The door opened and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed since I saw her last-and that but a short while ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she swayed. I leapt to her side, offered her my arm and led her to an armchair.
I stood facing her. For a long time neither of us said a word. Her big eyes full of ineffable sorrow seemed to search mine for something akin to hope. In vain her pale lips tried to smile. Her delicate hands folded on her knees were so fragile and transparent that I began to feel sorry for her.
"Princess," said I, "you know I have mocked you, do you not? You must despise me."
A feverish red colored her cheeks.
"Hence, you cannot love me..." I continued.
She turned away, leaned her elbows on the table and covered her eyes with her hand, and I thought I saw tears glistening in them.
"Oh God!" she said scarcely audibly.
The situation was growing unbearable. In another minute I would have thrown myself at her feet.
"So you see for yourself," I said in as steady a voice as I could, forcing a smile, "you see for yourself that I can't marry you. Even if you wished to do so now, you'd regret the decision very soon. The talk I had with your mother compels me to speak to you now so frankly and brutally. I hope she is mistaken, but you can easily undeceive her. As you can see I am playing a most contemptible and disgusting role in your eyes, and I admit it-that is the most I can do for you. However bad your opinion may be of me, I'll accept it. You see I am abasing myself before you... Even if you did love me, you would despise me from this moment-now, wouldn't you?"
She turned to me a face as white as marble but with eyes flashing wondrously.
"I hate you..." she said.
I thanked her, bowed respectfully and walked out.
An hour later a stage coach troika was carrying me rapidly from Kislovodsk. A few miles from Essentuki I saw the carcass of my spirited steed by the roadside. The saddle had been removed-probably by some passing Cossack-and in its place two ravens now sat. I sighed and turned away...
And now, here in this dreary fort, as my mind dwells on the past, I frequently ask myself: why did I not wish to tread the path fate held open to me with a promise of tranquil joys and peace of mind? No, I could never have reconciled myself to such a fate. I am like a mariner born and bred on board a buccaneer brig whose soul has become so used to storm and strife that, if cast ashore, he would weary and fade away, no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun. All day long he walks up and down the sandy beach, listening to the monotonous roar of the breakers and looking into the hazy distance to catch, in the pale strip dividing the blue deep from the gray clouds, the flash of the long-awaited sail that at first is like the wing of a seagull and then gradually stands out from the white of the spray, as it steadily makes for its lonely anchorage...
III. The Fatalist
I happened once to spend two weeks in a Cossack village on the left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there, and the officers used to meet at each other's quarters in turn, playing cards in the evenings.
One time at Major S-'s, having tired of boston[110], we threw the cards under the table and sat on talking until late, for this time the conversation was interesting. We were discussing the Moslem belief that the fate of man is preordained in heaven, which was said to find many adherents among us, Christians, too. Each of us had some unusual occurrences to relate pro or contra.
"All you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing," said the old major. "After all, none of you witnessed any of the strange happenings which you try to use to support your views, did you?"
"Of course not," several said. "But we have it on reliable authority!"
"Nonsense!" someone said. "Where is the reliable authority who has seen the scroll on which the hour of our death is appointed? And if there is such a thing as predestination, why have we been given will and reason? Why are we held accountable for our actions?"
At this point an officer who had been sitting in a corner of the room stood up, walked slowly over to the table, and surveyed us all with a calm, solemn look. He was a Serb by birth, as you could tell from his name.
Lieutenant Vulić's appearance was in keeping with his character. His tall stature and the swarthiness of his complexion, black hair, black, piercing eyes, and the large but regular nose typical of his nation, the cold, melancholy smile that eternally played on his lips-all this was as if designed to endow him with the appearance of an unusual person, incapable of sharing his thoughts and emotions with those whom fate had made his comrades.
He was brave, he spoke little but bluntly. He confided his intimate and family secrets to no one. He scarcely ever drank any wine, and he never paid court to the young Cossack women, whose charms must be seen to be appreciated. It was said nevertheless that the colonel's wife was not indifferent to his expressive eyes, but he was always angered by hints to that effect.
There was only one passion that he didn't conceal-his passion for gambling. At a green-topped table he was oblivious to the world. He usually lost, but persistent bad luck only fed his obstinacy. It was said that one night, during an expedition, when he was keeping the bank on a pillow and having a terrific run of luck, shots suddenly rang out, the alarm was given, and everyone sprang up and rushed for their weapons. "Stake the pool!" cried Vulić, who had not moved, to one of the most involved players. "Seven!" replied the latter as he dashed off. In spite of the general confusion, Vulić dealt to the end; he turned up a seven for the player.
When he reached the skirmish line, the firing was already heavy. Vulić paid no attention either to the bullets or the Chechen sabers. He was searching for his lucky player.
"It was a seven!" Vulić shouted, catching sight of him at last in the firing line, that was beginning to dislodge the enemy from a wood. Going up to him, he pulled out his wallet and gave it to the winner, in spite of the latter's objections to this ill-timed settlement. Having performed this unpleasant duty, Vulić dashed forward at the head of the soldiers and with the utmost calm exchanged fire with the Chechens to the very end of the engagement.
When Lieutenant Vulić walked up to the table everybody fell silent, expecting something original from him.
"Gentlemen!" he said (his voice was calm though it was pitched lower than usual). "Gentlemen, why this idle argument? You wish for proof: I propose we test it out on ourselves whether a man can do what he wants with his own life, or whether the fateful moment has been preordained for each of us... Who wants to try?"
"Not I, not I!" was the response from all sides. "What a card! Of all the things to think of!"
"I suggest a wager," I said in jest.
"What sort of a wager?"
"I maintain there is no such thing as predestination," I said, emptying some twenty gold pieces on the table from my pockets-all that I happened to have on me.
"Done!" replied Vulić in a low voice. "Major, you be the umpire-here are fifteen gold pieces. You owe me five, so will you do me the favor of making up the difference?"
"Very well," said the major. "Though I haven't the slightest idea what it's all about, or how you propose to settle the matter."
Without a word Vulić went into the major's bedroom, we following him. Going over to a wall hung with weapons, he took down at random from its nail one of the pistols, of which there were several of different calibers. We didn't realize what he was up to at first, but when he cocked the weapon and primed it, several of us involuntarily stepped up and grabbed him by the arms.