A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [76]
“Cast lots, Doctor!” said the captain.
The doctor pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and held it up.
“Tails!” cried Grushnitsky, hurriedly, like a man who has been suddenly wakened by a friendly nudge.
“Heads!” I said.
The coin soared up and fell ringing. Everyone rushed toward it.
“You are lucky,” I said to Grushnitsky. “You shoot first! But remember that if you don’t kill me, then I won’t miss. I give you my honest word.”
He blushed. He was ashamed to kill an unarmed man. I looked at him intently. For about a minute it seemed to me that he would throw himself at my feet, begging forgiveness. But how could you admit to such a vile scheme? One means remained for him—to shoot into the air. I was sure that he would shoot into the air! Just one thing could prevent this: the thought that I would request a second duel.
“It’s time,” the doctor whispered to me, tugging me by the sleeve. “If you don’t now say that we know their intentions, then everything is lost. Look, he is already loading . . . if you don’t say something then I will . . .”
“Not for anything in the world, doctor!” I answered, holding him back by the arm. “You will ruin everything. You gave me your word that you wouldn’t get in my way . . . What is it to you? Perhaps I want to be killed . . .”
He looked at me in surprise.
“Oh, that is another matter! . . . Only don’t complain about me in the next world . . .”
Meanwhile the captain was loading his pistols; he handed one to Grushnitsky, whispering something to him with a little smile; and handed the other to me.
I stood in the corner of the little platform, having tightly wedged my left foot against a rock and leaning a little forward so that in the event of a light wound I would not topple backward.
Grushnitsky stood opposite me, and when given the signal he began to raise his pistol. His knees were shaking. He aimed straight at my forehead . . .
An indescribable rage started boiling in my breast. Suddenly he lowered the muzzle of the pistol and, turning pale as a sheet, turned to his second.
“I can’t,” he said in a dull voice.
“Coward!” the captain responded.
A shot rang out. The bullet scratched my knee. I couldn’t help taking a few steps forward, to move away from the edge as soon as possible.
“Well, brother Grushnitsky, too bad that you missed!” said the captain. “Now it’s your turn: take up your position! Embrace me first: we won’t see each other again!”
They embraced; the captain could barely keep himself from laughing. “Don’t be afraid,” he added, slyly looking at Grushnitsky. “Everything on earth is nonsense! . . . Nature is a fool, fate is a turkey, and life is a kopeck!”
With this tragic phrase, delivered with decorous importance, he walked to his place. Grushnitsky was then also embraced by a teary-eyed Ivan Ignatievitch and then remained alone before me. I am still trying to explain to myself what kind of feeling was agitating then in my breast: it was the vexation of insulted vanity, and contempt, and anger, borne of the thought that this man, looking at me now with such assurance, with such calm impertinence, had, but two minutes ago, without exposing himself to any danger, wanted to kill me like a dog, for if he had wounded me a little more forcefully, I would have definitely fallen from the crag.
I looked him intently in the face for several minutes, trying to note at least a faint trace of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was holding back a smile.
“I advise you to pray to God before you die,” I said to him then.
“Don’t worry more about my soul than your own. Just one thing I’ll ask of you: fire sooner.”
“And you don’t retract your slander? You won’t ask my forgiveness? . . . Think now, isn’t your conscience telling you something?”
“Mr. Pechorin!” cried the dragoon captain. “You are not here to hear