CHAPTER XXI
AS I descended by the path, I observed Grushnitski's bloodstained corpsebetween the clefts of the rocks. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes.
Untying my horse, I set off home at a walking pace. A stone lay upon myheart. To my eyes the sun seemed dim, its beams were powerless to warmme.
I did not ride up to the village, but turned to the right, along thegorge. The sight of a man would have been painful to me: I wanted to bealone. Throwing down the bridle and letting my head fall on my breast, Irode for a long time, and at length found myself in a spot with whichI was wholly unfamiliar. I turned my horse back and began to searchfor the road. The sun had already set by the time I had ridden up toKislovodsk--myself and my horse both utterly spent!
My servant told me that Werner had called, and he handed me two notes:one from Werner, the other... from Vera.
I opened the first; its contents were as follows:
"Everything has been arranged as well as could be; the mutilated bodyhas been brought in; and the bullet extracted from the breast. Everybodyis convinced that the cause of death was an unfortunate accident; onlythe Commandant, who was doubtless aware of your quarrel, shook his head,but he said nothing. There are no proofs at all against you, and you maysleep in peace... if you can.... Farewell!"...
For a long time I could not make up my mind to open the second note...What could it be that she was writing to me?... My soul was agitated bya painful foreboding.
Here it is, that letter, each word of which is indelibly engraved uponmy memory:
"I am writing to you in the full assurance that we shall never see eachother again. A few years ago on parting with you I thought the same.However, it has been Heaven's will to try me a second time: I have notbeen able to endure the trial, my frail heart has again submitted tothe well-known voice... You will not despise me for that--will you? Thisletter will be at once a farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tellyou everything that has been treasured up in my heart since it began tolove you. I will not accuse you--you have acted towards me as any otherman would have acted; you have loved me as a chattel, as a source ofjoys, disquietudes and griefs, interchanging one with the other, withoutwhich life would be dull and monotonous. I have understood all that fromthe first... But you were unhappy, and I have sacrificed myself, hopingthat, some time, you would appreciate my sacrifice, that some time youwould understand my deep tenderness, unfettered by any conditions. Along time has elapsed since then: I have fathomed all the secrets ofyour soul... and I have convinced myself that my hope was vain. It hasbeen a bitter blow to me! But my love has been grafted with my soul; ithas grown dark, but has not been extinguished.
"We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure that I shall never loveanother. Upon you my soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears,its hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look without a certaindisdain upon other men, not because you have been better than they, oh,no! but in your nature there is something peculiar--belonging to youalone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, whatever the wordsspoken, there is an invincible power. No one can so constantly wish tobe loved, in no one is wickedness ever so attractive, no one's glancepromises so much bliss, no one can better make use of his advantages,and no one can be so truly unhappy as you, because no one endeavours soearnestly to convince himself of the contrary.
"Now I must explain the cause of my hurried departure; it will seem oflittle importance to you, because it concerns me alone.
"This morning my husband came in and told me about your quarrel withGrushnitski. Evidently I changed countenance greatly, because he lookedme in the face long and intently. I almost fainted at the thought thatyou had to fight a duel to-day, and that I was the cause of it; itseemed to me that I should go mad... But now, when I am able to reason,I am sure that you remain alive: it is impossible that you should die,and I not with you--impossible! My husband walked about the room for along time. I do not know what he said to me, I do not remember what Ianswered... Most likely I told him that I loved you... I only rememberthat, at the end of our conversation, he insulted me with a dreadfulword and left the room. I heard him ordering the carriage... I have beensitting at the window three hours now, awaiting your return... But youare alive, you cannot have died!... The carriage is almost ready...Good-bye, good-bye!... I have perished--but what matter? If I could besure that you will always remember me--I no longer say love--no, onlyremember... Good-bye, they are coming!... I must hide this letter.
"You do not love Mary, do you? You will not marry her? Listen, you mustoffer me that sacrifice. I have lost everything in the world for you"...
Like a madman I sprang on the steps, jumped on my Circassian horse whichwas being led about the courtyard, and set off at full gallop alongthe road to Pyatigorsk. Unsparingly I urged on the jaded horse, which,snorting and all in a foam, carried me swiftly along the rocky road.
The sun had already disappeared behind a black cloud, which had beenresting on the ridge of the western mountains; the gorge grew dark anddamp. The Podkumok, forcing its way over the rocks, roared with a hollowand monotonous sound. I galloped on, choking with impatience. The ideaof not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck my heart like a hammer. For oneminute, again to see her for one minute, to say farewell, to press herhand... I prayed, cursed, wept, laughed... No, nothing could expressmy anxiety, my despair!... Now that it seemed possible that I might beabout to lose her for ever, Vera became dearer to me than aught in theworld--dearer than life, honour, happiness! God knows what strange, whatmad plans swarmed in my head... Meanwhile I still galloped, urging onmy horse without pity. And, now, I began to notice that he was breathingmore heavily; he had already stumbled once or twice on level ground...I was five versts from Essentuki--a Cossack village where I could changehorses.
All would have been saved had my horse been able to hold out for anotherten minutes. But suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulleywhere the road emerges from the mountains at a sharp turn, he fell tothe ground. I jumped down promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged athis bridle--in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst through his clenchedteeth; in a few moments he expired. I was left on the steppe, alone;I had lost my last hope. I endeavoured to walk--my legs sank under me;exhausted by the anxieties of the day and by sleeplessness, I fell uponthe wet grass and burst out crying like a child.
For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, without attemptingto restrain my tears and sobs. I thought my breast would burst. Allmy firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; my soul grewpowerless, my reason silent, and, if anyone had seen me at that moment,he would have turned aside with contempt.
When the night-dew and the mountain breeze had cooled my burning brow,and my thoughts had resumed their usual course, I realized that topursue my perished happiness would be unavailing and unreasonable.What more did I want?--To see her?--Why? Was not all over between us? Asingle, bitter, farewell kiss would not have enriched my recollections,and, after it, parting would only have been more difficult for us.
Still, I am pleased that I can weep. Perhaps, however, the cause ofthat was my shattered nerves, a night passed without sleep, two minutesopposite the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach.
It is all for the best. That new suffering created within me a fortunatediversion--to speak in military style. To weep is healthy, and then,no doubt, if I had not ridden as I did and had not been obliged to walkfifteen versts on my way back, sleep would not have closed my eyes onthat night either.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o'clock in the morning, threw myself onmy bed, and slept the sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo.
By the time I awoke it was dark outside. I sat by the open window, withmy jacket unbuttoned--and the mountain breeze cooled my breast, stilltroubled by the heavy sleep of weariness. In the distance beyond theriver, through the tops of the thick lime trees which overshadowed it,lights were glancing in the fortress and the village. Close at hand allwas calm. It was dark in Princess Ligovski's house.
The doctor entered; his brows were knit; contrary to custom, he did notoffer me his hand.
"Where have you come from, doctor?"
"From Princess Ligovski's; her daughter is ill--nervous exhaustion...That is not the point, though. This is what I have come to tell you:the authorities are suspicious, and, although it is impossible to proveanything positively, I should, all the same, advise you to be cautious.Princess Ligovski told me to-day that she knew that you fought a duel onher daughter's account. That little old man--what's his name?--has toldher everything. He was a witness of your quarrel with Grushnitski in therestaurant. I have come to warn you. Good-bye. Maybe we shall not meetagain: you will be banished somewhere."
He stopped on the threshold; he would gladly have pressed my hand...and, had I shown the slightest desire to embrace him, he would havethrown himself upon my neck; but I remained cold as a rock--and he leftthe room.
That is just like men! They are all the same: they know beforehand allthe bad points of an act, they help, they advise, they even encourageit, seeing the impossibility of any other expedient--and then they washtheir hands of the whole affair and turn away with indignation from himwho has had the courage to take the whole burden of responsibility uponhimself. They are all like that, even the best-natured, the wisest...
A Hero of Our Time Page 36
