AS I descended by the path, I observed Grush- nitski's bloodstained corpse between 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 my heart. To my eyes the sun seemed dim, its beams were powerless to warm me. I did not ride up to the village, but turned to the right, along the gorge. The sight of a man would have been painful to me: I wanted to be alone. A HERO OF OUR TIME Throwing down the bridle and letting my head fall on my breast, I rode for a long time, and at length found myself in a spot with which I was wholly unfamiliar. I turned my horse back and began to search for the road. The sun had al- ready set by the time I had ridden up to Kislo- vodsk -- 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 body has been brought in; and the bullet extracted from the breast. Every- body is convinced that the cause of death was an unfortunate accident; only the 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 may sleep 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 by a painful foreboding. Here it is, that letter, each word of which is indelibly engraved upon my memory: "I am writing to you in the full assurance that we shall never see each other 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 not been able to endure the trial, my frail heart has again submitted to the well-known voice. . . You will not despise me for that -- will you? This letter will be at once a farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tell you everything that has been treasured up in my heart since it began to love you. I will not accuse you -- you have acted towards me as any other man would have acted; you have loved me as a chattel, as a source of joys, disquietudes and griefs, interchanging one with the other, without which life would be dull and monotonous. I have understood all that from the first. . . But you were unhappy, and I have sacrificed myself, hoping that, some time, you would appreciate my sacrifice, that some time you would understand my deep tenderness, unfettered by any condi- tions. A long time has elapsed since then: I have fathomed all the secrets of your soul. . . A HERO OF OUR TIME and I have convinced myself that my hope was vain. It has been a bitter blow to me! But my love has been grafted with my soul; it has grown dark, but has not been extinguished. "We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure that I shall never love another. Upon you my soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears, its hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look without a certain disdain upon other men, not because you have been better than they, oh, no! but in your nature there is something pecu- liar -- belonging to you alone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, whatever the words spoken, there is an invincible power. No one can so constantly wish to be loved, in no one is wickedness ever so attractive, no one's glance promises 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 so earnestly to convince himself of the contrary. "Now I must explain the cause of my hurried departure; it will seem of little importance to you, because it concerns me alone. "This morning my husband came in and told me about your quarrel with Grushnitski. Evi- dently I changed countenance greatly, because he looked me in the face long and intently. I almost fainted at the thought that you had to fight a duel to-day, and that I was the cause of it; it seemed 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 hus- band walked about the room for a long time. I do not know what he said to me, I do not remem- ber what I answered. . . Most likely I told him that I loved you. . . I only remember that, at the end of our conversation, he insulted me with a dreadful word and left the room. I heard him ordering the carriage. . . I have been sitting at the window three hours now, awaiting your re- turn. . . But you are alive, you cannot have died! . . . The carriage is almost ready. . . Good-bye, good-bye! . . . I have perished -- but what matter? If I could be sure that you will always remember me -- I no longer say love -- no, only remember . . . Good-bye, they are com- ing! . . . I must hide this letter. "You do not love Mary, do you? You will not marry her? Listen, A HERO OF OUR TIME you must offer 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 which was being led about the courtyard, and set off at full gallop along the 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 been resting on the ridge of the western mountains; the gorge grew dark and damp. The Podkumok, forcing its way over the rocks, roared with a hollow and monotonous sound. I galloped on, choking with impatience. The idea of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck my heart like a hammer. For one minute, again to see her for one minute, to say farewell, to press her hand. . . I prayed, cursed, wept, laughed. . . No, nothing could express my anxiety, my despair! . . . Now that it seemed possible that I might be about to lose her for ever, Vera became dearer to me than aught in the world -- dearer than life, honour, happiness! God knows what strange, what mad plans swarmed in my head. . . Meanwhile I still galloped, urging on my horse without pity. And, now, I began to notice that he was breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled once or twice on level ground. . . I was five versts from Essentuki -- a Cossack village where I could change horses. All would have been saved had my horse been able to hold out for another ten minutes. But suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulley where the road emerges from the mountains at a sharp turn, he fell to the ground. I jumped down promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged at his bridle -- in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst through his clenched teeth; 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 upon the wet grass and burst out crying like a child. For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, without attempting to restrain my tears and sobs. I thought my breast would burst. All my firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; my soul grew powerless, my reason silent, and, if anyone had seen me at that moment, A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 to pursue my perished happiness would be unavail- ing and unreasonable. What more did I want? -- To see her? -- Why? Was not all over between us? A single, 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 of that was my shattered nerves, a night passed without sleep, two minutes opposite the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach. It is all for the best. That new suffering created within me a fortunate diversion -- 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 walk fifteen versts on my way back, sleep would not have closed my eyes on that night either. I returned to Kislovodsk at five o'clock in the morning, threw myself on my bed, and slept the sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo. By the time I awoke it was dark outside. I sat by the open window, with my jacket unbuttoned -- and the mountain breeze cooled my breast, still troubled by the heavy sleep of weariness. In the distance beyond the river, through the tops of the thick lime trees which overshadowed it, lights were glancing in the fortress and the vil- lage. Close at hand all was calm. It was dark in Princess Ligovski's house. The doctor entered; his brows were knit; contrary to custom, he did not offer 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 prove anything 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 on her daughter's account. That little old man -- what's his name? -- has told her everything. He was a witness of your quarrel with Grushnitski in the A HERO OF OUR TIME restaurant. I have come to warn you. Good-bye. Maybe we shall not meet again: 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 have thrown himself upon my neck; but I remained cold as a rock -- and he left the room. That is just like men! They are all the same: they know beforehand all the bad points of an act, they help, they advise, they even encourage it, seeing the impossibility of any other expedient -- and then they wash their hands of the whole affair and turn away with indignation from him who has had the courage to take the whole burden of responsibility upon himself. They are all like that, even the best-natured, the wisest. . .