You don't love Mary, do you? You won't marry her? Oh, but you must make this sacrifice for me – I have given up everything in the world for your sake...
Like a madman I dashed outside, leapt into the saddle of my horse who was being led across the courtyard, and set off at full gallop along the road to Pyatigorsk. I mercilessly spurred on the exhausted beast, which, panting and covered with froth, sped me along the rocky road.
The sun had vanished into a black cloud resting on the mountain range in the west, and it turned dark and damp in the gorge. The Podkumok River picked its way through the rocks with a dull and monotonous roar. Breathless with impatience I galloped on. The thought that I might not find her in Pyatigorsk pounded like a sledgehammer at my heart. Oh, but to see her for a minute, only one more minute, to say goodbye, to clasp her hand... I prayed, I cursed, I cried, I laughed... no, no words can express my anxiety, my despair! Now that I realized I might lose her forever, Vera became for me the most precious thing on earth, more precious than life, honor or happiness! God only knows what odd, wild ideas swarmed in my head... And all the while I rode on, spurring my horse mercilessly. Finally I noticed that the animal was breathing more laboriously, and once or twice he stumbled on a level stretch. There still remained three miles to Essentuki, a Cossack hamlet where I could get another mount.
Everything would have been redeemed had my horse had the strength to carry on for another ten minutes. But suddenly, at a sharp bend in the road coming up from a shallow ravine as we were emerging from the hills, he crashed to the ground. I leapt nimbly out of the saddle, but try as I might to get him up, pull as I might at the reins, my efforts were in vain. A scarcely audible groan escaped from between his clenched teeth and a few minutes later he was dead. I was left alone in the steppe, my last hope gone. I tried to continue on foot, but my knees gave way and, exhausted by the day's anxieties and the sleepless night, I fell on to the wet grass and sobbed like a child.
I lay there for a long time motionless and cried bitterly, without trying to check the tears and sobs. I thought my heart would be torn apart. All my resolution, all my composure vanished like smoke-my spirit was impotent, my reason paralyzed, and had someone seen me at that moment he would have turned away in contempt.
When the night dew and mountain breeze had cooled my fevered brow and I had collected my thoughts once more, I realized that it was useless and senseless to pursue a happiness that was lost. What more did I want? To see her? Why? Wasn't everything over between us? One bitter farewell kiss wouldn't make my memories sweeter, and it'd be only the harder to part.
It's pleasant for me to know, however, that I can weep! Although the real reason was perhaps frayed nerves, the sleepless night, the two minutes I had stood looking into the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach.
Everything works out for the best. As for this new sensation of pain, it served as a happy diversion, to employ a military term. It does one good to cry, and had I not ridden my horse to death and then been compelled to walk the ten miles back, I perhaps would not have closed my eyes that night either.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o'clock in the morning, threw myself on the bed and slept like Napoleon after Waterloo.
When I awoke, it was dark outside. Unfastening my jacket, I sat at an open window-and the breeze from the mountains cooled my breast, which was not yet becalmed even by the sleep of heavy fatigue. Far away beyond the river the lights of the fort and the village twinkled through the thick crowns of the overshadowing lindens. The courtyard was deadly still, and in the Princess Ligovskaya's house all was in darkness.
The doctor entered. His brow was furrowed, and contrary to his usual practice he did not offer me his hand.
"Where have you come from, doctor?"
"From Princess Ligovskaya's. Her daughter is ill-nervous breakdown... But that's not why I am here. The trouble is that the authorities are beginning to suspect, and though nothing definite can be proved I would advise you to be more cautious. The princess just told me that she was aware you fought a duel over her daughter. That old man-what's his name?-told her. He witnessed your altercation with Grushnitsky in the restaurant. I came to warn you. So goodbye-perhaps we will not see each other again-very likely you'll be sent away."
He paused on the threshold. He wanted to shake my hand. And had I given him the slightest encouragement he would have flung himself on my neck, but I remained as cold as a stone, and he went away.
That is just like human beings! They are all alike; though fully aware in advance of all the evil aspects of a deed, they aid and abet and even give their approval to it when they see there is no other way out-and then they wash their hands of it and turn away with disapproval from him who dared assume the full burden of responsibility. They are all alike, even the kindest and wisest of them!
The following morning, when I had received orders from my superiors to report at the fort of N-, I dropped in at Princess Ligovskaya's to say goodbye.
Princess Ligovskaya was taken aback when in reply to her question whether I had anything important to tell her I merely said that I wished her all the best, and so forth.
"I must have a very serious talk with you, however."
I sat down without saying a word.
She was obviously at a loss how to begin. Her face turned red and she drummed her pudgy fingers on the table. Finally she began haltingly: "Monsieur Pechorin, I believe you are an honorable man."
I bowed.
"I am even certain of it," she continued, "though your conduct has been somewhat questionable. You may have your reasons, however, of which I am not aware, and if so, you must share them with me now. You protected my daughter's reputation, engaged in a duel on her behalf, and risked your life in doing so... Pray do not reply, for I know you will not admit it because Grushnitsky is dead." (She crossed herself.) "God forgive him, and you too, I hope! That is none of my concern... I have no right to condemn you, for it was my daughter, blameless though she is, who was the cause. She has told me everything... everything, I am sure. You have declared you love her, and she has confessed her love for you." (Here the princess drew a deep sigh.) "But she is ill and I am certain that it is not an ordinary malady. Some secret grief is killing her-she doesn't admit it, but I am certain that you are the cause... Listen to me: you perhaps think that I am after rank and immense riches-if so, you are mistaken. I seek only my daughter's happiness. Your present position is unenviable, but it may mend. You are wealthy. My daughter loves you, and her upbringing is such that she can make her husband happy. I am rich, and she is my only child... Tell me, what is it that is stopping you? I would not have told you all this, but I rely upon your heart and honor-remember that I have only one daughter... only one. . ."
She began to sob.
"Princess," I said, "I cannot answer you-allow me to speak to your daughter alone."
"Never!" she cried, rising from her chair in great agitation.
"As you wish," replied I, preparing to leave.
She thought it over, motioned me to wait, and left the room.
Some five minutes passed; my heart pounded, but my thoughts were orderly and my head cool. Search as I might in my heart for even the tiniest spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were hopeless.