NEXT morning, having received orders from the supreme authority to
betake myself to the N----Fortress, I called upon Princess Ligovski to
say good-bye.
She was surprised when, in answer to her question, whether I had not
anything of special importance to tell her, I said I had come to wish
her good-bye, and so on.
“But I must have a very serious talk with you.”
I sat down in silence.
It was clear that she did not know how to begin; her face grew livid,
she tapped the table with her plump fingers; at length, in a broken
voice, she said:
“Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you are a gentleman.”
I bowed.
“Nay, I am sure of it,” she continued, “although your behaviour is
somewhat equivocal, but you may have reasons which I do not know; and
you must now confide them to me. You have protected my daughter from
slander, you have fought a duel on her behalf--consequently you have
risked your life... Do not answer. I know that you will not acknowledge
it because Grushnitski has been killed”--she crossed herself. “God
forgive him--and you too, I hope... That does not concern me... I dare
not condemn you because my daughter, although innocently, has been
the cause. She has told me everything... everything, I think. You have
declared your love for her... She has admitted hers to you.”--Here
Princess Ligovski sighed heavily.--“But she is ill, and I am certain
that it is no simple illness! Secret grief is killing her; she will not
confess, but I am convinced that you are the cause of it... Listen:
you think, perhaps, that I am looking for rank or immense wealth--be
undeceived, my daughter’s happiness is my sole desire. Your present
position is unenviable, but it may be bettered: you have means; my
daughter loves you; she has been brought up in such a way that she will
make her husband a happy man. I am wealthy, she is my only child... Tell
me, what is keeping you back?... You see, I ought not to be saying all
this to you, but I rely upon your heart, upon your honour--remember she
is my only daughter... my only one”...
She burst into tears.
“Princess,” I said, “it is impossible for me to answer you; allow me to
speak to your daughter, alone”...
“Never!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair in violent agitation.
“As you wish,” I answered, preparing to go away.
She fell into thought, made a sign to me with her hand that I should
wait a little, and left the room.
Five minutes passed. My heart was beating violently, but my thoughts
were tranquil, my head cool. However assiduously I sought in my breast
for even a spark of love for the charming Mary, my efforts were of no
avail!
Then the door opened, and she entered. Heavens! How she had changed
since I had last seen her--and that but a short time ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she staggered. I jumped up,
gave her my arm, and led her to a chair.
I stood facing her. We remained silent for a long time; her large eyes,
full of unutterable grief, seemed to be searching in mine for something
resembling hope; her wan lips vainly endeavoured to smile; her tender
hands, which were folded upon her knees, were so thin and transparent
that I pitied her.
“Princess,” I said, “you know that I have been making fun of you?... You
must despise me.”
A sickly flush suffused her cheeks.
“Consequently,” I continued, “you cannot love me”...
She turned her head away, leaned her elbows on the table, covered her
eyes with her hand, and it seemed to me that she was on the point of
tears.
“Oh, God!” she said, almost inaudibly.
The situation was growing intolerable. Another minute--and I should have
fallen at her feet.
“So you see, yourself,” I said in as firm a voice as I could command,
and with a forced smile, “you see, yourself, that I cannot marry you.
Even if you wished it now, you would soon repent. My conversation with
your mother has compelled me to explain myself to you so frankly and so
brutally. I hope that she is under a delusion: it will be easy for you
to undeceive her. You see, I am playing a most pitiful and ugly role
in your eyes, and I even admit it--that is the utmost I can do for your
sake. However bad an opinion you may entertain of me, I submit to it...
You see that I am base in your sight, am I not?... Is it not true that,
even if you have loved me, you would despise me from this moment?”...
She turned round to me. She was pale as marble, but her eyes were
sparkling wondrously.
“I hate you”... she said.
I thanked her, bowed respectfully, and left the room.
An hour afterwards a postal express was bearing me rapidly from
Kislovodsk. A few versts from Essentuki I recognized near the roadway
the body of my spirited horse. The saddle had been taken off, no doubt
by a passing Cossack, and, in its place, two ravens were sitting on the
horse’s back. I sighed and turned away...
And now, here in this wearisome fortress, I often ask myself, as my
thoughts wander back to the past: why did I not wish to tread that way,
thrown open by destiny, where soft joys and ease of soul were awaiting
me?... No, I could never have become habituated to such a fate! I am
like a sailor born and bred on the deck of a pirate brig: his soul has
grown accustomed to storms and battles; but, once let him be cast upon
the shore, and he chafes, he pines away, however invitingly the shady
groves allure, however brightly shines the peaceful sun. The livelong
day he paces the sandy shore, hearkens to the monotonous murmur of the
onrushing waves, and gazes into the misty distance: lo! yonder, upon
the pale line dividing the blue deep from the grey clouds, is there not
glancing the longed-for sail, at first like the wing of a seagull, but
little by little severing itself from the foam of the billows and, with
even course, drawing nigh to the desert harbour?
APPENDIX
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
(By the Author)
THE preface to a book serves the double purpose of prologue and
epilogue. It affords the author an opportunity of explaining the object
of the work, or of vindicating himself and replying to his critics. As a
rule, however, the reader is concerned neither with the moral purpose
of the book nor with the attacks of the Reviewers, and so the preface
remains unread. Nevertheless, this is a pity, especially with us
Russians! The public of this country is so youthful, not to say
simple-minded, that it cannot understand the meaning of a fable unless
the moral is set forth at the end. Unable to see a joke, insensible to
irony, it has, in a word, been badly brought up. It has not yet learned
that in a decent book, as in decent society, open invective can have no
place; that our present-day civilisation has invented a keener weapon,
none the less deadly for being almost invisible, which, under the cloak
of flattery, strikes with sure and irresistible effect. The Russian
public is like a simple-minded person from the country who, chancing to
overhear a conversation between two diplomatists belonging to hostile
courts, comes away with the conviction that each of them has been
deceiving his Government in the interest of a most affectionate private
friendship.
The unfortunate effects of an over-literal acceptation of words by
certain readers and even Reviewers have recently been manifested in
regard to the present book. Many of its readers have been dreadfully,
and in all seriousness, shocked to find such an immoral man as Pechorin
set before them as an example. Others have observed, with much
acumen, that the author has painted his own portrait and those of
his acquaintances!... What a stale and wretched jest! But Russia, it
appears, has been constituted in such a way that absurdities of this
kind will never be eradicated. It is doubtful whether, in this country,
the most ethereal of fairy-tales would escape the reproach of attempting
offensive personalities.
Pechorin, gentlemen, is in fact a portrait, but not of one man only:
he is a composite portrait, made up of all the vices which flourish,
fullgrown, amongst the present generation. You will tell me, as you have
told me before, that no man can be so bad as this; and my reply will be:
“If you believe that such persons as the villains of tragedy and romance
could exist in real life, why can you not believe in the reality of
Pechorin? If you admire fictions much more terrible and monstrous, why
is it that this character, even if regarded merely as a creature of
the imagination, cannot obtain quarter at your hands? Is it not because
there is more truth in it than may be altogether palatable to you?”
You will say that the cause of morality gains nothing by this book. I
beg your pardon. People have been surfeited with sweetmeats and their
digestion has been ruined: bitter medicines, sharp truths, are therefore
necessary. This must not, however, be taken to mean that the author has
ever proudly dreamed of becoming a reformer of human vices. Heaven
keep him from such impertinence! He has simply found it entertaining to
depict a man, such as he considers to be typical of the present day and
such as he has often met in real life--too often, indeed, unfortunately
both for the author himself and for you. Suffice it that the disease has
been pointed out: how it is to be cured--God alone knows!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: A retail shop and tavern combined.]
[Footnote 2: A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet.]
[Footnote 3: Ermolov, i.e. General Ermolov. Russians have three
names--Christian name, patronymic and surname. They are addressed by
the first two only. The surname of Maksim Maksimych (colloquial for
Maksimovich) is not mentioned.]
[Footnote 4: The bell on the duga, a wooden arch joining the shafts of a
Russian conveyance over the horse’s neck.]
[Footnote 5: Rocky Ford.]
[Footnote 6: A kind of beer made from millet.]
[Footnote 7: i.e. acknowledging Russian supremacy.]
[Footnote 8: A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.]
[Footnote 9: “Good--very good.”]
[Footnote 10: Turkish for “Black-eye.”]
[Footnote 11: “No!”]
[Footnote 12: A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre.]
[Footnote 13: King--a title of the Sultan of Turkey.]
[Footnote 14: I beg my readers’ pardon for having versified Kazbich’s
song, which, of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is second
nature. (Author’s note.)]
[Footnote 151: “No! Russian--bad, bad!”]
[Footnote 15: Krestov is an adjective meaning “of the cross”
(Krest=cross); and, of course, is not the Russian for “Christophe.”]
[Footnote 16: A legendary Russian hero whose whistling knocked people
down.]
[Footnote 17: Lezghian dance.]
[Footnote 18: In Russian--okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za
okaziya=how unfortunate!]
[Footnote 19: The duga.]
[Footnote 20: “Thou” is the form of address used in speaking to an
intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal “you.”]
[Footnote 21: Team of three horses abreast.]
[Footnote 22: Desyatnik, a superintendent of ten (men or huts), i.e. an
officer like the old English tithing-man or headborough.]
[Footnote 23: Card-games.]
[Footnote 24: A Caucasian wine.]
[Footnote 25: Pushkin. Compare Shelley’s Adonais, xxxi. 3: “as the last
cloud of an expiring storm.”]
[Footnote 26: The Snake, the Iron and the Bald Mountains.]
[Footnote 27: Nizhegorod is the “government” of which Nizhniy Novgorod is
the capital.]
[Footnote 271: A popular phrase, equivalent to: “How should I think of
doing such a thing?”]
[Footnote 272: Published by Senkovski, and under the censorship of the
Government.]
[Footnote 273: Civil servants of the ninth (the lowest) class.]
[Footnote 28: i.e. serfs.]
[Footnote 29: Pushkin: Eugene Onyegin.]
[Footnote 30: Canto XVIII, 10: ]
“Quinci al bosco t’ invia, dove cotanti]
Son fantasmi inganne vole e bugiardi”...]
[Footnote 301: None of the Waverley novels, of course, bears this title.
The novel referred to is doubtless “Old Mortality,” on which Bellini’s
opera, “I Puritani di Scozia,” is founded.]
[Footnote 31: Popular phrases, equivalent to: “Men are fools, fortune is
blind, and life is not worth a straw.”]