A Hero of Our Time [80]
all like that, even the best-natured, the wisest. . .
CHAPTER XXII
NEXT morning, having received orders from the supreme authority to betake myself to the N---- Fortress, I called upon Princess Ligov- ski to say good-bye.
She was surprised when, in answer to her ques- tion, whether I had not anything of special im- portance to tell her, I said I had come to wish her good-bye, and so on.
"But I must have a very serious talk with you."
I sat down in silence.
It was clear that she did not know how to begin; her face grew livid, she tapped the table with her plump fingers; at length, in a broken voice, she said:
"Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you are a gentleman."
I bowed.
"Nay, I am sure of it," she continued, "al- though your behaviour is somewhat equivocal, but you may have reasons which I do not know; and you must now confide them to me. You have protected my daughter from slander, you have fought a duel on her behalf -- consequently you have risked your life. . . Do not answer. I know that you will not acknowledge it because Grushnitski has been killed" -- she crossed herself. "God forgive him -- and you too, I hope. . . That does not concern me. . . I dare not con- demn you because my daughter, although inno- cently, has been the cause. She has told me everything . . . everything, I think. You have declared your love for her. . . She has admitted hers to you." -- Here Princess Ligovski sighed heavily. -- "But she is ill, and I am certain that it is no simple illness! Secret grief is killing her; she will not confess, but I am convinced that you are the cause of it. . . Listen: you think, per- haps, that I am looking for rank or immense wealth -- be undeceived, my daughter's happiness is my sole desire. Your present position is un- enviable, but it may be bettered: you have means; my daughter loves you; she has been brought up in such a way that she will make her husband a happy man. I am wealthy, she is my only child. . . Tell me, what is keeping you back? . . . You see, I ought not to be saying all this to you, but I rely upon your heart, upon your honour -- remember she is my only daughter . . . my only one" . . .
She burst into tears.
"Princess," I said, "it is impossible for me to answer you; allow me to speak to your daughter, alone" . . .
"Never!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair in violent agitation.
"As you wish," I answered, preparing to go away.
She fell into thought, made a sign to me with her hand that I should wait a little, and left the room.
Five minutes passed. My heart was beating violently, but my thoughts were tranquil, my head cool. However assiduously I sought in my breast for even a spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were of no avail!
Then the door opened, and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed since I had last seen her -- and that but a short time ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she staggered. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and led her to a chair.
I stood facing her. We remained silent for a long time; her large eyes, full of unutterable grief, seemed to be searching in mine for some- thing resembling hope; her wan lips vainly en- deavoured to smile; her tender hands, which were folded upon her knees, were so thin and transparent that I pitied her.
"Princess," I said, "you know that I have been making fun of you? . . . You must despise me."
A sickly flush suffused her cheeks.
"Consequently," I continued, "you cannot love me" . . .
She turned her head away, leaned her elbows on the table, covered her eyes with her hand, and it seemed to me that she was on the point of tears.
"Oh, God!" she said, almost inaudibly.
The situation was growing intolerable. Another minute -- and I should have fallen at her feet.
"So you see, yourself," I said in as firm a voice as I could command, and with a forced smile, "you see, yourself, that I cannot marry you. Even if you wished it now, you would soon repent. My conversation with your mother has compelled me to explain myself
CHAPTER XXII
NEXT morning, having received orders from the supreme authority to betake myself to the N---- Fortress, I called upon Princess Ligov- ski to say good-bye.
She was surprised when, in answer to her ques- tion, whether I had not anything of special im- portance to tell her, I said I had come to wish her good-bye, and so on.
"But I must have a very serious talk with you."
I sat down in silence.
It was clear that she did not know how to begin; her face grew livid, she tapped the table with her plump fingers; at length, in a broken voice, she said:
"Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you are a gentleman."
I bowed.
"Nay, I am sure of it," she continued, "al- though your behaviour is somewhat equivocal, but you may have reasons which I do not know; and you must now confide them to me. You have protected my daughter from slander, you have fought a duel on her behalf -- consequently you have risked your life. . . Do not answer. I know that you will not acknowledge it because Grushnitski has been killed" -- she crossed herself. "God forgive him -- and you too, I hope. . . That does not concern me. . . I dare not con- demn you because my daughter, although inno- cently, has been the cause. She has told me everything . . . everything, I think. You have declared your love for her. . . She has admitted hers to you." -- Here Princess Ligovski sighed heavily. -- "But she is ill, and I am certain that it is no simple illness! Secret grief is killing her; she will not confess, but I am convinced that you are the cause of it. . . Listen: you think, per- haps, that I am looking for rank or immense wealth -- be undeceived, my daughter's happiness is my sole desire. Your present position is un- enviable, but it may be bettered: you have means; my daughter loves you; she has been brought up in such a way that she will make her husband a happy man. I am wealthy, she is my only child. . . Tell me, what is keeping you back? . . . You see, I ought not to be saying all this to you, but I rely upon your heart, upon your honour -- remember she is my only daughter . . . my only one" . . .
She burst into tears.
"Princess," I said, "it is impossible for me to answer you; allow me to speak to your daughter, alone" . . .
"Never!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair in violent agitation.
"As you wish," I answered, preparing to go away.
She fell into thought, made a sign to me with her hand that I should wait a little, and left the room.
Five minutes passed. My heart was beating violently, but my thoughts were tranquil, my head cool. However assiduously I sought in my breast for even a spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were of no avail!
Then the door opened, and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed since I had last seen her -- and that but a short time ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she staggered. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and led her to a chair.
I stood facing her. We remained silent for a long time; her large eyes, full of unutterable grief, seemed to be searching in mine for some- thing resembling hope; her wan lips vainly en- deavoured to smile; her tender hands, which were folded upon her knees, were so thin and transparent that I pitied her.
"Princess," I said, "you know that I have been making fun of you? . . . You must despise me."
A sickly flush suffused her cheeks.
"Consequently," I continued, "you cannot love me" . . .
She turned her head away, leaned her elbows on the table, covered her eyes with her hand, and it seemed to me that she was on the point of tears.
"Oh, God!" she said, almost inaudibly.
The situation was growing intolerable. Another minute -- and I should have fallen at her feet.
"So you see, yourself," I said in as firm a voice as I could command, and with a forced smile, "you see, yourself, that I cannot marry you. Even if you wished it now, you would soon repent. My conversation with your mother has compelled me to explain myself