.
Grushnitski placed himself opposite me and, at a given signal, began to raise his pistol. His knees shook. He aimed right at my forehead. . . Un- utterable fury began to seethe within my breast.
Suddenly he dropped the muzzle of the pistol and, pale as a sheet, turned to his second.
"I cannot," he said in a hollow voice.
"Coward!" answered the captain.
A shot rang out. The bullet grazed my knee. Involuntarily I took a few paces forward in order to get away from the edge as quickly as possible.
"Well, my dear Grushnitski, it is a pity that you have missed!" said the captain. "Now it is your turn, take your stand! Embrace me first: we shall not see each other again!"
They embraced; the captain could scarcely re- frain from laughing.
"Do not be afraid," he added, glancing cun- ningly at Grushnitski; "everything in this world is nonsense. . . Nature is a fool, fate a turkey- hen, and life a copeck!"[1]
[1] Popular phrases, equivalent to: "Men are fools, fortune is blind, and life is not worth a straw."
After that tragic phrase, uttered with becoming gravity, he went back to his place. Ivan Ignate- vich, with tears, also embraced Grushnitski, and there the latter remained alone, facing me. Ever since then, I have been trying to explain to myself what sort of feeling it was that was boiling within my breast at that moment: it was the vexation of injured vanity, and contempt, and wrath en- gendered at the thought that the man now look- ing at me with such confidence, such quiet inso- lence, had, two minutes before, been about to kill me like a dog, without exposing himself to the least danger, because had I been wounded a little more severely in the leg I should inevitably have fallen over the cliff.
For a few moments I looked him fixedly in the face, trying to discern thereon even a slight trace of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was restraining a smile.
"I should advise you to say a prayer before you die," I said.
"Do not worry about my soul any more than your own. One thing I beg of you: be quick about firing."
"And you do not recant your slander? You do not beg my forgiveness? . . . Bethink you well: has your conscience nothing to say to you?"
"Mr. Pechorin!" exclaimed the captain of dragoons. "Allow me to point out that you are not here to preach. . . Let us lose no time, in case anyone should ride through the gorge and we should be seen."
"Very well. Doctor, come here!"
The doctor came up to me. Poor doctor! He was paler than Grushnitski had been ten minutes before.
The words which followed I purposely pro- nounced with a pause between each -- loudly and distinctly, as the sentence of death is pro- nounced:
"Doctor, these gentlemen have forgotten, in their hurry, no doubt, to put a bullet in my pistol. I beg you