CHAPTER I. 11th May.

Produced by Judith Boss

A HERO OF OUR TIME

By J. H. Wisdom & Marr Murray

Translated From The Russian Of M. Y. Lermontov

FOREWORD

THIS novel, known as one of the masterpieces of Russian Literature,

under the title “A Hero of our Time,” and already translated into at

least nine European languages, is now for the first time placed before

the general English Reader.

The work is of exceptional interest to the student of English

Literature, written as it was under the profound influence of Byron and

being itself a study of the Byronic type of character.

The Translators have taken especial care to preserve both the atmosphere

of the story and the poetic beauty with which the Poet-novelist imbued

his pages.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

BOOK I. BELA

BOOK II. MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH

FOREWORD TO EXTRACTS FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY

BOOK III. TAMAN

BOOK IV. THE FATALIST

BOOK V. PRINCESS MARY

APPENDIX. THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

BOOK I BELA

THE HEART OF A RUSSIAN

CHAPTER I

I was travelling post from Tiflis.

All the luggage I had in my cart consisted of one small portmanteau half

filled with travelling-notes on Georgia; of these the greater part has

been lost, fortunately for you; but the portmanteau itself and the rest

of its contents have remained intact, fortunately for me.

As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was disappearing behind the

snow-clad ridge of the mountains. In order to accomplish the ascent of

Mount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an Ossete, urged on the horses

indefatigably, singing zealously the while at the top of his voice.

What a glorious place that valley is! On every hand are inaccessible

mountains, steep, yellow slopes scored by water-channels, and reddish

rocks draped with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane-trees.

Yonder, at an immense height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Down

below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting noisily forth from

the dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped

in its embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its waters

glistening like a snake with flashing scales.

Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we stopped at a dukhan. [1] About

a score of Georgians and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy

crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had halted for the night. I

was obliged to hire oxen to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as

it was now autumn and the roads were slippery with ice. Besides, the

mountain is about two versts [2] in length.

There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and a few Ossetes. One of

the latter shouldered my portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with

one voice, proceeded to help the oxen.

Following mine there came another cart, which I was surprised to see

four oxen pulling with the greatest ease, notwithstanding that it

was loaded to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking a little,

silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was wearing a shaggy Circassian cap

and an officer’s overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to be about

fifty years of age. The swarthiness of his complexion showed that

his face had long been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and the

premature greyness of his moustache was out of keeping with his firm

gait and robust appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He silently

returned my greeting and emitted an immense cloud of smoke.

“We are fellow-travellers, it appears.”

Again he bowed silently.

“I suppose you are going to Stavropol?”

“Yes, sir, exactly--with Government things.”

“Can you tell me how it is that that heavily-laden cart of yours is

being drawn without any difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattle

are scarcely able to move mine, empty though it is, and with all those

Ossetes helping?”

He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning glance.

“You have not been in the Caucasus long, I should say?”

“About a year,” I answered.

He smiled a second time.

“Well?”

“Just so, sir,” he answered. “They’re terrible beasts, these Asiatics!

You think that all that shouting means that they are helping the oxen?

Why, the devil alone can make out what it is they do shout. The oxen

understand, though; and if you were to yoke as many as twenty they still

wouldn’t budge so long as the Ossetes shouted in that way of theirs....

Awful scoundrels! But what can you make of them? They love extorting

money from people who happen to be travelling through here. The rogues

have been spoiled! You wait and see: they will get a tip out of you as

well as their hire. I know them of old, they can’t get round me!”

“You have been serving here a long time?”

“Yes, I was here under Aleksei Petrovich,” [3] he answered, assuming an

air of dignity. “I was a sub-lieutenant when he came to the Line; and

I was promoted twice, during his command, on account of actions against

the mountaineers.”

“And now--?”

“Now I’m in the third battalion of the Line. And you yourself?”

I told him.

With this the conversation ended, and we continued to walk in silence,

side by side. On the summit of the mountain we found snow. The sun set,

and--as usually is the case in the south--night followed upon the day

without any interval of twilight. Thanks, however, to the sheen of the

snow, we were able easily to distinguish the road, which still went

up the mountain-side, though not so steeply as before. I ordered the

Ossetes to put my portmanteau into the cart, and to replace the oxen

by horses. Then for the last time I gazed down upon the valley; but

the thick mist which had gushed in billows from the gorges veiled it

completely, and not a single sound now floated up to our ears from

below. The Ossetes surrounded me clamorously and demanded tips; but the

staff-captain shouted so menacingly at them that they dispersed in a

moment.

“What a people they are!” he said. “They don’t even know the Russian for

‘bread,’ but they have mastered the phrase ‘Officer, give us a tip!’

In my opinion, the very Tartars are better, they are no drunkards,

anyhow.”...

We were now within a verst or so of the Station. Around us all was

still, so still, indeed, that it was possible to follow the flight of a

gnat by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed the gorge, deep and

black. Behind it and in front of us rose the dark-blue summits of the

mountains, all trenched with furrows and covered with layers of snow,

and standing out against the pale horizon, which still retained the last

reflections of the evening glow. The stars twinkled out in the dark sky,

and in some strange way it seemed to me that they were much higher than

in our own north country. On both sides of the road bare, black rocks

jutted out; here and there shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; but

not a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that dead sleep of nature

it was cheering to hear the snorting of the three tired post-horses and

the irregular tinkling of the Russian bell. [4]

“We will have glorious weather to-morrow,” I said.

The staff-captain answered not a word, but pointed with his finger to a

lofty mountain which rose directly opposite us.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mount Gut.”

“Well, what then?”

“Don’t you see how it is smoking?”

True enough, smoke was rising from Mount Gut. Over its sides gentle

cloud-currents were creeping, and on the summit rested one cloud of such

dense blackness that it appeared like a blot upon the dark sky.

By this time we were able to make out the Post Station and the roofs of

the huts surrounding it; the welcoming lights were twinkling before us,

when suddenly a damp and chilly wind arose, the gorge rumbled, and a

drizzling rain fell. I had scarcely time to throw my felt cloak round

me when down came the snow. I looked at the staff-captain with profound

respect.

“We shall have to pass the night here,” he said, vexation in his tone.

“There’s no crossing the mountains in such a blizzard.--I say, have

there been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?” he inquired of the driver.

“No, sir,” the Ossete answered; “but there are a great many threatening

to fall--a great many.”

Owing to the lack of a travellers’ room in the Station, we were assigned

a night’s lodging in a smoky hut. I invited my fellow-traveller to drink

a tumbler of tea with me, as I had brought my cast-iron teapot--my only

solace during my travels in the Caucasus.

One side of the hut was stuck against the cliff, and three wet and

slippery steps led up to the door. I groped my way in and stumbled up

against a cow (with these people the cow-house supplies the place of a

servant’s room). I did not know which way to turn--sheep were bleating

on the one hand and a dog growling on the other. Fortunately, however,

I perceived on one side a faint glimmer of light, and by its aid I was

able to find another opening by way of a door. And here a by no means

uninteresting picture was revealed. The wide hut, the roof of which

rested on two smoke-grimed pillars, was full of people. In the centre of

the floor a small fire was crackling, and the smoke, driven back by the

wind from an opening in the roof, was spreading around in so thick a

shroud that for a long time I was unable to see about me. Seated by the

fire were two old women, a number of children and a lank Georgian--all

of them in tatters. There was no help for it! We took refuge by the fire

and lighted our pipes; and soon the teapot was singing invitingly.

“Wretched people, these!” I said to the staff-captain, indicating our

dirty hosts, who were silently gazing at us in a kind of torpor.

“And an utterly stupid people too!” he replied. “Would you believe

it, they are absolutely ignorant and incapable of the slightest

civilisation! Why even our Kabardians or Chechenes, robbers and

ragamuffins though they be, are regular dare-devils for all that.

Whereas these others have no liking for arms, and you’ll never see a

decent dagger on one of them! Ossetes all over!”

“You have been a long time in the Chechenes’ country?”

“Yes, I was quartered there for about ten years along with my company in

a fortress, near Kamennyi Brod. [5] Do you know the place?”

“I have heard the name.”

“I can tell you, my boy, we had quite enough of those dare-devil

Chechenes. At the present time, thank goodness, things are quieter; but

in the old days you had only to put a hundred paces between you and the

rampart and wherever you went you would be sure to find a shaggy devil

lurking in wait for you. You had just to let your thoughts wander and at

any moment a lasso would be round your neck or a bullet in the back of

your head! Brave fellows, though!”...

“You used to have many an adventure, I dare say?” I said, spurred by

curiosity.

“Of course! Many a one.”...

Hereupon he began to tug at his left moustache, let his head sink on

to his breast, and became lost in thought. I had a very great mind to

extract some little anecdote out of him--a desire natural to all who

travel and make notes.

Meanwhile, tea was ready. I took two travelling-tumblers out of my

portmanteau, and, filling one of them, set it before the staff-captain.

He sipped his tea and said, as if speaking to himself, “Yes, many a

one!” This exclamation gave me great hopes. Your old Caucasian officer

loves, I know, to talk and yarn a bit; he so rarely succeeds in getting

a chance to do so. It may be his fate to be quartered five years or so

with his company in some out-of-the-way place, and during the whole

of that time he will not hear “good morning” from a soul (because the

sergeant says “good health”). And, indeed, he would have good cause

to wax loquacious--with a wild and interesting people all around him,

danger to be faced every day, and many a marvellous incident happening.

It is in circumstances like this that we involuntarily complain that so

few of our countrymen take notes.

“Would you care to put some rum in your tea?” I said to my companion. “I

have some white rum with me--from Tiflis; and the weather is cold now.”

“No, thank you, sir; I don’t drink.”

“Really?”

“Just so. I have sworn off drinking. Once, you know, when I was a

sub-lieutenant, some of us had a drop too much. That very night there

was an alarm, and out we went to the front, half seas over! We did catch

it, I can tell you, when Aleksei Petrovich came to hear about us!

Heaven save us, what a rage he was in! He was within an ace of having us

court-martialled. That’s just how things happen! You might easily spend

a whole year without seeing a soul; but just go and have a drop and

you’re a lost man!”

On hearing this I almost lost hope.

“Take the Circassians, now,” he continued; “once let them drink their

fill of buza [6] at a wedding or a funeral, and out will come their

knives. On one occasion I had some difficulty in getting away with a

whole skin, and yet it was at the house of a ‘friendly’ [7] prince,

where I was a guest, that the affair happened.”

“How was that?” I asked.

“Here, I’ll tell you.”...

He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began his story.

CHAPTER II

“YOU see, sir,” said the staff-captain, “I was quartered, at the time,

with a company in a fortress beyond the Terek--getting on for five years

ago now. One autumn day, a transport arrived with provisions, in charge

of an officer, a young man of about twenty-five. He reported himself to

me in full uniform, and announced that he had been ordered to remain in

the fortress with me. He was so very elegant, his complexion so nice and

white, his uniform so brand new, that I immediately guessed that he had

not been long with our army in the Caucasus.

“‘I suppose you have been transferred from Russia?’ I asked.

“‘Exactly, captain,’ he answered.

“I took him by the hand and said:

“‘I’m delighted to see you--delighted! It will be a bit dull for you...

but there, we will live together like a couple of friends. But, please,

call me simply “Maksim Maksimych”; and, tell me, what is this full

uniform for? Just wear your forage-cap whenever you come to me!’

“Quarters were assigned to him and he settled down in the fortress.”

“What was his name?” I asked Maksim Maksimych.

“His name was Grigori Aleksandrovich Pechorin. He was a splendid fellow,

I can assure you, but a little peculiar. Why, to give you an instance,

one time he would stay out hunting the whole day, in the rain and cold;

the others would all be frozen through and tired out, but he wouldn’t

mind either cold or fatigue. Then, another time, he would be sitting in

his own room, and, if there was a breath of wind, he would declare that

he had caught cold; if the shutters rattled against the window he

would start and turn pale: yet I myself have seen him attack a boar

single-handed. Often enough you couldn’t drag a word out of him for

hours together; but then, on the other hand, sometimes, when he started

telling stories, you would split your sides with laughing. Yes, sir,

a very eccentric man; and he must have been wealthy too. What a lot of

expensive trinkets he had!”...

“Did he stay there long with you?” I went on to ask.

“Yes, about a year. And, for that very reason, it was a memorable year

to me. He gave me a great deal of trouble--but there, let bygones be

bygones!... You see, it is true enough, there are people like that,

fated from birth to have all sorts of strange things happening to them!”

“Strange?” I exclaimed, with an air of curiosity, as I poured out some

tea.

CHAPTER III

“WELL, then, I’ll tell you,” said Maksim Maksimych. “About six versts

from the fortress there lived a certain ‘friendly’ prince. His son, a

brat of about fifteen, was accustomed to ride over to visit us. Not a

day passed but he would come, now for one thing, now for another. And,

indeed, Grigori Aleksandrovich and I spoiled him. What a dare-devil the

boy was! Up to anything, picking up a cap at full gallop, or bringing

things down with his gun! He had one bad quality; he was terribly

greedy for money. Once, for the fun of the thing, Grigori Aleksandrovich

promised to give him a ducat if he would steal the best he-goat from his

father’s herd for him; and, what do you think? The very next night he

came lugging it in by the horns! At times we used to take it into our

heads to tease him, and then his eyes would become bloodshot and his

hand would fly to his dagger immediately.

“‘You’ll be losing your life if you are not careful, Azamat,’ I would

say to him. ‘That hot head of yours will get you into trouble.’

“On one occasion, the old prince himself came to invite us to the

wedding of his eldest daughter; and, as we were guest-friends with him,

it was impossible to decline, Tartar though he was. We set off. In the

village we were met by a number of dogs, all barking loudly. The women,

when they saw us coming, hid themselves, but those whose faces we were

able to get a view of were far from being beauties.

“‘I had a much better opinion of the Circassian women,’ remarked Grigori

Aleksandrovich.

“‘Wait a bit!’ I answered, with a smile; I had my own views on the

subject.

“A number of people had already gathered at the prince’s hut. It is the

custom of the Asiatics, you know, to invite all and sundry to a

wedding. We were received with every mark of honour and conducted to the

guest-chamber. All the same, I did not forget quietly to mark where our

horses were put, in case anything unforeseen should happen.”

“How are weddings celebrated amongst them?” I asked the staff-captain.

“Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the Mullah reads them something

out of the Koran; then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple and all

their relations; the next thing is eating and drinking of buza, then the

dance on horseback; and there is always some ragamuffin, bedaubed with

grease, bestriding a wretched, lame jade, and grimacing, buffooning, and

making the worshipful company laugh. Finally, when darkness falls, they

proceed to hold what we should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A poor,

old greybeard strums on a three-stringed instrument--I forget what they

call it, but anyhow, it is something in the nature of our balalaika. [8]

The girls and young children set themselves in two ranks, one opposite

the other, and clap their hands and sing. Then a girl and a man come out

into the centre and begin to chant verses to each other--whatever comes

into their heads--and the rest join in as a chorus. Pechorin and I

sat in the place of honour. All at once up came our host’s youngest

daughter, a girl of about sixteen, and chanted to Pechorin--how shall I

put it?--something in the nature of a compliment.”...

“What was it she sang--do you remember?”

“It went like this, I fancy: ‘Handsome, they say, are our young

horsemen, and the tunics they wear are garnished with silver; but

handsomer still is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his tunic

is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst them he stands, but in gardens

of ours such trees will grow not nor bloom!’

“Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand to his forehead and heart,

and asked me to answer her. I know their language well, and I translated

his reply.

“When she had left us I whispered to Grigori Aleksandrovich:

“‘Well, now, what do you think of her?’

“‘Charming!’ he replied. ‘What is her name?’

“‘Her name is Bela,’ I answered.

“And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her figure was tall and slender,

her eyes black as those of a mountain chamois, and they fairly looked

into your soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept his gaze fixed upon her,

and she, for her part, stole glances at him often enough from under her

lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only one who was admiring the

pretty princess; another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing at

her from the corner of the room. I took a good look at their owner, and

recognised my old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know, was neither

exactly ‘friendly’ nor yet the other thing. He was an object of much

suspicion, although he had never actually been caught at any knavery. He

used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never

would haggle; whatever he demanded at first you had to give. He

would have his throat cut rather than come down in price. He had the

reputation of being fond of roaming on the far side of the Kuban with

the Abreks; and, to tell the truth, he had a regular thief’s visage. A

little, wizened, broad-shouldered fellow he was--but smart, I can tell

you, smart as the very devil! His tunic was always worn out and

patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver. His horse was renowned

throughout Kabardia--and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible

to imagine! Not without good reason did all the other horsemen envy

Kazbich, and on more than one occasion they had attempted to steal the

horse, but they had never succeeded. I seem to see the animal before

me now--black as coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine as

Bela’s! How strong he was too! He would gallop as much as fifty versts

at a stretch! And he was well trained besides--he would trot behind his

master like a dog, and actually knew his voice! Kazbich never used to

tether him either--just the very horse for a robber!...

“On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than ever, and I noticed that

he was wearing a coat of mail under his tunic. ‘He hasn’t got that coat

of mail on for nothing,’ I thought. ‘He has some plot in his head, I’ll

be bound!’

“It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I went out into the air

to cool myself. Night had fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was

beginning to creep along the gorges.

“It occurred to me to pop in under the shed where our horses were

standing, to see whether they had their fodder; and, besides, it is

never any harm to take precautions. My horse was a splendid one too, and

more than one Kabardian had already cast fond glances at it, repeating

at the same time: ‘Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.’ [9]

“I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard voices, one of which I

immediately recognised.

“It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host’s son. The other

person spoke less and in a quieter tone.

“‘What are they discussing there?’ I wondered. ‘Surely it can’t be

my horse!’ I squatted down beside the fence and proceeded to play the

eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a single word. At times the noise

of songs and the buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned the

conversation which I was finding interesting.

“‘That’s a splendid horse of yours,’ Azamat was saying. ‘If I were

master of a house of my own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I

would give half of it for your galloper, Kazbich!’

“‘Aha! Kazbich!’ I said to myself, and I called to mind the coat of

mail.

“‘Yes,’ replied Kazbich, after an interval of silence. ‘There is not

such another to be found in all Kabardia. Once--it was on the other side

of the Terek--I had ridden with the Abreks to seize the Russian herds.

We had no luck, so we scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks

dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries of the giaours behind

me, and in front of me there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the

saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for the first time in my life,

insulted my horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged among

the branches; the sharp thorns tore my clothing, the dead boughs of the

cork-elms struck against my face! My horse leaped over tree-trunks and

burst his way through bushes with his chest! It would have been

better for me to have abandoned him at the outskirts of the forest and

concealed myself in it afoot, but it was a pity to part with him--and

the Prophet rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my head. I could

now hear the Cossacks, who had dismounted, running upon my tracks.

Suddenly a deep gully opened before me. My galloper took thought--and

leaped. His hind hoofs slipped back off the opposite bank, and he

remained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped the bridle and threw myself

into the hollow, thereby saving my horse, which jumped out. The Cossacks

saw the whole scene, only not one of them got down to search for me,

thinking probably that I had mortally injured myself; and I heard them

rushing to catch my horse. My heart bled within me. I crept along the

hollow through the thick grass--then I looked around: it was the end of

the forest. A few Cossacks were riding out from it on to the clearing,

and there was my Karagyoz [10] galloping straight towards them. With a

shout they all dashed forward. For a long, long time they pursued him,

and one of them, in particular, was once or twice almost successful in

throwing a lasso over his neck.

“I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments

I looked up again, and there was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail

waving--free as the wind; and the giaours, on their jaded horses, were

trailing along far behind, one after another, across the steppe.

Wallah! It is true--really true! Till late at night I lay in the hollow.

Suddenly--what do you think, Azamat? I heard in the darkness a horse

trotting along the bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beating

the ground with his hoofs. I recognised my Karagyoz’s voice; ‘twas he,

my comrade!”... Since that time we have never been parted!’

“And I could hear him patting his galloper’s sleek neck with his hand,

as he called him various fond names.

“‘If I had a stud of a thousand mares,’ said Azamat, ‘I would give it

all for your Karagyoz!’

“‘Yok! [11] I would not take it!’ said Kazbich indifferently.

“‘Listen, Kazbich,’ said Azamat, trying to ingratiate himself with him.

‘You are a kindhearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my father is

afraid of the Russians and will not allow me to go on the mountains.

Give me your horse, and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my

father’s best rifle for you, or his sabre--just as you like--and his

sabre is a genuine Gurda; [12] you have only to lay the edge against

your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing

against it.’

“Kazbich remained silent.

“‘The first time I saw your horse,’ continued Azamat, ‘when he was

wheeling and leaping under you, his nostrils distended, and the flints

flying in showers from under his hoofs, something I could not understand

took place within my soul; and since that time I have been weary of

everything. I have looked with disdain on my father’s best gallopers; I

have been ashamed to be seen on them, and yearning has taken possession

of me. In my anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, every

minute, my thoughts have kept turning to your black galloper with his

graceful gait and his sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen,

bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about to speak!... I shall

die, Kazbich, if you will not sell him to me!’ said Azamat, with

trembling voice.

“I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must tell you that Azamat was

a very stubborn lad, and that not for anything could tears be wrung from

him, even when he was a little younger.

“In answer to his tears, I could hear something like a laugh.

“‘Listen,’ said Azamat in a firm voice. ‘You see, I am making up my

mind for anything. If you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she

dances! How she sings! And the way she embroiders with gold--marvellous!

Not even a Turkish Padishah [13] has had a wife like her!... Shall I?

Wait for me to-morrow night, yonder, in the gorge where the torrent

flows; I will go by with her to the neighbouring village--and she is

yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!’

“Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. At length, instead of

answering, he struck up in an undertone the ancient song:

“Many a beauty among us dwells

From whose eyes’ dark depths the starlight wells,

‘Tis an envied lot and sweet, to hold

Their love; but brighter is freedom bold.

Four wives are yours if you pay the gold;

But a mettlesome steed is of price untold;

The whirlwind itself on the steppe is less fleet;

He knows no treachery--no deceit.” [14]

“In vain Azamat entreated him to consent. He wept, coaxed, and swore to

him. Finally, Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:

“‘Begone, you crazy brat! How should you think to ride on my horse? In

three steps you would be thrown and your neck broken on the stones!’

“‘I?’ cried Azamat in a fury, and the blade of the child’s dagger rang

against the coat of mail. A powerful arm thrust him away, and he struck

the wattle fence with such violence that it rocked.

“‘Now we’ll see some fun!’ I thought to myself.

“I rushed into the stable, bridled our horses and led them out into the

back courtyard. In a couple of minutes there was a terrible uproar in

the hut. What had happened was this: Azamat had rushed in, with his

tunic torn, saying that Kazbich was going to murder him. All sprang out,

seized their guns, and the fun began! Noise--shouts--shots! But by this

time Kazbich was in the saddle, and, wheeling among the crowd along the

street, defended himself like a madman, brandishing his sabre.

“‘It is a bad thing to interfere in other people’s quarrels,’ I said to

Grigori Aleksandrovich, taking him by the arm. ‘Wouldn’t it be better

for us to clear off without loss of time?’

“‘Wait, though, and see how it will end!’

“‘Oh, as to that, it will be sure enough to end badly; it is always

so with these Asiatics. Once let them get drunk on buza, and there’s

certain to be bloodshed.’

“We mounted and galloped home.”

CHAPTER IV

“TELL me, what became of Kazbich?” I asked the staff-captain

impatiently.

“Why, what can happen to that sort of a fellow?” he answered, finishing

his tumbler of tea. “He slipped away, of course.”

“And wasn’t he wounded?” I asked.

“Goodness only knows! Those scoundrels take a lot of killing! In action,

for instance, I’ve seen many a one, sir, stuck all over with bayonets

like a sieve, and still brandishing his sabre.”

After an interval of silence the staff-captain continued, tapping the

ground with his foot:

“One thing I’ll never forgive myself for. On our arrival at the fortress

the devil put it into my head to repeat to Grigori Aleksandrovich

all that I had heard when I was eavesdropping behind the fence. He

laughed--cunning fellow!--and thought out a little plan of his own.”

“What was that? Tell me, please.”

“Well, there’s no help for it now, I suppose. I’ve begun the story, and

so I must continue.

“In about four days’ time Azamat rode over to the fortress. As his usual

custom was, he went to see Grigori Aleksandrovich, who always used to

give him sweetmeats to eat. I was present. The conversation was on the

subject of horses, and Pechorin began to sound the praises of Kazbich’s

Karagyoz. What a mettlesome horse it was, and how handsome! A perfect

chamois! In fact, judging by his account, there simply wasn’t another

like it in the whole world!

“The young Tartar’s beady eyes began to sparkle, but Pechorin didn’t

seem to notice the fact. I started to talk about something else, but

immediately, mark you, Pechorin caused the conversation to strike off on

to Kazbich’s horse. Every time that Azamat came it was the same story.

After about three weeks, I began to observe that Azamat was growing

pale and wasted, just as people in novels do from love, sir. What wonder

either!...

“Well, you see, it was not until afterwards that I learned the whole

trick--Grigori Aleksandrovich exasperated Azamat to such an extent

with his teasing that the boy was ready even to drown himself. One day

Pechorin suddenly broke out with:

“‘I see, Azamat, that you have taken a desperate fancy to that horse

of Kazbich’s, but you’ll no more see him than you will the back of your

neck! Come, tell me, what would you give if somebody made you a present

of him?’

“‘Anything he wanted,’ answered Azamat.

“‘In that case I will get the horse for you, only on one condition...

Swear that you will fulfil it?’

“‘I swear. You swear too!’

“‘Very well! I swear that the horse shall be yours. But, in return,

you must deliver your sister Bela into my hands. Karagyoz shall be her

bridegroom’s gift. I hope the transaction will be a profitable one for

you.’

“Azamat remained silent.

“‘Won’t you? Well, just as you like! I thought you were a man, but

it seems you are still a child; it is early for you to be riding on

horseback!’

“Azamat fired up.

“‘But my father--’ he said.

“‘Does he never go away, then?’

“‘True.’

“‘You agree?’

“‘I agree,’ whispered Azamat, pale as death. ‘But when?’

“‘The first time Kazbich rides over here. He has promised to drive in

half a score of rams; the rest is my affair. Look out, then, Azamat!’

“And so they settled the business--a bad business, to tell the truth!

I said as much to Pechorin afterwards, but he only answered that a wild

Circassian girl ought to consider herself fortunate in having such

a charming husband as himself--because, according to their ideas, he

really was her husband--and that Kazbich was a scoundrel, and ought to

be punished. Judge for yourself, what could I say to that?... At the

time, however, I knew nothing of their conspiracy. Well, one day Kazbich

rode up and asked whether we needed any rams and honey; and I ordered

him to bring some the next day.

“‘Azamat!’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich; ‘to-morrow Karagyoz will be in

my hands; if Bela is not here to-night you will never see the horse.’..

“‘Very well,’ said Azamat, and galloped to the village.

“In the evening Grigori Aleksandrovich armed himself and rode out of the

fortress. How they settled the business I don’t know, but at night they

both returned, and the sentry saw that across Azamat’s saddle a woman

was lying, bound hand and foot and with her head wrapped in a veil.”

“And the horse?” I asked the staff-captain.

“One minute! One minute! Early next morning Kazbich rode over, driving

in half a score of rams for sale. Tethering his horse by the fence, he

came in to see me, and I regaled him with tea, for, robber though he

was, he was none the less my guest-friend.

“We began to chat about one thing and another... Suddenly I saw Kazbich

start, change countenance, and dart to the window; but unfortunately the

window looked on to the back courtyard.

“‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked.

“‘My horse!... My horse!’ he cried, all of a tremble.

“As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of hoofs.

“‘It is probably some Cossack who has ridden up.’

“‘No! Urus--yaman, yaman!’ [151] he roared, and rushed headlong away

like a wild panther. In two bounds he was in the courtyard; at the gate

of the fortress the sentry barred the way with his gun; Kazbich jumped

over the gun and dashed off at a run along the road... Dust was whirling

in the distance--Azamat was galloping away on the mettlesome Karagyoz.

Kazbich, as he ran, tore his gun out of its cover and fired. For a

moment he remained motionless, until he had assured himself that he had

missed. Then he uttered a shrill cry, knocked the gun against a rock,

smashed it to splinters, fell to the ground, and burst out sobbing like

a child... The people from the fortress gathered round him, but he took

no notice of anyone. They stood there talking awhile and then went back.

I ordered the money for the rams to be placed beside him. He didn’t

touch it, but lay with his face to the ground like a dead man. Would you

believe it? He remained lying like that throughout the rest of that day

and the following night! It was only on the next morning that he came to

the fortress and proceeded to ask that the name of the thief should

be told him. The sentry who had observed Azamat untying the horse and

galloping away on him did not see any necessity for concealment. At the

name of Azamat, Kazbich’s eyes flashed, and he set off to the village

where Azamat’s father lived.”

“And what about the father?”

“Ah, that was where the trick came in! Kazbich could not find him;

he had gone away somewhere for five or six days; otherwise, how could

Azamat have succeeded in carrying off Bela?

“And, when the father returned, there was neither daughter nor son to be

found. A wily rogue, Azamat! He understood, you see, that he would lose

his life if he was caught. So, from that time, he was never seen again;

probably he joined some gang of Abreks and laid down his turbulent life

on the other side of the Terek or the Kuban. It would have served him

right!”...

CHAPTER V

“I CONFESS that, for my part, I had trouble enough over the business.

So soon as ever I learned that the Circassian girl was with Grigori

Aleksandrovich, I put on my epaulettes and sword and went to see him.

“He was lying on the bed in the outer room, with one hand under his head

and the other holding a pipe which had gone out. The door leading to the

inner room was locked, and there was no key in the lock. I observed all

that in a moment... I coughed and rapped my heels against the threshold,

but he pretended not to hear.

“‘Ensign!’ I said, as sternly as I could. ‘Do you not see that I have

come to you?’

“‘Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych! Won’t you have a pipe?’ he

answered, without rising.

“‘Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych. I am the staff-captain.’

“‘It’s all the same! Won’t you have some tea? If you only knew how I am

being tortured with anxiety.’

“‘I know all,’ I answered, going up to the bed.

“‘So much the better,’ he said. ‘I am not in a narrative mood.’

“‘Ensign, you have committed an offence for which I may have to answer

as well as you.’

“‘Oh, that’ll do. What’s the harm? You know, we’ve gone halves in

everything.’

“‘What sort of a joke do you think you are playing? Your sword,

please!’...

“‘Mitka, my sword!’

“‘Mitka brought the sword. My duty discharged, I sat down on the bed,

facing Pechorin, and said: ‘Listen here, Grigori Aleksandrovich, you

must admit that this is a bad business.’

“‘What is?’

“‘Why, that you have carried off Bela... Ah, it is that beast Azamat!...

Come, confess!’ I said.

“‘But, supposing I am fond of her?’...

“Well, what could I say to that?... I was nonplussed. After a short

interval of silence, however, I told him that if Bela’s father were to

claim her he would have to give her up.

“‘Not at all!’

“‘But he will get to know that she is here.’

“‘How?’

“Again I was nonplussed.

“‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Pechorin, rising to his feet. ‘You’re

a kind-hearted man, you know; but, if we give that savage back his

daughter, he will cut her throat or sell her. The deed is done, and the

only thing we can do now is not to go out of our way to spoil matters.

Leave Bela with me and keep my sword!’

“‘Show her to me, though,’ I said.

“‘She is behind that door. Only I wanted, myself, to see her to-day and

wasn’t able to. She sits in the corner, muffled in her veil, and neither

speaks nor looks up--timid as a wild chamois! I have hired the wife of

our dukhan-keeper: she knows the Tartar language, and will look after

Bela and accustom her to the idea that she belongs to me--for she shall

belong to no one else!’ he added, banging his fist on the table.

“I assented to that too... What could I do? There are some people with

whom you absolutely have to agree.”

“Well?” I asked Maksim Maksimych. “Did he really succeed in making

her grow accustomed to him, or did she pine away in captivity from

home-sickness?”

“Good gracious! how could she pine away from home-sickness? From

the fortress she could see the very same hills as she could from the

village--and these savages require nothing more. Besides, Grigori

Aleksandrovich used to give her a present of some kind every day. At

first she didn’t utter a word, but haughtily thrust away the gifts,

which then fell to the lot of the dukhan-keeper’s wife and aroused her

eloquence. Ah, presents! What won’t a woman do for a coloured rag!...

But that is by the way... For a long time Grigori Aleksandrovich

persevered with her, and meanwhile he studied the Tartar language and

she began to understand ours. Little by little she grew accustomed to

looking at him, at first furtively, askance; but she still pined and

crooned her songs in an undertone, so that even I would feel heavy

at heart when I heard her from the next room. One scene I shall never

forget: I was walking past, and I looked in at the window; Bela was

sitting on the stove-couch, her head sunk on her breast, and Grigori

Aleksandrovich was standing, facing her.

“‘Listen, my Peri,’ he was saying. ‘Surely you know that you will have

to be mine sooner or later--why, then, do you but torture me? Is it that

you are in love with some Chechene? If so, I will let you go home at

once.’

“She gave a scarcely perceptible start and shook her head.

“‘Or is it,’ he continued, ‘that I am utterly hateful to you?’

“She heaved a sigh.

“‘Or that your faith prohibits you from giving me a little of your

love?’

“She turned pale and remained silent.

“‘Believe me, Allah is one and the same for all races; and, if he

permits me to love you, why, then, should he prohibit you from requiting

me by returning my love?’

“She gazed fixedly into his face, as though struck by that new idea.

Distrust and a desire to be convinced were expressed in her eyes. What

eyes they were! They sparkled just like two glowing coals.

“‘Listen, my dear, good Bela!’ continued Pechorin. ‘You see how I love

you. I am ready to give up everything to make you cheerful once more.

I want you to be happy, and, if you are going to be sad again, I shall

die. Tell me, you will be more cheerful?’

“She fell into thought, her black eyes still fixed upon him. Then she

smiled graciously and nodded her head in token of acquiescence.

“He took her by the hand and tried to induce her to kiss him. She

defended herself feebly, and only repeated: ‘Please! Please! You

mustn’t, you mustn’t!’

“He went on to insist; she began to tremble and weep.

“‘I am your captive,’ she said, ‘your slave; of course, you can compel

me.’

“And then, again--tears.

“Grigori Aleksandrovich struck his forehead with his fist and sprang

into the other room. I went in to see him, and found him walking moodily

backwards and forwards with folded arms.

“‘Well, old man?’ I said to him.

“‘She is a devil--not a woman!’ he answered. ‘But I give you my word of

honour that she shall be mine!’

“I shook my head.

“‘Will you bet with me?’ he said. ‘In a week’s time?’

“‘Very well,’ I answered.

“We shook hands on it and separated.

“The next day he immediately despatched an express messenger to Kizlyar

to purchase some things for him. The messenger brought back a quite

innumerable quantity of various Persian stuffs.

“‘What think you, Maksim Maksimych?’ he said to me, showing the

presents. ‘Will our Asiatic beauty hold out against such a battery as

this?’

“‘You don’t know the Circassian women,’ I answered. ‘They are not at all

the same as the Georgian or the Transcaucasian Tartar women--not at all!

They have their own principles, they are brought up differently.’

“Grigori Aleksandrovich smiled and began to whistle a march to himself.”

CHAPTER VI

“AS things fell out, however,” continued Maksim Maksimych, “I was right,

you see. The presents produced only half an effect. She became

more gracious more trustful--but that was all. Pechorin accordingly

determined upon a last expedient. One morning he ordered his horse to be

saddled, dressed himself as a Circassian, armed himself, and went into

her room.

“‘Bela,’ he said. ‘You know how I love you. I decided to carry you off,

thinking that when you grew to know me you would give me your love.

I was mistaken. Farewell! Remain absolute mistress of all I possess.

Return to your father if you like--you are free. I have acted

wrongfully towards you, and I must punish myself. Farewell! I am going.

Whither?--How should I know? Perchance I shall not have long to court

the bullet or the sabre-stroke. Then remember me and forgive.’

“He turned away, and stretched out his hand to her in farewell. She did

not take his hand, but remained silent. But I, standing there behind the

door, was able through a chink to observe her countenance, and I felt

sorry for her--such a deathly pallor shrouded that charming little face!

Hearing no answer, Pechorin took a few steps towards the door. He was

trembling, and--shall I tell you?--I think that he was in a state to

perform in very fact what he had been saying in jest! He was just that

sort of man, Heaven knows!

“He had scarcely touched the door, however, when Bela sprang to her

feet, burst out sobbing, and threw herself on his neck! Would you

believe it? I, standing there behind the door, fell to weeping too,

that is to say, you know, not exactly weeping--but just--well, something

foolish!”

The staff-captain became silent.

“Yes, I confess,” he said after a while, tugging at his moustache, “I

felt hurt that not one woman had ever loved me like that.”

“Was their happiness lasting?” I asked.

“Yes, she admitted that, from the day she had first cast eyes on

Pechorin, she had often dreamed of him, and that no other man had ever

produced such an impression upon her. Yes, they were happy!”

“How tiresome!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.

In point of fact, I had been expecting a tragic ending--when, lo! he

must needs disappoint my hopes in such an unexpected manner!...

“Is it possible, though,” I continued, “that her father did not guess

that she was with you in the fortress?”

“Well, you must know, he seems to have had his suspicions. After a few

days, we learned that the old man had been murdered. This is how it

happened.”...

My attention was aroused anew.

“I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that the horse had been stolen by

Azamat with his father’s consent; at any rate, that is what I suppose.

So, one day, Kazbich went and waited by the roadside, about three versts

beyond the village. The old man was returning from one of his futile

searches for his daughter; his retainers were lagging behind. It was

dusk. Deep in thought, he was riding at a walking pace when, suddenly,

Kazbich darted out like a cat from behind a bush, sprang up behind

him on the horse, flung him to the ground with a thrust of his dagger,

seized the bridle and was off. A few of the retainers saw the whole

affair from the hill; they dashed off in pursuit of Kazbich, but failed

to overtake him.”

“He requited himself for the loss of his horse, and took his revenge at

the same time,” I said, with a view to evoking my companion’s opinion.

“Of course, from their point of view,” said the staff-captain, “he was

perfectly right.”

I was involuntarily struck by the aptitude which the Russian displays

for accommodating himself to the customs of the people in whose midst

he happens to be living. I know not whether this mental quality is

deserving of censure or commendation, but it proves the incredible

pliancy of his mind and the presence of that clear common sense which

pardons evil wherever it sees that evil is inevitable or impossible of

annihilation.

CHAPTER VII

IN the meantime we had finished our tea. The horses, which had been

put to long before, were freezing in the snow. In the west the moon

was growing pale, and was just on the point of plunging into the black

clouds which were hanging over the distant summits like the shreds of a

torn curtain. We went out of the hut. Contrary to my fellow-traveller’s

prediction, the weather had cleared up, and there was a promise of

a calm morning. The dancing choirs of the stars were interwoven in

wondrous patterns on the distant horizon, and, one after another, they

flickered out as the wan resplendence of the east suffused the dark,

lilac vault of heaven, gradually illumining the steep mountain slopes,

covered with the virgin snows. To right and left loomed grim and

mysterious chasms, and masses of mist, eddying and coiling like snakes,

were creeping thither along the furrows of the neighbouring cliffs, as

though sentient and fearful of the approach of day.

All was calm in heaven and on earth, calm as within the heart of a man

at the moment of morning prayer; only at intervals a cool wind rushed

in from the east, lifting the horses’ manes which were covered with

hoar-frost. We started off. The five lean jades dragged our wagons with

difficulty along the tortuous road up Mount Gut. We ourselves walked

behind, placing stones under the wheels whenever the horses were spent.

The road seemed to lead into the sky, for, so far as the eye could

discern, it still mounted up and up, until finally it was lost in the

cloud which, since early evening, had been resting on the summit of

Mount Gut, like a kite awaiting its prey. The snow crunched under our

feet. The atmosphere grew so rarefied that to breathe was painful; ever

and anon the blood rushed to my head, but withal a certain rapturous

sensation was diffused throughout my veins and I felt a species of

delight at being so high up above the world. A childish feeling, I

admit, but, when we retire from the conventions of society and draw

close to nature, we involuntarily become as children: each attribute

acquired by experience falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such

as it was once and will surely be again. He whose lot it has been, as

mine has been, to wander over the desolate mountains, long, long to

observe their fantastic shapes, greedily to gulp down the life-giving

air diffused through their ravines--he, of course, will understand my

desire to communicate, to narrate, to sketch those magic pictures.

Well, at length we reached the summit of Mount Gut and, halting, looked

around us. Upon the mountain a grey cloud was hanging, and its cold

breath threatened the approach of a storm; but in the east everything

was so clear and golden that we--that is, the staff-captain and

I--forgot all about the cloud... Yes, the staff-captain too; in

simple hearts the feeling for the beauty and grandeur of nature is a

hundred-fold stronger and more vivid than in us, ecstatic composers of

narratives in words and on paper.

“You have grown accustomed, I suppose, to these magnificent pictures!” I

said.

“Yes, sir, you can even grow accustomed to the whistling of a bullet,

that is to say, accustomed to concealing the involuntary thumping of

your heart.”

“I have heard, on the contrary, that many an old warrior actually finds

that music agreeable.”

“Of course, if it comes to that, it is agreeable; but only just because

the heart beats more violently. Look!” he added, pointing towards the

east. “What a country!”

And, indeed, such a panorama I can hardly hope to see elsewhere. Beneath

us lay the Koishaur Valley, intersected by the Aragva and another stream

as if by two silver threads; a bluish mist was gliding along the valley,

fleeing into the neighbouring defiles from the warm rays of the morning.

To right and left the mountain crests, towering higher and higher,

intersected each other and stretched out, covered with snows and

thickets; in the distance were the same mountains, which now, however,

had the appearance of two cliffs, one like to the other. And all these

snows were burning in the crimson glow so merrily and so brightly that

it seemed as though one could live in such a place for ever. The sun was

scarcely visible behind the dark-blue mountain, which only a practised

eye could distinguish from a thunder-cloud; but above the sun was a

blood-red streak to which my companion directed particular attention.

“I told you,” he exclaimed, “that there would be dirty weather to-day!

We must make haste, or perhaps it will catch us on Mount Krestov.--Get

on!” he shouted to the drivers.

Chains were put under the wheels in place of drags, so that they should

not slide, the drivers took the horses by the reins, and the descent

began. On the right was a cliff, on the left a precipice, so deep that

an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom looked like a swallow’s nest.

I shuddered, as the thought occurred to me that often in the depth of

night, on that very road, where two wagons could not pass, a courier

drives some ten times a year without climbing down from his rickety

vehicle. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the

other, an Ossete. The latter took out the leaders in good time and led

the shaft-horse by the reins, using every possible precaution--but

our heedless compatriot did not even climb down from his box! When I

remarked to him that he might put himself out a bit, at least in the

interests of my portmanteau, for which I had not the slightest desire to

clamber down into the abyss, he answered:

“Eh, master, with the help of Heaven we shall arrive as safe and sound

as the others; it’s not our first time, you know.”

And he was right. We might just as easily have failed to arrive at

all; but arrive we did, for all that. And if people would only reason a

little more they would be convinced that life is not worth taking such a

deal of trouble about.

Perhaps, however, you would like to know the conclusion of the story

of Bela? In the first place, this is not a novel, but a collection of

travelling-notes, and, consequently, I cannot make the staff-captain

tell the story sooner than he actually proceeded to tell it. Therefore,

you must wait a bit, or, if you like, turn over a few pages. Though I do

not advise you to do the latter, because the crossing of Mount Krestov

(or, as the erudite Gamba calls it, le mont St. Christophe [15]) is

worthy of your curiosity.

Well, then, we descended Mount Gut into the Chertov Valley... There’s

a romantic designation for you! Already you have a vision of the evil

spirit’s nest amid the inaccessible cliffs--but you are out of your

reckoning there. The name “Chertov” is derived from the word cherta

(boundary-line) and not from chort (devil), because, at one time,

the valley marked the boundary of Georgia. We found it choked with

snow-drifts, which reminded us rather vividly of Saratov, Tambov, and

other charming localities of our fatherland.

“Look, there is Krestov!” said the staff-captain, when we had descended

into the Chertov Valley, as he pointed out a hill covered with a shroud

of snow. Upon the summit stood out the black outline of a stone cross,

and past it led an all but imperceptible road which travellers use only

when the side-road is obstructed with snow. Our drivers, declaring that

no avalanches had yet fallen, spared the horses by conducting us round

the mountain. At a turning we met four or five Ossetes, who offered

us their services; and, catching hold of the wheels, proceeded, with

a shout, to drag and hold up our cart. And, indeed, it is a dangerous

road; on the right were masses of snow hanging above us, and ready,

it seemed, at the first squall of wind to break off and drop into the

ravine; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which, in many

places, gave way under our feet and, in others, was converted into ice

by the action of the sun by day and the frosts by night, so that the

horses kept falling, and it was with difficulty that we ourselves

made our way. On the left yawned a deep chasm, through which rolled a

torrent, now hiding beneath a crust of ice, now leaping and foaming

over the black rocks. In two hours we were barely able to double Mount

Krestov--two versts in two hours! Meanwhile the clouds had descended,

hail and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the ravines, howled and

whistled like Nightingale the Robber. [16] Soon the stone cross was

hidden in the mist, the billows of which, in ever denser and more

compact masses, rushed in from the east...

Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there exists the strange, but

widespread, tradition that it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the

First when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first place, however,

the Emperor went no farther than Daghestan; and, in the second place,

there is an inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to the

effect that it had been erected by order of General Ermolov, and that

too in the year 1824. Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm

root, in spite of the inscription, that really you do not know what to

believe; the more so, as it is not the custom to believe inscriptions.

To reach the station Kobi, we still had to descend about five versts,

across ice-covered rocks and plashy snow. The horses were exhausted;

we were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever-increasing violence,

exactly like the storms of our own northern land, only its wild melodies

were sadder and more melancholy.

“O Exile,” I thought, “thou art weeping for thy wide, free steppes!

There mayest thou unfold thy cold wings, but here thou art stifled and

confined, like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, against the

grating of his iron cage!”

“A bad look out,” said the staff-captain. “Look! There’s nothing to be

seen all round but mist and snow. At any moment we may tumble into an

abyss or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I dare say, the

Baidara has risen so high that there is no getting across it. Oh, this

Asia, I know it! Like people, like rivers! There’s no trusting them at

all!”

The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured the horses, which

snorted, resisted obstinately, and refused to budge on any account,

notwithstanding the eloquence of the whips.

“Your honour,” one of the drivers said to me at length, “you see, we

will never reach Kobi to-day. Won’t you give orders to turn to the left

while we can? There is something black yonder on the slope--probably

huts. Travellers always stop there in bad weather, sir. They say,” he

added, pointing to the Ossetes, “that they will lead us there if you

will give them a tip.”

“I know that, my friend, I know that without your telling me,” said

the staff-captain. “Oh, these beasts! They are delighted to seize any

pretext for extorting a tip!”

“You must confess, however,” I said, “that we should be worse off

without them.”

“Just so, just so,” he growled to himself. “I know them well--these

guides! They scent out by instinct a chance of taking advantage of

people. As if it was impossible to find the way without them!”

Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, somehow or other, after

a good deal of trouble, made our way to the wretched shelter, which

consisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a

wall of the same material. Our ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I

learned afterwards that the Government supplies them with money and food

upon condition that they put up travellers who are overtaken by storm.

CHAPTER VIII

“ALL is for the best,” I said, sitting down close by the fire. “Now you

will finish telling me your story about Bela. I am certain that what you

have already told me was not the end of it.”

“Why are you so certain?” answered the staff-captain, winking and

smiling slyly.

“Because things don’t happen like that. A story with such an unusual

beginning must also have an unusual ending.”

“You have guessed, of course”...

“I am very glad to hear it.”

“It is all very well for you to be glad, but, indeed, it makes me

sad when I think of it. Bela was a splendid girl. In the end I grew

accustomed to her just as if she had been my own daughter, and she loved

me. I must tell you that I have no family. I have had no news of my

father and mother for twelve years or so, and, in my earlier days, I

never thought of providing myself with a wife--and now, you know, it

wouldn’t do. So I was glad to have found someone to spoil. She used to

sing to us or dance the Lezginka. [17].. And what a dancer she was! I

have seen our own ladies in provincial society; and on one occasion,

sir, about twenty years ago, I was even in the Nobles’ Club at

Moscow--but was there a woman to be compared with her? Not one! Grigori

Aleksandrovich dressed her up like a doll, petted and pampered her, and

it was simply astonishing to see how pretty she grew while she lived

with us. The sunburn disappeared from her face and hands, and a rosy

colour came into her cheeks... What a merry girl she was! Always making

fun of me, the little rogue!... Heaven forgive her!”

“And when you told her of her father’s death?”

“We kept it a secret from her for a long time, until she had grown

accustomed to her position; and then, when she was told, she cried for a

day or two and forgot all about it.

“For four months or so everything went on as well as it possibly

could. Grigori Aleksandrovich, as I think I have already mentioned, was

passionately fond of hunting; he was always craving to be off into the

forest after boars or wild goats--but now it would be as much as he

would do to go beyond the fortress rampart. All at once, however, I saw

that he was beginning again to have fits of abstraction, walking about

his room with his hands clasped behind his back. One day after that,

without telling anyone, he set off shooting. During the whole morning

he was not to be seen; then the same thing happened another time, and so

on--oftener and oftener...

“‘This looks bad!’ I said to myself. ‘Something must have come between

them!’

“One morning I paid them a visit--I can see it all in my mind’s eye, as

if it was happening now. Bela was sitting on the bed, wearing a black

silk jacket, and looking rather pale and so sad that I was alarmed.

“‘Where is Pechorin?’ I asked.

“‘Hunting.’

“‘When did he go--to-day?’

“‘She was silent, as if she found a difficulty in answering.

“‘No, he has been gone since yesterday,’ she said at length, with a

heavy sigh.

“‘Surely nothing has happened to him!’

“‘Yesterday I thought and thought the whole day,’ she answered through

her tears; ‘I imagined all sorts of misfortunes. At one time I fancied

that he had been wounded by a wild boar, at another time, that he had

been carried off by a Chechene into the mountains... But, now, I have

come to think that he no longer loves me.’

“‘In truth, my dear girl, you could not have imagined anything worse!’

“She burst out crying; then, proudly raising her head, she wiped away

the tears and continued:

“‘If he does not love me, then who prevents him sending me home? I am

not putting any constraint on him. But, if things go on like this, I

will go away myself--I am not a slave, I am a prince’s daughter!’...

“I tried to talk her over.

“‘Listen, Bela. You see it is impossible for him to stop in here with

you for ever, as if he was sewn on to your petticoat. He is a young man

and fond of hunting. Off he’ll go, but you will find that he will come

back; and, if you are going to be unhappy, you will soon make him tired

of you.’

“‘True, true!’ she said. ‘I will be merry.’

“And with a burst of laughter, she seized her tambourine, began to sing,

dance, and gambol around me. But that did not last long either; she fell

upon the bed again and buried her face in her hands.

“What could I do with her? You know I have never been accustomed to

the society of women. I thought and thought how to cheer her up, but

couldn’t hit on anything. For some time both of us remained silent... A

most unpleasant situation, sir!

“At length I said to her:

“‘Would you like us to go and take a walk on the rampart? The weather is

splendid.’

“This was in September, and indeed it was a wonderful day, bright and

not too hot. The mountains could be seen as clearly as though they were

but a hand’s-breadth away. We went, and walked in silence to and fro

along the rampart of the fortress. At length she sat down on the sward,

and I sat beside her. In truth, now, it is funny to think of it all! I

used to run after her just like a kind of children’s nurse!

“Our fortress was situated in a lofty position, and the view from the

rampart was superb. On one side, the wide clearing, seamed by a few

clefts, was bounded by the forest which stretched out to the very ridge

of the mountains. Here and there, on the clearing, villages were to be

seen sending forth their smoke, and there were droves of horses roaming

about. On the other side flowed a tiny stream, and close to its banks

came the dense undergrowth which covered the flinty heights joining the

principal chain of the Caucasus. We sat in a corner of the bastion, so

that we could see everything on both sides. Suddenly I perceived

someone on a grey horse riding out of the forest; nearer and nearer he

approached until finally he stopped on the far side of the river, about

a hundred fathoms from us, and began to wheel his horse round and round

like one possessed. ‘Strange!’ I thought.

“‘Look, look, Bela,’ I said, ‘you’ve got young eyes--what sort of a

horseman is that? Who is it he has come to amuse?’...

“‘It is Kazbich!’ she exclaimed after a glance.

“‘Ah, the robber! Come to laugh at us, has he?’

“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kazbich, with his swarthy

face, and as ragged and dirty as ever.

“‘It is my father’s horse!’ said Bela, seizing my arm.

“She was trembling like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling.

“‘Aha!’ I said to myself. ‘There is robber’s blood in your veins still,

my dear!’

“‘Come here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Look to your gun and unhorse that

gallant for me--and you shall have a silver ruble.’

“‘Very well, your honour, only he won’t keep still.’

“‘Tell him to!’ I said, with a laugh.

“‘Hey, friend!’ cried the sentry, waving his hand. ‘Wait a bit. What are

you spinning round like a humming-top for?’

“Kazbich halted and gave ear to the sentry--probably thinking that we

were going to parley with him. Quite the contrary!... My grenadier took

aim... Bang!... Missed!... Just as the powder flashed in the pan Kazbich

jogged his horse, which gave a bound to one side. He stood up in his

stirrups, shouted something in his own language, made a threatening

gesture with his whip--and was off.

“‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ I said to the sentry.

“‘He has gone away to die, your honour,’ he answered. ‘There’s no

killing a man of that cursed race at one stroke.’

“A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned from hunting. Bela

threw herself on his neck without a single complaint, without a single

reproach for his lengthy absence!... Even I was angry with him by this

time!

“‘Good heavens!’ I said; ‘why, I tell you, Kazbich was here on the other

side of the river just a moment ago, and we shot at him. How easily

you might have run up against him, you know! These mountaineers are a

vindictive race! Do you suppose he does not guess that you gave Azamat

some help? And I wager that he recognised Bela to-day! I know he was

desperately fond of her a year ago--he told me so himself--and, if he

had had any hope of getting together a proper bridegroom’s gift, he

would certainly have sought her in marriage.’

“At this Pechorin became thoughtful.

“‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We must be more cautious--Bela, from this day

forth you mustn’t walk on the rampart any more.’

“In the evening I had a lengthy explanation with him. I was vexed that

his feelings towards the poor girl had changed; to say nothing of his

spending half the day hunting, his manner towards her had become cold.

He rarely caressed her, and she was beginning perceptibly to pine away;

her little face was becoming drawn, her large eyes growing dim.

“‘What are you sighing for, Bela?’ I would ask her. ‘Are you sad?’

“‘No!’

“‘Do you want anything?’

“‘No!’

“‘You are pining for your kinsfolk?’

“‘I have none!’

“Sometimes for whole days not a word could be drawn from her but ‘Yes’

and ‘No.’

“So I straightway proceeded to talk to Pechorin about her.”

CHAPTER IX

“‘LISTEN, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Pechorin. ‘Mine is an unfortunate

disposition; whether it is the result of my upbringing or whether it

is innate--I know not. I only know this, that if I am the cause of

unhappiness in others I myself am no less unhappy. Of course, that is a

poor consolation to them--only the fact remains that such is the case.

In my early youth, from the moment I ceased to be under the guardianship

of my relations, I began madly to enjoy all the pleasures which money

could buy--and, of course, such pleasures became irksome to me. Then I

launched out into the world of fashion--and that, too, soon palled upon

me. I fell in love with fashionable beauties and was loved by them, but

my imagination and egoism alone were aroused; my heart remained empty...

I began to read, to study--but sciences also became utterly wearisome to

me. I saw that neither fame nor happiness depends on them in the

least, because the happiest people are the uneducated, and fame is good

fortune, to attain which you have only to be smart. Then I grew bored...

Soon afterwards I was transferred to the Caucasus; and that was

the happiest time of my life. I hoped that under the bullets of the

Chechenes boredom could not exist--a vain hope! In a month I grew so

accustomed to the buzzing of the bullets and to the proximity of death

that, to tell the truth, I paid more attention to the gnats--and I

became more bored than ever, because I had lost what was almost my last

hope. When I saw Bela in my own house; when, for the first time, I held

her on my knee and kissed her black locks, I, fool that I was, thought

that she was an angel sent to me by sympathetic fate... Again I was

mistaken; the love of a savage is little better than that of your lady

of quality, the barbaric ignorance and simplicity of the one weary you

as much as the coquetry of the other. I am not saying that I do not love

her still; I am grateful to her for a few fairly sweet moments; I would

give my life for her--only I am bored with her... Whether I am a fool or

a villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also most deserving of

pity--perhaps more than she. My soul has been spoiled by the world,

my imagination is unquiet, my heart insatiate. To me everything is of

little moment. I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and my

life grows emptier day by day. One expedient only is left to me--travel.

“‘As soon as I can, I shall set off--but not to Europe. Heaven forfend!

I shall go to America, to Arabia, to India--perchance I shall die

somewhere on the way. At any rate, I am convinced that, thanks to storms

and bad roads, that last consolation will not quickly be exhausted!’

“For a long time he went on speaking thus, and his words have remained

stamped upon my memory, because it was the first time that I had heard

such things from a man of five-and-twenty--and Heaven grant it may

be the last. Isn’t it astonishing? Tell me, please,” continued the

staff-captain, appealing to me. “You used to live in the Capital, I

think, and that not so very long ago. Is it possible that the young men

there are all like that?”

I replied that there were a good many people who used the same sort

of language, that, probably, there might even be some who spoke in all

sincerity; that disillusionment, moreover, like all other vogues, having

had its beginning in the higher strata of society, had descended to the

lower, where it was being worn threadbare, and that, now, those who were

really and truly bored strove to conceal their misfortune as if it were

a vice. The staff-captain did not understand these subtleties, shook his

head, and smiled slyly.

“Anyhow, I suppose it was the French who introduced the fashion?”

“No, the English.”

“Aha, there you are!” he answered. “They always have been arrant

drunkards, you know!”

Involuntarily I recalled to mind a certain lady, living in Moscow, who

used to maintain that Byron was nothing more nor less than a drunkard.

However, the staff-captain’s observation was more excusable; in order to

abstain from strong drink, he naturally endeavoured to convince himself

that all the misfortunes in the world are the result of drunkenness.

CHAPTER X

MEANWHILE the staff-captain continued his story.

“Kazbich never put in an appearance again; but somehow--I don’t know

why--I could not get the idea out of my head that he had had a reason

for coming, and that some mischievous scheme was in his mind.

“Well, one day Pechorin tried to persuade me to go boar-hunting with

him. For a long time I refused. What novelty was a wild boar to me?

“However, off he dragged me, all the same. We took four or five soldiers

and set out early in the morning. Up till ten o’clock we scurried about

the reeds and the forest--there wasn’t a wild beast to be found!

“‘I say, oughtn’t we to be going back?’ I said. ‘What’s the use of

sticking at it? It is evident enough that we have happened on an unlucky

day!’

“But, in spite of heat and fatigue, Pechorin didn’t like to return

empty-handed... That is just the kind of man he was; whatever he set

his heart on he had to have--evidently, in his childhood, he had been

spoiled by an indulgent mother. At last, at midday, we discovered one

of those cursed wild boars--Bang! Bang!--No good!--Off it went into the

reeds. That was an unlucky day, to be sure!... So, after a short rest,

we set off homeward...

“We rode in silence, side by side, giving the horses their head. We had

almost reached the fortress, and only the brushwood concealed it from

view. Suddenly a shot rang out... We glanced at each other, both struck

with the selfsame suspicion... We galloped headlong in the direction of

the shot, looked, and saw the soldiers clustered together on the rampart

and pointing towards a field, along which a rider was flying at full

speed, holding something white across his saddle. Grigori Aleksandrovich

yelled like any Chechene, whipped his gun from its cover, and gave

chase--I after him.

“Luckily, thanks to our unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not jaded;

they strained under the saddle, and with every moment we drew nearer and

nearer... At length I recognised Kazbich, only I could not make out what

it was that he was holding in front of him.

“Then I drew level with Pechorin and shouted to him:

“‘It is Kazbich!’

“He looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse with his whip.

“At last we were within gunshot of Kazbich. Whether it was that his

horse was jaded or not so good as ours, I don’t know, but, in spite of

all his efforts, it did not get along very fast. I fancy at that moment

he remembered his Karagyoz!

“I looked at Pechorin. He was taking aim as he galloped...

“‘Don’t shoot,’ I cried. ‘Save the shot! We will catch up with him as it

is.’

“Oh, these young men! Always taking fire at the wrong moment! The shot

rang out and the bullet broke one of the horse’s hind legs. It gave a

few fiery leaps forward, stumbled, and fell to its knees. Kazbich sprang

off, and then we perceived that it was a woman he was holding in his

arms--a woman wrapped in a veil. It was Bela--poor Bela! He shouted

something to us in his own language and raised his dagger over her...

Delay was useless; I fired in my turn, at haphazard. Probably the bullet

struck him in the shoulder, because he dropped his hand suddenly. When

the smoke cleared off, we could see the wounded horse lying on the

ground and Bela beside it; but Kazbich, his gun flung away, was

clambering like a cat up the cliff, through the brushwood. I should have

liked to have brought him down from there--but I hadn’t a charge ready.

We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor girl! She was lying

motionless, and the blood was pouring in streams from her wound. The

villain! If he had struck her to the heart--well and good, everything

would at least have been finished there and then; but to stab her in

the back like that--the scoundrel! She was unconscious. We tore the

veil into strips and bound up the wound as tightly as we could. In vain

Pechorin kissed her cold lips--it was impossible to bring her to.

“Pechorin mounted; I lifted Bela from the ground and somehow managed to

place her before him on his saddle; he put his arm round her and we rode

back.

“‘Look here, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich, after a few

moments of silence. ‘We will never bring her in alive like this.’

“‘True!’ I said, and we put our horses to a full gallop.”

CHAPTER XI

“A CROWD was awaiting us at the fortress gate. Carefully we carried the

wounded girl to Pechorin’s quarters, and then we sent for the doctor.

The latter was drunk, but he came, examined the wound, and announced

that she could not live more than a day. He was mistaken, though.”

“She recovered?” I asked the staff-captain, seizing him by the arm, and

involuntarily rejoicing.

“No,” he replied, “but the doctor was so far mistaken that she lived two

days longer.”

“Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with her!”

“It was like this: in spite of Pechorin’s prohibition, she went out of

the fortress and down to the river. It was a very hot day, you know, and

she sat on a rock and dipped her feet in the water. Up crept Kazbich,

pounced upon her, silenced her, and dragged her into the bushes. Then

he sprang on his horse and made off. In the meantime she succeeded in

crying out, the sentries took the alarm, fired, but wide of the mark;

and thereupon we arrived on the scene.”

“But what did Kazbich want to carry her off for?”

“Good gracious! Why, everyone knows these Circassians are a race of

thieves; they can’t keep their hands off anything that is left lying

about! They may not want a thing, but they will steal it, for all that.

Still, you mustn’t be too hard on them. And, besides, he had been in

love with her for a long time.”

“And Bela died?”

“Yes, she died, but she suffered for a long time, and we were fairly

knocked up with her, I can tell you. About ten o’clock in the evening

she came to herself. We were sitting by her bed. As soon as ever she

opened her eyes she began to call Pechorin.

“‘I am here beside you, my janechka’ (that is, ‘my darling’), he

answered, taking her by the hand.

“‘I shall die,’ she said.

“We began to comfort her, telling her that the doctor had promised

infallibly to cure her. She shook her little head and turned to the

wall--she did not want to die!...

“At night she became delirious, her head burned, at times a feverish

paroxysm convulsed her whole body. She talked incoherently about her

father, her brother; she yearned for the mountains, for her home... Then

she spoke of Pechorin also, called him various fond names, or reproached

him for having ceased to love his janechka.

“He listened to her in silence, his head sunk in his hands; but yet,

during the whole time, I did not notice a single tear-drop on his

lashes. I do not know whether he was actually unable to weep or was

mastering himself; but for my part I have never seen anything more

pitiful.

“Towards morning the delirium passed off. For an hour or so she lay

motionless, pale, and so weak that it was hardly possible to observe

that she was breathing. After that she grew better and began to talk:

only about what, think you? Such thoughts come only to the dying!... She

lamented that she was not a Christian, that in the other world her

soul would never meet the soul of Grigori Aleksandrovich, and that in

Paradise another woman would be his companion. The thought occurred to

me to baptize her before her death. I told her my idea; she looked at me

undecidedly, and for a long time was unable to utter a word. Finally she

answered that she would die in the faith in which she had been born.

A whole day passed thus. What a change that day made in her! Her pale

cheeks fell in, her eyes grew ever so large, her lips burned. She felt

a consuming heat within her, as though a red-hot blade was piercing her

breast.

“The second night came on. We did not close our eyes or leave the

bedside. She suffered terribly, and groaned; and directly the pain began

to abate she endeavoured to assure Grigori Aleksandrovich that she felt

better, tried to persuade him to go to bed, kissed his hand and would

not let it out of hers. Before the morning she began to feel the death

agony and to toss about. She knocked the bandage off, and the blood

flowed afresh. When the wound was bound up again she grew quiet for a

moment and begged Pechorin to kiss her. He fell on his knees beside

the bed, raised her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to

hers--which were growing cold. She threw her trembling arms closely

round his neck, as if with that kiss she wished to yield up her soul

to him.--No, she did well to die! Why, what would have become of her if

Grigori Aleksandrovich had abandoned her? And that is what would have

happened, sooner or later.

“During half the following day she was calm, silent and docile, however

much the doctor tortured her with his fomentations and mixtures.

“‘Good heavens!’ I said to him, ‘you know you said yourself that she was

certain to die, so what is the good of all these preparations of yours?’

“‘Even so, it is better to do all this,’ he replied, ‘so that I may have

an easy conscience.’

“A pretty conscience, forsooth!

“After midday Bela began to suffer from thirst. We opened the windows,

but it was hotter outside than in the room; we placed ice round the

bed--all to no purpose. I knew that that intolerable thirst was a sign

of the approaching end, and I told Pechorin so.

“‘Water, water!’ she said in a hoarse voice, raising herself up from the

bed.

“Pechorin turned pale as a sheet, seized a glass, filled it, and gave

it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and began to say a prayer--I

can’t remember what... Yes, my friend, many a time have I seen people

die in hospitals or on the field of battle, but this was something

altogether different! Still, this one thing grieves me, I must confess:

she died without even once calling me to mind. Yet I loved her, I should

think, like a father!... Well, God forgive her!... And, to tell the

truth, what am I that she should have remembered me when she was

dying?...

“As soon as she had drunk the water, she grew easier--but in about three

minutes she breathed her last! We put a looking-glass to her lips--it

was undimmed!

“I led Pechorin from the room, and we went on to the fortress rampart.

For a long time we walked side by side, to and fro, speaking not a word

and with our hands clasped behind our backs. His face expressed nothing

out of the common--and that vexed me. Had I been in his place, I should

have died of grief. At length he sat down on the ground in the shade and

began to draw something in the sand with his stick. More for form’s sake

than anything, you know, I tried to console him and began to talk. He

raised his head and burst into a laugh! At that laugh a cold shudder ran

through me... I went away to order a coffin.

“I confess it was partly to distract my thoughts that I busied myself in

that way. I possessed a little piece of Circassian stuff, and I covered

the coffin with it, and decked it with some Circassian silver lace which

Grigori Aleksandrovich had bought for Bela herself.

“Early next morning we buried her behind the fortress, by the river,

beside the spot where she had sat for the last time. Around her little

grave white acacia shrubs and elder-trees have now grown up. I

should have liked to erect a cross, but that would not have done, you

know--after all, she was not a Christian.”

“And what of Pechorin?” I asked.

“Pechorin was ill for a long time, and grew thin, poor fellow; but

we never spoke of Bela from that time forth. I saw that it would be

disagreeable to him, so what would have been the use? About three months

later he was appointed to the E----Regiment, and departed for Georgia.

We have never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, somebody told

me not long ago that he had returned to Russia--but it was not in the

general orders for the corps. Besides, to the like of us news is late in

coming.”

Hereupon--probably to drown sad memories--he launched forth into a

lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.

I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.

In an hour’s time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented

itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On

the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin.

“You have not heard what became of Kazbich?” I asked.

“Kazbich? In truth, I don’t know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs,

on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who

rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and

bows politely whenever one hums near him--but it can scarcely be the

same person!”...

In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he,

on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no

expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like,

I will tell you how--it is quite a history... You must acknowledge,

though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect... If

you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy

story.

BOOK II MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH

AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the

gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in

Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a

description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no

meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image--especially to

those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical

observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read.

I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those

parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast

your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans

who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is

impossible to knock any sense at all out of them.

I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer,

because the “Adventure” had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and

consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure!

[18]... But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian, and, for the sake

of something to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to write down

the story about Bela, which I had heard from Maksim Maksimych--never

imagining that it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: you

see how an insignificant event has sometimes dire results!... Perhaps,

however, you do not know what the “Adventure” is? It is a

convoy--composed of half a company of infantry, with a cannon--which

escorts baggage-trains through Kabardia from Vladikavkaz to

Ekaterinograd.

The first day I found the time hang on my hands dreadfully. Early next

morning a vehicle drove into the courtyard... Aha! Maksim Maksimych!...

We met like a couple of old friends. I offered to share my own room with

him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he

even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a

smile--a queer fellow, that!...

Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted

the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber

sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had

to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to

forget the modest number of dishes--of which there was one, all told.

Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down--I by the window,

and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted because the day

was damp and cold. We remained silent. What had we to talk about? He had

already told me all that was of interest about himself and I had nothing

to relate. I looked out of the window. Here and there, behind the trees,

I caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses straggling along the

bank of the Terek, which flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream;

farther off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the mountains, behind

which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in his highpriest’s hat of white. I took

a mental farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them...

Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold

summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys,

when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a

travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few

vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of

the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light

movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind

of foreign stamp. Behind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was

wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant.

From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and

shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was

obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master--something in the

nature of a Russian Figaro.

“Tell me, my good man,” I called to him out of the window. “What is

it?--Has the ‘Adventure’ arrived, eh?”

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straightened his cravat, and turned

away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for

him that the “Adventure” had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the

return journey the following morning.

“Thank heavens!” said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at

that moment. “What a wonderful carriage!” he added; “probably it belongs

to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can

see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend,

you’re not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would

shake even an English carriage to bits!--But who could it be? Let us go

and find out.”

We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open

door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging

portmanteaux into the room.

“I say, my man!” the staff-captain asked him: “Whose is that marvellous

carriage?--Eh?--A beautiful carriage!”

Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he

undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.

“I am speaking to you, my friend!” he said, touching the uncivil fellow

on the shoulder.

“Whose carriage?--My master’s.”

“And who is your master?”

“Pechorin--”

“What did you say? What? Pechorin?--Great Heavens!... Did he not serve

in the Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve.

His eyes were sparkling with joy.

“Yes, he served there, I think--but I have not been with him long.”

“Well! Just so!... Just so!... Grigori Aleksandrovich?... that is his

name, of course? Your master and I were friends,” he added, giving the

manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause

him to stagger.

“Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me,” said the latter, frowning.

“What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don’t you know, your master and

I were bosom friends, and lived together?... But where has he put up?”

The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass

the night at Colonel N----‘s.

“But won’t he be looking in here in the evening?” said Maksim Maksimych.

“Or, you, my man, won’t you be going over to him for something?... If

you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that--he’ll

know!--I’ll give you half a ruble for a tip!”

The manservant made a scornful face on hearing such a modest promise,

but he assured Maksim Maksimych that he would execute his commission.

“He’ll be sure to come running up directly!” said Maksim Maksimych, with

an air of triumph. “I will go outside the gate and wait for him! Ah,

it’s a pity I am not acquainted with Colonel N----!”

Maksim Maksimych sat down on a little bench outside the gate, and I

went to my room. I confess that I also was awaiting this Pechorin’s

appearance with a certain amount of impatience--although, from the

staff-captain’s story, I had formed a by no means favourable idea of

him. Still, certain traits in his character struck me as remarkable. In

an hour’s time one of the old soldiers brought a steaming samovar and a

teapot.

“Won’t you have some tea, Maksim Maksimych?” I called out of the window.

“Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow.”

“Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and cold!”

“No, thank you”...

“Well, just as you like!”

I began my tea alone. About ten minutes afterwards my old captain came

in.

“You are right, you know; it would be better to have a drop of tea--but

I was waiting for Pechorin. His man has been gone a long time now, but

evidently something has detained him.”

The staff-captain hurriedly sipped a cup of tea, refused a second,

and went off again outside the gate--not without a certain amount of

disquietude. It was obvious that the old man was mortified by Pechorin’s

neglect, the more so because a short time previously he had been telling

me of their friendship, and up to an hour ago had been convinced that

Pechorin would come running up immediately on hearing his name.

It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and began to

call Maksim Maksimych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered

something through his teeth. I repeated my invitation--he made no

answer.

I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping myself up in my cloak,

I lay down on the couch and soon fell into slumber; and I would have

slept on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych awakened me as he came into

the room. It was then very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began

to walk up and down the room, and to rattle about at the stove. At last

he lay down, but for a long time he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing

about.

“The bugs are biting you, are they not?” I asked.

“Yes, that is it,” he answered, with a heavy sigh.

I woke early the next morning, but Maksim Maksimych had anticipated me.

I found him sitting on the little bench at the gate.

“I have to go to the Commandant,” he said, “so, if Pechorin comes,

please send for me.”...

I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs had regained their

youthful strength and suppleness.

The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden clouds had massed themselves on

the mountaintops like a new range of aerial mountains. Before the gate

a wide square spread out; behind it the bazaar was seething with people,

the day being Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying wallets of

honeycomb on their shoulders, were hovering around me. I cursed them;

I had other things to think of--I was beginning to share the worthy

staff-captain’s uneasiness.

Before ten minutes had passed the man we were awaiting appeared at the

end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N., who accompanied him

as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and then turned back to the

fortress. I immediately despatched one of the old soldiers for Maksim

Maksimych.

Pechorin’s manservant went out to meet him and informed him that they

were going to put to at once; he handed him a box of cigars, received

a few orders, and went off about his business. His master lit a cigar,

yawned once or twice, and sat down on the bench on the other side of the

gate. I must now draw his portrait for you.

He was of medium height. His shapely, slim figure and broad shoulders

gave evidence of a strong constitution, capable of enduring all the

hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates, and of resisting with

success both the demoralising effects of life in the Capital and the

tempests of the soul. His velvet overcoat, which was covered with dust,

was fastened by the two lower buttons only, and exposed to view linen of

dazzling whiteness, which proved that he had the habits of a gentleman.

His gloves, soiled by travel, seemed as though made expressly for

his small, aristocratic hand, and when he took one glove off I was

astonished at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless

and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms--a sure sign

of a certain secretiveness of character. These remarks, however, are the

result of my own observations, and I have not the least desire to make

you blindly believe in them. When he was in the act of seating himself

on the bench his upright figure bent as if there was not a single bone

in his back. The attitude of his whole body was expressive of a

certain nervous weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one of Balzac’s

thirty-year-old coquettes resting in her downy arm-chair after a

fatiguing ball. From my first glance at his face I should not have

supposed his age to be more than twenty-three, though afterwards I should

have put it down as thirty. His smile had something of a child-like

quality. His skin possessed a kind of feminine delicacy. His fair hair,

naturally curly, most picturesquely outlined his pale and noble brow, on

which it was only after lengthy observation that traces could be noticed

of wrinkles, intersecting each other: probably they showed up more

distinctly in moments of anger or mental disturbance. Notwithstanding

the light colour of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows were black--a

sign of breeding in a man, just as a black mane and a black tail in a

white horse. To complete the portrait, I will add that he had a slightly

turned-up nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness, and brown eyes--I must say

a few words more about his eyes.

In the first place, they never laughed when he laughed. Have you not

happened, yourself, to notice the same peculiarity in certain people?...

It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep and constant

grief. From behind his half-lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind

of phosphorescent gleam--if I may so express myself--which was not the

reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to

that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance--brief, but piercing

and heavy--left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and

might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil.

It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had

known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance

would have produced an entirely different impression upon another; but,

as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have

to rest content, nolens volens, with the description I have given.

In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very

good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance

which are particularly pleasing to women.

The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the

shaft-bow; [19] and the manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with

the announcement that everything was ready, but still there was no sign

of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he

gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was apparently by

no means in a hurry for the road.

I went up to him.

“If you care to wait a little longer,” I said, “you will have the

pleasure of meeting an old friend.”

“Oh, exactly!” he answered quickly. “They told me so yesterday. Where is

he, though?”

I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim

Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside

us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large

drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his

cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking... He was about

to throw himself on Pechorin’s neck, but the latter, rather coldly,

though with a smile of welcome, stretched out his hand to him. For

a moment the staff-captain was petrified, but then eagerly seized

Pechorin’s hand in both his own. He was still unable to speak.

“How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?”

said Pechorin.

“And... thou... you?” [20] murmured the old man, with tears in his

eyes. “What an age it is since I have seen you!... But where are you off

to?”...

“I am going to Persia--and farther.”...

“But surely not immediately?... Wait a little, my dear fellow!... Surely

we are not going to part at once?... What a long time it is since we

have seen each other!”...

“It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych,” was the reply.

“Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry?

There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question

you about!... Well, what of yourself? Have you retired?... What?... How

have you been getting along?”

“Getting bored!” answered Pechorin, smiling.

“You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for

hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know!... And Bela?”...

Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.

“Yes, I remember!” he said, almost immediately forcing a yawn.

Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours

or so longer.

“We will have a splendid dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants; and

the Kakhetian wine is excellent here... not what it is in Georgia, of

course, but still of the best sort... We will have a talk... You will

tell me about your life in Petersburg... Eh?”...

“In truth, there’s nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych...

However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off... I am in a hurry...

I thank you for not having forgotten me,” he added, taking him by the

hand.

The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried

to hide his feelings.

“Forget!” he growled. “I have not forgotten anything... Well, God be

with you!... It is not like this that I thought we should meet.”

“Come! That will do, that will do!” said Pechorin, giving him a friendly

embrace. “Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be?... What

can we do? Everyone must go his own way... Are we ever going to meet

again?--God only knows!”

While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the

coachman was already gathering up the reins.

“Wait, wait!” cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the

carriage door. “I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were

left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich... I drag them about everywhere I

go... I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has

pleased Heaven that we should meet. What’s to be done with them?”...

“Whatever you like!” answered Pechorin. “Good-bye.”...

“So you are off to Persia?... But when will you return?” Maksim

Maksimych cried after him.

By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign

with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning:

“It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either,

why I should!”

The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty

road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained

standing in the same place, deep in thought.

“Yes,” he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference,

although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his

eyelashes. “Of course we were friends--well, but what are friends

nowadays?... What could I be to him? I’m not rich; I’ve no rank; and,

moreover, I’m not at all his match in years!--See what a dandy he

has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again!... What

a carriage!... What a quantity of luggage!... And such a haughty

manservant too!”...

These words were pronounced with an ironical smile.

“Tell me,” he continued, turning to me, “what do you think of it?

Come, what the devil is he off to Persia for now?... Good Lord, it is

ridiculous--ridiculous!... But I always knew that he was a fickle man,

and one you could never rely on!... But, indeed, it is a pity that he

should come to a bad end... yet it can’t be otherwise!... I always did

say that there is no good to be got out of a man who forgets his old

friends!”...

Hereupon he turned away in order to hide his agitation and proceeded to

walk about the courtyard, around his cart, pretending to be examining

the wheels, whilst his eyes kept filling with tears every moment.

“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, going up to him, “what papers are these that

Pechorin left you?”

“Goodness knows! Notes of some sort”...

“What will you do with them?”

“What? I’ll have cartridges made of them.”

“Hand them over to me instead.”

He looked at me in surprise, growled something through his teeth, and

began to rummage in his portmanteau. Out he drew a writing-book and

threw it contemptuously on the ground; then a second--a third--a tenth

shared the same fate. There was something childish in his vexation, and

it struck me as ridiculous and pitiable...

“Here they are,” he said. “I congratulate you on your find!”...

“And I may do anything I like with them?”

“Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you like. What is it to me? Am

I a friend or relation of his? It is true that for a long time we lived

under one roof... but aren’t there plenty of people with whom I have

lived?”...

I seized the papers and lost no time in carrying them away, fearing that

the staff-captain might repent his action. Soon somebody came to tell

us that the “Adventure” would set off in an hour’s time. I ordered the

horses to be put to.

I had already put my cap on when the staff-captain entered the room.

Apparently he had not got ready for departure. His manner was somewhat

cold and constrained.

“You are not going, then, Maksim Maksimych?”

“No, sir!”

“But why not?”

“Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, and I have to deliver some

Government things.”

“But you did go, you know.”

“I did, of course,” he stammered, “but he was not at home... and I did

not wait.”

I understood. For the first time in his life, probably, the poor old man

had, to speak by the book, thrown aside official business ‘for the sake

of his personal requirements’... and how he had been rewarded!

“I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very sorry indeed,” I said, “that we

must part sooner than necessary.”

“What should we rough old men be thinking of to run after you? You young

men are fashionable and proud: under the Circassian bullets you are

friendly enough with us... but when you meet us afterwards you are

ashamed even to give us your hand!”

“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych.”

“Well, but you know I’m quite right. However, I wish you all good luck

and a pleasant journey.”

We took a rather cold farewell of each other. The kind-hearted Maksim

Maksimych had become the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And why?

Because Pechorin, through absent-mindedness or from some other cause,

had extended his hand to him when Maksim Maksimych was going to throw

himself on his neck! Sad it is to see when a young man loses his best

hopes and dreams, when from before his eyes is withdrawn the rose-hued

veil through which he has looked upon the deeds and feelings of mankind;

although there is the hope that the old illusions will be replaced by

new ones, none the less evanescent, but, on the other hand, none the

less sweet. But wherewith can they be replaced when one is at the age

of Maksim Maksimych? Do what you will, the heart hardens and the soul

shrinks in upon itself.

I departed--alone.

FOREWORD TO BOOKS III, IV, AND V

CONCERNING PECHORIN’S DIARY

I LEARNED not long ago that Pechorin had died on his way back from

Persia. The news afforded me great delight; it gave me the right to

print these notes; and I have taken advantage of the opportunity of

putting my name at the head of another person’s productions. Heaven

grant that my readers may not punish me for such an innocent deception!

I must now give some explanation of the reasons which have induced me to

betray to the public the inmost secrets of a man whom I never knew. If I

had even been his friend, well and good: the artful indiscretion of the

true friend is intelligible to everybody; but I only saw Pechorin

once in my life--on the high-road--and, consequently, I cannot cherish

towards him that inexplicable hatred, which, hiding its face under the

mask of friendship, awaits but the death or misfortune of the beloved

object to burst over its head in a storm of reproaches, admonitions,

scoffs and regrets.

On reading over these notes, I have become convinced of the sincerity

of the man who has so unsparingly exposed to view his own weaknesses and

vices. The history of a man’s soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly

less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people;

especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature

mind upon itself, and has been written without any egoistical desire of

arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau’s Confessions has precisely

this defect--he read it to his friends.

And, so, it is nothing but the desire to be useful that has constrained

me to print fragments of this diary which fell into my hands by chance.

Although I have altered all the proper names, those who are mentioned

in it will probably recognise themselves, and, it may be, will find some

justification for actions for which they have hitherto blamed a man who

has ceased henceforth to have anything in common with this world. We

almost always excuse that which we understand.

I have inserted in this book only those portions of the diary which

refer to Pechorin’s sojourn in the Caucasus. There still remains in

my hands a thick writing-book in which he tells the story of his whole

life. Some time or other that, too, will present itself before the

tribunal of the world, but, for many and weighty reasons, I do not

venture to take such a responsibility upon myself now.

Possibly some readers would like to know my own opinion of Pechorin’s

character. My answer is: the title of this book. “But that is malicious

irony!” they will say... I know not.

BOOK III THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY

TAMAN

TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was

all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being

drowned.

I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired

troika [21] at the gate of the only stone-built house that stood at the

entrance to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing

the jingle of the bell, cried out, sleepily, in his barbarous voice,

“Who goes there?” An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough [22]

came out. I explained that I was an officer bound for the active-service

detachment on Government business, and I proceeded to demand official

quarters. The headborough conducted us round the town. Whatever hut we

drove up to we found to be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not

slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I began to lose my temper.

“Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!” I cried; “to the devil

himself, so long as there’s a place to put up at!”

“There is one other lodging,” answered the headborough, scratching his

head. “Only you won’t like it, sir. It is uncanny!”

Failing to grasp the exact signification of the last phrase, I ordered

him to go on, and, after a lengthy peregrination through muddy byways,

at the sides of which I could see nothing but old fences, we drove up to

a small cabin, right on the shore of the sea.

The full moon was shining on the little reed-thatched roof and the white

walls of my new dwelling. In the courtyard, which was surrounded by a

wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miserable hovel, smaller and

older than the first and all askew. The shore descended precipitously

to the sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, with incessant

murmur, plashed the dark-blue waves. The moon gazed softly upon the

watery element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able by its light

to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their

black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the

pale line of the horizon.

“There are vessels in the harbour,” I said to myself. “To-morrow I will

set out for Gelenjik.”

I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, a Cossack of the

frontier army. Ordering him to take down the portmanteau and dismiss

the driver, I began to call the master of the house. No answer! I

knocked--all was silent within!... What could it mean? At length a boy

of about fourteen crept out from the hall.

“Where is the master?”

“There isn’t one.”

“What! No master?”

“None!”

“And the mistress?”

“She has gone off to the village.”

“Who will open the door for me, then?” I said, giving it a kick.

The door opened of its own accord, and a breath of moisture-laden air

was wafted from the hut. I struck a lucifer match and held it to the

boy’s face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally blind, obviously so

from birth. He stood stock-still before me, and I began to examine his

features.

I confess that I have a violent prejudice against all blind, one-eyed,

deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have

observed that there is always a certain strange connection between a

man’s exterior and his soul; as, if when the body loses a limb, the soul

also loses some power of feeling.

And so I began to examine the blind boy’s face. But what could be read

upon a face from which the eyes are missing?... For a long time I gazed

at him with involuntary compassion, when suddenly a scarcely perceptible

smile flitted over his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most

unpleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a suspicion that the

blind boy was not so blind as he appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured

to convince myself that it was impossible to counterfeit cataracts; and

besides, what reason could there be for doing such a thing? But I could

not help my suspicions. I am easily swayed by prejudice...

“You are the master’s son?” I asked at length.

“No.”

“Who are you, then?”

“An orphan--a poor boy.”

“Has the mistress any children?”

“No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar.”

“What sort of a Tartar?”

“The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch.”

I entered the hut. Its whole furniture consisted of two benches and a

table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. There was not

a single ikon to be seen on the wall--a bad sign! The sea-wind burst

in through the broken window-pane. I drew a wax candle-end from my

portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and gun

I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the table. I spread my felt

cloak out on one bench, and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes

the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep--the image of the

boy with the white eyes kept hovering before me in the dark.

About an hour passed thus. The moon shone in at the window and its rays

played along the earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow flitted

across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. I

raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. Again somebody

ran by it and disappeared--goodness knows where! It seemed impossible

for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that

was the only thing that could have happened. I rose, threw on my tunic,

girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut.

The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by the fence, and he passed

by me with a sure but cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under

his arm. He turned towards the harbour and began to descend a steep and

narrow path.

“On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see,” I said to

myself, following him just close enough to keep him in sight.

Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had risen

upon the sea. The lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand

was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the shore there glimmered

the foam of the waves, which every moment threatened to submerge it.

Descending with difficulty, I stole along the steep declivity, and all

at once I saw the blind boy come to a standstill and then turn down to

the right. He walked so close to the water’s edge that it seemed as if

the waves would straightway seize him and carry him off. But, judging by

the confidence with which he stepped from rock to rock and avoided the

water-channels, this was evidently not the first time that he had made

that journey. Finally he stopped, as though listening for something,

squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel beside him.

Concealing myself behind a projecting rock on the shore, I kept watch

on his movements. After a few minutes a white figure made its appearance

from the opposite direction. It came up to the blind boy and sat down

beside him. At times the wind wafted their conversation to me.

“Well?” said a woman’s voice. “The storm is violent; Yanko will not be

here.”

“Yanko is not afraid of the storm!” the other replied.

“The mist is thickening,” rejoined the woman’s voice, sadness in its

tone.

“In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships,” was the

answer.

“And if he is drowned?”

“Well, what then? On Sunday you won’t have a new ribbon to go to church

in.”

An interval of silence followed. One thing, however, struck me--in

talking to me the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now

he was expressing himself in pure Russian.

“You see, I am right!” the blind boy went on, clapping his hands. “Yanko

is not afraid of sea, nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just listen!

That is not the water plashing, you can’t deceive me--it is his long

oars.”

The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance.

“You are raving!” she said. “I cannot see anything.”

I confess that, much as I tried to make out in the distance something

resembling a boat, my efforts were unsuccessful. About ten minutes

passed thus, when a black speck appeared between the mountains of the

waves! At one time it grew larger, at another smaller. Slowly rising

upon the crests of the waves and swiftly descending from them, the boat

drew near to the shore.

“He must be a brave sailor,” I thought, “to have determined to cross

the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a

weighty reason for doing so.”

Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at

the poor boat. It dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging

oars--like wings--it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of

the foam. “Ah!” I thought, “it will be dashed against the shore with all

its force and broken to pieces!” But it turned aside adroitly and leaped

unharmed into a little creek. Out of it stepped a man of medium height,

wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three set to

work to drag something out of the boat. The cargo was so large that, to

this day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat did not sink.

Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set off along the shore, and

I soon lost sight of them. I had to return home; but I confess I was

rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found it hard to

await the morning.

My Cossack was very much astonished when, on waking up, he saw me fully

dressed. I did not, however, tell him the reason. For some time I stood

at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue sky all studded with wisps

of cloud, and at the distant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a

lilac-coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the summit of which the

white tower of the lighthouse was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the

fortress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the Commandant at what

hour I should depart for Gelenjik.

But the Commandant, alas! could not give me any definite information.

The vessels lying in the harbour were all either guard-ships or

merchant-vessels which had not yet even begun to take in lading.

“Maybe in about three or four days’ time a mail-boat will come in,” said

the Commandant, “and then we shall see.”

I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a

frightened countenance.

“Things are looking bad, sir!” he said.

“Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away!”

Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said

in a whisper:

“It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer from the Black Sea

to-day--he’s an acquaintance of mine--he was in my detachment last year.

When I told him where we were staying, he said, ‘That place is uncanny,

old fellow; they’re wicked people there!’... And, indeed, what sort of

a blind boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch water and to buy

bread at the bazaar. It is evident they have become accustomed to that

sort of thing here.”

“Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in

an appearance?”

“During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived.”

“What daughter? She has no daughter!”

“Goodness knows who it can be if it isn’t her daughter; but the old

woman is sitting over there in the hut now.”

I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning in the stove, and they

were cooking a dinner which struck me as being a rather luxurious one

for poor people. To all my questions the old woman replied that she was

deaf and could not hear me. There was nothing to be got out of her. I

turned to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the stove, putting

twigs into the fire.

“Now, then, you little blind devil,” I said, taking him by the ear.

“Tell me, where were you roaming with the bundle last night, eh?”

The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing.

“Where did I go? I did not go anywhere... With the bundle?... What

bundle?”

This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter:

“Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you

touching him for? What has he done to you?”

I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved to find the key to the

riddle.

I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting down on a rock by the

fence, gazed into the distance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated

by the storm of the previous night, and its monotonous roar, like the

murmur of a town over which slumber is beginning to creep, recalled

bygone years to my mind, and transported my thoughts northward to our

cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I became oblivious of my

surroundings.

About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. Suddenly something

resembling a song struck upon my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a

woman’s, young and fresh--but, where was it coming from?... I listened;

it was a harmonious melody--now long-drawnout and plaintive, now swift

and lively. I looked around me--there was nobody to be seen. I listened

again--the sounds seemed to be falling from the sky. I raised my eyes.

On the roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a striped dress

and with her hair hanging loose--a regular water-nymph. Shading her eyes

from the sun’s rays with the palm of her hand, she was gazing intently

into the distance. At one time, she would laugh and talk to herself, at

another, she would strike up her song anew.

I have retained that song in my memory, word for word:

At their own free will

They seem to wander

O’er the green sea yonder,

Those ships, as still

They are onward going,

With white sails flowing.

And among those ships

My eye can mark

My own dear barque:

By two oars guided

(All unprovided

With sails) it slips.

The storm-wind raves:

And the old ships--see!

With wings spread free,

Over the waves

They scatter and flee!

The sea I will hail

With obeisance deep:

“Thou base one, hark!

Thou must not fail

My little barque

From harm to keep!”

For lo! ‘tis bearing

Most precious gear,

And brave and daring

The arms that steer

Within the dark

My little barque.

Involuntarily the thought occurred to me that I had heard the same voice

the night before. I reflected for a moment, and when I looked up at the

roof again there was no girl to be seen. Suddenly she darted past me,

with another song on her lips, and, snapping her fingers, she ran up

to the old woman. Thereupon a quarrel arose between them. The old

woman grew angry, and the girl laughed loudly. And then I saw my Undine

running and gambolling again. She came up to where I was, stopped, and

gazed fixedly into my face as if surprised at my presence. Then she

turned carelessly away and went quietly towards the harbour. But this

was not all. The whole day she kept hovering around my lodging, singing

and gambolling without a moment’s interruption. Strange creature! There

was not the slightest sign of insanity in her face; on the contrary, her

eyes, which were continually resting upon me, were bright and piercing.

Moreover, they seemed to be endowed with a certain magnetic power, and

each time they looked at me they appeared to be expecting a question.

But I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she would run, with a

sly smile.

Certainly never before had I seen a woman like her. She was by no means

beautiful; but, as in other matters, I have my own prepossessions on the

subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breeding in her... Breeding

in women, as in horses, is a great thing: a discovery, the credit of

which belongs to young France. It--that is to say, breeding, not young

France--is chiefly to be detected in the gait, in the hands and feet;

the nose, in particular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a

straight nose is rarer than a small foot.

My songstress appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. The

unusual suppleness of her figure, the characteristic and original way

she had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, the golden

sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and shoulders, and especially her

straight nose--all these held me fascinated. Although in her sidelong

glances I could read a certain wildness and disdain, although in

her smile there was a certain vagueness, yet--such is the force of

predilections--that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fancied

that I had found Goethe’s Mignon--that queer creature of his German

imagination. And, indeed, there was a good deal of similarity between

them; the same rapid transitions from the utmost restlessness to

complete immobility, the same enigmatical speeches, the same gambols,

the same strange songs.

Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following

conversation with her.

“Tell me, my beauty,” I asked, “what were you doing on the roof to-day?”

“I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing.”

“What did you want to know for?”

“Whence the wind blows comes happiness.”

“Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?”

“Where there is singing there is also happiness.”

“But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?”

“Well, what then? Where things won’t be better, they will be worse; and

from bad to good again is not far.”

“And who taught you that song?”

“Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to

hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not

understand it.”

“What is your name, my songstress?”

“He who baptized me knows.”

“And who baptized you?”

“How should I know?”

“What a secretive girl you are! But look here, I have learned something

about you”--she neither changed countenance nor moved her lips, as

though my discovery was of no concern to her--“I have learned that you

went to the shore last night.”

And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all that I had seen,

thinking that I should embarrass her. Not a bit of it! She burst out

laughing heartily.

“You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you

keep it under lock and key.”

“But supposing, now, I was to take it into my head to inform the

Commandant?” and here I assumed a very serious, not to say stern,

demeanour.

She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid herself like a bird

frightened out of a thicket. My last words were altogether out of place.

I had no suspicion then how momentous they were, but afterwards I had

occasion to rue them.

As soon as the dusk of evening fell, I ordered the Cossack to heat the

teapot, campaign fashion. I lighted a candle and sat down by the table,

smoking my travelling-pipe. I was just about to finish my second tumbler

of tea when suddenly the door creaked and I heard behind me the sound of

footsteps and the light rustle of a dress. I started and turned round.

It was she--my Undine. Softly and without saying a word she sat down

opposite to me and fixed her eyes upon me. Her glance seemed wondrously

tender, I know not why; it reminded me of one of those glances which,

in years gone by, so despotically played with my life. She seemed to be

waiting for a question, but I kept silence, filled with an inexplicable

sense of embarrassment. Mental agitation was evinced by the dull

pallor which overspread her countenance; her hand, which I noticed was

trembling slightly, moved aimlessly about the table. At one time her

breast heaved, and at another she seemed to be holding her breath. This

little comedy was beginning to pall upon me, and I was about to break

the silence in a most prosaic manner, that is, by offering her a glass

of tea; when suddenly, springing up, she threw her arms around my neck,

and I felt her moist, fiery lips pressed upon mine. Darkness came before

my eyes, my head began to swim. I embraced her with the whole strength

of youthful passion. But, like a snake, she glided from between my arms,

whispering in my ear as she did so:

“To-night, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore.”

Like an arrow she sprang from the room.

In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle which was standing on the

floor.

“Little devil!” cried the Cossack, who had taken up his position on the

straw and had contemplated warming himself with the remains of the tea.

It was only then that I recovered my senses.

In about two hours’ time, when all had grown silent in the harbour, I

awakened my Cossack.

“If I fire a pistol,” I said, “run to the shore.”

He stared open-eyed and answered mechanically:

“Very well, sir.”

I stuffed a pistol in my belt and went out. She was waiting for me

at the edge of the cliff. Her attire was more than light, and a small

kerchief girded her supple waist.

“Follow me!” she said, taking me by the hand, and we began to descend.

I cannot understand how it was that I did not break my neck. Down below

we turned to the right and proceeded to take the path along which I had

followed the blind boy the evening before. The moon had not yet risen,

and only two little stars, like two guardian lighthouses, were twinkling

in the dark-blue vault of heaven. The heavy waves, with measured and

even motion, rolled one after the other, scarcely lifting the solitary

boat which was moored to the shore.

“Let us get into the boat,” said my companion.

I hesitated. I am no lover of sentimental trips on the sea; but this was

not the time to draw back. She leaped into the boat, and I after her;

and I had not time to recover my wits before I observed that we were

adrift.

“What is the meaning of this?” I said angrily.

“It means,” she answered, seating me on the bench and throwing her arms

around my waist, “it means that I love you!”...

Her cheek was pressed close to mine, and I felt her burning breath upon

my face. Suddenly something fell noisily into the water. I clutched at

my belt--my pistol was gone! Ah, now a terrible suspicion crept into

my soul, and the blood rushed to my head! I looked round. We were about

fifty fathoms from the shore, and I could not swim a stroke! I tried

to thrust her away from me, but she clung like a cat to my clothes,

and suddenly a violent wrench all but threw me into the sea. The boat

rocked, but I righted myself, and a desperate struggle began.

Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I was no match for my

opponent in point of agility...

“What do you want?” I cried, firmly squeezing her little hands.

Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature bore up against the

torture, and she did not utter a cry.

“You saw us,” she answered. “You will tell on us.”

And, with a supernatural effort, she flung me on to the side of the

boat; we both hung half overboard; her hair touched the water. The

decisive moment had come. I planted my knee against the bottom of the

boat, caught her by the tresses with one hand and by the throat with the

other; she let go my clothes, and, in an instant, I had thrown her into

the waves.

It was now rather dark; once or twice her head appeared for an instant

amidst the sea foam, and I saw no more of her.

I found the half of an old oar at the bottom of the boat, and somehow or

other, after lengthy efforts, I made fast to the harbour. Making my way

along the shore towards my hut, I involuntarily gazed in the direction

of the spot where, on the previous night, the blind boy had awaited the

nocturnal mariner. The moon was already rolling through the sky, and it

seemed to me that somebody in white was sitting on the shore. Spurred by

curiosity, I crept up and crouched down in the grass on the top of the

cliff. By thrusting my head out a little way I was able to get a good

view of everything that was happening down below, and I was not very

much astonished, but almost rejoiced, when I recognised my water-nymph.

She was wringing the seafoam from her long hair. Her wet garment

outlined her supple figure and her high bosom.

Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it drew near rapidly; and, as on

the night before, a man in a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but he now

had his hair cropped round in the Cossack fashion, and a large knife was

sticking out behind his leather belt.

“Yanko,” the girl said, “all is lost!”

Then their conversation continued, but so softly that I could not catch

a word of it.

“But where is the blind boy?” said Yanko at last, raising his voice.

“I have told him to come,” was the reply.

After a few minutes the blind boy appeared, dragging on his back a sack,

which they placed in the boat.

“Listen!” said Yanko to the blind boy. “Guard that place! You know where

I mean? There are valuable goods there. Tell”--I could not catch the

name--“that I am no longer his servant. Things have gone badly. He will

see me no more. It is dangerous now. I will go seek work in another

place, and he will never be able to find another dare-devil like me.

Tell him also that if he had paid me a little better for my labours, I

would not have forsaken him. For me there is a way anywhere, if only the

wind blows and the sea roars.”

After a short silence Yanko continued.

“She is coming with me. It is impossible for her to remain here. Tell

the old woman that it is time for her to die; she has been here a long

time, and the line must be drawn somewhere. As for us, she will never

see us any more.”

“And I?” said the blind boy in a plaintive voice.

“What use have I for you?” was the answer.

In the meantime my Undine had sprung into the boat. She beckoned to her

companion with her hand. He placed something in the blind boy’s hand and

added:

“There, buy yourself some gingerbreads.”

“Is this all?” said the blind boy.

“Well, here is some more.”

The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock.

The blind boy did not pick it up. Yanko took his seat in the boat; the

wind was blowing from the shore; they hoisted the little sail and sped

rapidly away. For a long time the white sail gleamed in the moonlight

amid the dark waves. Still the blind boy remained seated upon the shore,

and then I heard something which sounded like sobbing. The blind boy

was, in fact, weeping, and for a long, long time his tears flowed... I

grew heavy-hearted. For what reason should fate have thrown me into the

peaceful circle of honourable smugglers? Like a stone cast into a smooth

well, I had disturbed their quietude, and I barely escaped going to the

bottom like a stone.

I returned home. In the hall the burnt-out candle was spluttering on

a wooden platter, and my Cossack, contrary to orders, was fast asleep,

with his gun held in both hands. I left him at rest, took the candle,

and entered the hut. Alas! my cashbox, my sabre with the silver chasing,

my Daghestan dagger--the gift of a friend--all had vanished! It was

then that I guessed what articles the cursed blind boy had been dragging

along. Roughly shaking the Cossack, I woke him up, rated him, and lost

my temper. But what was the good of that? And would it not have been

ridiculous to complain to the authorities that I had been robbed by a

blind boy and all but drowned by an eighteen-year-old girl?

Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away presented itself in the

morning, and I left Taman.

What became of the old woman and the poor blind boy I know not.

And, besides, what are the joys and sorrows of mankind to me--me, a

travelling officer, and one, moreover, with an order for post-horses on

Government business?

BOOK IV THE SECOND EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY

THE FATALIST

I ONCE happened to spend a couple of weeks in a Cossack village on our

left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there; and it was the

custom of the officers to meet at each other’s quarters in turn and play

cards in the evening.

On one occasion--it was at Major S----‘s--finding our game of Boston not

sufficiently absorbing, we threw the cards under the table and sat

on for a long time, talking. The conversation, for once in a way, was

interesting. The subject was the Mussulman tradition that a man’s fate

is written in heaven, and we discussed the fact that it was gaining many

votaries, even amongst our own countrymen. Each of us related various

extraordinary occurrences, pro or contra.

“What you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing,” said the old

major. “I presume there is not one of you who has actually been a

witness of the strange events which you are citing in support of your

opinions?”

“Not one, of course,” said many of the guests. “But we have heard of

them from trustworthy people.”...

“It is all nonsense!” someone said. “Where are the trustworthy people

who have seen the Register in which the appointed hour of our death is

recorded?... And if predestination really exists, why are free will

and reason granted us? Why are we obliged to render an account of our

actions?”

At that moment an officer who was sitting in a corner of the room stood

up, and, coming slowly to the table, surveyed us all with a quiet and

solemn glance. He was a native of Servia, as was evident from his name.

The outward appearance of Lieutenant Vulich was quite in keeping with

his character. His height, swarthy complexion, black hair, piercing

black eyes, large but straight nose--an attribute of his nation--and the

cold and melancholy smile which ever hovered around his lips, all seemed

to concur in lending him the appearance of a man apart, incapable of

reciprocating the thoughts and passions of those whom fate gave him for

companions.

He was brave; talked little, but sharply; confided his thoughts and

family secrets to no one; drank hardly a drop of wine; and never dangled

after the young Cossack girls, whose charm it is difficult to realise

without having seen them. It was said, however, that the colonel’s

wife was not indifferent to those expressive eyes of his; but he was

seriously angry if any hint on the subject was made.

There was only one passion which he did not conceal--the passion for

gambling. At the green table he would become oblivious of everything. He

usually lost, but his constant ill success only aroused his obstinacy.

It was related that, on one occasion, during a nocturnal expedition,

he was keeping the bank on a pillow, and had a terrific run of luck.

Suddenly shots rang out. The alarm was sounded; all but Vulich jumped up

and rushed to arms.

“Stake, va banque!” he cried to one of the most ardent gamblers.

“Seven,” the latter answered as he hurried off.

Notwithstanding the general confusion, Vulich calmly finished the

deal--seven was the card. By the time he reached the cordon a violent

fusillade was in progress. Vulich did not trouble himself about the

bullets or the sabres of the Chechenes, but sought for the lucky

gambler.

“Seven it was!” he cried out, as at length he perceived him in the

cordon of skirmishers who were beginning to dislodge the enemy from the

wood; and going up to him, he drew out his purse and pocket-book and

handed them to the winner, notwithstanding the latter’s objections on

the score of the inconvenience of the payment. That unpleasant duty

discharged, Vulich dashed forward, carried the soldiers along after him,

and, to the very end of the affair, fought the Chechenes with the utmost

coolness.

When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, we all became silent,

expecting to hear, as usual, something original.

“Gentlemen!” he said--and his voice was quiet though lower in tone than

usual--“gentlemen, what is the good of futile discussions? You wish for

proofs? I propose that we try the experiment on ourselves: whether a man

can of his own accord dispose of his life, or whether the fateful moment

is appointed beforehand for each of us. Who is agreeable?”

“Not I. Not I,” came from all sides.

“There’s a queer fellow for you! He does get strange ideas into his

head!”

“I propose a wager,” I said in jest.

“What sort of wager?”

“I maintain that there is no such thing as predestination,” I said,

scattering on the table a score or so of ducats--all I had in my pocket.

“Done,” answered Vulich in a hollow voice. “Major, you will be judge.

Here are fifteen ducats, the remaining five you owe me, kindly add them

to the others.”

“Very well,” said the major; “though, indeed, I do not understand what

is the question at issue and how you will decide it!”

Without a word Vulich went into the major’s bedroom, and we followed

him. He went up to the wall on which the major’s weapons were hanging,

and took down at random one of the pistols--of which there were several

of different calibres. We were still in the dark as to what he meant

to do. But, when he cocked the pistol and sprinkled powder in the pan,

several of the officers, crying out in spite of themselves, seized him

by the arms.

“What are you going to do?” they exclaimed. “This is madness!”

“Gentlemen!” he said slowly, disengaging his arm. “Who would like to pay

twenty ducats for me?”

They were silent and drew away.

Vulich went into the other room and sat by the table; we all followed

him. With a sign he invited us to sit round him. We obeyed in

silence--at that moment he had acquired a certain mysterious authority

over us. I stared fixedly into his face; but he met my scrutinising

gaze with a quiet and steady glance, and his pallid lips smiled. But,

notwithstanding his composure, it seemed to me that I could read the

stamp of death upon his pale countenance. I have noticed--and many old

soldiers have corroborated my observation--that a man who is to die in

a few hours frequently bears on his face a certain strange stamp of

inevitable fate, so that it is difficult for practised eyes to be

mistaken.

“You will die to-day!” I said to Vulich.

He turned towards me rapidly, but answered slowly and quietly:

“May be so, may be not.”...

Then, addressing himself to the major, he asked:

“Is the pistol loaded?”

The major, in the confusion, could not quite remember.

“There, that will do, Vulich!” exclaimed somebody. “Of course it must be

loaded, if it was one of those hanging on the wall there over our heads.

What a man you are for joking!”

“A silly joke, too!” struck in another.

“I wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!” cried a

third.

A new bet was made.

I was beginning to get tired of it all.

“Listen,” I said, “either shoot yourself, or hang up the pistol in its

place and let us go to bed.”

“Yes, of course!” many exclaimed. “Let us go to bed.”

“Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move,” said Vulich, putting the muzzle

of the pistol to his forehead.

We were all petrified.

“Mr. Pechorin,” he added, “take a card and throw it up in the air.”

I took, as I remember now, an ace of hearts off the table and threw

it into the air. All held their breath. With eyes full of terror and

a certain vague curiosity they glanced rapidly from the pistol to the

fateful ace, which slowly descended, quivering in the air. At the moment

it touched the table Vulich pulled the trigger... a flash in the pan!

“Thank God!” many exclaimed. “It wasn’t loaded!”

“Let us see, though,” said Vulich.

He cocked the pistol again, and took aim at a forage-cap which was

hanging above the window. A shot rang out. Smoke filled the room; when

it cleared away, the forage-cap was taken down. It had been shot right

through the centre, and the bullet was deeply embedded in the wall.

For two or three minutes no one was able to utter a word. Very quietly

Vulich poured my ducats from the major’s purse into his own.

Discussions arose as to why the pistol had not gone off the first

time. Some maintained that probably the pan had been obstructed; others

whispered that the powder had been damp the first time, and that,

afterwards, Vulich had sprinkled some fresh powder on it; but I

maintained that the last supposition was wrong, because I had not once

taken my eyes off the pistol.

“You are lucky at play!” I said to Vulich...

“For the first time in my life!” he answered, with a complacent smile.

“It is better than ‘bank’ and ‘shtoss.’” [23]

“But, on the other hand, slightly more dangerous!”

“Well? Have you begun to believe in predestination?”

“I do believe in it; only I cannot understand now why it appeared to me

that you must inevitably die to-day!”

And this same man, who, such a short time before, had with the greatest

calmness aimed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly fired up and

became embarrassed.

“That will do, though!” he said, rising to his feet. “Our wager is

finished, and now your observations, it seems to me, are out of place.”

He took up his cap and departed. The whole affair struck me as being

strange--and not without reason. Shortly after that, all the officers

broke up and went home, discussing Vulich’s freaks from different points

of view, and, doubtless, with one voice calling me an egoist for having

taken up a wager against a man who wanted to shoot himself, as if he

could not have found a convenient opportunity without my intervention.

I returned home by the deserted byways of the village. The moon, full

and red like the glow of a conflagration, was beginning to make its

appearance from behind the jagged horizon of the house-tops; the stars

were shining tranquilly in the deep, blue vault of the sky; and I was

struck by the absurdity of the idea when I recalled to mind that once

upon a time there were some exceedingly wise people who thought that the

stars of heaven participated in our insignificant squabbles for a slice

of ground, or some other imaginary rights. And what then? These lamps,

lighted, so they fancied, only to illuminate their battles and triumphs,

are burning with all their former brilliance, whilst the wiseacres

themselves, together with their hopes and passions, have long been

extinguished, like a little fire kindled at the edge of a forest by a

careless wayfarer! But, on the other hand, what strength of will

was lent them by the conviction that the entire heavens, with

their innumerable habitants, were looking at them with a sympathy,

unalterable, though mute!... And we, their miserable descendants,

roaming over the earth, without faith, without pride, without enjoyment,

and without terror--except that involuntary awe which makes the heart

shrink at the thought of the inevitable end--we are no longer capable

of great sacrifices, either for the good of mankind or even for our own

happiness, because we know the impossibility of such happiness; and,

just as our ancestors used to fling themselves from one delusion to

another, we pass indifferently from doubt to doubt, without possessing,

as they did, either hope or even that vague though, at the same time,

keen enjoyment which the soul encounters at every struggle with mankind

or with destiny.

These and many other similar thoughts passed through my mind, but I

did not follow them up, because I do not like to dwell upon abstract

ideas--for what do they lead to? In my early youth I was a dreamer; I

loved to hug to my bosom the images--now gloomy, now rainbowhued--which

my restless and eager imagination drew for me. And what is there left to

me of all these? Only such weariness as might be felt after a battle by

night with a phantom--only a confused memory full of regrets. In that

vain contest I have exhausted the warmth of soul and firmness of will

indispensable to an active life. I have entered upon that life after

having already lived through it in thought, and it has become wearisome

and nauseous to me, as the reading of a bad imitation of a book is to

one who has long been familiar with the original.

The events of that evening produced a somewhat deep impression upon me

and excited my nerves. I do not know for certain whether I now believe

in predestination or not, but on that evening I believed in it firmly.

The proof was startling, and I, notwithstanding that I had laughed at

our forefathers and their obliging astrology, fell involuntarily into

their way of thinking. However, I stopped myself in time from following

that dangerous road, and, as I have made it a rule not to reject

anything decisively and not to trust anything blindly, I cast

metaphysics aside and began to look at what was beneath my feet. The

precaution was well-timed. I only just escaped stumbling over something

thick and soft, but, to all appearance, inanimate. I bent down to see

what it was, and, by the light of the moon, which now shone right upon

the road, I perceived that it was a pig which had been cut in two with

a sabre... I had hardly time to examine it before I heard the sound of

steps, and two Cossacks came running out of a byway. One of them came up

to me and enquired whether I had seen a drunken Cossack chasing a pig.

I informed him that I had not met the Cossack and pointed to the unhappy

victim of his rabid bravery.

“The scoundrel!” said the second Cossack. “No sooner does he drink his

fill of chikhir [24] than off he goes and cuts up anything that comes in

his way. Let us be after him, Eremeich, we must tie him up or else”...

They took themselves off, and I continued my way with greater caution,

and at length arrived at my lodgings without mishap.

I was living with a certain old Cossack underofficer whom I loved,

not only on account of his kindly disposition, but also, and more

especially, on account of his pretty daughter, Nastya.

Wrapped up in a sheepskin coat she was waiting for me, as usual, by the

wicket gate. The moon illumined her charming little lips, now turned

blue by the cold of the night. Recognizing me she smiled; but I was in

no mood to linger with her.

“Good night, Nastya!” I said, and passed on.

She was about to make some answer, but only sighed.

I fastened the door of my room after me, lighted a candle, and threw

myself on the bed; but, on that occasion, slumber caused its presence

to be awaited longer than usual. By the time I fell asleep the east was

beginning to grow pale, but I was evidently predestined not to have

my sleep out. At four o’clock in the morning two fists knocked at my

window. I sprang up.

“What is the matter?”

“Get up--dress yourself!”

I dressed hurriedly and went out.

“Do you know what has happened?” said three officers who had come for

me, speaking all in one voice.

They were deadly pale.

“No, what is it?”

“Vulich has been murdered!”

I was petrified.

“Yes, murdered!” they continued. “Let us lose no time and go!”

“But where to?”

“You will learn as we go.”

We set off. They told me all that had happened, supplementing their

story with a variety of observations on the subject of the strange

predestination which had saved Vulich from imminent death half an hour

before he actually met his end.

Vulich had been walking alone along a dark street, and the drunken

Cossack who had cut up the pig had sprung out upon him, and perhaps

would have passed him by without noticing him, had not Vulich stopped

suddenly and said:

“Whom are you looking for, my man?”

“You!” answered the Cossack, striking him with his sabre; and he cleft

him from the shoulder almost to the heart...

The two Cossacks who had met me and followed the murderer had arrived on

the scene and raised the wounded man from the ground. But he was already

at his last gasp and said these three words only--“he was right!”

I alone understood the dark significance of those words: they referred

to me. I had involuntarily foretold his fate to poor Vulich. My instinct

had not deceived me; I had indeed read on his changed countenance the

signs of approaching death.

The murderer had locked himself up in an empty hut at the end of the

village; and thither we went. A number of women, all of them weeping,

were running in the same direction; at times a belated Cossack, hastily

buckling on his dagger, sprang out into the street and overtook us at a

run. The tumult was dreadful.

At length we arrived on the scene and found a crowd standing around the

hut, the door and shutters of which were locked on the inside. Groups of

officers and Cossacks were engaged in heated discussions; the women were

shrieking, wailing and talking all in one breath. One of the old

women struck my attention by her meaning looks and the frantic despair

expressed upon her face. She was sitting on a thick plank, leaning her

elbows on her knees and supporting her head with her hands. It was the

mother of the murderer. At times her lips moved... Was it a prayer they

were whispering, or a curse?

Meanwhile it was necessary to decide upon some course of action and to

seize the criminal. Nobody, however, made bold to be the first to rush

forward.

I went up to the window and looked in through a chink in the shutter.

The criminal, pale of face, was lying on the floor, holding a pistol in

his right hand. The blood-stained sabre was beside him. His expressive

eyes were rolling in terror; at times he shuddered and clutched at his

head, as if indistinctly recalling the events of yesterday. I could not

read any sign of great determination in that uneasy glance of his, and

I told the major that it would be better at once to give orders to the

Cossacks to burst open the door and rush in, than to wait until the

murderer had quite recovered his senses.

At that moment the old captain of the Cossacks went up to the door and

called the murderer by name. The latter answered back.

“You have committed a sin, brother Ephimych!” said the captain, “so all

you can do now is to submit.”

“I will not submit!” answered the Cossack.

“Have you no fear of God! You see, you are not one of those cursed

Chechenes, but an honest Christian! Come, if you have done it in an

unguarded moment there is no help for it! You cannot escape your fate!”

“I will not submit!” exclaimed the Cossack menacingly, and we could hear

the snap of the cocked trigger.

“Hey, my good woman!” said the Cossack captain to the old woman. “Say a

word to your son--perhaps he will lend an ear to you... You see, to go

on like this is only to make God angry. And look, the gentlemen here

have already been waiting two hours.”

The old woman gazed fixedly at him and shook her head.

“Vasili Petrovich,” said the captain, going up to the major; “he will

not surrender. I know him! If it comes to smashing in the door he will

strike down several of our men. Would it not be better if you ordered

him to be shot? There is a wide chink in the shutter.”

At that moment a strange idea flashed through my head--like Vulich I

proposed to put fate to the test.

“Wait,” I said to the major, “I will take him alive.”

Bidding the captain enter into a conversation with the murderer and

setting three Cossacks at the door ready to force it open and rush to my

aid at a given signal, I walked round the hut and approached the fatal

window. My heart was beating violently.

“Aha, you cursed wretch!” cried the captain. “Are you laughing at us,

eh? Or do you think that we won’t be able to get the better of you?”

He began to knock at the door with all his might. Putting my eye to the

chink, I followed the movements of the Cossack, who was not expecting an

attack from that direction. I pulled the shutter away suddenly and threw

myself in at the window, head foremost. A shot rang out right over my

ear, and the bullet tore off one of my epaulettes. But the smoke which

filled the room prevented my adversary from finding the sabre which was

lying beside him. I seized him by the arms; the Cossacks burst in; and

three minutes had not elapsed before they had the criminal bound and led

off under escort.

The people dispersed, the officers congratulated me--and indeed there

was cause for congratulation.

After all that, it would hardly seem possible to avoid becoming a

fatalist? But who knows for certain whether he is convinced of anything

or not? And how often is a deception of the senses or an error of the

reason accepted as a conviction!... I prefer to doubt everything. Such a

disposition is no bar to decision of character; on the contrary, so far

as I am concerned, I always advance more boldly when I do not know what

is awaiting me. You see, nothing can happen worse than death--and from

death there is no escape.

On my return to the fortress I related to Maksim Maksimych all that

I had seen and experienced; and I sought to learn his opinion on the

subject of predestination.

At first he did not understand the word. I explained it to him as well

as I could, and then he said, with a significant shake of the head:

“Yes, sir, of course! It was a very ingenious trick! However, these

Asiatic pistols often miss fire if they are badly oiled or if you don’t

press hard enough on the trigger. I confess I don’t like the Circassian

carbines either. Somehow or other they don’t suit the like of us: the

butt end is so small, and any minute you may get your nose burnt! On the

other hand, their sabres, now--well, all I need say is, my best respects

to them!”

Afterwards he said, on reflecting a little:

“Yes, it is a pity about the poor fellow! The devil must have put it

into his head to start a conversation with a drunken man at night!

However, it is evident that fate had written it so at his birth!”

I could not get anything more out of Maksim Maksimych; generally

speaking, he had no liking for metaphysical disputations.

BOOK V THE THIRD EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY

PRINCESS MARY

CHAPTER I. 11th May.

YESTERDAY I arrived at Pyatigorsk. I have engaged lodgings at the

extreme end of the town, the highest part, at the foot of Mount Mashuk:

during a storm the clouds will descend on to the roof of my dwelling.

This morning at five o’clock, when I opened my window, the room was

filled with the fragrance of the flowers growing in the modest little

front-garden. Branches of bloom-laden bird-cherry trees peep in at my

window, and now and again the breeze bestrews my writing-table with

their white petals. The view which meets my gaze on three sides is

wonderful: westward towers five-peaked Beshtau, blue as “the last cloud

of a dispersed storm,” [25] and northward rises Mashuk, like a shaggy

Persian cap, shutting in the whole of that quarter of the horizon.

Eastward the outlook is more cheery: down below are displayed the

varied hues of the brand-new, spotlessly clean, little town, with its

murmuring, health-giving springs and its babbling, many-tongued throng.

Yonder, further away, the mountains tower up in an amphitheatre, ever

bluer and mistier; and, at the edge of the horizon, stretches the

silver chain of snow-clad summits, beginning with Kazbek and ending with

two-peaked Elbruz... Blithe is life in such a land! A feeling akin to

rapture is diffused through all my veins. The air is pure and fresh,

like the kiss of a child; the sun is bright, the sky is blue--what more

could one possibly wish for? What need, in such a place as this, of

passions, desires, regrets?

However, it is time to be stirring. I will go to the Elizaveta spring--I

am told that the whole society of the watering-place assembles there in

the morning.

*****

Descending into the middle of the town, I walked along the boulevard,

on which I met a few melancholy groups slowly ascending the mountain.

These, for the most part, were the families of landed-gentry from the

steppes--as could be guessed at once from the threadbare, old-fashioned

frock-coats of the husbands and the exquisite attire of the wives

and daughters. Evidently they already had all the young men of the

watering-place at their fingers’ ends, because they looked at me with

a tender curiosity. The Petersburg cut of my coat misled them; but

they soon recognised the military epaulettes, and turned away with

indignation.

The wives of the local authorities--the hostesses, so to speak, of the

waters--were more graciously inclined. They carry lorgnettes, and they

pay less attention to a uniform--they have grown accustomed in the

Caucasus to meeting a fervid heart beneath a numbered button and a

cultured intellect beneath a white forage-cap. These ladies are very

charming, and long continue to be charming. Each year their adorers

are exchanged for new ones, and in that very fact, it may be, lies the

secret of their unwearying amiability.

Ascending by the narrow path to the Elizaveta spring, I overtook a crowd

of officials and military men, who, as I subsequently learned, compose a

class apart amongst those who place their hopes in the medicinal waters.

They drink--but not water--take but few walks, indulge in only mild

flirtations, gamble, and complain of boredom.

They are dandies. In letting their wicker-sheathed tumblers down into

the well of sulphurous water they assume academical poses. The officials

wear bright blue cravats; the military men have ruffs sticking out above

their collars. They affect a profound contempt for provincial ladies,

and sigh for the aristocratic drawing-rooms of the capitals--to which

they are not admitted.

Here is the well at last!... Upon the small square adjoining it a little

house with a red roof over the bath is erected, and somewhat further on

there is a gallery in which the people walk when it rains. Some wounded

officers were sitting--pale and melancholy--on a bench, with their

crutches drawn up. A few ladies, their tumbler of water finished, were

walking with rapid steps to and fro about the square. There were two or

three pretty faces amongst them. Beneath the avenues of the vines with

which the slope of Mashuk is covered, occasional glimpses could be

caught of the gay-coloured hat of a lover of solitude for two--for

beside that hat I always noticed either a military forage-cap or the

ugly round hat of a civilian. Upon the steep cliff, where the pavilion

called “The Aeolian Harp” is erected, figured the lovers of scenery,

directing their telescopes upon Elbruz. Amongst them were a couple of

tutors, with their pupils who had come to be cured of scrofula.

Out of breath, I came to a standstill at the edge of the mountain, and,

leaning against the corner of a little house, I began to examine the

picturesque surroundings, when suddenly I heard behind me a familiar

voice.

“Pechorin! Have you been here long?”

I turned round. Grushnitski! We embraced. I had made his acquaintance

in the active service detachment. He had been wounded in the foot by a

bullet and had come to the waters a week or so before me.

Grushnitski is a cadet; he has only been a year in the service. From

a kind of foppery peculiar to himself, he wears the thick cloak of a

common soldier. He has also the soldier’s cross of St. George. He is

well built, swarthy and black-haired. To look at him, you might say he

was a man of twenty-five, although he is scarcely twenty-one. He tosses

his head when he speaks, and keeps continually twirling his moustache

with his left hand, his right hand being occupied with the crutch on

which he leans. He speaks rapidly and affectedly; he is one of those

people who have a high-sounding phrase ready for every occasion in

life, who remain untouched by simple beauty, and who drape themselves

majestically in extraordinary sentiments, exalted passions and

exceptional sufferings. To produce an effect is their delight; they have

an almost insensate fondness for romantic provincial ladies. When

old age approaches they become either peaceful landed-gentry or

drunkards--sometimes both. Frequently they have many good qualities,

but they have not a grain of poetry in their composition. Grushnitski’s

passion was declamation. He would deluge you with words so soon as the

conversation went beyond the sphere of ordinary ideas. I have never been

able to dispute with him. He neither answers your questions nor listens

to you. So soon as you stop, he begins a lengthy tirade, which has

the appearance of being in some sort connected with what you have been

saying, but which is, in fact, only a continuation of his own harangue.

He is witty enough; his epigrams are frequently amusing, but never

malicious, nor to the point. He slays nobody with a single word; he has

no knowledge of men and of their foibles, because all his life he has

been interested in nobody but himself. His aim is to make himself the

hero of a novel. He has so often endeavoured to convince others that he

is a being created not for this world and doomed to certain mysterious

sufferings, that he has almost convinced himself that such he is in

reality. Hence the pride with which he wears his thick soldier’s cloak.

I have seen through him, and he dislikes me for that reason, although

to outward appearance we are on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitski

is looked upon as a man of distinguished courage. I have seen him in

action. He waves his sabre, shouts, and hurls himself forward with his

eyes shut. That is not what I should call Russian courage!...

I reciprocate Grushnitski’s dislike. I feel that some time or other we

shall come into collision upon a narrow road, and that one of us will

fare badly.

His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of his romantic

fanaticism. I am convinced that on the eve of his departure from his

paternal village he said with an air of gloom to some pretty neighbour

that he was going away, not so much for the simple purpose of serving

in the army as of seeking death, because... and hereupon, I am sure,

he covered his eyes with his hand and continued thus, “No, you--or

thou--must not know! Your pure soul would shudder! And what would be the

good? What am I to you? Could you understand me?”... and so on.

He has himself told me that the motive which induced him to enter the

K----regiment must remain an everlasting secret between him and Heaven.

However, in moments when he casts aside the tragic mantle, Grushnitski

is charming and entertaining enough. I am always interested to see him

with women--it is then that he puts forth his finest efforts, I think!

We met like a couple of old friends. I began to question him about

the personages of note and as to the sort of life which was led at the

waters.

“It is a rather prosaic life,” he said, with a sigh. “Those who drink

the waters in the morning are inert--like all invalids, and those who

drink the wines in the evening are unendurable--like all healthy people!

There are ladies who entertain, but there is no great amusement to be

obtained from them. They play whist, they dress badly and speak French

dreadfully! The only Moscow people here this year are Princess Ligovski

and her daughter--but I am not acquainted with them. My soldier’s cloak

is like a seal of renunciation. The sympathy which it arouses is as

painful as charity.”

At that moment two ladies walked past us in the direction of the well;

one elderly, the other youthful and slender. I could not obtain a good

view of their faces on account of their hats, but they were dressed in

accordance with the strict rules of the best taste--nothing superfluous.

The second lady was wearing a high-necked dress of pearl-grey, and a

light silk kerchief was wound round her supple neck. Puce-coloured boots

clasped her slim little ankle so charmingly, that even those uninitiated

into the mysteries of beauty would infallibly have sighed, if only from

wonder. There was something maidenly in her easy, but aristocratic gait,

something eluding definition yet intelligible to the glance. As she

walked past us an indefinable perfume, like that which sometimes

breathes from the note of a charming woman, was wafted from her.

“Look!” said Grushnitski, “there is Princess Ligovski with her daughter

Mary, as she calls her after the English manner. They have been here

only three days.”

“You already know her name, though?”

“Yes, I heard it by chance,” he answered, with a blush. “I confess I do

not desire to make their acquaintance. These haughty aristocrats look

upon us army men just as they would upon savages. What care they if

there is an intellect beneath a numbered forage-cap, and a heart beneath

a thick cloak?”

“Poor cloak!” I said, with a laugh. “But who is the gentleman who is

just going up to them and handing them a tumbler so officiously?”

“Oh, that is Raevich, the Moscow dandy. He is a gambler; you can see

as much at once from that immense gold chain coiling across his

skyblue waistcoat. And what a thick cane he has! Just like Robinson

Crusoe’s--and so is his beard too, and his hair is done like a

peasant’s.”

“You are embittered against the whole human race?”

“And I have cause to be”...

“Oh, really?”

At that moment the ladies left the well and came up to where we were.

Grushnitski succeeded in assuming a dramatic pose with the aid of his

crutch, and in a loud tone of voice answered me in French:

“Mon cher, je hais les hommes pour ne pas les mepriser, car autrement la

vie serait une farce trop degoutante.”

The pretty Princess Mary turned round and favoured the orator with a

long and curious glance. Her expression was quite indefinite, but it was

not contemptuous, a fact on which I inwardly congratulated Grushnitski

from my heart.

“She is an extremely pretty girl,” I said. “She has such velvet

eyes--yes, velvet is the word. I should advise you to appropriate the

expression when speaking of her eyes. The lower and upper lashes are

so long that the sunbeams are not reflected in her pupils. I love those

eyes without a glitter, they are so soft that they appear to caress you.

However, her eyes seem to be her only good feature... Tell me, are her

teeth white? That is most important! It is a pity that she did not smile

at that high-sounding phrase of yours.”

“You are speaking of a pretty woman just as you might of an English

horse,” said Grushnitski indignantly.

“Mon cher,” I answered, trying to mimic his tone, “je meprise les

femmes, pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un melodrame

trop ridicule.”

I turned and left him. For half an hour or so I walked about the avenues

of the vines, the limestone cliffs and the bushes hanging between them.

The day grew hot, and I hurried homewards. Passing the sulphur spring,

I stopped at the covered gallery in order to regain my breath under its

shade, and by so doing I was afforded the opportunity of witnessing a

rather interesting scene. This is the position in which the dramatis

personae were disposed: Princess Ligovski and the Moscow dandy were

sitting on a bench in the covered gallery--apparently engaged in serious

conversation. Princess Mary, who had doubtless by this time finished her

last tumbler, was walking pensively to and fro by the well. Grushnitski

was standing by the well itself; there was nobody else on the square.

I went up closer and concealed myself behind a corner of the gallery.

At that moment Grushnitski let his tumbler fall on the sand and made

strenuous efforts to stoop in order to pick it up; but his injured foot

prevented him. Poor fellow! How he tried all kinds of artifices, as he

leaned on his crutch, and all in vain! His expressive countenance was,

in fact, a picture of suffering.

Princess Mary saw the whole scene better than I.

Lighter than a bird she sprang towards him, stooped, picked up the

tumbler, and handed it to him with a gesture full of ineffable charm.

Then she blushed furiously, glanced round at the gallery, and, having

assured herself that her mother apparently had not seen anything,

immediately regained her composure. By the time Grushnitski had opened

his mouth to thank her she was a long way off. A moment after, she came

out of the gallery with her mother and the dandy, but, in passing by

Grushnitski, she assumed a most decorous and serious air. She did not

even turn round, she did not even observe the passionate gaze which he

kept fixed upon her for a long time until she had descended the mountain

and was hidden behind the lime trees of the boulevard... Presently I

caught glimpses of her hat as she walked along the street. She hurried

through the gate of one of the best houses in Pyatigorsk; her mother

walked behind her and bowed adieu to Raevich at the gate.

It was only then that the poor, passionate cadet noticed my presence.

“Did you see?” he said, pressing my hand vigorously. “She is an angel,

simply an angel!”

“Why?” I inquired, with an air of the purest simplicity.

“Did you not see, then?”

“No. I saw her picking up your tumbler. If there had been an attendant

there he would have done the same thing--and quicker too, in the hope

of receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to understand that she

pitied you; you made such a terrible grimace when you walked on the

wounded foot.”

“And can it be that seeing her, as you did, at that moment when her soul

was shining in her eyes, you were not in the least affected?”

“No.”

I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I have an innate passion

for contradiction--my whole life has been nothing but a series of

melancholy and vain contradictions of heart or reason. The presence of

an enthusiast chills me with a twelfth-night cold, and I believe

that constant association with a person of a flaccid and phlegmatic

temperament would have turned me into an impassioned visionary. I

confess, too, that an unpleasant but familiar sensation was coursing

lightly through my heart at that moment. It was--envy. I say “envy”

boldly, because I am accustomed to acknowledge everything to myself.

It would be hard to find a young man who, if his idle fancy had been

attracted by a pretty woman and he had suddenly found her openly

singling out before his eyes another man equally unknown to her--it

would be hard, I say, to find such a young man (living, of course, in

the great world and accustomed to indulge his self-love) who would not

have been unpleasantly taken aback in such a case.

In silence Grushnitski and I descended the mountain and walked along

the boulevard, past the windows of the house where our beauty had hidden

herself. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitski, plucking me by the

arm, cast upon her one of those gloomily tender glances which have so

little effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, and observed

that she smiled at his glance and that my insolent lorgnette made

her downright angry. And how, indeed, should a Caucasian military man

presume to direct his eyeglass at a princess from Moscow?...