This is a modern-English version of A Hero of Our Time, originally written by Lermontov, Mikhail Iurevich.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
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.
THIS novel, recognized as one of the masterpieces of Russian literature, titled “A Hero of our Time,” and already translated into at least nine European languages, is now being presented to the general English reader for the first time.
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 work is really interesting for anyone studying English Literature, written as it was under the strong influence of Byron and being itself an exploration 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.
The translators have made a special effort to keep both the mood of the story and the poetic beauty that the poet-novelist infused into his pages.
BOOK I BELA
THE HEART OF A RUSSIAN
CHAPTER I
I was travelling post from Tiflis.
I was traveling by post from Tbilisi.
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.
All the luggage I had in my cart was just one small suitcase that was half full of travel notes about Georgia. Most of those have been lost, which is good for you; but the suitcase itself and the rest of its contents are still intact, which is good 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.
As I entered the Koishaur Valley, the sun was setting behind the snow-covered mountain ridge. To reach the summit of Mount Koishaur before nightfall, my driver, an Ossete, pushed the horses on relentlessly, singing loudly and enthusiastically the whole time.
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.
What a stunning place that valley is! All around are unreachable mountains, steep yellow slopes marked by water channels, and reddish rocks covered in green ivy and topped with groups of plane trees. Over there, at a great height, is the golden edge of the snow. Below flows the River Aragva, which, after loudly breaking free from the dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an unnamed stream wrapped in its embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its waters shining like a snake with glittering 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.
Arrived at the base of Mount Koishaur, we stopped at a shop. 1 About twenty Georgians and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy crowd, and nearby, a caravan of camels had stopped for the night. I had to hire oxen to pull my cart up that dreaded mountain, as it was now autumn and the roads were slick with ice. Plus, the mountain is about two versts 2 long.
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.
There was no avoiding it, so I hired six oxen and a few Ossetes. One of them took my suitcase on his shoulder, and the others, all shouting in unison, got to work helping 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.
After mine, another cart came along, and I was surprised to see it being pulled effortlessly by four oxen, even though it was loaded to the brim. Behind it walked the owner, casually smoking a small, silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He wore a shaggy Circassian cap and an officer’s overcoat without epaulettes, and he looked to be around fifty years old. The darkness of his skin suggested that his face had spent a lot of time under the Transcaucasian sun, and the premature gray of his mustache didn't quite match his strong walk and sturdy build. I approached him and greeted him. He silently acknowledged my greeting and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke.
“We are fellow-travellers, it appears.”
"We're fellow travelers, it seems."
Again he bowed silently.
He bowed again, silently.
“I suppose you are going to Stavropol?”
"I guess you're heading to Stavropol?"
“Yes, sir, exactly—with Government things.”
“Yes, sir, exactly—with government stuff.”
“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?”
“Can you explain how your heavily-loaded cart is being pulled effortlessly by four oxen, while six cattle can barely move mine, even though it’s empty and has all those Ossetes helping?”
He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning glance.
He smiled slyly and shot me a knowing look.
“You have not been in the Caucasus long, I should say?”
“You haven't been in the Caucasus for long, I take it?”
“About a year,” I answered.
"About a year," I replied.
He smiled a second time.
He smiled again.
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“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!”
“Exactly, sir,” he replied. “These Asiatics are terrible beasts! You think all that shouting means they’re helping the oxen? Well, only the devil can figure out what they’re actually shouting about. The oxen understand, though; if you were to yoke as many as twenty, they still wouldn’t move as long as the Ossetes keep shouting like that.... Awful scoundrels! But what can you do about them? They love to extort money from travelers passing through here. Those rogues have been spoiled! Just wait and see: they’ll get a tip from you on top of their pay. I know them well; they can’t trick me!”
“You have been serving here a long time?”
“You've been working here for 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.”
“Yes, I was here under Aleksei Petrovich,” 3 he replied, assuming a dignified stance. “I was a sub-lieutenant when he arrived at the Line; and I was promoted twice during his command due to my actions against the mountaineers.”
“And now—?”
“And now—what’s next?”
“Now I’m in the third battalion of the Line. And you yourself?”
“Now I’m in the third battalion of the Line. And you?”
I told him.
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.
With that, the conversation ended, and we kept walking in silence, side by side. At the top of the mountain, we found snow. The sun set, and—as is often the case in the south—night followed day without any twilight. Fortunately, thanks to the shine of the snow, we could easily see the path, which still climbed up the mountainside, though not as steeply as before. I instructed the Ossetes to load my suitcase into the cart and switch the oxen for horses. Then, for the last time, I looked down at the valley; however, the thick mist that had surged from the gorges completely obscured it, and not a sound came up to us from below. The Ossetes surrounded me loudly, demanding tips, but the staff-captain yelled at them so threateningly that they scattered in an instant.
“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.”...
“What a people they are!” he said. “They don’t even know the Russian word for ‘bread,’ but they’ve got the phrase ‘Officer, give us a tip!’ down perfectly! Honestly, I think the Tartars are better; at least they’re not drunks.”
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 were now about a mile from the Station. Everything around us was so quiet that you could even hear a gnat's wings buzzing. To our left, the gorge loomed deep and dark. Behind it and in front of us rose the dark-blue mountain peaks, all marked with ridges and covered in layers of snow, standing out against the pale horizon, which still held the last bit of the evening glow. The stars twinkled in the dark sky, and for some odd reason, they seemed higher than they do back home in the north. On both sides of the road, bare, black rocks jutted out; here and there, shrubs peeked out from under the snow, but not a single dried leaf stirred. Amid that deep stillness of nature, it was uplifting 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.
"We're going to have amazing weather tomorrow," I said.
The staff-captain answered not a word, but pointed with his finger to a lofty mountain which rose directly opposite us.
The staff captain didn't say a word but pointed his finger at a tall mountain that stood directly in front of us.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Mount Gut.”
“Mount Gut.”
“Well, what then?”
"Well, what now?"
“Don’t you see how it is smoking?”
“Can’t you see how it's 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.
True enough, smoke was rising from Mount Gut. Gentle currents of clouds were drifting over its slopes, and at the peak, there was one cloud so thick and dark that it looked like a stain against 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.
By this time, we could see the Post Station and the roofs of the huts around it; the welcoming lights were twinkling ahead of us when suddenly a damp and chilly wind picked up, the gorge rumbled, and a light rain started to fall. I barely had time to wrap my felt cloak around me before the snow began to come down. I looked at the staff captain with deep 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.
“We’ll have to spend the night here,” he said, irritation in his voice. “There’s no way to cross the mountains in this blizzard.—By the way, have there been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?” he asked the driver.
“No, sir,” the Ossete answered; “but there are a great many threatening to fall—a great many.”
“No, sir,” the Ossete replied; “but there are a lot that seem ready to fall—many, in fact.”
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.
Due to the absence of a travelers' lounge at the station, we were given a place to stay for the night in a smoky hut. I invited my travel companion to share a glass of tea with me, since I had brought my cast-iron teapot—my only comfort during my trips 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.
One side of the hut was pressed against the cliff, and three wet and slippery steps led up to the door. I fumbled my way inside and bumped into a cow (for these people, the cow barn serves as a sort of servant's room). I didn’t know which way to go—sheep were bleating on one side and a dog was growling on the other. Thankfully, I noticed a faint glimmer of light on one side, and with its help, I found another opening through a door. What I saw was quite interesting. The spacious hut, with a roof resting on two soot-covered pillars, was filled with people. In the center of the floor, a small fire crackled, and the smoke, pushed back by the wind from an opening in the roof, spread out in such a thick cloud that I couldn’t see anything for a long time. Sitting by the fire were two old women, several children, and a skinny Georgian—all in rags. We had no choice but to huddle by the fire and light our pipes; soon the teapot was whistling 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.
“Pathetic people, these!” I said to the staff captain, pointing to our filthy hosts, who were staring at us in a sort of daze.
“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!”
“And a completely clueless people too!” he replied. “Can you believe it? They are totally ignorant and incapable of the slightest bit of civilization! Even our Kabardians or Chechenes, as much as they might be robbers and scruffs, are still real daredevils. Meanwhile, these others have no interest in weapons, and you’ll never see a decent dagger on any of them! Ossetes all around!”
“You have been a long time in the Chechenes’ country?”
“You've been in Chechnya for a long time?”
“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?”
“Yes, I was stationed there for about ten years with my company in a fortress near Kamennyi Brod. 5 Do you know that place?”
“I have heard the name.”
"I've 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!”...
“I can tell you, my boy, we had more than our share of those reckless Chechenes. Right now, thankfully, things are calmer; but back then, if you walked just a hundred paces from the rampart, you could count on finding a scruffy guy hiding and waiting for you. You could easily lose focus, and at any moment, a lasso would be around your neck or a bullet in the back of your head! They were bold guys, though!”
“You used to have many an adventure, I dare say?” I said, spurred by curiosity.
"You used to have a lot of adventures, didn't you?" I said, driven by curiosity.
“Of course! Many a one.”...
“Of course! Many people.”
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.
He started pulling at his left mustache, let his head drop to his chest, and got lost in thought. I really wanted to get some little story out of him—a common urge for anyone who travels and takes 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.
Meanwhile, the tea was ready. I took two travel mugs out of my suitcase and filled one of them, placing it in front of the staff captain. He sipped his tea and remarked, almost to himself, “Yes, many a one!” This comment filled me with hope. I know that your old Caucasian officer loves to talk and share stories; he rarely gets the chance to do so. He might end up stationed for five years in some remote spot with his company, and during that entire time, he might not hear “good morning” from anyone (because the sergeant says “good health”). And honestly, he would have every reason to chat—surrounded by a wild and fascinating people, facing danger every day, and experiencing many incredible events. It’s in situations like this that we often 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.”
“Would you like to add some rum to your tea?” I asked my companion. “I have some white rum with me—from Tiflis; and it’s cold outside now.”
“No, thank you, sir; I don’t drink.”
“No, thank you, sir; I don’t drink.”
“Really?”
"Seriously?"
“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!”
“Exactly. I’ve given up drinking. Once, back when I was a sub-lieutenant, some of us had a bit too much to drink. That very night, there was an alarm, and we went out to the front, completely drunk! We really caught it when Aleksei Petrovich found out about us! Goodness, he was furious! He was this close to having us court-martialed. That’s how things go! You could easily spend an entire year not seeing anyone; but just go and have a drink, and you’re done for!”
On hearing this I almost lost hope.
Hearing this, I nearly gave up 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.
“How was that?” I asked.
“Here, I’ll tell you.”...
"I'll tell you."
He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began his story.
He packed his pipe, took a puff, and started 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.
“Listen, sir,” the staff captain said, “I was stationed with a company in a fortress beyond the Terek—almost five years ago now. One autumn day, a transport arrived with supplies, led by an officer who was about twenty-five. He introduced himself to me in full uniform and said he had been ordered to stay in the fortress with me. He looked so polished, his complexion so fair, and his uniform so fresh, that I guessed right away he hadn’t been with our army in the Caucasus for long.”
“‘I suppose you have been transferred from Russia?’ I asked.
“‘I guess you’ve been transferred from Russia?’ I asked.”
“‘Exactly, captain,’ he answered.
“‘Exactly, captain,’ he replied."
“I took him by the hand and said:
“I took his 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!’
“I'm so happy to see you—really happy! It might be a little boring for you... but we'll get along like good friends. Just call me ‘Maksim Maksimych’; and by the way, what's with the full uniform? Just wear your cap whenever you visit me!”
“Quarters were assigned to him and he settled down in the fortress.”
“Living spaces were given to him, and he got comfortable in the fortress.”
“What was his name?” I asked Maksim Maksimych.
“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!”...
“His name was Grigori Aleksandrovich Pechorin. He was a great guy, I can tell you, but a bit strange. For instance, there was a time when he would spend the whole day hunting in the rain and cold; the others would be frozen and exhausted, but he didn't care about the cold or tiredness. Then, at other times, he would be in his own room, and if there was even the slightest wind, he would say he had caught a cold; if the shutters rattled against the window, he would flinch and go pale: yet I’ve seen him take down a boar all by himself. Often, you couldn’t get a word out of him for hours, but then sometimes, when he started telling stories, you would be laughing so hard you could barely breathe. Yes, definitely an eccentric guy; and he must have been rich too. He had so many expensive trinkets!”
“Did he stay there long with you?” I went on to ask.
“Did he stay there long with you?” I continued 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!”
“Yes, about a year. And because of that, it was a memorable year for me. He caused me a lot of trouble—but, let’s leave the past where it belongs!... You see, it’s true, there are people like that, destined from birth to have all sorts of weird things happen to them!”
“Strange?” I exclaimed, with an air of curiosity, as I poured out some tea.
“Strange?” I said, sounding curious, as I poured 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.
“WELL, then, I’ll tell you,” said Maksim Maksimych. “About six versts from the fortress, there lived a certain ‘friendly’ prince. His son, a kid of about fifteen, would frequently ride over to visit us. Not a day went by without him showing up, now for one thing, now for another. And honestly, Grigori Aleksandrovich and I spoiled him. What a daredevil the boy was! Always up to something, whether it was picking up a cap at full gallop or shooting things down with his gun! He did have one bad trait; he was really greedy for money. Once, just for fun, Grigori Aleksandrovich promised to give him a ducat if he could steal the best he-goat from his father’s herd for him; and, guess what? The very next night he came dragging it in by the horns! Sometimes we would decide to tease him, and then his eyes would turn bloodshot, and his hand would shoot to his dagger right away."
“‘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.’
“‘You’ll be risking your life if you’re not careful, Azamat,’ I would tell him. ‘That hot temper of yours will land you in 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.
“Once, the old prince came to invite us to the wedding of his eldest daughter. Since we were good friends with him, we couldn’t say no, even though he was a Tartar. We set off. In the village, we were greeted by a bunch of dogs, all barking loudly. The women, upon seeing us, hid away, but the few faces we glimpsed were not attractive at all.”
“‘I had a much better opinion of the Circassian women,’ remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich.
“I used to think much more highly of the Circassian women,” Grigori Aleksandrovich commented.
“‘Wait a bit!’ I answered, with a smile; I had my own views on the subject.
“‘Hold on a second!’ I replied, smiling; I had my own opinions on the matter.
“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.”
“A bunch of people had already gathered at the prince’s hut. You know how it is with Asians; they invite everyone to a wedding. We were welcomed with great respect and taken to the guest room. Still, I made sure to quietly remember where our horses were tied, just in case anything unexpected came up.”
“How are weddings celebrated amongst them?” I asked the staff-captain.
“How do they celebrate weddings?” 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.”...
“Oh, in the usual way. First, the Mullah reads something from the Koran; then gifts are given to the young couple and all their relatives; next, they eat and drink buza, followed by a dance on horseback. There’s always some ragamuffin, covered in grease, riding a shabby, lame horse, making faces and joking around to entertain the guests. Finally, when it gets dark, they have what we would call a ball in the guest room. An old man plays a three-stringed instrument—I can’t recall the name, but it's similar to our balalaika. 8 The girls and young children form two lines facing each other, clapping their hands and singing. Then a girl and a man step into the center and start reciting verses to each other—whatever comes to mind—and the others join in as a chorus. Pechorin and I sat in the place of honor. Suddenly, our host’s youngest daughter, a girl of about sixteen, approached Pechorin and sang something to him that you could call a compliment.”
“What was it she sang—do you remember?”
“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!’
“It went like this, I imagine: ‘They say our young horsemen are handsome, and their tunics are trimmed with silver; but even more handsome is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his tunic is made of gold. He stands out like a poplar among them, but in our gardens, such trees will neither grow 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.
“Pechorin got up, bowed to her, placed his hand on his forehead and heart, and asked me to respond to her. I know their language well, so I translated his reply.”
“When she had left us I whispered to Grigori Aleksandrovich:
“When she left us, I whispered to Grigori Aleksandrovich:
“‘Well, now, what do you think of her?’
“‘So, what do you think of her now?’”
“‘Charming!’ he replied. ‘What is her name?’
"‘Charming!’ he said. ‘What’s her name?’"
“‘Her name is Bela,’ I answered.
“Her name is Bela,” I replied.
“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!...
“And she was indeed a beautiful girl; she had a tall and slender figure, and her eyes were as black as those of a mountain chamois, piercing straight into your soul. Pechorin, lost in thought, kept his eyes on her, and she, for her part, often stole glances at him from beneath her lashes. But Pechorin wasn’t the only one admiring the pretty princess; another pair of eyes, intense and fiery, were watching her from the corner of the room. I took a close look at their owner and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you should know, was neither exactly ‘friendly’ nor particularly unfriendly. He was regarded with much suspicion, although he had never actually been caught doing anything wrong. He would bring rams to our fortress and sell them at a low price; however, he never bargained; whatever price he asked for upfront, you had to pay. He would rather have his throat cut than lower his price. He was known to like roaming on the far side of the Kuban with the Abreks, and, to be honest, he had a typical thief’s appearance. He was a little, scrappy, broad-shouldered guy—but clever, I can tell you, clever as the devil! His tunic was always old and patched, but his weapons were silver-mounted. His horse was famous all over Kabardia—and truly, you couldn’t imagine a better one! It’s no wonder that all the other horsemen envied Kazbich, and on more than one occasion, they tried to steal the horse, but they never succeeded. I can almost see the horse in my mind now—black as coal, with legs like bowstrings and eyes as striking as Bela’s! He was also incredibly strong! He could gallop for up to fifty versts without stopping! And he was well-trained too—he would trot behind his master like a dog and even recognized his voice! Kazbich never tied him up either—just the perfect 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!’
“On that evening, Kazbich was more withdrawn than ever, and I noticed he was wearing a chainmail under his tunic. ‘He didn’t put that chainmail on for no reason,’ I thought. ‘He must have some scheme in mind, I’m sure!’”
“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 got really hot in the hut, so I stepped outside to cool off. Night had settled over the mountains, and a mist was starting to roll in through 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
“It occurred to me to check under the shed where our horses were standing to see if they had their food. Plus, it's always good to be cautious. My horse was really impressive, and more than one Kabardian had already looked at it admiringly, saying at the same time: ‘Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.’ 9
“I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
“I crept along the fence. Suddenly, I heard voices, one of which I instantly recognized.
“It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host’s son. The other person spoke less and in a quieter tone.
“It was that of the young kid, Azamat, our host's son. The other person spoke less and in a softer 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.
“‘What are they talking about over there?’ I thought. ‘It can’t be about my horse!’ I crouched down next to the fence and started to eavesdrop, trying not to miss a single word. Sometimes the sound of singing and the buzz of voices spilling out from the hut drowned out the conversation that I found 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!’
“‘That’s a beautiful horse you have,’ Azamat said. ‘If I had my own house and a stable of three hundred mares, I would give half of it for your racer, Kazbich!’”
“‘Aha! Kazbich!’ I said to myself, and I called to mind the coat of mail.
“‘Aha! Kazbich!’ I thought to myself, and I remembered the chainmail.”
“‘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.
“‘Yes,’ Kazbich replied after a moment of silence. ‘You won’t find another like it in all of Kabardia. Once—on the other side of the Terek—I rode with the Abreks to grab some Russian herds. We didn’t have any luck, so we split up in different directions. Four Cossacks chased after me. I could actually hear the calls of the giaours behind me, and in front was a thick forest. I hunched down in the saddle, prayed to Allah, and for the first time in my life, I lashed my horse with the whip. Like a bird, he dove into the branches; the sharp thorns ripped at my clothes, and the dead branches of the cork-elms hit my face! My horse jumped over tree trunks and busted through bushes with his chest! It might have been smarter to leave him at the edge of the forest and hide on foot, but I couldn’t bear to part with him—and the Prophet rewarded me. A few bullets whizzed past my head. I could hear the Cossacks who had dismounted chasing my trail. Suddenly, a deep gully opened up in front of me. My horse hesitated—and leaped. His back hooves slipped off the opposite bank, and he hung there by his front feet. I dropped the reins and fell into the hollow, saving my horse, who jumped out. The Cossacks saw the whole thing, but not one of them got down to look for me, probably thinking I had seriously injured myself; I heard them rush off to catch my horse. My heart ached. I crawled through the hollow in the thick grass—then I looked around: it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were riding out into the clearing, and there was my Karagyoz 10 galloping right towards them. With a shout, they all charged forward. They chased him for a long time, and one of them, in particular, came really close a couple of times to throwing a lasso around 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!’
“I trembled, looked down, and started to pray. After a few moments, I looked up again, and there was my Karagyoz flying by, his tail waving—free as the wind; and the infidels, on their worn-out horses, were trailing far behind, one after another, across the steppe. Wow! It’s true—really true! I lay in the hollow until late at night. Suddenly—can you believe it, Azamat? I heard in the darkness a horse trotting along the edge of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and pounding the ground with his hooves. I recognized my Karagyoz’s voice; it was him, my friend!”... Since that time we have never been apart!’
“And I could hear him patting his galloper’s sleek neck with his hand, as he called him various fond names.
“And I could hear him gently patting his horse’s smooth neck with his hand, as he called him by different affectionate names.
“‘If I had a stud of a thousand mares,’ said Azamat, ‘I would give it all for your Karagyoz!’
“‘If I had a thousand mares,’ said Azamat, ‘I would trade them all for your Karagyoz!’”
“‘Yok! 11 I would not take it!’ said Kazbich indifferently.
“‘Yok! 11 I wouldn’t accept it!’ said Kazbich casually.
“‘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.’
“‘Listen, Kazbich,’ Azamat said, trying to win him over. ‘You’re a kind person, a brave horseman, but my dad is scared of the Russians and won’t let me go into the mountains. Give me your horse, and I’ll do anything you want. I can steal my dad’s best rifle for you, or his saber—whatever you prefer—and his saber is a real Gurda; 12 just touch the edge to your hand, and it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours won’t protect you from it.’”
“Kazbich remained silent.
Kazbich stayed quiet.
“‘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.
“‘The first time I saw your horse,’ Azamat continued, ‘when he was prancing and jumping beneath you, his nostrils flared and the stones flying from his hooves, something I couldn’t comprehend happened within my soul; and since then, I’ve felt exhausted by everything. I’ve looked down on my father’s fastest horses; I’ve been embarrassed to ride them, and a deep longing has taken over me. In my pain, I’ve spent entire days on the cliffs, and every moment, my thoughts keep drifting to your black horse, with his elegant stride and sleek back, straight as an arrow. His sharp, bright eyes have looked into mine as if he’s about to speak!... I’ll die, Kazbich, if you don’t sell him to me!’ said Azamat, his voice trembling.
“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.
“I could hear him break down in tears, and I have to tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn kid, and that nothing could make him cry, even when he was a bit younger.”
“In answer to his tears, I could hear something like a laugh.
“In response to his tears, I could hear something that sounded 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!’
“‘Listen,’ Azamat said firmly. ‘You see, I’m ready to do anything. If you want, I’ll steal my sister for you! She dances like no other! She sings beautifully! And her gold embroidery—it's incredible! Not even a Turkish Padishah 13 has had a wife like her!… Should I? Wait for me tomorrow night over there in the gorge where the river runs; I’ll bring her to the nearby village—and she’ll be yours. Surely Bela is worth your trouble!’”
“Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. At length, instead of answering, he struck up in an undertone the ancient song:
"Kazbich stayed quiet for a really long time. Finally, instead of replying, he began softly singing the old 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
“Many beautiful people among us have
Eyes so deep that they shine like stars,
It's a coveted and sweet thing to have
Their love; but freedom is even braver.
You can have four wives if you pay the price;
But a spirited horse is worth so much more;
Even the wind on the plains is slower;
It knows no betrayal—no lies.” 14“In vain Azamat entreated him to consent. He wept, coaxed, and swore to him. Finally, Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:
“In vain Azamat begged him to agree. He cried, pleaded, and made promises to him. Finally, Kazbich cut him off 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!’
“‘Get lost, you crazy kid! What makes you think you can ride my horse? You’d be thrown off in three steps and break your neck on the ground!’”
“‘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.
“‘Me?’ shouted Azamat in anger, and the blade of the child’s dagger clanged against the chainmail. A strong arm pushed him back, and he hit the wattle fence with such force that it swayed.
“‘Now we’ll see some fun!’ I thought to myself.
“‘Now we’re going to have 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.
“I hurried into the stable, put the bridle on our horses, and led them out to the back courtyard. Within a few minutes, there was a huge commotion in the hut. Here’s what happened: Azamat burst in with his tunic ripped, claiming that Kazbich was going to kill him. Everyone jumped up, grabbed their guns, and the chaos began! There was shouting—gunfire—everything! Meanwhile, Kazbich was already on his horse, spinning around among the crowd in the street, fighting back like a maniac, swinging his sword.”
“‘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?’
“‘It’s not a good idea to get involved in other people’s fights,’ I said to Grigori Aleksandrovich, grabbing his arm. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for us to leave right away?’”
“‘Wait, though, and see how it will end!’
“‘Just wait and see how it turns out!’”
“‘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.’
“‘Oh, about that, it’s definitely going to end badly; it always does with these Asians. Once they get drunk on buza, there’s bound to be bloodshed.’”
“We mounted and galloped home.”
“We hopped on and rode home.”
CHAPTER IV
“TELL me, what became of Kazbich?” I asked the staff-captain impatiently.
“TELL me, what happened to 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.”
“Why, what can happen to that kind of guy?” he replied, finishing his glass of tea. “He just slipped away, obviously.”
“And wasn’t he wounded?” I asked.
“And wasn't he hurt?” 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.”
“Goodness knows! Those rascals are hard to take down! For example, I’ve seen plenty of them, sir, riddled with bayonets like a sieve, and still swinging their sabers.”
After an interval of silence the staff-captain continued, tapping the ground with his foot:
After a moment of silence, the staff captain continued, tapping his foot on the ground:
“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.”
“One thing I’ll never forgive myself for. When we got to the fortress, the devil convinced me to tell Grigori Aleksandrovich everything I had overheard while eavesdropping behind the fence. He laughed—sly guy!—and came up with a little scheme of his own.”
“What was that? Tell me, please.”
“What was that? Please tell me.”
“Well, there’s no help for it now, I suppose. I’ve begun the story, and so I must continue.
“Well, there’s no turning back now, I guess. I’ve started the story, so I have to keep going.
“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!
“In about four days, Azamat rode over to the fortress. As was his usual custom, he went to see Grigori Aleksandrovich, who always gave him treats to eat. I was there too. They were talking about horses, and Pechorin started praising Kazbich’s Karagyoz. What a spirited horse it was, and how beautiful! A perfect gem! Honestly, from his description, there wasn’t another one like it in the entire 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!...
“The young Tartar’s beady eyes began to sparkle, but Pechorin didn’t seem to notice. I tried to change the subject, but Pechorin quickly redirected the conversation back to Kazbich’s horse. It was the same story every time Azamat arrived. After about three weeks, I noticed that Azamat was looking pale and worn out, just like characters in novels do when they’re in love, sir. What a surprise, right!...
“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:
“Well, you see, it wasn't until later that I realized the whole trick—Grigori Aleksandrovich teased Azamat so much that the kid was ready to drown himself. One day, Pechorin suddenly blurted out:
“‘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?’
“‘I see, Azamat, that you’ve developed a desperate obsession with that horse of Kazbich’s, but you’ll see him no more than you would the back of your neck! Come on, tell me, what would you give if someone gifted him to you?’”
“‘Anything he wanted,’ answered Azamat.
“‘Whatever he wanted,’ answered Azamat.
“‘In that case I will get the horse for you, only on one condition... Swear that you will fulfil it?’
“In that case, I'll get the horse for you, but only if you promise to fulfill one condition…”
“‘I swear. You swear too!’
“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.’
“‘Alright! I promise that the horse will be yours. But in exchange, you must hand over your sister Bela to me. Karagyoz will be her groom’s gift. I hope this deal works out well for you.’”
“Azamat remained silent.
Azamat stayed quiet.
“‘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!’
“‘You won’t? Well, do what you want! I thought you were a man, but it seems you’re still a kid; it’s too soon for you to be riding a horse!’”
“Azamat fired up.
"Azamat got excited."
“‘But my father—’ he said.
“But my dad—” he said.
“‘Does he never go away, then?’
“‘Does he ever go out?’”
“‘True.’
"Facts."
“‘You agree?’
"Do you agree?"
“‘I agree,’ whispered Azamat, pale as death. ‘But when?’
“‘I agree,’ whispered Azamat, looking pale as a ghost. ‘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!’
“‘This is the first time Kazbich has come over here. He promised to bring in twenty rams; the rest is my business. So be careful, 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.
“And so they wrapped up the deal—a shady deal, to be honest! I mentioned this to Pechorin later, but he just replied that a wild Circassian girl should feel lucky to have such a charming husband like him—because, by their standards, he really was her husband—and that Kazbich was a jerk who deserved punishment. You can imagine what I could say to that?... At the time, though, I didn't know anything about their plot. Anyway, one day Kazbich rode up and asked if we needed any rams or honey; I told 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.’..
“‘Azamat!’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich; ‘tomorrow Karagyoz will be mine; if Bela isn’t here tonight, you will never see the horse.’”
“‘Very well,’ said Azamat, and galloped to the village.
“‘Alright,’ said Azamat, and raced 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.”
“In the evening, Grigori Aleksandrovich got ready and rode out of the fortress. I’m not sure how they handled things, but later that night, they both came back, and the guard noticed that a woman was lying across Azamat’s saddle, tied up with her hands and feet bound and her head covered with a veil.”
“And the horse?” I asked the staff-captain.
“And what about 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.
“One minute! One minute! Early the next morning, Kazbich rode over, bringing along a bunch of rams to sell. He tied up his horse by the fence and came in to see me, and I treated him to some tea, because even though he was a robber, he was still 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.
“We started talking about this and that... Suddenly, I noticed Kazbich react, change his expression, and rush to the window; but unfortunately, the window faced the back courtyard.
“‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked.
“‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.
“‘My horse!... My horse!’ he cried, all of a tremble.
“‘My horse!... My horse!’ he shouted, shaking all over.
“As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of hoofs.
“As a matter of fact, I heard the sound of hooves.”
“‘It is probably some Cossack who has ridden up.’
“‘It’s probably a Cossack who has come 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.”
“‘No! Urus—yaman, yaman!’ 151 he roared and ran off like a wild panther. In two leaps, he was in the courtyard; at the fortress gate, the guard blocked his path with his gun. Kazbich jumped over the gun and sprinted down the road… Dust was swirling in the distance—Azamat was riding away on the spirited Karagyoz. As he ran, Kazbich pulled his gun from its holster and fired. For a moment, he stood still, assuring himself he had missed. Then he let out a piercing cry, slammed the gun against a rock, shattered it, collapsed to the ground, and sobbed like a child… The people from the fortress gathered around him, but he ignored everyone. They chatted for a while and then left. I had the money for the rams placed beside him. He didn’t touch it but lay face down like a dead man. Would you believe it? He stayed like that for the rest of the day and the following night! It was only the next morning that he came to the fortress and asked to be told the name of the thief. The guard who saw Azamat untie the horse and ride off didn’t see a reason to hide the truth. At the name of Azamat, Kazbich’s eyes blazed, and he headed to the village where Azamat’s father lived.”
“And what about the father?”
“What's the deal with the dad?”
“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?
“Ah, that’s where the trick came in! Kazbich couldn't find him; he had disappeared for five or six days; otherwise, how could Azamat have pulled off taking 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!”...
“And when the father came back, there was no daughter or son to be found. That clever scoundrel, Azamat! He knew, you see, that he would lose his life if he got caught. So from that day on, he was never seen again; he likely joined some gang of outlaws and left his troubled life behind on the other side of the Terek or the Kuban. That would have been just what he deserved!”
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.
“I confess that I had quite a bit of trouble with the situation. As soon as I found out 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.
“He was lying on the bed in the outer room, one hand under his head and the other holding a pipe that had gone out. The door to the inner room was locked, and there was no key in the lock. I noticed all that in an instant... I coughed and tapped my heels against the threshold, but he acted like he didn't hear.”
“‘Ensign!’ I said, as sternly as I could. ‘Do you not see that I have come to you?’
“‘Ensign!’ I said as firmly as I could. ‘Don’t you see that I’ve come to you?’”
“‘Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych! Won’t you have a pipe?’ he answered, without rising.
“'Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych! Would you like a pipe?' he replied, without getting up.”
“‘Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych. I am the staff-captain.’
“‘Excuse me, I’m not Maksim Maksimych. I’m 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.’
“‘It’s all the same! Will you have some tea? If you only knew how anxious I am.’”
“‘I know all,’ I answered, going up to the bed.
“‘I know everything,’ I replied, walking over to the bed.
“‘So much the better,’ he said. ‘I am not in a narrative mood.’
"‘That’s even better,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the mood for a story.’"
“‘Ensign, you have committed an offence for which I may have to answer as well as you.’
“‘Ensign, you’ve done something wrong that I might have to deal with too.’”
“‘Oh, that’ll do. What’s the harm? You know, we’ve gone halves in everything.’
“‘Oh, that’s fine. What’s the big deal? You know, we’ve split everything down the middle.’”
“‘What sort of a joke do you think you are playing? Your sword, please!’...
“‘What kind of joke do you think you’re playing? Hand over your sword, please!’...
“‘Mitka, my sword!’
“‘Mitka, my blade!’”
“‘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.’
“‘Mitka brought the sword. Having done my duty, I sat down on the bed, facing Pechorin, and said: ‘Listen, Grigori Aleksandrovich, you have to admit that this is a messed-up situation.’
“‘What is?’
"What's that?"
“‘Why, that you have carried off Bela... Ah, it is that beast Azamat!... Come, confess!’ I said.
“‘Why did you take Bela… Oh, it’s that monster Azamat!… Come on, admit it!’ I said.
“‘But, supposing I am fond of her?’...
“‘But what if I really like 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.
“Well, what could I say to that?... I was at a loss for words. After a brief pause, though, I told him that if Bela’s father wanted to take her back, he would have to let her go.
“‘Not at all!’
"Not at all!"
“‘But he will get to know that she is here.’
“‘But he will find out that she is here.’”
“‘How?’
"‘How?’"
“Again I was nonplussed.
“Once again I was confused."
“‘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!’
“‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,’ Pechorin said, getting to his feet. ‘You’re a good-hearted guy, you know; but if we hand that savage back his daughter, he’ll either kill her or sell her. What’s done is done, and the only thing we can do now is not to make things worse. Leave Bela with me and take my sword!’”
“‘Show her to me, though,’ I said.
“'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.
“‘She’s behind that door. I really wanted to see her today, but I couldn’t. She’s sitting in the corner, wrapped up in her veil, and she doesn’t speak or look up—shy like a wild goat! I’ve hired the wife of our storekeeper; she speaks Tartar and will take care of Bela and help her get used to the idea that she belongs to me—because she won't belong to anyone else!’ he added, slamming 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.”
“I agreed to that too... What could I do? There are some people you just have to go along with.”
“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?”
“Well?” I asked Maksim Maksimych. “Did he actually manage to get her used to him, or did she fade away in captivity from missing home?”
“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.
“Goodness! How could she waste away from being homesick? From the fortress, she could see the same hills as she could from the village—and these people wanted nothing more. Besides, Grigori Aleksandrovich used to give her a present of some kind every day. At first, she didn’t say a word but haughtily pushed away the gifts, which then went to the dukhan-keeper’s wife and sparked her chatter. Ah, gifts! What won’t a woman do for a piece of colored cloth!... But that’s beside the point... For a long time, Grigori Aleksandrovich kept trying with her, and in the meantime, he learned the Tartar language while she started to understand ours. Little by little, she got used to looking at him, at first sneaking glances; but she still felt lonely and sang her songs softly, so that even I would feel sad when I heard her from the next room. One scene I will never forget: I was walking by and looked in through the window; Bela was sitting on the stove-couch, her head resting on her chest, and Grigori Aleksandrovich was standing there, 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.’
“‘Listen, my Peri,’ he said. ‘Surely you know that you will have to be mine sooner or later—so why do you continue to torture me? Are you in love with some Chechen? If that’s the case, I’ll let you go home immediately.’”
“She gave a scarcely perceptible start and shook her head.
“She gave a barely noticeable flinch and shook her head.
“‘Or is it,’ he continued, ‘that I am utterly hateful to you?’
“‘Or is it,’ he continued, ‘that you completely despise me?’”
“She heaved a sigh.
She sighed.
“‘Or that your faith prohibits you from giving me a little of your love?’
“‘Or does your faith stop you from giving me a little of your love?’”
“She turned pale and remained silent.
“She turned pale and stayed quiet.
“‘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?’
“‘Believe me, God is the same for everyone; and if He allows me to love you, then why should He stop you from 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.
“She stared intently into his face, as if hit by a new thought. Distrust and a longing to be convinced flickered in her eyes. What eyes they were! They sparkled like two glowing embers.”
“‘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?’
“‘Listen, my dear, sweet Bela!’ Pechorin continued. ‘You see how much I love you. I’m ready to give up everything to make you happy again. I want you to be joyful, and if you’re going to be sad again, I think I’ll lose it. Tell me, you’re going to be happier?’”
“She fell into thought, her black eyes still fixed upon him. Then she smiled graciously and nodded her head in token of acquiescence.
“She fell into thought, her dark eyes still fixed on him. Then she smiled warmly and nodded her head in agreement.
“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 took her hand and tried to get her to kiss him. She weakly defended herself, just saying, ‘Please! Please! You can’t, you can’t!’”
“He went on to insist; she began to tremble and weep.
“He insisted, and she started to shake and cry.
“‘I am your captive,’ she said, ‘your slave; of course, you can compel me.’
“‘I’m your captive,’ she said, ‘your slave; of course, you can force me.’”
“And then, again—tears.
“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.
“Grigori Aleksandrovich hit his forehead with his fist and jumped into the other room. I went in to see him and found him pacing back and forth with his arms crossed, looking gloomy.”
“‘Well, old man?’ I said to him.
“‘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!’
“‘She’s a devil—not a woman!’ he replied. ‘But I promise you that she will be mine!’”
“I shook my head.
"I shook my head."
“‘Will you bet with me?’ he said. ‘In a week’s time?’
“‘Will you make a bet with me?’ he said. ‘In a week?’”
“‘Very well,’ I answered.
“‘Sure,’ I replied."
“We shook hands on it and separated.
“We shook hands on it and went our separate ways.
“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.
“The next day he quickly sent a courier to Kizlyar to buy some things for him. The courier returned with an overwhelming amount of different Persian items.”
“‘What think you, Maksim Maksimych?’ he said to me, showing the presents. ‘Will our Asiatic beauty hold out against such a battery as this?’
“‘What do you think, Maksim Maksimych?’ he said to me, showing the gifts. ‘Will our Asian beauty be able to withstand such an assault 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.’
“‘You don’t know the Circassian women,’ I replied. ‘They’re nothing like the Georgian or Transcaucasian Tartar women—not at all! They have their own values, and they’re raised in a different way.’”
“Grigori Aleksandrovich smiled and began to whistle a march to himself.”
“Grigori Aleksandrovich smiled and started 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.
“However, as things turned out,” continued Maksim Maksimych, “I was right, you see. The gifts only had a partial effect. She became more gracious and more trusting—but that was it. Pechorin then decided on one last strategy. One morning, he had his horse saddled, dressed like 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.’
“‘Bela,’ he said. ‘You know how much I love you. I thought if I took you away, you would eventually love me back. I was wrong. Goodbye! Keep everything I have. You can go back to your father if you want—you’re free. I’ve treated you unfairly, and I need to pay for that. Goodbye! I’m leaving. Where to?—How would I know? Maybe I won’t have much time before I face a bullet or a blade. Just remember me and forgive me.’”
“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 turned away and extended his hand to her as a farewell. She didn’t take his hand and stayed silent. But I, standing there behind the door, was able to catch a glimpse of her face through a crack, and I felt sorry for her—such a deathly pallor covered that charming little face! Not hearing an answer, Pechorin took a few steps toward the door. He was trembling, and—should I say it?—I think he was actually in a state to do what he had jokingly suggested! He was just that kind of guy, I swear!
“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!”
“He had barely reached for the door when Bela jumped to her feet, started crying, and threw herself around his neck! Can you believe it? I was standing there behind the door, and I ended up crying too, not really full-on crying, but just—well, something silly!”
The staff-captain became silent.
The captain fell 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.”
“Yes, I confess,” he said after a moment, tugging at his mustache, “I felt hurt that not one woman had ever loved me like that.”
“Was their happiness lasting?” I asked.
“Is 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!”
“Yes, she admitted that, from the moment she first laid eyes on Pechorin, she had often dreamed of him, and that no other man had ever made such an impression on her. Yes, they were happy!”
“How tiresome!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.
“How annoying!” 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!...
In fact, I had been expecting a tragic ending—when, suddenly! he had to let me down in such an unexpected way!...
“Is it possible, though,” I continued, “that her father did not guess that she was with you in the fortress?”
“Is it possible, though,” I continued, “that her father didn’t realize 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.”...
“Well, you should know, he apparently had his doubts. A few days later, we found out that the old man had been killed. This is what happened.”
My attention was aroused anew.
My interest was sparked again.
“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.”
“I have to tell you that Kazbich believed that Azamat had stolen the horse with his father's approval; at least, that's what I think. So, one day, Kazbich went and waited by the roadside, about three versts past the village. The old man was coming back from another one of his pointless searches for his daughter; his followers were lagging behind. It was getting dark. Lost in thought, he was riding slowly when, suddenly, Kazbich leaped out like a cat from behind a bush, jumped up behind him on the horse, knocked him to the ground with a jab of his dagger, grabbed the reins, and took off. A few of the retainers saw the whole thing from the hill; they quickly ran after Kazbich but couldn’t catch 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.
“He got back at himself for losing his horse and took his revenge at the same time,” I said, hoping to get my companion’s thoughts.
“Of course, from their point of view,” said the staff-captain, “he was perfectly right.”
“Of course, from their perspective,” said the staff captain, “he was completely 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.
I was unexpectedly impressed by how well the Russian adapts to the customs of the people around him. I'm not sure if this trait should be praised or criticized, but it shows the amazing flexibility of his mind and the natural common sense that accepts evil when it seems unavoidable or impossible to get rid of.
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.
While we finished our tea, the horses, tied up long before, were shivering in the snow. In the west, the moon was fading and was about to dive into the dark clouds hanging over the distant peaks like ripped pieces of a curtain. We stepped out of the hut. Contrary to what my travel companion had predicted, the weather had cleared, hinting at a calm morning ahead. The dancing stars formed beautiful patterns on the far horizon, and one by one, they dimmed as the pale light of dawn spread across the dark, lilac sky, gradually lighting up the steep mountain slopes covered in fresh snow. On either side loomed dark, mysterious ravines, and clouds of mist, swirling and twisting like snakes, crept along the indentations of the nearby cliffs, almost as if they were alive and afraid of the coming 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.
Everything was peaceful in heaven and on earth, just as a man's heart feels during morning prayer; only occasionally, a cool breeze blew in from the east, lifting the horses' manes weighted with frost. We set off. The five skinny horses struggled to pull our wagons along the winding path up Mount Gut. We walked behind, placing rocks under the wheels whenever the horses got tired. The road seemed to stretch into the sky, climbing higher and higher until it disappeared into the cloud that had been sitting on the peak of Mount Gut since early evening, like a kite waiting for its catch. The snow crunched beneath our feet. The air became so thin that breathing hurt; every now and then, blood rushed to my head, but at the same time, I felt a delightful rush throughout my body and a certain joy in being so high above the world. It was a childish feeling, I admit, but when we step away from society's rules and get closer to nature, we naturally revert to childlike states: each learned trait falls away from the soul, which becomes as it once was and will be again. Anyone who has had the chance, like I have, to roam the desolate mountains, to marvel at their unique shapes, and to deeply inhale the life-giving air flowing through their valleys—will surely understand my urge to share, to tell stories, and to capture those magical moments.
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.
Well, eventually we made it to the top of Mount Gut and stopped to take a look around. A grey cloud hung over the mountain, its cold air signaling an approaching storm; but in the east, everything was so clear and golden that we—meaning the staff captain and I—forgot all about the cloud... Yes, the staff captain too; for simple hearts, the appreciation of nature's beauty and majesty is a hundred times stronger and more vivid than in us, who are caught up in crafting narratives with words and on paper.
“You have grown accustomed, I suppose, to these magnificent pictures!” I said.
“You've probably gotten used to these amazing 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.”
“Yes, sir, you can even get used to the whistling of a bullet, meaning you can get used to hiding the involuntary pounding of your heart.”
“I have heard, on the contrary, that many an old warrior actually finds that music agreeable.”
“I've heard, on the other hand, that many old soldiers actually find that music enjoyable.”
“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!”
“Of course, if it comes to that, it's fine; but only because the heart beats more intensely. Look!” he said, pointing towards the east. “What a place!”
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.
And, honestly, I can hardly imagine seeing a view like this anywhere else. Below us was the Koishaur Valley, split by the Aragva and another stream, almost like two silver threads; a bluish mist was drifting through the valley, escaping into the nearby canyons from the warm morning sun. On both sides, the mountain peaks rose higher and higher, crisscrossing each other and extending, blanketed in snow and vegetation; in the distance were the same mountains, which now looked like two cliffs, mirroring each other. And all that snow was glowing brightly in a cheerful crimson light, making it seem like you could live in such a place forever. The sun was barely visible behind the dark blue mountain, which only a trained eye could tell apart from a thundercloud; but above the sun was a blood-red streak that my companion pointed out specifically.
“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.
“I told you,” he shouted, “that there would be bad weather today! We need to hurry, or it might hit us on Mount Krestov.—Move it!” he yelled 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:
Chains were placed under the wheels instead of drags to prevent sliding, the drivers took the horses by the reins, and the descent started. On the right was a cliff, and on the left, a steep drop so deep that an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom looked like a swallow's nest. I shuddered at the thought that often, in the dead of night, on this very road, where two wagons couldn't pass, a courier drives this route about ten times a year without ever getting out of his rickety vehicle. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, and the other was an Ossete. The latter quickly took the leaders out and guided the shaft-horse by the reins, taking every possible precaution—but our reckless companion didn't even get down from his seat! When I pointed out that he could at least make an effort for the sake of my suitcase, which I had no desire to drop into the abyss, he replied:
“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.”
“Hey, master, with a little help from above, we'll get there as safely and soundly 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.
And he was right. We could easily have not arrived at all; but we did arrive, despite everything. And if people would just think a bit more, they would be convinced that life isn’t worth all the fuss.
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.
Perhaps you’re curious about how Bela's story wraps up? First off, this isn’t a novel; it’s a collection of travel notes, so I can’t have the staff captain share the story any sooner than he actually does. So, you’ll need to be patient, or if you prefer, you can skip ahead a few pages. Though I wouldn’t recommend that, since the crossing of Mount Krestov (or, as the knowledgeable Gamba refers to it, le mont St. Christophe 15) is definitely worth your attention.
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.
Well, we made our way down Mount Gut into Chertov Valley... There's a romantic name for you! You can almost picture the evil spirit's lair among the steep cliffs—but that's not quite right. The name "Chertov" comes from the word cherta (boundary-line), not chort (devil), because, at one point, the valley was the boundary of Georgia. We found it buried under snow drifts, which brought to mind Saratov, Tambov, and other lovely places from our homeland.
“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...
“Look, there’s Krestov!” said the staff-captain, as we had descended into the Chertov Valley, pointing out a hill covered in a blanket of snow. At the top stood the dark shape of a stone cross, and just beyond it was a barely noticeable road that travelers use only when the side-road is blocked with snow. Our drivers, claiming that no avalanches had fallen yet, took the horses around the mountain to give them a break. At a turn, we encountered four or five Ossetes who offered their help; grabbing the wheels, they started to pull and support our cart with shouts. Indeed, it’s a dangerous road; on the right, massive snow was hanging above us, seeming to be ready to break off and drop into the ravine at the first gust of wind. The narrow path was partly covered in snow, which in many places gave way under our feet and in others had turned into ice from the sun by day and the frost by night, causing the horses to slip, and we struggled to find our footing. On the left, a deep chasm opened up, through which a torrent flowed, sometimes hidden beneath a layer of ice, sometimes rushing and foaming over the dark rocks. In two hours, we barely managed to go around Mount Krestov—just two versts in two hours! Meanwhile, the clouds had descended, and hail and snow began to fall; the wind howled and whistled as it surged into the ravines, like Nightingale the Robber. 16 Soon the stone cross disappeared into the fog, which rolled in from the east, thicker and denser with every passing moment...
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.
Regarding that stone cross, there's a strange but common belief that it was put up by Emperor Peter the First during his travels through the Caucasus. However, the Emperor only went as far as Daghestan, and there's a large inscription on the cross itself stating that it was erected by General Ermolov in the year 1824. Nevertheless, this belief has become so deeply ingrained, despite the inscription, that it leaves you unsure of what to believe, especially since people generally don't trust 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.
To get to the station Kobi, we still had to go down about five versts, over icy rocks and slushy snow. The horses were worn out; we were freezing; the snowstorm raged with growing intensity, just like the storms back home in the north, but its wild tunes felt sadder and more sorrowful.
“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!”
“O Exile,” I thought, “you are crying for your vast, open plains! There you can spread your cold wings, but here you are stifled and trapped, like an eagle beating its wings, shrieking against the bars of its 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!”
“A bad situation,” said the staff captain. “Look! All we see around us is mist and snow. At any moment, we could fall into an abyss or get stuck in a crevice; and a little further down, I bet the Baidara has risen so high that we can’t cross it. Oh, this Asia, I know it! Just like people, just like rivers! You can’t trust 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.
The drivers, yelling and swearing, beat the horses, which snorted, stubbornly resisted, and refused to move at all, despite the persuasive force 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.”
“Your honor,” one of the drivers explained to me, “you see, we’re never going to make it to Kobi today. Could you please give the order to turn left while we still can? There’s something dark over there on the slope—probably huts. Travelers always stop there when the weather is bad, sir. They say,” he added, pointing to the Ossetes, “that they will guide us there if you 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!”
“I know that, my friend, I know that without you telling me,” said the staff-captain. “Oh, these animals! They're always eager to find an excuse to squeeze out a tip!”
“You must confess, however,” I said, “that we should be worse off without them.”
“You have to admit, though,” I said, “that we would 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!”
“Just like that, just like that,” he muttered to himself. “I know them well—these guides! They can sniff out an opportunity to take advantage of people. As if it’s 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.
So, we headed left, and somehow, after a lot of hassle, we managed to reach the miserable shelter, which was made up of two huts built from stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a wall of the same stuff. Our tattered hosts welcomed us eagerly. I later found out that the Government gives them money and food on the condition that they accommodate travelers caught in a 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.”
“Everything is for the best,” I said, sitting down near the fire. “Now you need to finish telling me your story about Bela. I’m sure what you’ve shared so far isn’t the whole story.”
“Why are you so certain?” answered the staff-captain, winking and smiling slyly.
“Why are you so sure?” replied the staff captain, winking and grinning slyly.
“Because things don’t happen like that. A story with such an unusual beginning must also have an unusual ending.”
“Because things don’t happen that way. A story with such an unusual beginning must also have an unusual ending.”
“You have guessed, of course”...
"You've guessed, of course..."
“I am very glad to hear it.”
"I’m really glad to hear that."
“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!”
“It’s all fine for you to be happy, but honestly, it makes me sad when I think about it. Bela was an amazing girl. In the end, I got used to her as if she were my own daughter, and she loved me. I have to tell you that I have no family. I haven’t heard from my parents in about twelve years, and back in the day, I never thought about getting married—and now, well, it just wouldn’t work. So I was happy to find someone to spoil. She would sing to us or dance the Lezginka. 17.. And what a dancer she was! I’ve seen our own ladies in provincial society; and once, about twenty years ago, I was even in the Nobles’ Club in Moscow—but was there a woman who could compare to her? Not one! Grigori Aleksandrovich dressed her up like a doll, showered her with affection, and it was simply amazing to see how beautiful she became while she lived with us. The sunburn faded from her face and hands, and a rosy glow appeared on her cheeks... What a cheerful girl she was! Always teasing me, that little rascal!... God forgive her!”
“And when you told her of her father’s death?”
"And when you told her about her dad'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.
“We kept it a secret from her for a long time, until she got used to her position; and then, when we told her, 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...
“For about four months, everything went as smoothly as it could. Grigori Aleksandrovich, as I think I’ve mentioned before, was really into hunting; he always had a strong urge to head into the forest after boars or wild goats—but now it was all he could do just to step outside the fortress walls. Suddenly, though, I noticed he was starting to have those moments of distraction again, pacing around his room with his hands clasped behind his back. One day, without telling anyone, he went out to hunt. He was missing all morning; then it happened again another day, and more frequently after that...”
“‘This looks bad!’ I said to myself. ‘Something must have come between them!’
“This looks bad!” I said to myself. “Something must have gotten in the way of 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.
“One morning I visited them—I can picture it clearly in my mind, as if it's happening right now. Bela was sitting on the bed, wearing a black silk jacket, looking pretty pale and so sad that it worried me."
“‘Where is Pechorin?’ I asked.
“‘Where's Pechorin?’ I asked.”
“‘Hunting.’
“‘Hunting.’”
“‘When did he go—to-day?’
"When did he go today?"
“‘She was silent, as if she found a difficulty in answering.
“‘She was quiet, as if she was struggling to find a response.
“‘No, he has been gone since yesterday,’ she said at length, with a heavy sigh.
“‘No, he’s been gone since yesterday,’ she said finally, with a heavy sigh.”
“‘Surely nothing has happened to him!’
“‘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.’
“‘Yesterday I thought and thought the whole day,’ she replied through her tears; ‘I imagined all kinds of disasters. At one point, I pictured him being hurt by a wild boar, and at another, that a Chechene had taken him into the mountains... But now, I’ve come to believe that he doesn’t love me anymore.’”
“‘In truth, my dear girl, you could not have imagined anything worse!’
“'Honestly, my dear girl, you couldn't have thought of anything worse!'”
“She burst out crying; then, proudly raising her head, she wiped away the tears and continued:
“She started crying; then, lifting her head with pride, she wiped away the tears and kept going:
“‘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!’...
“‘If he doesn’t love me, then what’s stopping him from sending me home? I’m not forcing him into anything. But if this keeps up, I’ll leave on my own—I’m not a servant, I’m a princess!’...”
“I tried to talk her over.
“I tried to talk her into it.
“‘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.’
“‘Listen, Bela. You see it’s impossible for him to stay here with you forever, like he’s attached to your skirt. He’s a young man and loves hunting. He’ll leave, but you’ll see that he’ll come back; and if you’re going to be unhappy, you’ll quickly make him get tired of you.’”
“‘True, true!’ she said. ‘I will be merry.’
“‘True, true!’ she said. ‘I will be happy.’”
“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.
“And with a burst of laughter, she grabbed her tambourine, started to sing, dance, and frolic around me. But that didn’t last long either; she collapsed onto 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!
"What could I do with her? You know I've never been used to being around women. I thought and thought about how to make her feel better, but I couldn’t come up with anything. For a while, we both stayed quiet... A really uncomfortable situation, sir!"
“At length I said to her:
“At last, I said to her:
“‘Would you like us to go and take a walk on the rampart? The weather is splendid.’
“‘Do you want to go for a walk on the wall? The weather is great.’”
“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!
“This was in September, and it truly was a beautiful day, bright and not too hot. The mountains looked so close, as if they were just a hand’s length away. We walked back and forth along the fortress rampart in silence. Eventually, she sat down on the grass, and I sat beside her. Honestly, it’s funny to think about it all now! I used to chase after her like a kind of babysitter!”
“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.
“Our fortress was perched on a high point, and the view from the rampart was amazing. On one side, the wide clearing, marked by a few ravines, was bordered by a forest that extended all the way to the mountain ridge. Scattered throughout the clearing were villages sending up their smoke, and there were herds of horses grazing. On the other side, a small stream flowed, and close to its banks, dense underbrush covered the rocky heights connecting to the main range of the Caucasus. We were sitting in a corner of the bastion so we could see everything on both sides. Suddenly, I spotted someone on a gray horse riding out of the forest; he came closer and closer until he finally stopped on the opposite side of the river, about a hundred fathoms away from us, and began to spin his horse around as if he were 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?’...
“‘Look, look, Bela,’ I said, ‘you’ve got young eyes—what kind of horseman is that? Who is he here to entertain?’...
“‘It is Kazbich!’ she exclaimed after a glance.
“‘It’s Kazbich!’ she exclaimed after a quick look.”
“‘Ah, the robber! Come to laugh at us, has he?’
“‘Oh, the robber! He’s come to mock us, huh?’”
“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kazbich, with his swarthy face, and as ragged and dirty as ever.
“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kazbich, with his dark face, and as ragged and dirty as ever.
“‘It is my father’s horse!’ said Bela, seizing my arm.
“‘It’s my dad’s horse!’ said Bela, grabbing my arm.
“She was trembling like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling.
“She was shaking like a leaf and her eyes were shimmering.
“‘Aha!’ I said to myself. ‘There is robber’s blood in your veins still, my dear!’
“Aha!” I thought to myself. “You still have the blood of a robber in you, 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.’
“‘Come here,’ I said to the guard. ‘Check your gun and take that brave guy off his horse for me—and you’ll get a silver ruble.’”
“‘Very well, your honour, only he won’t keep still.’
“‘Alright, Your Honor, but he won’t sit still.’”
“‘Tell him to!’ I said, with a laugh.
“‘Tell him to!’ I said, laughing.”
“‘Hey, friend!’ cried the sentry, waving his hand. ‘Wait a bit. What are you spinning round like a humming-top for?’
“‘Hey, buddy!’ shouted the guard, waving his hand. ‘Hold on for a second. Why are you spinning around like a top?’”
“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.
“Kazbich stopped and listened to the sentry—probably thinking that we were going to negotiate with him. Quite the opposite!... My grenadier took aim... Bang!... Missed!... Just as the powder ignited, Kazbich moved his horse, which jumped to the side. He stood up in his stirrups, shouted something in his own language, made a threatening gesture with his whip—and took off.
“‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ I said to the sentry.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” I said to the guard.
“‘He has gone away to die, your honour,’ he answered. ‘There’s no killing a man of that cursed race at one stroke.’
“‘He’s gone away to die, your honor,’ he replied. ‘You can’t take out a guy from that cursed race in one go.’”
“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!
A little while later, Pechorin came back from hunting. Bela jumped into his arms without a single complaint, without any blame for his long absence!... Even I was frustrated with him by this point!
“‘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.’
“‘Good heavens!’ I said; ‘I tell you, Kazbich was just across the river a moment ago, and we shot at him. You could have easily run into him, you know! These mountain people hold grudges! Do you really think he doesn’t suspect that you helped Azamat? And I bet he recognized Bela today! I know he was madly in love with her a year ago—he told me himself—and if he had any chance of getting a proper bridegroom’s gift together, he would definitely have tried to marry her.’”
“At this Pechorin became thoughtful.
“At this, Pechorin became contemplative."
“‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We must be more cautious—Bela, from this day forth you mustn’t walk on the rampart any more.’
“‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We need to be more careful—Bela, from now on you can’t walk on the rampart anymore.’”
“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.
“In the evening, I had a long talk with him. I was upset that his feelings for the poor girl had changed; not to mention that he spent half the day hunting, his attitude towards her had turned cold. He hardly ever showed her affection, and she was starting to noticeably decline; her little face was becoming drawn, and her large eyes were losing their brightness.”
“‘What are you sighing for, Bela?’ I would ask her. ‘Are you sad?’
“‘What are you sighing about, Bela?’ I would ask her. ‘Are you feeling down?’”
“‘No!’
"‘No!’"
“‘Do you want anything?’
"Do you need anything?"
“‘No!’
“‘No!’”
“‘You are pining for your kinsfolk?’
"Do you miss your family?"
“‘I have none!’
"I don't have any!"
“Sometimes for whole days not a word could be drawn from her but ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’
“Sometimes for entire days, she could only respond with ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’”
“So I straightway proceeded to talk to Pechorin about her.”
"So I immediately started talking 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.
“‘LISTEN, Maksim Maksimych,’ Pechorin said. ‘I have an unfortunate disposition; whether it stems from my upbringing or is just how I am—I can’t say. What I do know is that if I make others unhappy, I end up just as unhappy myself. Of course, that doesn't really help them—it's just the way it is. In my early youth, once I was no longer under my family’s watch, I dove headfirst into all the pleasures that money could buy—and naturally, those pleasures became tiresome. Then I jumped into the world of fashion—and that got old quickly too. I fell in love with beautiful socialites and they loved me back, but it only stirred my imagination and ego; my heart remained empty... I started reading, studying—but even those subjects became extremely dull. I realized that neither fame nor happiness really relies on them at all, because the happiest people are often uneducated, and fame is just luck, which you can achieve by being clever. Then I got bored... Shortly after, I was sent to the Caucasus; and that turned out to be the happiest time of my life. I thought that with Chechen bullets flying around, boredom wouldn’t be a thing—a foolish thought! In a month, I got so used to the sound of bullets and the closeness of death that, honestly, I paid more attention to the gnats—and I became more bored than ever, as I lost what little hope I had left. When I saw Bela in my house; when, for the first time, I held her on my lap and kissed her black hair, I, being the fool that I am, thought she was an angel sent to me by fate... Once again, I was wrong; the love of a savage isn’t much different from that of a high-born lady, the naive ignorance and simplicity of one tire you just as much as the flirtation of the other. I’m not saying I don’t love her still; I appreciate a few sweet moments we shared; I’d give my life for her—only I’m bored with her... I’m not sure if I’m a fool or a villain, but one thing is for sure, I’m also very deserving of pity—perhaps even more than her. My soul has been corrupted by the world, my imagination is restless, and my heart is never satisfied. To me, everything feels trivial. I adjust to grief just as easily as to joy, and my life gets emptier by the day. The only option left for me is 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!’
“‘As soon as I can, I’ll head out—but not to Europe. God forbid! I’ll go to America, to Arabia, to India—maybe I’ll die somewhere along the way. Regardless, I’m sure that with storms and rough paths, that final consolation won’t run out anytime soon!’”
“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?”
“For a long time, he kept talking like that, and his words have stayed with me because it was the first time I had heard such things from a 25-year-old—and I hope it will be the last. Isn’t it amazing? Please tell me,” the staff captain said, turning to me. “You used to live in the Capital, right? Not too long ago? Is it really true that all the young men there are 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.
I replied that quite a few people used the same kind of language, and probably, there were even some who spoke with complete sincerity; that disillusionment, like any trend, had started in the upper classes and had trickled down to the lower classes, where it was now worn thin, and that those who were genuinely bored tried to hide their misfortune as if it were a bad thing. The staff-captain didn’t grasp these nuances, shook his head, and smiled knowingly.
“Anyhow, I suppose it was the French who introduced the fashion?”
“Anyway, I guess it was the French who started this trend?”
“No, the English.”
“No, the Brits.”
“Aha, there you are!” he answered. “They always have been arrant drunkards, you know!”
“Aha, there you are!” he replied. “They’ve always been complete alcoholics, 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.
Involuntarily, I remembered a certain lady living in Moscow who always insisted that Byron was nothing more than a drunkard. However, the staff captain's comment was more understandable; to avoid strong drink, he naturally tried to convince himself that all the world's problems were caused by alcoholism.
CHAPTER X
MEANWHILE the staff-captain continued his story.
MEANWHILE, the staff captain kept going with 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.
“Kazbich never showed up again; but for some reason—I don’t know why—I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had a reason for coming, and that some tricky plan was brewing 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?
“Well, one day Pechorin tried to convince me to go boar-hunting with him. I resisted for a long time. What was so new about 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!
“However, he dragged me along anyway. We took four or five soldiers and set out early in the morning. Until ten o’clock, we rushed around the reeds and the forest—there wasn’t a wild animal in sight!”
“‘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!’
“‘I think we should head back,’ I said. ‘What's the point in staying? It's pretty clear we've had 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...
"But despite the heat and exhaustion, Pechorin didn't want to come back empty-handed... That was just the way he was; whatever he wanted, he had to get—clearly, he had been spoiled by a doting mother in his childhood. Finally, around noon, we spotted one of those damn wild boars—Bang! Bang!—No luck!—It darted off into the reeds. That was definitely an unlucky day!... So, after a quick break, we headed home..."
“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.
“We rode in silence, side by side, letting the horses have their head. We were almost at the fortress, with only the brushwood blocking our view. Suddenly, a shot rang out... We looked at each other, both hit with the same suspicion... We galloped towards the sound of the shot, glanced over, and saw soldiers gathered on the rampart, pointing toward a field where a rider was speeding away, holding something white across his saddle. Grigori Aleksandrovich shouted like a Chechen, pulled out his gun, and took off—I followed 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.
“Luckily, since our hunt didn't go well, our horses weren't worn out; they were eager under the saddles, and with each passing moment we got closer and closer... Finally, I recognized Kazbich, but I couldn't tell what he was holding in front of him."
“Then I drew level with Pechorin and shouted to him:
“Then I caught up to Pechorin and shouted to him:
“‘It is Kazbich!’
“‘It’s Kazbich!’”
“He looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse with his whip.
“He looked at me, nodded, and hit 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!
“At last we were close enough to take aim at Kazbich. I don't know if it was because his horse was tired or not as good as ours, but despite all his efforts, it wasn’t moving very quickly. I imagine he was thinking about his Karagyoz at that moment!”
“I looked at Pechorin. He was taking aim as he galloped...
“I looked at Pechorin. He was aiming as he rode at full speed...”
“‘Don’t shoot,’ I cried. ‘Save the shot! We will catch up with him as it is.’
“‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled. ‘Hold your fire! We’ll catch up with him anyway.’”
“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.
“Oh, these young guys! Always getting fired up at the wrong time! The shot rang out and the bullet broke one of the horse's back legs. It jumped forward a few times, stumbled, and fell to its knees. Kazbich jumped off, and then we realized he was holding a woman in his arms— a woman covered by a veil. It was Bela—poor Bela! He shouted something to us in his own language and raised his dagger over her... There was no time to waste; I fired back, not aiming carefully. The bullet probably hit him in the shoulder because he suddenly dropped his hand. When the smoke cleared, we could see the injured horse lying on the ground and Bela next to it; but Kazbich, his gun thrown away, was scrambling up the cliff like a cat, through the bushes. I wanted to bring him down from there—but I didn't have a round ready. We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor girl! She lay still, and blood was pouring from her wound. That scumbag! If he had stabbed her in the heart—well, at least it would have been over right then; but to stab her in the back like that—the bastard! She was unconscious. We ripped the veil into strips and bandaged her wound as tightly as we could. In vain Pechorin kissed her cold lips—it was impossible to wake her up.
“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.
“Pechorin got on his horse; I picked up Bela from the ground and somehow managed to set her in front of him on the saddle; he wrapped his arm around 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.’
“‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich, after a brief silence. ‘We’re never going to get her in alive like this.’
“‘True!’ I said, and we put our horses to a full gallop.”
“‘True!’ I said, and we urged our horses into 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.”
“A CROWD was waiting for us at the fortress gate. We carefully carried the injured girl to Pechorin’s room and then called for the doctor. He was drunk, but he came, looked at the wound, and said that she wouldn’t survive more than a day. He was wrong, though.”
“She recovered?” I asked the staff-captain, seizing him by the arm, and involuntarily rejoicing.
“She recovered?” I asked the staff captain, grabbing his arm and feeling an overwhelming sense of joy.
“No,” he replied, “but the doctor was so far mistaken that she lived two days longer.”
“No,” he answered, “but the doctor was so wrong that she lived for two more days.”
“Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with her!”
“Tell me how Kazbich got away 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.”
“It was like this: despite Pechorin's warning, she left the fortress and went down to the river. It was a really hot day, and she sat on a rock, dipping her feet in the water. Kazbich sneaked up, grabbed her, silenced her, and pulled her into the bushes. Then he jumped on his horse and rode away. Meanwhile, she managed to scream, the guards heard her, fired their weapons, but missed; and that's when we showed up.”
“But what did Kazbich want to carry her off for?”
“But why did Kazbich want to take her away?”
“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.”
“Goodness! Everyone knows that these Circassians are a bunch of thieves; they can’t resist anything left out in the open! They might not need something, but they’ll take it anyway. Still, you shouldn’t be too harsh on them. Plus, he had been in love with her for a long time.”
“And Bela died?”
"And Bela passed away?"
“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.
“Yes, she died, but she suffered for a long time, and we were really affected by it, I can tell you. Around ten o’clock in the evening, she became aware again. We were sitting by her bed. As soon as she opened her eyes, she started calling for Pechorin.”
“‘I am here beside you, my janechka’ (that is, ‘my darling’), he answered, taking her by the hand.
“‘I’m right here with you, my janechka’ (which means ‘my darling’), he replied, taking her hand.
“‘I shall die,’ she said.
"I'll 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!...
“We started to reassure her, saying that the doctor had guaranteed to cure her without fail. She shook her little head and turned to the wall—she didn’t 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.
“At night she became delirious, her head felt hot, and at times a feverish fit shook her entire body. She spoke nonsensically about her father and her brother; she longed for the mountains, for her home... Then she talked about Pechorin too, giving him various endearing names or blaming him for no longer loving 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.
“He listened to her quietly, his head resting in his hands; yet, during that time, I didn't see a single tear on his lashes. I’m not sure if he truly couldn't cry or if he was just holding it together; but for me, I’ve never witnessed anything more heartbreaking."
“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.
“Towards morning, the delirium faded. For about an hour, she lay still, pale, and so weak that it was barely noticeable she was breathing. After that, she started to improve and began to talk: but what do you think she talked about? Such thoughts only come to those who are dying!... She mourned the fact that she wasn’t a Christian, that in the afterlife her soul would never meet Grigori Aleksandrovich’s soul, and that in Paradise, another woman would be by his side. I thought about baptizing her before she passed. I shared my idea with her; she looked at me unsure and took a long time to respond. Finally, she said she would die in the faith she was born into. A whole day went by like this. What a difference that day made in her! Her pale cheeks sank in, her eyes became so large, her lips burned. She felt an intense heat inside, as if a red-hot blade was piercing her chest.
“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.
“The second night arrived. We didn't close our eyes or leave the bedside. She was in great pain, groaning; and as soon as the pain started to lessen, she tried to reassure Grigori Aleksandrovich that she was feeling better, urged him to go to bed, kissed his hand, and clung to it tightly. Before morning, she began to experience death's struggle and started to toss around. She knocked the bandage off, and blood started to flow again. After the wound was dressed once more, she quieted down for a moment and asked Pechorin to kiss her. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, lifted her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to hers—which were becoming cold. She wrapped her trembling arms tightly around his neck, as if with that kiss she wanted to give him her soul. —No, she was right to die! What would have happened to her if Grigori Aleksandrovich had abandoned her? And that 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.
“During half of the next day, she was calm, silent, and compliant, no matter how much the doctor tormented her with his treatments and concoctions.”
“‘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?’
“‘Good heavens!’ I said to him, ‘you know you said yourself that she was definitely going to die, so what's the point of all these preparations you're making?’”
“‘Even so, it is better to do all this,’ he replied, ‘so that I may have an easy conscience.’
“‘Even so, it’s better to do all this,’ he replied, ‘so that I can have an easy conscience.’”
“A pretty conscience, forsooth!
"A nice conscience, for sure!"
“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.
“After noon, Bela started to feel really thirsty. We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside than in the room; we put ice around the bed—all of it was useless. I knew that this unbearable thirst was a sign of the impending end, and I told Pechorin that.”
“‘Water, water!’ she said in a hoarse voice, raising herself up from the bed.
“‘Water, water!’ she said in a raspy voice, sitting up in 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?...
Pechorin went pale, grabbed a glass, filled it, and handed it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and started to pray—I can’t remember what exactly... Yes, my friend, I’ve seen many people die in hospitals or on the battlefield, but this was something totally different! Still, I have to admit, one thing makes me sad: she died without even thinking of me once. Yet I loved her, I think, like a father!... Well, God forgive her!... And honestly, 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!
“As soon as she drank the water, she began to feel better—but about three minutes later, she took her last breath! We held a mirror to her lips—it didn’t fog up!”
“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 led Pechorin out of the room, and we walked onto the fortress rampart. For a long time, we strolled side by side, back and forth, without saying a word and with our hands clasped behind our backs. His face showed nothing unusual—and that irritated me. If I had been in his position, I would have been devastated. Finally, he sat down in the shade and started drawing in the sand with a stick. More out of formality than anything else, I tried to comfort him and began to talk. He looked up and suddenly burst into laughter! That laugh sent a chill through me... I went away to arrange for 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.
“I admit that I was partly trying to distract myself when I occupied my time like that. I had a small piece of Circassian fabric, and I covered the coffin with it, adding some Circassian silver lace that Grigori Aleksandrovich had purchased 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.”
“Early the next morning, we buried her behind the fortress, by the river, next to the place where she had sat for the last time. Around her small grave, white acacia shrubs and elder trees have now taken root. I would have liked to put up a cross, but that wouldn’t have been right, you know—after all, she wasn’t a Christian.”
“And what of Pechorin?” I asked.
“And what about 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.”
"Pechorin was sick for a long time and got really thin, poor guy; but we never talked about Bela after that. I could tell it would upset him, so what was the point? About three months later, he got assigned to the E——Regiment and left for Georgia. We haven’t seen each other since. However, when I think about it, someone mentioned to me not long ago that he came back to Russia—but it wasn’t in the general orders for the corps. Besides, news takes a while to reach people like us."
Hereupon—probably to drown sad memories—he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.
Hereupon—probably to avoid sad memories—he began a long discussion about how annoying it is to hear news a year late.
I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.
I didn't interrupt him, and I also didn't 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.
In an hour, an opportunity to continue our journey came up. The snowstorm eased, the sky cleared, and we set off. Along the way, I couldn't help but start talking about Bela and Pechorin.
“You have not heard what became of Kazbich?” I asked.
"You haven't heard what happened to 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!”...
“Kazbich? Honestly, I’m not sure. I've heard that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there’s a guy named Kazbich, a reckless dude who rides at a walking pace in a red tunic, right under our fire, and bows politely whenever someone gets close to him—but it can’t possibly 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.
In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I said our goodbyes. I continued on, and he couldn't keep up because of his heavy bags. We didn't expect to see each other again, but we did, and if you're interested, I can share how—it’s quite a tale... You have to admit, though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man deserving of all respect... If you agree, I’ll feel fully rewarded for my perhaps overly long 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.
AFTER saying goodbye to Maksim Maksimych, I rode quickly through the gorges of the Terek and Darial, had breakfast in Kazbek, enjoyed tea in Lars, and reached Vladikavkaz just in time for dinner. I’ll skip the description of the mountains, along with any meaningless exclamations or flowery language that wouldn’t resonate with anyone who hasn’t been to the Caucasus. I’ll also leave out any statistics, which I’m certain no one would want to 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 stayed at the inn that everyone who travels in those areas visits, and just so you know, there's no one you can ask to roast your pheasant or cook your cabbage soup, because the three old-timers running the place are either too clueless or too drunk to make any sense out of things.
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.
I was told that I would have to stay there three more days because the "Adventure" hadn't arrived from Ekaterinograd yet, so it couldn't start the return trip. What a hassle! 18... But a bad pun doesn't comfort a Russian, and to keep myself busy, I decided to write down the story about Bela that I had heard from Maksim Maksimych—never imagining it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: it's interesting how a small event can have serious consequences!... Maybe you don't know what the "Adventure" is? It's a convoy made up of half a company of infantry, along with a cannon, that 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!...
The first day, I felt like I had way too much time on my hands. Early the next morning, a vehicle pulled into the courtyard... Aha! Maksim Maksimych!... We greeted each other like old friends. I offered to share my room with him, and he graciously accepted without any formalities; he even gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder and made a goofy smile—what a strange guy!
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...
Maksim Maksimych was extremely skilled in cooking. He roasted the pheasant incredibly well and basted it perfectly with cucumber sauce. I had to admit that if it weren’t for him, I would have been stuck on a diet of dry food. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us forget the limited number of dishes—there was only one, after all. Then we lit our pipes, grabbed our chairs, and sat down—I by the window, and he by the stove, where a fire had been lit because the day was damp and chilly. We sat in silence. What was there to discuss? He had already shared everything interesting about himself, and I had nothing to contribute. I looked out the window. Here and there, between the trees, I glimpsed a few poor, small houses scattered along the bank of the Terek, which flowed toward the sea in an ever-widening stream; further away, the dark-blue, jagged outline of the mountains rose, behind which Mount Kazbek stood tall in its white high priest’s hat. I took a mental farewell of them; I felt bad about leaving 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.
So we sat there for quite a while. The sun was setting behind the cold mountain peaks, and a white mist was starting to spread over the valleys when the silence was interrupted by the jingling of a traveling carriage's bell and the shouts of drivers in the street. A few vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, pulled into the inn's courtyard, and behind them came an empty traveling carriage. Its light build, comfortable layout, and stylish look gave it a distinctly foreign vibe. A man with a large mustache walked behind it. He was dressed in a Hungarian jacket and was fairly well-dressed for a servant. The way he confidently shook the ashes out of his pipe and yelled at the coachman made it clear what his role was. He was obviously the pampered servant of a lazy master—kind of like a Russian Figaro.
“Tell me, my good man,” I called to him out of the window. “What is it?—Has the ‘Adventure’ arrived, eh?”
“Hey there, good sir,” I shouted to him from the window. “What’s going on?—Has the ‘Adventure’ arrived, huh?”
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.
He gave me a pretty rude look, adjusted his tie, and walked away. An Armenian who was nearby smiled and spoke up for him, saying that the "Adventure" had really arrived and would leave for the return trip the next 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.”
“Thank goodness!” said Maksim Maksimych, who had just approached the window. “What a beautiful carriage!” he continued; “it must belong to some official heading to Tiflis for a court case. You can tell he’s not familiar with our little mountains! No, my friend, you can't be serious! Those roads aren’t meant for someone like you; they’d rattle even an English carriage to pieces!—But who could it be? Let’s go 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.
We stepped out into the hallway, at the end of which there was an open door leading into a side room. The butler and a driver were pulling suitcases into the room.
“I say, my man!” the staff-captain asked him: “Whose is that marvellous carriage?—Eh?—A beautiful carriage!”
“I say, my man!” the staff-captain asked him. “Whose amazing carriage is that?—Eh?—What a beautiful carriage!”
Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.
Without turning around, the servant muttered something to himself as he opened a suitcase. Maksim Maksimych got angry.
“I am speaking to you, my friend!” he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder.
“I’m talking to you, my friend!” he said, tapping the rude guy on the shoulder.
“Whose carriage?—My master’s.”
“Whose ride?—My boss’s.”
“And who is your master?”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Pechorin—”
“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.
“What did you say? What? Pechorin?—Oh my goodness!... Did he not serve in the Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, tugging at my sleeve. His eyes were shining with joy.
“Yes, he served there, I think—but I have not been with him long.”
“Yes, he worked there, I believe—but I haven’t been with him for 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.
“Well! Exactly!... Exactly!... Grigori Aleksandrovich? ... that’s his name, right? Your boss and I were friends,” he added, giving the servant a friendly slap on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble.
“Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me,” said the latter, frowning.
“Excuse me, sir, you’re in my way,” 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?”
“What a guy you are, my friend! Don’t you know, your master and I were best friends and lived together?... But where has he stayed?”
The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass the night at Colonel N——‘s.
The servant hinted that Pechorin had stayed to have dinner and spend 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!”
“But won’t he be checking in here in the evening?” said Maksim Maksimych. “Or, hey, are you going over to him for something?... If you do, just tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that—he’ll get it!—I’ll give you fifty kopecks as 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.
The manservant made a mocking face upon hearing such a humble promise, but he assured Maksim Maksimych that he would carry out his request.
“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——!”
“He’ll definitely come running over soon!” said Maksim Maksimych, with a sense of victory. “I’ll go outside the gate and wait for him! It’s too bad I don't know 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.
Maksim Maksimych sat on a small bench outside the gate, and I headed to my room. I admit that I was also looking forward to Pechorin’s arrival with a bit of impatience—though, based on the staff captain’s story, I had developed a rather unflattering impression of him. Still, some aspects of his character seemed noteworthy to me. In about an hour, 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.
“Would you like some tea, Maksim Maksimych?” I called out from the window.
“Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow.”
“Thanks. I’m not thirsty, for some reason.”
“Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and cold!”
“Oh, please have some! It’s late, you know, and chilly!”
“No, thank you”...
"Thanks, but no thanks."
“Well, just as you like!”
"Well, just how you like!"
I began my tea alone. About ten minutes afterwards my old captain came in.
I started my tea by myself. About ten minutes later, my old captain walked 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.”
“You're right, it would be better to have a cup of tea—but I’ve been waiting for Pechorin. His guy has been gone for a while now, but clearly something is keeping 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.
The staff captain quickly took a sip of tea, turned down a second cup, and headed back outside the gate—clearly feeling a bit uneasy. It was evident that the old man was upset by Pechorin's disregard, especially since he had been talking to me earlier about their friendship and until an hour ago had been sure that Pechorin would rush over as soon as he heard 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.
It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and started to call Maksim Maksimych, saying it was time to hit the sack. He mumbled something under his breath. I repeated my invitation—he didn’t respond.
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.
I left a candle on the stove, and after wrapping myself in my cloak, I lay down on the couch and quickly fell asleep. I would have slept peacefully if Maksim Maksimych hadn’t woken me up when he walked into the room. It was already very late. He tossed his pipe onto the table, started pacing back and forth, and made a racket at the stove. Eventually, he lay down, but for a long time, he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing around.
“The bugs are biting you, are they not?” I asked.
“The bugs are biting you, right?” I asked.
“Yes, that is it,” he answered, with a heavy sigh.
“Yes, that’s it,” he replied, with a deep 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 woke up early the next morning, but Maksim Maksimych was already waiting for me. I found him sitting on the small bench at the gate.
“I have to go to the Commandant,” he said, “so, if Pechorin comes, please send for me.”...
“I need to go see the Commandant,” he said, “so if Pechorin shows up, please let me know.”
I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs had regained their youthful strength and suppleness.
I kept my promise. He took off as if his limbs had gotten their youthful strength and flexibility back.
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.
The morning was crisp and beautiful. Golden clouds gathered on the mountaintops like a new set of sky-high mountains. In front of the gate, a large square opened up; behind it, the bazaar was buzzing with people, since it was Sunday. Barefoot Ossete boys, carrying bags of honeycomb on their shoulders, were hovering nearby. I cursed at them; I had other things on my mind—I was starting to feel the same unease as the honorable staff captain.
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.
Before ten minutes had passed, the man we were waiting for showed up at the end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N., who accompanied him to the inn, said goodbye, and then headed back to the fortress. I quickly sent one of the old soldiers to get 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.
Pechorin’s servant came out to meet him and told him they were going to set off right away; he handed him a box of cigars, took a few orders, and went to tend to his own tasks. His master lit a cigar, yawned a couple of times, and sat down on the bench on the other side of the gate. I need to give you his description now.
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.
He was of average height. His slim, well-proportioned figure and broad shoulders indicated a strong build, capable of withstanding the challenges of a nomadic lifestyle and varying climates, and successfully resisting both the demoralizing effects of city life and inner turmoil. His dusty velvet overcoat was fastened only by the two lower buttons, revealing a shirt of stunning whiteness, showing that he had the habits of a gentleman. His travel-soiled gloves seemed tailor-made for his small, aristocratic hands, and when he removed one glove, I was taken aback by the delicate thinness of his pale fingers. His walk was relaxed and lazy, but I noticed he didn’t swing his arms—a clear sign of a certain secretive nature. These observations, however, are my own and I don’t expect you to accept them without question. As he was about to sit on the bench, his straight figure slumped as if he had no bones in his back. The posture of his entire body conveyed a kind of nervous weakness; he looked like one of Balzac’s thirty-year-old coquettes lounging in her soft armchair after an exhausting ball. At my first glance, I would have guessed he was no older than twenty-three, but later I would have said he was thirty. His smile held a hint of childlike innocence. His skin had a delicate, almost feminine quality. His naturally curly fair hair framed his pale, noble forehead, where, after close examination, I noticed faint wrinkles that probably appeared more prominently during moments of anger or emotional stress. Despite his light hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black—signs of breeding in a man, much like a black mane and tail on a white horse. To complete the picture, I’ll mention he had a slightly upturned nose, dazzling white teeth, and brown eyes—I must say a few more words 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.
In the first place, they never laughed when he did. Haven't you ever noticed the same thing in certain people? It's usually a sign of either a bad attitude or deep, constant sadness. From behind his slightly lowered eyelashes, his eyes had a kind of phosphorescent glow—if I can put it that way—which wasn’t the reflection of an intense spirit or a playful imagination, but a shine similar to smooth steel, blinding yet cold. His gaze—brief, but sharp and heavy—left an uncomfortable impression of a probing question and might have come off as rude if it hadn't been so casually calm.
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.
It’s possible that all these thoughts came to me only after I learned some details about his life, and maybe his appearance would have left a completely different impression on someone else; however, since you’ll only hear about him from me, you’ll have to be satisfied, whether you like it or not, with the description I’ve provided. In closing, I’ll say that, in general, he was a very good-looking man and had one of those distinctive facial types that women find especially attractive.
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.
The horses were already hitched up; now and then the bell jingled on the shaft-bow; 19 and the servant had gone up to Pechorin twice to announce that everything was ready, but still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately, Pechorin was lost in thought as he stared at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus and didn’t seem in any rush to hit the road.
I went up to him.
I approached him.
“If you care to wait a little longer,” I said, “you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend.”
“If you don’t mind waiting a bit longer,” I said, “you’ll get to enjoy meeting an old friend.”
“Oh, exactly!” he answered quickly. “They told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?”
“Oh, right!” he replied swiftly. “They told me that yesterday. But 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.
I looked toward the square and saw Maksim Maksimych running as fast as he could. Moments later, he was next to us. He could barely breathe; sweat was dripping in big drops from his face; wet tufts of gray hair, escaping from under his cap, were stuck to his forehead; his knees were shaking... He was about to throw himself around Pechorin’s neck, but Pechorin, rather coldly yet with a welcoming smile, reached out his hand to him. For a moment, the staff-captain was frozen, but then eagerly grabbed Pechorin’s hand with both of his. He still couldn’t speak.
“How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?” said Pechorin.
“How happy I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! So, how have you been?” 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?”...
“And... you?” 20 murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes. “What an age it is since I’ve seen you!... But where are you going?”...
“I am going to Persia—and farther.”...
"I'm heading to Iran—and beyond."
“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!”...
“But surely not right away?... Wait a minute, my dear friend!... Surely we’re not going to say goodbye just yet?... It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other!”...
“It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych,” was the reply.
“It’s time for me to leave, 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?”
“Wow, wow! But where are you rushing off to? There was so much I wanted to tell you! So much I wanted to ask you!... Well, what about you? Have you retired?... What?... How have you been doing?”
“Getting bored!” answered Pechorin, smiling.
“I'm 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?”...
“You remember the life we had in the fortress? It was a great place for hunting! You really loved shooting, you know!... And Bela?”...
Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.
Pechorin turned just a bit pale and looked away.
“Yes, I remember!” he said, almost immediately forcing a yawn.
“Yes, I remember!” he said, almost instantly stifling a yawn.
Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours or so longer.
Maksim Maksimych started asking him to hang out for a couple more hours.
“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?”...
“We're going to have a fantastic dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants, and the Kakhetian wine is great here... not as good as it is in Georgia, of course, but still top-notch... We’ll have a conversation... You'll tell me about your life in Petersburg... Right?”...
“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.
“In truth, there’s nothing for me to say, dear Maksim Maksimych... However, goodbye, it’s time for me to leave... I’m in a hurry... Thank you for not forgetting me,” he added, taking his hand.
The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings.
The old man furrowed his brow. He was both sad and angry, even though he tried to conceal his emotions.
“Forget!” he growled. “I have not forgotten anything... Well, God be with you!... It is not like this that I thought we should meet.”
“Forget!” he snarled. “I haven't forgotten anything... Well, God be with you!... This isn't how I imagined we would 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!”
“Come on! That’s enough, that’s enough!” Pechorin said, pulling him into a friendly hug. “Is it possible that I’m not the same as I used to be?... What can we do? Everyone has to follow their own path... Are we ever going to see each other again?—Only God knows!”
While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the coachman was already gathering up the reins.
While saying this, he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the driver was already gathering 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?”...
“Wait, wait!” shouted Maksim Maksimych suddenly, grabbing the carriage door. “I almost forgot completely. Your papers were left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich... I take them everywhere I go... I thought I would find you in Georgia, but it seems fate meant for us to meet here. What should we do with them?”...
“Whatever you like!” answered Pechorin. “Good-bye.”...
“Whatever you want!” replied Pechorin. “See you later.”
“So you are off to Persia?... But when will you return?” Maksim Maksimych cried after him.
“So you’re heading to Persia?... But when will you be back?” Maksim Maksimych shouted 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:
By this time, the carriage was far away, but Pechorin waved his hand in a way that could be understood as meaning:
“It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either, why I should!”
“It’s uncertain if I’ll come back, and there’s no reason 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.
The sound of the bell and the clattering wheels on the rocky road had long faded away, but the poor old man still stood in the same spot, lost 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!”...
“Yes,” he said after a while, trying to act indifferent, though occasionally a tear of frustration shone on his eyelashes. “Of course we were friends—well, but what does friendship mean nowadays?... What could I be to him? I’m not wealthy; I have no status; and besides, I’m not even close to his age!—Look at how much of a dandy he’s become since he’s been back in Petersburg!... What a carriage!... What an enormous amount of luggage!... And such a proud servant too!”...
These words were pronounced with an ironical smile.
These words were said with a sarcastic 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!”...
“Tell me,” he said, turning to me, “what do you think about it? Come on, what the heck is he going to Persia for now?... Good Lord, it’s ridiculous—ridiculous!… But I always knew he was an unreliable guy, and someone you could never count on!... Still, it’s a shame he’s going to end up in a bad situation... but it can’t be any other way!... I’ve always said that there’s no value in 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.
He turned away to hide his feelings and started walking around the courtyard, pacing around his cart and pretending to check the wheels, while his eyes filled with tears again and again.
“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, going up to him, “what papers are these that Pechorin left you?”
“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, walking over to him, “what papers are these that Pechorin left you?”
“Goodness knows! Notes of some sort”...
“Goodness knows! Notes of some kind”...
“What will you do with them?”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“What? I’ll have cartridges made of them.”
"What? I’ll get cartridges made from them."
“Hand them over to me instead.”
"Give them 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...
He stared at me in surprise, muttered something through clenched teeth, and started digging through his suitcase. He pulled out a notebook and tossed it disdainfully on the ground; then a second—then a third—a tenth met the same fate. There was something childish about his frustration, and I found it both ridiculous and sad...
“Here they are,” he said. “I congratulate you on your find!”...
“Here they are,” he said. “Congrats on your discovery!”
“And I may do anything I like with them?”
“And I can do whatever I want 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?”...
“Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you want. What does it matter to me? Am I a friend or family member of his? It's true we lived under the same roof for a long time... but aren’t there plenty of people I’ve shared a space with?”
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 grabbed the papers and quickly took them away, worried the staff-captain might change his mind. Soon, someone came to inform us that the “Adventure” would leave in an hour. I instructed that the horses be harnessed.
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.
I had already put my cap on when the staff captain entered the room. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten ready for departure. His manner was a bit cold and stiff.
“You are not going, then, Maksim Maksimych?”
“You're not going, then, Maksim Maksimych?”
“No, sir!”
“No way!”
“But why not?”
“But why not?”
“Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, and I have to deliver some Government things.”
“Well, I haven’t seen the Commandant yet, and I need to take care of some government stuff.”
“But you did go, you know.”
"But you did go, you know."
“I did, of course,” he stammered, “but he was not at home... and I did not wait.”
“I did, of course,” he stammered, “but he wasn't home... and I didn't 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 got it. For the first time in his life, probably, the poor old man had, to put it bluntly, set aside official duties 'for his own needs'... and look how he was rewarded!
“I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very sorry indeed,” I said, “that we must part sooner than necessary.”
“I’m really sorry, Maksim Maksimych, truly sorry,” I said, “that we have to part sooner than we need to.”
“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!”
“What should we tough old guys think about chasing after you? You young men are stylish and full of yourselves: when the bullets are flying, you’re friendly enough with us... but when you see us later, you’re too embarrassed even to shake our hands!”
“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych.”
“I don’t deserve these criticisms, Maksim Maksimych.”
“Well, but you know I’m quite right. However, I wish you all good luck and a pleasant journey.”
“Well, you know I'm totally right. Still, I wish you all good luck and a great trip.”
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.
We said a pretty chilly goodbye to each other. The kind-hearted Maksim Maksimych had turned into a stubborn, grumpy staff captain! And why? Because Pechorin, whether out of absent-mindedness or some other reason, had reached out his hand to him just when Maksim Maksimych was about to throw his arms around him! It’s sad to watch a young man lose his greatest hopes and dreams, especially when the rose-tinted veil that colored his view of people's actions and feelings is pulled away. While there’s hope that the old illusions will be replaced by new ones, fleeting as they may be, they're still just as sweet. But what can fill that void when you’re at Maksim Maksimych's age? No matter what you do, the heart toughens and the soul withdraws into itself.
I departed—alone.
I left—alone.
FOREWORD TO BOOKS III, IV, AND V
CONCERNING PECHORIN’S DIARY
ABOUT 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 recently found out that Pechorin died on his way back from Persia. The news brought me a lot of joy; it gave me the chance to publish these notes, and I took the opportunity to put my name at the top of someone else's work. I hope my readers won't hold this harmless trick against me!
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.
I need to explain why I've decided to reveal the deepest secrets of a man I barely knew. If I had actually been his friend, that would make sense; the clever indiscretion of a true friend is understandable to everyone. But I only encountered Pechorin once in my life—on the road—and because of that, I can't feel that strange hatred, which, hidden behind the mask of friendship, just waits for the beloved person’s downfall to unleash a storm of accusations, advice, mockery, 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.
After reading these notes, I’m convinced of the sincerity of the man who has openly revealed his own flaws and vices. The story of a person’s soul, even the most trivial one, is nearly as interesting and valuable as the history of an entire nation; especially when it comes from the reflections of a mature mind on itself, and is written without any selfish aim to provoke sympathy or surprise. Rousseau’s Confessions has exactly this flaw—he shared it with 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.
And so, it’s just the desire to be helpful that has led me to publish bits of this diary that I came across by coincidence. Even though I’ve changed all the names, those mentioned in it will likely recognize themselves and may find some justification for actions they’ve previously blamed on a man who no longer has anything to do with this world. We usually forgive what 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.
I’ve included in this book only the parts of the diary that relate to Pechorin’s time in the Caucasus. I still have a thick notebook where he shares the story of his entire life. At some point, that will be revealed to the world as well, but for many important reasons, I’m not ready to take on that responsibility right 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.
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 don’t know.
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.
TAMAN is the worst little place of all the seaports in Russia. I was practically starving there, not to mention almost drowning.
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.
I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired troika 21 at the gate of the only stone house that stood at the entrance to the town. The guard, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing the jingle of the bell, called out sleepily in his rough voice, “Who goes there?” An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough 22 came out. I explained that I was an officer heading to the active-service detachment on Government business, and I asked for official accommodations. The headborough showed us around the town. No matter which hut we stopped at, we found it occupied. The weather was cold; I hadn’t slept for three nights; I was exhausted, and I started 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!”
“Take me somewhere, you scoundrel!” I shouted; “to the devil himself, as long as there’s a place to stay!”
“There is one other lodging,” answered the headborough, scratching his head. “Only you won’t like it, sir. It is uncanny!”
“There’s one other place to stay,” replied the headborough, scratching his head. “But I don’t think you’ll like it, sir. It’s really creepy!”
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.
Not fully understanding the meaning of the last phrase, I told him to continue, and after a long journey through muddy backroads, where all I could see were old fences, we arrived at a small cabin right by 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.
The full moon was shining on the little thatched roof and the white walls of my new home. In the courtyard, surrounded by a wall of stone debris, there was another shabby shack, smaller and older than the first, leaning at an odd angle. The shore dropped steeply down to the sea, nearly right from the walls, and below, the dark blue waves lapped steadily with a soft sound. The moon cast a gentle light on the water, which was restless but seemed to obey it, and in its glow, I could make out two ships anchored some distance from the shore, their black rigging still and standing out like cobwebs against the light horizon.
“There are vessels in the harbour,” I said to myself. “To-morrow I will set out for Gelenjik.”
“There are boats in the harbor,” I said to myself. “Tomorrow I will head 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.
I had with me, as my soldier-servant, a Cossack from the frontier army. I told him to take down the suitcase and let the driver go, then I started calling for the owner of the house. No answer! I knocked—everything was quiet inside!... What could that mean? Finally, a boy around fourteen came out from the hallway.
“Where is the master?”
“Where's the master?”
“There isn’t one.”
"There isn't one."
“What! No master?”
“What! No boss?”
“None!”
"None!"
“And the mistress?”
"And the boss?"
“She has gone off to the village.”
“She went to the town.”
“Who will open the door for me, then?” I said, giving it a kick.
“Who’s going to 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.
The door opened by itself, and a waft of humid air came out of the hut. I struck a match and held it up to the boy's face. It illuminated two white eyes. He was completely blind, clearly from birth. He stood motionless in front of me, and I started 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.
I admit that I have a strong bias against people who are blind, one-eyed, deaf, mute, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and so on. I've noticed that there's often a weird connection between a person's appearance and their inner self; it seems that when the body loses a limb, the soul also loses some ability to feel.
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...
And so I started to look at the blind boy’s face. But what can you really see on a face without eyes?... I stared at him for a long time, feeling an involuntary compassion, when suddenly a barely noticeable smile flickered across his thin lips, and for some reason, it left me with a very uncomfortable feeling. I began to suspect that the blind boy wasn’t as blind as he seemed. I tried hard to convince myself that it was impossible to fake cataracts; after all, what reason would there be to do something like that? But I couldn’t shake my suspicions. I’m easily influenced by my biases...
“You are the master’s son?” I asked at length.
“You're the master's son?” I asked finally.
“No.”
“No.”
“Who are you, then?”
"Who are you?"
“An orphan—a poor boy.”
“An orphan - a homeless kid.”
“Has the mistress any children?”
“Does the lady have kids?”
“No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar.”
“No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar.”
“What sort of a Tartar?”
“What kind of Tartar?”
“The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch.”
“The devil only knows! A Crimean Tatar, 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.
I walked into the hut. Its entire furniture consisted of two benches and a table, along with a huge chest next to the stove. There wasn't a single icon visible on the wall—a bad sign! The sea wind rushed through the broken window. I pulled a wax candle stub from my suitcase, lit it, and started to unpack my things. I set my sabre and gun in a corner, and my pistols on the table. I spread my felt cloak on one bench, and the Cossack spread his on the other. In ten minutes, he was snoring, but I couldn't fall asleep—the image of the boy with the white eyes kept flashing in front of 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.
About an hour went by like this. The moon shone through the window, and its light danced across the dirt floor of the hut. Suddenly, a shadow moved across the bright strip of moonlight on the floor. I propped myself up a bit and looked out the window. Someone ran past and vanished—who knows where! It seemed impossible for anyone to walk down the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that was the only explanation. I got up, put on my tunic, strapped on a dagger, and quietly stepped out of the hut. The blind boy was walking toward me. I hid by the fence, and he walked past me confidently but cautiously. He was carrying a package under his arm. He turned toward the harbor and began to make his way down a steep, 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.
“On that day, the mute will shout and the blind will see,” I said to myself, trailing him just close enough to keep him in view.
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.
Meanwhile, the moon was getting covered by clouds, and a mist had risen over the sea. The lantern lit at the back of a nearby ship was barely visible through the mist, and along the shore, the foam from the waves shimmered, threatening to drown it at any moment. Struggling a bit, I made my way down the steep slope, and suddenly I saw the blind boy stop and then turn right. He walked so close to the edge of the water that it seemed like the waves might grab him and pull him away. But judging by the confidence with which he hopped from rock to rock and avoided the channels of water, it was clear this wasn’t his first time making that trip. Finally, he halted, as if listening for something, squatted down on the ground, and placed the parcel next to him. Hiding behind a jutting rock on the shore, I kept an eye on what he was doing. After a few minutes, a white figure appeared from the opposite direction. It approached the blind boy and sat down next to him. Occasionally, the wind carried their conversation to me.
“Well?” said a woman’s voice. “The storm is violent; Yanko will not be here.”
“Well?” said a woman’s voice. “The storm is intense; Yanko isn’t coming.”
“Yanko is not afraid of the storm!” the other replied.
“Yanko isn't afraid of the storm!” the other replied.
“The mist is thickening,” rejoined the woman’s voice, sadness in its tone.
“The mist is getting thicker,” the woman’s voice responded, a hint of sadness in her tone.
“In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships,” was the answer.
“In the fog, it's much easier to sneak past the guardships,” was the answer.
“And if he is drowned?”
"What if he drowns?"
“Well, what then? On Sunday you won’t have a new ribbon to go to church in.”
“Well, what now? On Sunday, you won’t have a new ribbon to wear to church.”
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.
An interval of silence followed. One thing, though, caught my attention—in talking to me, the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now he was expressing himself in straight 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.”
“You see, I’m right!” the blind boy continued, clapping his hands. “Yanko is not afraid of the sea, the winds, the mist, or the coastguards! Just listen! That’s not the water splashing; you can’t fool me—it’s his long oars.”
The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance.
The woman jumped up and started to look anxiously into the distance.
“You are raving!” she said. “I cannot see anything.”
“You're crazy!” she said. “I can't 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.
I admit that, no matter how hard I tried to see a boat in the distance, I couldn't. After about ten minutes of this, a dark shape appeared between the mountains of waves! At times it seemed to get bigger, and at other times smaller. Slowly rising on the crests of the waves and quickly dipping down from them, the boat approached 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.”
“He must be a brave sailor,” I thought, “to have decided to cross the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a strong 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.
Thinking about all this, I watched the poor boat with my heart racing. It plunged like a duck, and then, with its oars swinging quickly—like wings—it sprang out of the depths amidst the splashes of foam. “Oh no!” I thought, “it’s going to crash against the shore and break apart!” But it cleverly veered aside and jumped safely into a small creek. A man of average height got out, wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three of them started working to pull something out of the boat. The load was so big that, to this day, I can’t figure out how the boat didn’t 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.
Each of them carried a bundle, and they headed off along the shore, and I quickly lost sight of them. I had to go back home; but I admit I felt uneasy about all these strange events, and I found it difficult to wait for 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.
My Cossack was really surprised when he woke up and saw me fully dressed. I didn’t tell him why, though. For a while, I stood by the window, admiring the blue sky dotted with wisps of clouds, and the distant shoreline of Crimea, stretching out in a lilac streak and ending at a cliff where the white tower of the lighthouse was shining. After that, I headed to the fortress of Phanagoriya to find out from the Commandant what time I should leave 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.
But the Commandant, unfortunately, couldn’t provide me with any clear information. The ships in the harbor were all either guard ships or merchant vessels that hadn’t even started loading yet.
“Maybe in about three or four days’ time a mail-boat will come in,” said the Commandant, “and then we shall see.”
“Maybe in about three or four days a mail boat will arrive,” said the Commandant, “and then we’ll see.”
I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a frightened countenance.
I came home feeling upset and angry. My Cossack was waiting for me at the door with a scared look on his face.
“Things are looking bad, sir!” he said.
"Things don’t look good, sir!" he said.
“Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away!”
“Yes, my friend; who knows when we’ll finally leave!”
Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said in a whisper:
Here, he grew even more anxious and leaned toward me, whispering:
“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.”
“It’s really eerie here! I ran into a junior officer from the Black Sea today—he’s a friend of mine—he was in my unit last year. When I told him where we were staying, he said, ‘That place is creepy, my friend; those people are up to no good!’... And seriously, what kind of a blind guy is that? He goes out by himself all the time, to get water and to buy bread at the market. Clearly, they’ve gotten used to that kind of thing here.”
“Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in an appearance?”
“Well, what now? Tell me, though, has the lady of the house shown up?”
“During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived.”
“While you were gone today, an old woman and her daughter showed up.”
“What daughter? She has no daughter!”
“What daughter? She doesn’t have a 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.”
“Who knows who it could 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.
I stepped into the small, shabby house. A bright fire was roaring in the stove, and they were making dinner that seemed pretty fancy for people who were poor. The old woman told me she was deaf and couldn't hear my questions. I couldn't get anything out of her. I turned to the blind boy sitting in front of the stove, adding twigs to 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?”
“Now, you little blind rascal,” I said, grabbing his ear. “Come on, tell me, where were you wandering with that bundle last night, huh?”
The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing.
The blind boy suddenly started crying, screaming and wailing.
“Where did I go? I did not go anywhere... With the bundle?... What bundle?”
“Where did I go? I didn't go anywhere... With the bundle?... What bundle?”
This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter:
This time the old woman heard, and she started to mumble:
“Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you touching him for? What has he done to you?”
“Hear 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 had enough of it and went out, determined to find the key to the puzzle.
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.
I wrapped myself in my felt cloak and sat down on a rock by the fence, staring into the distance. Before me, the sea stretched out, stirred up by the storm from the night before, and its constant roar, like the distant chatter of a town starting to fall asleep, reminded me of the past and pulled my thoughts northward to our chilly Capital. Lost in my memories, I became unaware 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.
About an hour went by, maybe even longer. Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a song. It was a song, sung by a young woman's voice—fresh and vibrant—but where was it coming from?... I listened; it was a beautiful melody—sometimes drawn out and sorrowful, other times quick and lively. I looked around—there was no one in sight. I listened again—the sounds seemed to be coming down from the sky. I looked up. On the roof of my cabin stood a young girl in a striped dress with her hair flowing free—a real water nymph. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, she was peering intently into the distance. At one moment, she would laugh and talk to herself, and the next, she’d break into her song again.
I have retained that song in my memory, word for word:
I’ve kept 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.
At their own free will
They seem to wander
Over the green sea over there,
Those ships, as still
They are moving onward,
With white sails billowing.
And among those ships
My eye can mark
My own dear barque:
By two oars guided
(All unprovided
With sails) it slips.
And among those ships
I can spot
My own dear boat:
Guided by two oars
(With no sails)
it glides.
The storm-wind raves:
And the old ships—see!
With wings spread free,
Over the waves
They scatter and flee!
The storm wind rages:
And the old ships—look!
With their sails out wide,
Over the waves
They scatter and escape!
The sea I will hail
With obeisance deep:
“Thou base one, hark!
Thou must not fail
My little barque
From harm to keep!”
The sea I will praise
With deep respect:
“You lowly one, listen!
You must not let
My little boat
Come to harm!”
For lo! ‘tis bearing
Most precious gear,
And brave and daring
The arms that steer
Within the dark
My little barque.
For look! it's carrying
Most precious stuff,
And brave and daring
The arms that steer
Through the dark
My little boat.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.
Involuntarily, it occurred to me that I had heard the same voice the night before. I thought about it for a moment, and when I looked up at the roof again, there was no girl in sight. Suddenly, she darted past me, singing a different song, and, snapping her fingers, she ran up to the old woman. That led to a quarrel between them. The old woman got angry, while the girl laughed loudly. Then I saw my Undine running and playing again. She approached me, stopped, and stared at my face as if surprised by my presence. Then she casually turned away and walked quietly toward the harbor. But that wasn’t all. The whole day, she kept hovering around my place, singing and frolicking without a moment's pause. Strange creature! There was no hint of madness in her face; on the contrary, her eyes, which were always on me, were bright and intense. They seemed to possess a certain magnetic quality, and each time they looked at me, it felt like they were waiting for a question. But as soon as I opened my mouth to speak, she would run away 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.
I had definitely never seen a woman like her before. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but I have my own ideas about what beauty really means. There was a lot of refinement in her... Refinement in women, like in horses, is really important; that's a discovery credited to modern France. This—refinement, not modern France—can mostly be seen in how someone walks, in their hands and feet; the nose, especially, is particularly significant. In Russia, a straight nose is harder to find 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.
My singer looked to be no older than eighteen. Her figure was unusually flexible, and the way she tilted her head was unique and captivating. She had long, light-brown hair, a golden glow on her slightly sun-kissed neck and shoulders, and especially a straight nose—all of which completely entranced me. Even though I could sense a certain wildness and disdain in her side-eye glances, and her smile had a hint of vagueness, that straight nose of hers drove me absolutely wild. I imagined I’d found Goethe’s Mignon—that odd character from his German imagination. In fact, they had a lot in common; both displayed sudden shifts from extreme restlessness to total stillness, delivered cryptic remarks, engaged in playful antics, and sang strange songs.
Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following conversation with her.
Towards evening, I stopped her at the door and had the following conversation with her.
“Tell me, my beauty,” I asked, “what were you doing on the roof to-day?”
“Tell me, my beautiful one,” I asked, “what were you doing on the roof today?”
“I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing.”
“I was trying to figure out which way the wind was blowing.”
“What did you want to know for?”
“What did you want to know that for?”
“Whence the wind blows comes happiness.”
“Wherever the wind blows, happiness follows.”
“Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?”
“Well? Were you trying to bring happiness with your song?”
“Where there is singing there is also happiness.”
“Where there’s singing, there’s also happiness.”
“But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?”
“But what if your song brought you sadness?”
“Well, what then? Where things won’t be better, they will be worse; and from bad to good again is not far.”
“Well, what now? If things aren’t going to get better, they’ll just get worse; and it’s not far from bad to good again.”
“And who taught you that song?”
“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.”
"Nobody taught me; it just comes to my mind and I sing it. Whoever is meant to hear it will hear it, and whoever isn't will not understand it."
“What is your name, my songstress?”
"What's your name, my singer?"
“He who baptized me knows.”
“Who baptized me knows.”
“And who baptized you?”
"Who baptized you?"
“How should I know?”
"How would 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.”
“What a secretive girl you are! But check this out, I’ve found out something about you”—she didn’t change her expression or move her lips, as if my discovery didn’t matter to her—“I’ve found out 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.
And then, I seriously told her everything I had seen, thinking it would embarrass her. Not at all! She started laughing heartily.
“You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you keep it under lock and key.”
“You’ve seen a lot, but you know very little; and what you do know, make sure to keep it protected.”
“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.
“But what if I decided to tell the Commandant?” At this point, I took on a very serious, if not stern, expression.
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.
She suddenly jumped up, started to sing, and hid herself like a bird scared out of a bush. My last words were completely inappropriate. I had no idea at the time how significant they were, but later I had reason to regret 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.
As soon as evening fell, I told the Cossack to heat the teapot in the usual way. I lit a candle and sat down at the table, smoking my travel pipe. I was just about to finish my second glass of tea when suddenly the door creaked, and I heard footsteps and the soft rustle of a dress behind me. I jumped and turned around.
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:
It was her—my Undine. Quietly and without a word, she sat down across from me and locked her gaze on me. Her look felt incredibly tender, though I couldn't say why; it reminded me of those glances that, in the past, had so powerfully influenced my life. She seemed to be waiting for me to ask something, but I stayed silent, overwhelmed by an unexplainable awkwardness. The mental turmoil showed on her face, which had turned a dull pale; her hand, which I noticed was trembling slightly, wandered aimlessly on the table. At times, her chest would rise, and at other moments, it seemed like she was holding her breath. This little scene was starting to wear on me, and I was about to break the silence in a very ordinary way, by offering her a glass of tea, when suddenly, she sprang up, threw her arms around my neck, and pressed her warm, soft lips against mine. Darkness blurred my vision, and my head started to spin. I embraced her with all the strength of youthful passion. But, just like a snake, she slipped from my arms, whispering in my ear as she did:
“To-night, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore.”
"Tonight, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore."
Like an arrow she sprang from the room.
Like an arrow, she shot out of the room.
In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle which was standing on the floor.
In the hall, she knocked over the teapot and a candle that was 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.
“Little devil!” yelled the Cossack, who had settled down on the straw and was thinking about warming himself with the leftover tea.
It was only then that I recovered my senses.
It was only then that I regained my senses.
In about two hours’ time, when all had grown silent in the harbour, I awakened my Cossack.
In about two hours, when everything had quieted down in the harbor, I woke up my Cossack.
“If I fire a pistol,” I said, “run to the shore.”
“If I shoot a gun,” I said, “run to the shore.”
He stared open-eyed and answered mechanically:
He stared wide-eyed and responded automatically:
“Very well, sir.”
“Alright, 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.
I tucked a gun into my belt and stepped outside. She was waiting for me at the edge of the cliff. Her outfit was quite revealing, and a small scarf wrapped around her slim waist.
“Follow me!” she said, taking me by the hand, and we began to descend.
“Follow me!” she said, grabbing my hand, and we started to go down.
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.
I can't believe I didn't break my neck. Down below, we turned right and took the path where I had followed the blind boy the night before. The moon hadn't risen yet, and only two tiny stars, like little guardian lighthouses, were twinkling in the dark blue sky. The heavy waves rolled in one after another with a steady rhythm, barely lifting the lonely boat moored to the shore.
“Let us get into the boat,” said my companion.
“Let’s get in the boat,” my friend said.
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.
I hesitated. I'm not a fan of sentimental sea trips, but this wasn't the moment to back out. She jumped into the boat, and I followed her; I didn't have time to collect my thoughts before I noticed that we were adrift.
“What is the meaning of this?” I said angrily.
“What does this mean?” 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!”...
“It means,” she said, sitting me down on the bench and wrapping 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.
Her cheek was pressed against mine, and I could feel her hot breath on my face. Suddenly, something fell loudly into the water. I grabbed at my belt—my pistol was gone! A terrible suspicion crept into my mind, and I felt lightheaded! I looked around. We were about fifty fathoms from the shore, and I couldn't swim at all! I tried to push her away, but she clung to my clothes like a cat, and suddenly a powerful jerk nearly threw me into the sea. The boat rocked, but I steadied myself, and a fierce struggle started.
Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I was no match for my opponent in point of agility...
Fury gave me strength, but I quickly realized I couldn't compete with my opponent in terms of agility...
“What do you want?” I cried, firmly squeezing her little hands.
“What do you want?” I shouted, gripping her tiny hands tightly.
Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature bore up against the torture, and she did not utter a cry.
Her fingers crunched, but her snake-like nature endured the pain, and she didn’t make a sound.
“You saw us,” she answered. “You will tell on us.”
“You saw us,” she said. “You’re going to snitch 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.
And, with an incredible effort, she tossed me to the side of the boat; we both leaned halfway overboard; her hair brushed the water. The crucial moment had arrived. I pressed my knee against the bottom of the boat, grabbed her hair with one hand and her throat with the other; she released 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.
It was now pretty dark; once or twice her head popped up for a moment in the sea foam, and I didn't see her again.
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.
I found half of an old oar at the bottom of the boat, and after a lot of effort, I finally made it to the harbor. As I walked along the shore toward my hut, I couldn't help but look toward the spot where, the night before, the blind boy had waited for the nighttime sailor. The moon was already climbing in the sky, and it seemed like someone in white was sitting on the shore. Curious, I crept up and crouched in the grass at the top of the cliff. By leaning out a bit, I got a good view of everything happening below, and I was not really surprised, but almost happy, when I recognized my water-nymph. She was wringing the sea foam from her long hair. Her wet clothes hugged her slender figure and highlighted her curves.
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.
Soon, a boat appeared in the distance; it approached quickly; and, just like the night before, a man wearing a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but now his hair was cut short in the Cossack style, and a large knife was sticking out from behind his leather belt.
“Yanko,” the girl said, “all is lost!”
“Yanko,” the girl said, “everything is lost!”
Then their conversation continued, but so softly that I could not catch a word of it.
Then their conversation continued, but so quietly that I couldn’t hear a word of it.
“But where is the blind boy?” said Yanko at last, raising his voice.
"But where's the blind boy?" Yanko finally said, raising his voice.
“I have told him to come,” was the reply.
“I 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.
After a few minutes, the blind boy showed up, dragging a sack on his back, which they put 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.”
“Listen!” said Yanko to the blind boy. “Keep an eye on that place! You know what I mean? There are valuable goods there. Tell”—I couldn't catch the name—“that I'm no longer his servant. Things have gotten bad. He won't see me again. It's dangerous now. I’m going to look for work somewhere else, and he’ll never find another thrill-seeker like me. Also tell him that if he had paid me a little better for my work, I wouldn’t have left him. For me, there’s a way anywhere, as long as the wind blows and the sea rages.”
After a short silence Yanko continued.
After a brief pause, Yanko carried on.
“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.”
“She’s coming with me. There’s no way she can stay here. Tell the old woman it’s time for her to go; she’s been here long enough, and there has to be a limit. As for us, she’ll never see us again.”
“And I?” said the blind boy in a plaintive voice.
“And me?” said the blind boy in a sad voice.
“What use have I for you?” was the answer.
“What do I need you for?” 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:
In the meantime, my Undine had jumped into the boat. She waved to her friend with her hand. He put something in the blind boy’s hand and added:
“There, buy yourself some gingerbreads.”
“Here, buy yourself some cookies.”
“Is this all?” said the blind boy.
“Is this it?” said the blind boy.
“Well, here is some more.”
“Here’s some more.”
The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock.
The coins fell and jingled as they hit 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.
The blind boy didn't pick it up. Yanko took his seat in the boat; the wind was blowing from the shore; they raised the little sail and quickly took off. For a long time, the white sail shone in the moonlight among the dark waves. Meanwhile, the blind boy stayed seated on the shore, and then I heard something that sounded like sobbing. The blind boy was, in fact, crying, and for a long, long time his tears kept flowing... I felt heavy-hearted. Why had fate thrown me into the peaceful group of respectable smugglers? Like a stone tossed into a still well, I had disturbed their calm, and I barely managed to avoid sinking 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?
I got home. In the hallway, the burnt-out candle was flickering on a wooden plate, and my Cossack, going against orders, was deeply asleep with his gun in both hands. I let him rest, grabbed the candle, and went into the hut. Unfortunately, my cashbox, my saber with the silver engravings, my Daghestan dagger—the gift from a friend—all were gone! That's when I realized what the cursed blind boy had been dragging around. I shook the Cossack roughly to wake him up, scolded him, and lost my cool. But what good did that do? And wouldn’t it have been ridiculous to report to the authorities that I had been robbed by a blind boy and almost drowned by an eighteen-year-old girl?
Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away presented itself in the morning, and I left Taman.
Thank goodness an opportunity to leave came up 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?
What happened to the old woman and the poor blind boy, I have no idea. And honestly, what do the joys and sorrows of humanity mean to me—I'm just a traveling officer, and on top of that, I've got an order for post-horses for government business?
BOOK IV THE SECOND EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY
THE FATALIST
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.
I once spent a couple of weeks in a Cossack village on our left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there, and the officers would take turns visiting each other's quarters to 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.
On one occasion—at Major S——'s house—finding our game of Boston not interesting enough, we tossed the cards under the table and sat chatting for a long time. The conversation was actually engaging for a change. We talked about the Muslim belief that a person's fate is predetermined, and we noted that it was gaining a lot of followers, even among our own people. Each of us shared various amazing stories, both for and against.
“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?”
“What you've been saying, gentlemen, doesn't prove anything,” said the old major. “I assume none of you have actually witnessed the strange events you're referencing to back up your opinions?”
“Not one, of course,” said many of the guests. “But we have heard of them from trustworthy people.”...
“Not one, of course,” said many of the guests. “But we’ve heard about them from reliable sources.”
“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?”
“It’s all nonsense!” someone said. “Where are the trustworthy people who have seen the Register where the exact time of our death is recorded?... And if predestination really exists, why do we have free will and reason? Why are we held accountable for 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.
At that moment, an officer who was sitting in a corner of the room stood up and walked slowly to the table, looking at all of us with a calm and serious expression. It was clear from his name that he was from Serbia.
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.
The appearance of Lieutenant Vulich matched his personality perfectly. His tall stature, dark complexion, black hair, intense black eyes, prominent but straight nose—typical of his heritage—and the cold, sad smile that always lingered on his lips all contributed to the impression of a man set apart, unable to share the thoughts and feelings of those he found himself with by chance.
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.
He was brave; spoke little, but sharply; shared his thoughts and family secrets with no one; barely drank any wine; and never chased after the young Cossack girls, whose charm is hard to appreciate without having seen them. It was rumored, though, that the colonel's wife was not immune to his expressive eyes; but he got seriously angry if anyone brought it up.
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.
There was only one passion he didn't hide—the love for gambling. At the green table, he became completely unaware of his surroundings. He usually lost, but his ongoing bad luck only fueled his determination. It was said that, one night during a late adventure, he was managing the bank on a pillow and had an incredible streak of luck. Suddenly, gunshots echoed. The alarm was sounded; everyone except Vulich leaped up and grabbed their weapons.
“Stake, va banque!” he cried to one of the most ardent gamblers.
“Bet it all!” he shouted to one of the most passionate gamblers.
“Seven,” the latter answered as he hurried off.
“Seven,” the latter replied as he hurried away.
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.
Despite the overall chaos, Vulich coolly completed the deal—seven was the card. By the time he reached the barrier, a fierce gunfight was happening. Vulich didn't worry about the bullets or the sabers of the Chechen fighters, but instead looked 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.
“Seven it was!” he shouted, as he finally spotted him in the line of skirmishers who were starting to drive the enemy out of the woods. Approaching him, he took out his wallet and pocketbook and handed them to the winner, despite the latter’s protests about the trouble of the payment. With that unpleasant task out of the way, Vulich charged ahead, leading the soldiers with him, and fought the Chechenes with complete composure until the very end of the confrontation.
When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, we all became silent, expecting to hear, as usual, something original.
When Lieutenant Vulich approached the table, we all fell silent, anticipating, 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?”
“Gentlemen!” he said—and his voice was quiet, though a bit lower than usual—“gentlemen, what’s the point of pointless discussions? You want proof? I suggest we experiment on ourselves: can a person choose to end their own life, or is there a destined moment for each of us? Who's in?”
“Not I. Not I,” came from all sides.
“Not me. Not me,” came from all sides.
“There’s a queer fellow for you! He does get strange ideas into his head!”
“There’s a weird guy for you! He really gets some strange ideas in his head!”
“I propose a wager,” I said in jest.
"I suggest a bet," I said jokingly.
“What sort of wager?”
“What kind of bet?”
“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.
“I believe that predestination doesn’t exist,” I said, scattering around a bunch of ducats on the table—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.”
“Done,” replied Vulich in a flat voice. “Major, you'll be the judge. Here are fifteen ducats; please add the five you owe me to the total.”
“Very well,” said the major; “though, indeed, I do not understand what is the question at issue and how you will decide it!”
“Okay,” the major said; “though, honestly, I don’t get what’s being debated and how you plan to settle 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.
Without saying a word, Vulich walked into the major’s bedroom, and we followed him. He approached the wall where the major’s weapons were hanging and randomly picked one of the pistols—there were several of different calibers. We still had no idea what he intended to do. However, when he cocked the pistol and poured powder into the pan, several of the officers, unable to hold back, grabbed him by the arms.
“What are you going to do?” they exclaimed. “This is madness!”
“What are you going to do?” they shouted. “This is crazy!”
“Gentlemen!” he said slowly, disengaging his arm. “Who would like to pay twenty ducats for me?”
“Gentlemen!” he said slowly, pulling his arm away. “Who wants to pay twenty ducats for me?”
They were silent and drew away.
They stayed quiet and backed off.
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.
Vulich went into the other room and sat at the table; we all followed him. He gestured for us to sit around him. We complied in silence—at that moment, he had a certain mysterious authority over us. I stared intently at his face, but he met my probing gaze with a calm and steady look, and his pale lips smiled. Yet, despite his composure, it seemed to me that I could see the mark of death on his pale features. I’ve noticed—and many experienced soldiers have agreed—that a man who is about to die in a few hours often has a peculiar mark of inevitable fate on his face, making it hard for trained eyes to be mistaken.
“You will die to-day!” I said to Vulich.
“You're going to die today!” I said to Vulich.
He turned towards me rapidly, but answered slowly and quietly:
He quickly turned to face me, but responded slowly and softly:
“May be so, may be not.”...
"Maybe yes, maybe no."
Then, addressing himself to the major, he asked:
Then, turning to the major, he asked:
“Is the pistol loaded?”
“Is the gun loaded?”
The major, in the confusion, could not quite remember.
The major, in the chaos, couldn’t 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!”
“There, that's enough, Vulich!” someone exclaimed. “Of course it has to be loaded if it’s one of those hanging on the wall above us. You really have a knack for jokes!”
“A silly joke, too!” struck in another.
“A silly joke, too!” chimed in another.
“I wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!” cried a third.
“I bet fifty rubles to five that the gun isn’t loaded!” shouted a third.
A new bet was made.
A new bet was placed.
I was beginning to get tired of it all.
I was starting to get fed up with everything.
“Listen,” I said, “either shoot yourself, or hang up the pistol in its place and let us go to bed.”
“Listen,” I said, “either shoot yourself or put the gun away and let’s go to bed.”
“Yes, of course!” many exclaimed. “Let us go to bed.”
“Yes, of course!” many shouted. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move,” said Vulich, putting the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead.
“Gentlemen, I urge you not to move,” Vulich said, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead.
We were all petrified.
We were all terrified.
“Mr. Pechorin,” he added, “take a card and throw it up in the air.”
“Mr. Pechorin,” he said, “take a card and toss it 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!
I recall taking an ace of hearts off the table and tossing it into the air. Everyone held their breath. With fear in their eyes and a bit of curiosity, they quickly glanced between the gun and the ace, which floated down, trembling in the air. The moment it hit the table, Vulich pulled the trigger... it was a dud!
“Thank God!” many exclaimed. “It wasn’t loaded!”
“Thank goodness!” many shouted. “It wasn’t loaded!”
“Let us see, though,” said Vulich.
“Let’s see,” 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.
He reloaded the pistol and aimed at a forage cap hanging above the window. A shot fired. Smoke filled the room; when it cleared, the forage cap was gone. It had been shot through the middle, and the bullet was stuck 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.
For two or three minutes, no one could say anything. 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.
Discussions came up about why the pistol hadn’t fired the first time. Some thought it was probably blocked; others speculated that the powder had been wet initially and that Vulich had added some fresh powder later. But I insisted that the last idea was incorrect because I had kept my eyes on the pistol the whole time.
“You are lucky at play!” I said to Vulich...
“You're lucky at games!” 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
“For the first time in my life!” he replied, with a satisfied smile. “It’s better than ‘bank’ and ‘shtoss.’” 23
“But, on the other hand, slightly more dangerous!”
“But, on the flip side, a bit more dangerous!”
“Well? Have you begun to believe in predestination?”
“Well? Have you started 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!”
“I really believe in it; I just can’t understand why it seemed to me that you had to die today!”
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.
And this same man, who just a short time ago had calmly pointed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly became agitated and 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.”
"That’s enough, though!" he said, getting to his feet. "Our bet is over, and it seems to me that your comments aren’t appropriate now."
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.
He picked up his cap and left. The whole situation felt odd—and with good reason. Shortly after, all the officers dispersed and went home, talking about Vulich's antics from different perspectives, and surely, they all labeled me an egoist for making a bet against a man who wanted to take his own life, as if he wouldn’t have found a way to do it without my involvement.
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.
I made my way home through the quiet backroads of the village. The moon, full and red like the glow of a fire, was starting to rise from behind the jagged rooftops; the stars were shining calmly in the deep blue sky; and I found it ridiculous to remember that once there were incredibly wise people who believed that the stars in the heavens were involved in our trivial disputes over land or other imaginary rights. And what of it? Those lights, thought to be lit only to shine on their battles and victories, continue to burn with all their former brightness, while the wise ones themselves, along with their dreams and passions, have long been snuffed out, like a small fire started at the edge of a forest by a careless traveler! Yet, on the other hand, what strength of will they drew from the belief that the entire universe, with its countless inhabitants, was watching them with a sympathy that was steady, if silent!... And we, their unfortunate descendants, wandering the earth without faith, without pride, without joy, and without fear—except for that instinctive dread that makes the heart shrink at the thought of the inevitable end—we're no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of humanity or even for our own happiness, because we understand the impossibility of such happiness; and just as our ancestors jumped from one illusion to another, we move indifferently from doubt to doubt, lacking, unlike them, either hope or even that vague yet sharp satisfaction that the soul experiences in every struggle with humanity or fate.
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.
These and many other similar thoughts crossed my mind, but I didn’t pursue them because I don’t like to dwell on abstract ideas—what do they really lead to? In my youth, I was a dreamer; I loved to embrace the images—sometimes dark, sometimes bright—that my restless and eager imagination conjured up. And what is left of all that? Just a kind of weariness, like the feeling after battling a ghost at night—only a muddled memory full of regrets. In that futile struggle, I have drained the warmth of my soul and the determination needed for an active life. I’ve entered that life after already living through it in my thoughts, and it has become tiresome and sickening to me, like reading a poor imitation of a book after having long known 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 events of that evening left a pretty strong impression on me and got my nerves going. I’m not sure if I believe in fate now, but that night, I was all in. The evidence was shocking, and despite having laughed at our ancestors and their silly astrology before, I couldn’t help but adopt their mindset. However, I caught myself just in time from going down that risky path, and since I've made it a point not to dismiss anything outright and not to trust blindly, I pushed aside any deep philosophical thoughts and started focusing on what was right in front of me. That decision proved to be wise. I nearly tripped over something thick and soft that looked, at first glance, lifeless. I leaned down to check it out, and by the light of the moon, which was now shining directly on the road, I saw it was a pig that had been sliced in half with a saber... I barely had time to take it in before I heard footsteps, and two Cossacks rushed out from a side street. One of them approached me and asked if I had seen a drunken Cossack chasing a pig. I told him I hadn’t seen the Cossack and pointed to the poor victim of his wild antics.
“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”...
“The jerk!” said the second Cossack. “As soon as he drinks his fill of chikhir 24, he goes off and attacks anything that stands in his way. Let’s go after him, Eremeich, we have to 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.
They left, and I continued on my way more carefully, and eventually arrived at my place without any problems.
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.
I was living with an old Cossack underofficer whom I cared for, not just because he was so kind, but also, and especially, because of his beautiful 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.
Wrapped in a sheepskin coat, she was waiting for me, as always, by the gate. The moon lit up her lovely little lips, now turned blue from the cold night air. When she saw me, she smiled; but I wasn't in the mood to stay and chat.
“Good night, Nastya!” I said, and passed on.
“Good night, Nastya!” I said, and walked on.
She was about to make some answer, but only sighed.
She was about to say something, but just 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.
I closed the door to my room behind me, lit a candle, and collapsed onto the bed; however, that night, sleep took longer to arrive than usual. By the time I finally dozed off, the sun was starting to rise in the east, but it seemed I was meant to be denied a full night’s rest. At four in the morning, there were two loud knocks on my window. I jumped up.
“What is the matter?”
"What's the matter?"
“Get up—dress yourself!”
“Get up—get dressed!”
I dressed hurriedly and went out.
I quickly got dressed and left.
“Do you know what has happened?” said three officers who had come for me, speaking all in one voice.
“Do you know what’s happened?” said the three officers who came for me, speaking in unison.
They were deadly pale.
They were super pale.
“No, what is it?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Vulich has been murdered!”
“Vulich has been killed!”
I was petrified.
I was terrified.
“Yes, murdered!” they continued. “Let us lose no time and go!”
“Yes, murdered!” they urged. “Let's not waste any time and go!”
“But where to?”
“But where to now?”
“You will learn as we go.”
"You'll learn along the way."
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.
We set off. They told me everything that had happened, adding various comments about the weird fate that had saved Vulich from dying just 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:
Vulich had been walking alone down a dark street when the drunken Cossack who had butchered the pig suddenly jumped out at him. He might have just walked past without noticing Vulich if he hadn't stopped abruptly and said:
“Whom are you looking for, my man?”
“Who 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...
“You!” the Cossack said, hitting him with his saber; and he split him open 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!”
The two Cossacks who had met me and followed the murderer had arrived on the scene and lifted the wounded man from the ground. But he was already at his last breath and said just three words—“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.
I was the only one who understood the ominous meaning of those words: they were about me. I had unwittingly predicted poor Vulich's fate. My instinct hadn’t let me down; I truly had seen the signs of his impending death on his altered face.
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.
The murderer had shut himself in an empty hut at the edge of the village, and that's where we went. A bunch of women, all crying, were running in the same direction. Occasionally, a late Cossack, quickly fastening his dagger, burst out into the street and caught up with us. The chaos was terrible.
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?
Eventually, we reached the scene and found a crowd gathered around the hut, the door and shutters locked from the inside. Groups of officers and Cossacks were having intense discussions; the women were screaming, crying, and talking all at once. One older woman caught my eye with her meaningful glances and the frantic despair on her face. She was sitting on a thick plank, resting her elbows on her knees and supporting her head with her hands. It was the mother of the murderer. Occasionally, her lips moved... Was she whispering a prayer, 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.
Meanwhile, it was essential to choose a course of action and capture the criminal. However, no one had the courage to be the first to step 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.
I walked up to the window and peered through a crack in the shutter. The criminal, pale-faced, was lying on the floor, gripping a pistol in his right hand. The bloodstained saber was next to him. His expressive eyes were darting around in fear; occasionally, he would shudder and clutch his head, as if vaguely remembering the events from yesterday. I couldn’t see any signs of strong determination in his anxious gaze, and I told the major that it would be better to go ahead and order the Cossacks to break down the door and rush in, rather than wait for the murderer to fully regain 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.
At that moment, the old captain of the Cossacks approached the door and called the murderer by name. The murderer responded.
“You have committed a sin, brother Ephimych!” said the captain, “so all you can do now is to submit.”
“You’ve sinned, brother Ephimych!” the captain said. “So all you can do now is submit.”
“I will not submit!” answered the Cossack.
“I won’t give in!” replied 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!”
“Don’t you fear God! Look, you’re not one of those cursed Chechenes, but a true Christian! Come on, if you did it in a moment of weakness, there’s no changing it! You can’t escape your destiny!”
“I will not submit!” exclaimed the Cossack menacingly, and we could hear the snap of the cocked trigger.
“I will not submit!” the Cossack shouted threateningly, and we could hear the click of the ready 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.”
“Hey there, ma'am!” said the Cossack captain to the old woman. “Talk to your son—maybe he’ll listen to you... You see, continuing like this is just going to upset God. And look, the gentlemen here have already been waiting for two hours.”
The old woman gazed fixedly at him and shook her head.
The old woman stared 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.”
“Vasili Petrovich,” said the captain, approaching the major, “he’s not going to give up. I know him! If we have to break down the door, he’ll take down a few of our guys. Wouldn’t it be smarter to just order him to be shot? There’s a big gap in the shutter.”
At that moment a strange idea flashed through my head—like Vulich I proposed to put fate to the test.
At that moment, a strange idea crossed my mind—like Vulich, I decided to put fate to the test.
“Wait,” I said to the major, “I will take him alive.”
“Wait,” I said to the major, “I’ll 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.
Bidding the captain to start a conversation with the murderer and positioning three Cossacks at the door, ready to force it open and rush to my rescue at a signal, I walked around the hut and approached the deadly window. My heart was pounding hard.
“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?”
“Aha, you cursed wretch!” shouted the captain. “Are you laughing at us, huh? Or do you think we won’t be able to take you down?”
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.
He started banging on the door with all his strength. I pressed my eye against the crack and watched the Cossack, who clearly wasn't expecting an attack from that direction. I suddenly pulled the shutter aside and jumped through the window, headfirst. A shot rang out right above my ear, and the bullet knocked off one of my epaulettes. But the smoke filling the room kept my opponent from grabbing the sabre next to him. I grabbed him by the arms; the Cossacks rushed in, and within three minutes, they had the criminal tied up and escorted away.
The people dispersed, the officers congratulated me—and indeed there was cause for congratulation.
The crowd dispersed, the officers congratulated me—and there was definitely a reason to celebrate.
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.
After everything, it almost seems impossible to not become a fatalist. But who really knows if he believes in anything or not? And how often do we accept a misperception or a logical mistake as a belief? I choose to doubt everything. This mindset doesn't hinder my determination; in fact, for me, I always move forward with more confidence when I have no idea what's coming. You know, nothing worse can happen than death—and there's no way to avoid death.
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.
On my return to the fortress, I told Maksim Maksimych everything I had seen and experienced, and I wanted to get his thoughts on the topic 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:
At first, he didn't get the word. I explained it to him as best as I could, and then he said, shaking his head meaningfully:
“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!”
"Yes, sir, absolutely! It was a really clever trick! However, these Asian pistols often misfire if they’re poorly oiled or if you don’t pull the trigger hard enough. I admit I’m not a fan of the Circassian carbines either. For some reason, they just don’t work for people like us: the butt end is so small, and you could easily get your nose burned! On the other hand, their sabers—well, all I can say is, I have the highest respect for them!"
Afterwards he said, on reflecting a little:
Afterwards, he said, after thinking for a moment:
“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!”
“Yes, it’s a shame about that poor guy! The devil must have convinced him to strike up a conversation with a drunk guy at night! But it’s clear that fate had it planned that way from the moment he was born!”
I could not get anything more out of Maksim Maksimych; generally speaking, he had no liking for metaphysical disputations.
I couldn’t get anything more out of Maksim Maksimych; generally, he wasn’t into deep philosophical debates.
BOOK V THE THIRD EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY
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.
YESTERDAY I arrived in Pyatigorsk. I've rented a place at the far end of town, the highest point, at the base of Mount Mashuk: during a storm, the clouds will lower right onto the roof of my home.
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?
This morning at five o’clock, when I opened my window, the room was filled with the scent of the flowers growing in the small front garden. Branches of blooming bird-cherry trees peek into my window, and now and then, the breeze scatters their white petals across my writing desk. The view around me is amazing: to the west, the five-peaked Beshtau towers, blue like “the last cloud of a passed storm,” 25, and to the north, Mashuk rises like a shaggy Persian cap, enclosing that part of the horizon. To the east, the scene is brighter: below lies the town, with its clean and vibrant colors, shimmering with its soothing springs and bustling crowds. Further away, the mountains rise in a grand amphitheater, growing bluer and more misty; at the edge of the horizon is a silver chain of snow-covered peaks, starting with Kazbek and ending with the two-peaked Elbruz... Life is joyful in such a place! A feeling close to bliss flows through my veins. The air is pure and fresh, like a child's kiss; the sun shines brightly, the sky is blue—what more could anyone want? What need is there, in a place like this, for passions, desires, or 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.
However, it's time to get moving. I'm going to the Elizaveta spring—I've heard that the entire community at the resort gathers 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.
Descending into the center of town, I walked along the boulevard, where I encountered a few sad groups slowly making their way up the mountain. Most of them were families of landowners from the steppes, as indicated by the worn, outdated frock coats of the husbands and the elegant outfits of the wives and daughters. Clearly, they had already seen all the young men at the resort because they looked at me with a curious interest. The Petersburg style of my coat confused them, but they quickly recognized the military epaulettes and turned away in disgust.
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.
The wives of the local officials—the hostesses, so to speak, of the waters—are more gracious. They carry lorgnettes and pay less attention to uniforms—they’ve gotten used to finding a passionate heart behind a numbered button and a cultured mind beneath a white forage cap in the Caucasus. These women are very charming, and they remain charming for a long time. Each year, their admirers are swapped out for new ones, and maybe that’s the secret to their endless charm.
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.
Climbing up the narrow path to the Elizaveta spring, I passed a group of officials and military men, who I later found out belong to a separate class among those who rely on the healing waters. They drink—but not water—take very few strolls, engage in light flirting, gamble, and complain about being bored.
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.
They are showy people. As they lower their wicker-wrapped glasses into the well of stinky water, they strike academic poses. The officials wear bright blue neckties; the military men have ruffled collars peeking out over theirs. They pretend to look down on local women and long for the high-society parlors of the capitals—to which they are not welcomed.
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.
Here is the well at last! There’s a small square next to it with a little house that has a red roof over the bath, and a bit further on, there’s a gallery where people walk when it rains. Some wounded officers were sitting on a bench, looking pale and gloomy, propped up with their crutches. A few ladies, having finished their glasses of water, were walking back and forth around the square quickly. There were two or three pretty faces among them. Under the vine-covered slopes of Mashuk, you could occasionally catch sight of the colorful hat of someone enjoying a quiet moment alone—because alongside that hat, I always noticed either a military forage cap or the unattractive round hat of a civilian. On the steep cliff where the pavilion called “The Aeolian Harp” stands, the scenery lovers were using telescopes to get a better look at Elbruz. Among them were a couple of tutors with their students who had come to get treated for 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.
Out of breath, I stopped at the edge of the mountain and, leaning against the corner of a small house, I started to take in the beautiful scenery when I suddenly heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Pechorin! Have you been here long?”
“Pechorin! Have you been here for a while?”
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.
I turned around. Grushnitski! We hugged. I had met him in the active service unit. He had been shot in the foot and had arrived at the waters about a week before I did.
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.
Grushnitski is a cadet; he’s only been in the service for a year. He has a unique foppish style, wearing the thick cloak of a regular soldier. He also has the soldier’s cross of St. George. He’s well-built, with dark skin and black hair. At first glance, you might think he’s twenty-five, even though he’s barely twenty-one. He tosses his head when he talks and is constantly twirling his mustache with his left hand while his right hand is occupied with the crutch he leans on. He speaks quickly and with a flair; he’s one of those people who always have a grand phrase ready for every situation in life, who seem unaffected by simple beauty, and who wrap themselves in extraordinary sentiments, lofty passions, and exceptional sufferings. Their main joy comes from making an impression; they have an almost mindless affection for romantic provincial ladies. As they age, they typically become either settled landowners or drunks—sometimes both. They often possess many good qualities, but they lack any real sense of poetry in their character. Grushnitski was passionate about declamation. He would overwhelm you with words the moment a conversation drifted past ordinary ideas. I’ve never been able to argue with him. He neither answers your questions nor pays attention to you. As soon as you stop speaking, he launches into a lengthy rant that seems somewhat related to what you were saying, but is actually just an extension of his own monologue.
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!...
He’s clever enough; his clever remarks are often funny, but never mean-spirited or to the point. He doesn’t take anyone down with a single word; he knows nothing about people and their quirks because he’s only ever cared about himself. His goal is to make himself the main character in a story. He’s tried so hard to convince others that he’s someone not meant for this world and destined for some mysterious suffering that he’s almost convinced himself of it. That’s why he wears his thick soldier’s cloak with such pride. I see through him, and he doesn’t like me for it, even though we seem to be on friendly terms. Grushnitski is seen as a man of great courage. I’ve witnessed him in action. He swings his sword, yells, and charges in with his eyes closed. That’s not what I would call real 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.
I feel the same way about Grushnitski. I have a sense that at some point, we’re going to cross paths on a narrow road, and one of us is going to get hurt.
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.
His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of his intense romantic ideals. I’m sure that right before he left his hometown, he told a pretty neighbor with a gloomy expression that he was going away, not just to join the army but to seek death, because... and I’m certain he covered his eyes with his hand and went on, “No, you must not know! Your innocent soul would be horrified! And what would it matter? What am I to you? Could you ever 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.
He has told me that the reason he joined the K—— regiment must stay a secret between him and God.
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!
However, in moments when he lets go of the tragic persona, Grushnitski is charming and entertaining enough. I’m always curious to see him with women—it’s during those times that he really tries his best, 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.
We met like a couple of old friends. I started asking him about the important people and what kind of life was lived 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.”
“It’s a pretty mundane life,” he said, with a sigh. “Those who drink the waters in the morning are lethargic—like all sick people, and those who drink wine in the evening are unbearable—like all healthy people! There are ladies who throw parties, but there’s not much fun to be had with them. They play cards, dress poorly, and speak French terribly! The only people from Moscow here this year are Princess Ligovski and her daughter—but I don’t know them. My soldier’s cloak feels like a badge of resignation. The sympathy it gets is just 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.
At that moment, two women walked by us towards the well; one was older, and the other was young and slender. I couldn't see their faces well because of their hats, but they were dressed according to the strict standards of good taste—nothing unnecessary. The younger woman was wearing a high-necked pearl-grey dress, and a light silk scarf was wrapped around her graceful neck. The puce-colored boots hugged her slim ankle so well that even those who aren't familiar with beauty would have sighed, if only out of awe. There was something youthful in her relaxed yet elegant walk, something that was hard to describe but clear to see. As she passed by us, an indescribable fragrance, like the scent that sometimes comes from a lovely woman, drifted through the air.
“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.”
“Look!” said Grushnitski, “there's Princess Ligovski with her daughter Mary, as she likes to call her in the English way. They've only been here for three days.”
“You already know her name, though?”
“You already know her name, right?”
“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?”
“Yes, I heard it by chance,” he replied, blushing. “I admit I don’t want to get to know them. These arrogant aristocrats see us soldiers the same way they would see savages. What do they care if there’s a mind under a numbered forage cap and a heart under a heavy 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?”
“Sad cloak!” I said, laughing. “But who’s the guy just walking up to them and handing them a tumbler so formally?”
“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.”
“Oh, that’s Raevich, the stylish guy from Moscow. He’s a gambler; you can tell just by that massive gold chain draped across his sky-blue vest. And look at that thick cane he has! It’s just like Robinson Crusoe’s—and so is his beard, and his hair is styled like a peasant’s.”
“You are embittered against the whole human race?”
"You’re bitter towards all of humanity?"
“And I have cause to be”...
“And I have cause to be”...
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, seriously?”
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:
At that moment, the ladies left the well and approached us. Grushnitski managed to strike a dramatic pose with his crutch and replied to me loudly in French:
“Mon cher, je hais les hommes pour ne pas les mepriser, car autrement la vie serait une farce trop degoutante.”
“Darling, I hate men so I don't have to despise them, because otherwise life would be an awful joke.”
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.
The lovely Princess Mary turned and gave the speaker a long, curious look. Her expression was pretty unclear, but it wasn’t contemptuous, which I silently congratulated Grushnitski for from the bottom of 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.”
“She’s an incredibly beautiful girl,” I said. “Her eyes are like velvet—yes, velvet is the perfect word. I recommend you use that description when talking about her eyes. Her upper and lower lashes are so long that the sunlight doesn’t reflect in her pupils. I love those eyes without any sparkle; they’re so soft that they seem to touch you. However, her eyes seem to be her only great feature... Tell me, are her teeth white? That’s really important! It’s a shame she didn’t smile at your fancy words.”
“You are speaking of a pretty woman just as you might of an English horse,” said Grushnitski indignantly.
"You’re talking about a beautiful woman like you would about an English horse," Grushnitski said, annoyed.
“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.”
“ My dear,” I replied, trying to imitate his tone, “I disdain women, not because I don't love them, but because otherwise life would be too ridiculous a melodrama.”
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 turned and walked away from him. For about half an hour, I strolled through the vine-covered paths, the limestone cliffs, and the bushes nestled between them. The day got hotter, and I made my way home. As I passed the sulfur spring, I paused at the covered gallery to catch my breath in the shade, and in doing so, I got to witness a rather interesting scene. Here’s where everyone was positioned: Princess Ligovski and the Moscow dandy were sitting on a bench in the covered gallery, seemingly deep in conversation. Princess Mary, who had probably finished her last drink by now, was pacing thoughtfully by the well. Grushnitski was standing by the well itself; there was no one else in 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.
I moved in closer and hid behind a corner of the gallery. At that moment, Grushnitski dropped his tumbler onto the sand and struggled to bend down to pick it up, but his injured foot got in the way. Poor guy! He tried all sorts of tricks while leaning on his crutch, but nothing worked! His face clearly showed how much pain he was in.
Princess Mary saw the whole scene better than I.
Princess Mary could see the entire scene more clearly than I could.
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.
Lighter than a bird, she jumped towards him, bent down, picked up the tumbler, and handed it to him with a gesture that was filled with indescribable charm. Then she blushed deeply, glanced at the gallery, and, satisfied that her mother hadn’t noticed anything, quickly regained her composure. By the time Grushnitski opened his mouth to thank her, she was already far away. Moments later, she came out of the gallery with her mother and the dandy, but as she passed by Grushnitski, she put on a very proper and serious demeanor. She didn’t even look back, not even noticing the intense gaze he held on her for a long time until she had gone down the mountain and disappeared behind the lime trees of the boulevard... Soon, I caught sight of her hat as she walked down the street. She rushed through the gate of one of the nicest houses in Pyatigorsk; her mother followed her and waved goodbye to Raevich at the gate.
It was only then that the poor, passionate cadet noticed my presence.
It was only then that the poor, enthusiastic cadet noticed I was there.
“Did you see?” he said, pressing my hand vigorously. “She is an angel, simply an angel!”
“Did you see?” he said, squeezing my hand tightly. “She’s an angel, just an angel!”
“Why?” I inquired, with an air of the purest simplicity.
“Why?” I asked, with an attitude of complete innocence.
“Did you not see, then?”
“Didn't you 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.”
“No. I saw her picking up your glass. If there had been a staff member there, they would have done the same thing—and faster too, hoping for a tip. It’s easy to see that she felt sorry for you; you made such a terrible face when you walked on your injured 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?”
“And is it possible that seeing her, like you did, at that moment when her spirit was shining in her eyes, you weren’t at all moved?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
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.
I was lying, but I wanted to get under his skin. I have a natural urge to contradict—my life has been nothing but a series of sad and pointless contradictions of both heart and mind. The presence of an enthusiast gives me a chill, and I think that being around someone who is laid-back and emotionally dull would have turned me into an intense dreamer. I admit, too, that a familiar but uncomfortable feeling was lightly passing through my heart at that moment. It was envy. I say “envy” without hesitation because I’m used to being honest with myself. It would be hard to find a young man who, if his fleeting interest had been caught by an attractive woman and he suddenly saw her clearly choosing another man who was just as unfamiliar to her—it would be hard, I say, to find such a young man (especially one living in the real world and used to pleasing himself) who wouldn’t feel unpleasantly shocked in that situation.
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?...
In silence, Grushnitski and I descended the mountain and strolled along the boulevard, passing the windows of the house where our beauty was hiding. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitski, tugging at my arm, gave her one of those gloomy yet tender looks that rarely affect women. I aimed my lorgnette at her and noticed that she smiled at his glance, while my bold lorgnette made her genuinely angry. And how could a Caucasian soldier dare to aim his eyeglass at a princess from Moscow?...
CHAPTER II. 13th May.
THIS morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he is a Russian. What is there surprising in that? I have known a man named Ivanov, who was a German.
THIS morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he is Russian. What’s so surprising about that? I once knew a guy named Ivanov who was German.
Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he is a genuine poet—a poet always in deeds and often in words, although he has never written two verses in his life. He has mastered all the living chords of the human heart, just as one learns the veins of a corpse, but he has never known how to avail himself of his knowledge. In like manner, it sometimes happens that an excellent anatomist does not know how to cure a fever. Werner usually made fun of his patients in private; but once I saw him weeping over a dying soldier... He was poor, and dreamed of millions, but he would not take a single step out of his way for the sake of money. He once told me that he would rather do a favour to an enemy than to a friend, because, in the latter case, it would mean selling his beneficence, whilst hatred only increases proportionately to the magnanimity of the adversary. He had a malicious tongue; and more than one good, simple soul has acquired the reputation of a vulgar fool through being labelled with one of his epigrams. His rivals, envious medical men of the watering-place, spread the report that he was in the habit of drawing caricatures of his patients. The patients were incensed, and almost all of them discarded him. His friends, that is to say all the genuinely well-bred people who were serving in the Caucasus, vainly endeavoured to restore his fallen credit.
Werner is an extraordinary guy, and for many reasons. Like most medical professionals, he’s a skeptic and a materialist, but at the same time, he’s a true poet—a poet in his actions and often in his words, even though he’s never written a single line of poetry in his life. He understands all the sensitive parts of the human heart, just like someone learns the veins of a corpse, but he’s never figured out how to use that knowledge. Similarly, sometimes a great anatomist doesn’t know how to treat a fever. Werner usually made fun of his patients in private, but once I saw him crying over a dying soldier... He was poor and dreamed of wealth, but he wouldn’t change anything about his life just for money. He once told me he’d rather help an enemy than a friend because, in the latter case, it would feel like he was selling his kindness, while hatred only grows in proportion to the greatness of the opponent. He had a sharp tongue; and more than one good, simple person has been labeled a fool because of one of his witty remarks. His rivals, jealous doctors at the resort, spread rumors that he liked to draw unflattering caricatures of his patients. The patients were outraged, and almost all of them abandoned him. His friends, which included all the genuinely well-mannered people serving in the Caucasus, tried in vain to help restore his damaged reputation.
His outward appearance was of the type which, at the first glance, creates an unpleasant impression, but which you get to like in course of time, when the eye learns to read in the irregular features the stamp of a tried and lofty soul. Instances have been known of women falling madly in love with men of that sort, and having no desire to exchange their ugliness for the beauty of the freshest and rosiest of Endymions. We must give women their due: they possess an instinct for spiritual beauty, for which reason, possibly, men such as Werner love women so passionately.
His outward appearance was the kind that, at first glance, creates an unpleasant impression, but you grow to appreciate it over time as you learn to see the depth of character in his unique features. There have been cases of women falling head over heels for guys like him, with no desire to trade their unconventional looks for the beauty of the handsomest and most charming men. We have to give women credit: they have a knack for recognizing spiritual beauty, which might explain why men like Werner love women so deeply.
Werner was small and lean and as weak as a baby. One of his legs was shorter than the other, as was the case with Byron. In comparison with his body, his head seemed enormous. His hair was cropped close, and the unevennesses of his cranium, thus laid bare, would have struck a phrenologist by reason of the strange intertexture of contradictory propensities. His little, ever restless, black eyes seemed as if they were endeavouring to fathom your thoughts. Taste and neatness were to be observed in his dress. His small, lean, sinewy hands flaunted themselves in bright-yellow gloves. His frock-coat, cravat and waistcoat were invariably of black. The young men dubbed him Mephistopheles; he pretended to be angry at the nickname, but in reality it flattered his vanity. Werner and I soon understood each other and became friends, because I, for my part, am illadapted for friendship. Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself. Now, the slave I could not be; and to be the master would be a wearisome trouble, because, at the same time, deception would be required. Besides, I have servants and money!
Werner was small and thin, as weak as a baby. One of his legs was shorter than the other, just like Byron. Compared to his body, his head looked huge. His hair was cut short, and the bumps on his skull, now exposed, would have caught a phrenologist's attention because of the unusual mix of conflicting traits. His little, constantly moving, black eyes seemed like they were trying to read your thoughts. You could see he had a good sense of style in the way he dressed. His small, lean, muscular hands showed off bright-yellow gloves. His frock coat, cravat, and waistcoat were always black. The young men called him Mephistopheles; he pretended to be upset about the nickname, but it actually pleased him. Werner and I quickly understood each other and became friends, because I tend not to be good at making friends. In any friendship, one person is usually subordinate to the other, even if neither acknowledges it to themselves. I couldn’t be the subordinate, and being the dominant one would be a tiring hassle, because it would also require deceit. Besides, I already have servants and money!
Our friendship originated in the following circumstances. I met Werner at S——, in the midst of a numerous and noisy circle of young people. Towards the end of the evening the conversation took a philosophico-metaphysical turn. We discussed the subject of convictions, and each of us had some different conviction to declare.
Our friendship started under these circumstances. I met Werner at S——, surrounded by a big, loud group of young people. As the evening went on, the conversation took a philosophical and metaphysical turn. We talked about beliefs, and each of us shared a different conviction.
“So far as I am concerned,” said the doctor, “I am convinced of one thing only”...
“So far as I'm concerned,” said the doctor, “I’m only convinced of one thing...”
“And that is—?” I asked, desirous of learning the opinion of a man who had been silent till then.
“And that is—?” I asked, eager to hear the thoughts of someone who had been quiet until now.
“Of the fact,” he answered, “that sooner or later, one fine morning, I shall die.”
“Of the fact,” he replied, “that sooner or later, one beautiful morning, I will die.”
“I am better off than you,” I said. “In addition to that, I have a further conviction, namely, that, one very nasty evening, I had the misfortune to be born.”
“I have it better than you,” I said. “On top of that, I’m convinced that one really awful evening, I had the bad luck to be born.”
All the others considered that we were talking nonsense, but indeed not one of them said anything more sensible. From that moment we singled each other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently to meet and discuss abstract subjects in a very serious manner, until each observed that the other was throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking significantly at each other—as, according to Cicero, the Roman augurs used to do—we would burst out laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we would separate, well content with our evening.
Everyone else thought we were just talking nonsense, but honestly, none of them said anything more sensible. From that point on, we started to pick each other out in the crowd. We often met up to discuss abstract topics very seriously until we both realized that the other was just pulling a fast one. Then, exchanging knowing looks—like the Roman augurs did, according to Cicero—we would burst out laughing genuinely, and after having our fun, we would part ways, feeling satisfied with our evening.
I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the ceiling and my hands clasped behind my head, when Werner entered my room. He sat down in an easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and announced that it was getting hot out of doors. I replied that the flies were bothering me—and we both fell silent.
I was lying on a couch, staring at the ceiling with my hands clasped behind my head when Werner walked into my room. He sat down in a comfy chair, put his cane in the corner, yawned, and said it was getting hot outside. I told him the flies were annoying me—and we both fell silent.
“Observe, my dear doctor,” I said, “that, but for fools, the world would be a very dull place. Look! Here are you and I, both sensible men! We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute ad infinitum about everything—and so we do not dispute. Each of us knows almost all the other’s secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole history; we see the grain of every one of our feelings through a threefold husk. What is sad, we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; but, to tell the truth, we are fairly indifferent, generally speaking, to everything except ourselves. Consequently, there can be no interchange of feelings and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he cares to know about the other, and that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient remains—to tell the news. So tell me some news.”
“Look, my dear doctor,” I said, “if it weren’t for foolish people, the world would be a pretty boring place. Check it out! Here we are, you and I, both reasonable men! We know that we could debate endlessly about everything—and that’s why we don’t. We each understand almost all of the other’s hidden thoughts: to us, a single word tells a whole story; we perceive the essence of each of our feelings through multiple layers. What makes us sad, we laugh at; what’s funny, we’re upset about; but honestly, we’re mostly indifferent to everything except ourselves. As a result, there’s really no exchange of feelings and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he wants to know about the other, and that’s all he needs. So, we have one option left—to share some news. So, share some news with me.”
Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor answered after thinking awhile:
Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor answered after thinking for a bit:
“There is an idea, all the same, in that nonsense of yours.”
"There is, after all, a point to that nonsense of yours."
“Two,” I replied.
"Two," I said.
“Tell me one, and I will tell you the other.”
“Tell me one, and I’ll tell you the other.”
“Very well, begin!” I said, continuing to examine the ceiling and smiling inwardly.
“Okay, go ahead!” I said, keeping my gaze on the ceiling and smiling to myself.
“You are anxious for information about some of the new-comers here, and I can guess who it is, because they, for their part, have already been inquiring about you.”
“You're curious about some of the newcomers here, and I can guess who it is since they’ve already been asking about you.”
“Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to hold a conversation! We read into each other’s soul.”
“Doctor! It's definitely impossible for us to have a conversation! We understand each other completely.”
“Now the other idea?”...
“What's the other idea?”
“Here it is: I wanted to make you relate something, for the following reasons: firstly, listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly, the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he can learn another’s secret; fourthly, sensible people, such as you, prefer listeners to speakers. Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell you about me?”
“Here’s the deal: I wanted you to share something for a few reasons: first, listening is less tiring than talking; second, the listener doesn’t have to get involved; third, they can discover someone else’s secret; fourth, smart people like you prefer listeners over talkers. Now, let’s get down to it; what did Princess Ligovski say about me?”
“You are quite sure that it was Princess Ligovski... and not Princess Mary?”...
"You’re really sure it was Princess Ligovski... and not Princess Mary?"
“Quite sure.”
“Pretty sure.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Because Princess Mary inquired about Grushnitski.”
“Because Princess Mary asked about Grushnitski.”
“You are gifted with a fine imagination! Princess Mary said that she was convinced that the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been reduced to the ranks on account of a duel”...
“You have a great imagination! Princess Mary said she was sure that the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been demoted because of a duel.”
“I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant delusion”...
“I hope you left her holding on to that sweet illusion.”
“Of course”...
"Of course"...
“A plot!” I exclaimed in rapture. “We will make it our business to see to the denouement of this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is taking care that I shall not be bored!”
“A plot!” I exclaimed excitedly. “We should make it our mission to see how this little drama unfolds. It’s clear that fate is making sure I won’t be bored!”
“I have a presentiment,” said the doctor, “that poor Grushnitski will be your victim.”
“I have a feeling,” said the doctor, “that poor Grushnitski will be your victim.”
“Proceed, doctor.”
“Go ahead, doctor.”
“Princess Ligovski said that your face was familiar to her. I observed that she had probably met you in Petersburg—somewhere in society... I told her your name. She knew it well. It appears that your history created a great stir there... She began to tell us of your adventures, most likely supplementing the gossip of society with observations of her own... Her daughter listened with curiosity. In her imagination you have become the hero of a novel in a new style... I did not contradict Princess Ligovski, although I knew that she was talking nonsense.”
“Princess Ligovski mentioned that your face looked familiar to her. I gathered that she must have seen you in Petersburg—somewhere in social circles... I told her your name. She recognized it right away. It seems your story made quite an impact there... She started sharing your adventures, probably adding her own observations to the society gossip... Her daughter listened with interest. In her mind, you've become the hero of a modern novel... I didn’t correct Princess Ligovski, even though I knew she was speaking nonsense.”
“Worthy friend!” I said, extending my hand to him.
"Worthy friend!" I said, reaching out my hand to him.
The doctor pressed it feelingly and continued:
The doctor pressed it with feeling and continued:
“If you like I will present you”...
“If you want, I can introduce you”…
“Good heavens!” I said, clapping my hands. “Are heroes ever presented? In no other way do they make the acquaintance of their beloved than by saving her from certain death!”...
“Good heavens!” I said, clapping my hands. “Are heroes ever introduced? There’s no other way for them to meet their beloved than by saving her from certain death!”...
“And you really wish to court Princess Mary?”
“And you really want to pursue Princess Mary?”
“Not at all, far from it!... Doctor, I triumph at last! You do not understand me!... It vexes me, however,” I continued after a moment’s silence. “I never reveal my secrets myself, but I am exceedingly fond of their being guessed, because in that way I can always disavow them upon occasion. However, you must describe both mother and daughter to me. What sort of people are they?”
“Not at all, far from it!... Doctor, I’ve finally triumphed! You don’t understand me!... It annoys me, though,” I continued after a moment of silence. “I never reveal my secrets myself, but I really enjoy when people guess them, because that way I can always deny them if needed. But you need to tell me about both mother and daughter. What are they like?”
“In the first place, Princess Ligovski is a woman of forty-five,” answered Werner. “She has a splendid digestion, but her blood is out of order—there are red spots on her cheeks. She has spent the latter half of her life in Moscow, and has grown stout from leading an inactive life there. She loves spicy stories, and sometimes says improper things herself when her daughter is out of the room. She has declared to me that her daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that matter to me?... I was going to answer that she might be at her ease, because I would never tell anyone. Princess Ligovski is taking the cure for her rheumatism, and the daughter, for goodness knows what. I have ordered each of them to drink two tumblers a day of sulphurous water, and to bathe twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligovski is apparently unaccustomed to giving orders. She cherishes respect for the intelligence and attainments of her daughter, who has read Byron in English and knows algebra: in Moscow, evidently, the ladies have entered upon the paths of erudition—and a good thing, too! The men here are generally so unamiable, that, for a clever woman, it must be intolerable to flirt with them. Princess Ligovski is very fond of young people; Princess Mary looks on them with a certain contempt—a Moscow habit! In Moscow they cherish only wits of not less than forty.”
“First of all, Princess Ligovski is a woman of forty-five,” Werner replied. “She has a great digestive system, but her blood is not in good shape—she has red spots on her cheeks. She’s spent the last half of her life in Moscow and has put on weight from living a sedentary lifestyle there. She enjoys spicy stories and sometimes says inappropriate things when her daughter is out of the room. She’s told me that her daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that matter to me?... I was going to say that she could relax, because I would never tell anyone. Princess Ligovski is undergoing treatment for her rheumatism, and her daughter, for goodness knows what. I’ve instructed both of them to drink two glasses of sulphurous water a day and to bathe twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligovski seems unaccustomed to giving orders. She respects her daughter’s intelligence and achievements, who has read Byron in English and knows algebra: it’s clear that in Moscow, the ladies have embarked on the paths of learning—and that’s a good thing! The men here are generally so unpleasant that it must be unbearable for a smart woman to flirt with them. Princess Ligovski is very fond of young people; Princess Mary looks at them with a certain disdain—a Moscow habit! In Moscow, they only value minds that are at least forty.”
“You have been in Moscow, doctor?”
"Have you been to Moscow, doctor?"
“Yes, I had a practice there.”
“Yes, I had a practice there.”
“Continue.”
"Keep going."
“But I think I have told everything... No, there is something else: Princess Mary, it seems, loves to discuss emotions, passions, etcetera. She was in Petersburg for one winter, and disliked it—especially the society: no doubt she was coldly received.”
“But I think I’ve shared everything... No, there’s something else: Princess Mary seems to love talking about feelings, passions, and so on. She spent one winter in Petersburg and didn’t like it—especially the social scene: she was probably received quite coldly.”
“You have not seen anyone with them today?”
“You haven’t seen anyone with them today?”
“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a stiff guardsman, and a lady—one of the latest arrivals, a relation of Princess Ligovski on the husband’s side—very pretty, but apparently very ill... Have you not met her at the well? She is of medium height, fair, with regular features; she has the complexion of a consumptive, and there is a little black mole on her right cheek. I was struck by the expressiveness of her face.”
“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a rigid guardsman, and a lady—one of the recent arrivals, a relative of Princess Ligovski on her husband's side—very pretty, but clearly very unwell... Haven't you seen her at the well? She's of average height, fair-skinned, with even features; she has the complexion of someone who's sickly, and there's a small black mole on her right cheek. I was struck by how expressive her face was.”
“A mole!” I muttered through my teeth. “Is it possible?”
“A mole!” I whispered through gritted teeth. “Is this really happening?”
The doctor looked at me, and, laying his hand on my heart, said triumphantly:
The doctor looked at me and, placing his hand on my heart, said triumphantly:
“You know her!”
"You know her!"
My heart was, in fact, beating more violently than usual.
My heart was definitely beating harder than usual.
“It is your turn, now, to triumph,” I said. “But I rely on you: you will not betray me. I have not seen her yet, but I am convinced that I recognise from your portrait a woman whom I loved in the old days... Do not speak a word to her about me; if she asks any questions, give a bad report of me.”
“It’s your turn to succeed now,” I said. “But I’m counting on you: you won’t let me down. I haven’t met her yet, but I’m sure I recognize from your picture a woman I loved back in the day... Don’t say anything to her about me; if she asks any questions, give her a bad impression of me.”
“Be it so!” said Werner, shrugging his shoulders.
"Alright then!" said Werner, shrugging his shoulders.
When he had departed, my heart was compressed with terrible grief. Has destiny brought us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come hither on purpose, knowing that she would meet me?... And how shall we meet?... And then, is it she?... My presentiments have never deceived me. There is not a man in the world over whom the past has acquired such a power as over me. Every recollection of bygone grief or joy strikes my soul with morbid effect, and draws forth ever the same sounds... I am stupidly constituted: I forget nothing—nothing!
When he left, my heart was heavy with deep sorrow. Has fate brought us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come here on purpose, knowing she would see me?... And how will we meet?... And then, is it really her?... My instincts have never let me down. There’s no one in the world for whom the past holds such power as it does for me. Every memory of past pain or joy hits my soul hard and always echoes the same feelings... I'm annoyingly built this way: I forget nothing—nothing!
After dinner, about six o’clock, I went on to the boulevard. It was crowded. The two princesses were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young men, who were vying with each other in paying them attention. I took up my position on another bench at a little distance off, stopped two Dragoon officers whom I knew, and proceeded to tell them something. Evidently it was amusing, because they began to laugh loudly like a couple of madmen. Some of those who were surrounding Princess Mary were attracted to my side by curiosity, and gradually all of them left her and joined my circle. I did not stop talking; my anecdotes were clever to the point of absurdity, my jests at the expense of the queer people passing by, malicious to the point of frenzy. I continued to entertain the public till sunset. Princess Mary passed by me a few times, arm-in-arm with her mother, and accompanied by a certain lame old man. A few times her glance as it fell upon me expressed vexation, while endeavouring to express indifference...
After dinner, around six o’clock, I headed to the boulevard. It was packed. The two princesses were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young men who were all trying to win their attention. I settled on another bench a short distance away, caught the attention of two Dragoon officers I knew, and started telling them something. It must have been funny because they began to laugh loudly like a couple of fools. Some of the people around Princess Mary were drawn to my side out of curiosity, and gradually they all left her to join my group. I didn’t stop talking; my stories were cleverly absurd, and my jokes about the odd people passing by were wickedly hilarious. I kept the crowd entertained until sunset. Princess Mary walked by me a few times, linked arm-in-arm with her mother, and accompanied by a certain lame old man. A few times her gaze fell on me, showing annoyance while trying to act indifferent...
“What has he been telling you?” she inquired of one of the young men, who had gone back to her out of politeness. “No doubt a most interesting story—his own exploits in battle?”...
“What has he been saying to you?” she asked one of the young men, who had returned to her out of courtesy. “I’m sure it’s a really interesting story—his own adventures in battle?”...
This was said rather loudly, and probably with the intention of stinging me.
This was said quite loudly, probably to hurt me.
“Aha!” I thought to myself. “You are downright angry, my dear Princess. Wait awhile, there is more to follow.”
“Aha!” I thought to myself. “You are really angry, my dear Princess. Just wait, there’s more to come.”
Grushnitski kept following her like a beast of prey, and would not let her out of his sight. I wager that to-morrow he will ask somebody to present him to Princess Ligovski. She will be glad, because she is bored.
Grushnitski kept stalking her like a predator and wouldn’t take his eyes off her. I bet he will ask someone to introduce him to Princess Ligovski tomorrow. She’ll be happy about it because she’s bored.
CHAPTER III. 16th May.
IN the course of two days my affairs have gained ground tremendously. Princess Mary positively hates me. Already I have had repeated to me two or three epigrams on the subject of myself—rather caustic, but at the same time very flattering. She finds it exceedingly strange that I, who am accustomed to good society, and am so intimate with her Petersburg cousins and aunts, do not try to make her acquaintance. Every day we meet at the well and on the boulevard. I exert all my powers to entice away her adorers, glittering aides-de-camp, pale-faced visitors from Moscow, and others—and I almost always succeed. I have always hated entertaining guests: now my house is full every day; they dine, sup, gamble, and alas! my champagne triumphs over the might of Princess Mary’s magnetic eyes!
In just two days, my situation has improved a lot. Princess Mary really dislikes me. I've already heard a couple of witty remarks about me—somewhat biting, but also quite flattering. She finds it very odd that I, someone used to good company and close with her relatives from Petersburg, don’t try to get to know her. We bump into each other every day at the well and on the boulevard. I do my best to steal away her admirers—dashing aides-de-camp, pale visitors from Moscow, and others—and I usually manage to do it. I’ve always despised having guests over: now my house is crowded every day; they eat, drink, gamble, and sadly, my champagne beats the power of Princess Mary’s captivating eyes!
I met her yesterday in Chelakhov’s shop. She was bargaining for a marvellous Persian rug, and implored her mother not to be niggardly: the rug would be such an ornament to her boudoir... I outbid her by forty rubles, and bought it over her head. I was rewarded with a glance in which the most delightful fury sparkled. About dinnertime, I ordered my Circassian horse, covered with that very rug, purposely to be led past her windows. Werner was with the princesses at the time, and told me that the effect of the scene was most dramatic. Princess Mary wishes to preach a crusade against me, and I have even noticed that, already, two of the aides-de-camp salute me very coldly, when they are in her presence—they dine with me every day, however.
I ran into her yesterday at Chelakhov’s shop. She was haggling over a beautiful Persian rug and begged her mom not to be greedy because that rug would look amazing in her room. I outbid her by forty rubles and bought it right out from under her. I got a look from her that was full of the most delightful rage. Around dinner time, I had my Circassian horse, draped in that same rug, brought right past her windows on purpose. Werner was with the princesses at the time and told me the scene was quite dramatic. Princess Mary wants to start a campaign against me, and I’ve even noticed that two of the aides-de-camp are greeting me really coldly when they’re around her—though they still have dinner with me every day.
Grushnitski has assumed an air of mystery; he walks with his arms folded behind his back and does not recognise anyone. His foot has got well all at once, and there is hardly a sign of a limp. He has found an opportunity of entering into conversation with Princess Ligovski and of paying Princess Mary some kind of a compliment. The latter is evidently not very fastidious, for, ever since, she answers his bow with a most charming smile.
Grushnitski has taken on an air of mystery; he walks with his arms crossed behind his back and doesn’t acknowledge anyone. His foot has healed suddenly, and there’s barely a hint of a limp. He has taken the chance to strike up a conversation with Princess Ligovski and to give Princess Mary some sort of compliment. The latter doesn’t seem very picky, as she responds to his bow with a lovely smile.
“Are you sure you do not wish to make the Ligovskis’ acquaintance?” he said to me yesterday.
“Are you sure you don’t want to meet the Ligovskis?” he said to me yesterday.
“Positive.”
"Good."
“Good gracious! The pleasantest house at the waters! All the best society of Pyatigorsk is to be found there”...
“Wow! The nicest house by the water! All the best people in Pyatigorsk are there...”
“My friend, I am terribly tired of even other society than that of Pyatigorsk. So you visit the Ligovskis?”
“My friend, I’m really tired of any other company besides that of Pyatigorsk. So, do you visit the Ligovskis?”
“Not yet. I have spoken to Princess Mary once or twice, but that is all. You know it is rather awkward to go and visit them without being invited, although that is the custom here... It would be a different matter if I was wearing epaulettes”...
“Not yet. I’ve talked to Princess Mary once or twice, but that’s about it. You know, it’s kind of uncomfortable to visit them uninvited, even though that’s the custom here... It would be a different story if I were wearing epaulettes.”
“Good heavens! Why, you are much more interesting as it is! You simply do not know how to avail yourself of your advantageous position... Why, that soldier’s cloak makes a hero and a martyr of you in the eyes of any lady of sentiment!”
“Good heavens! You're so much more interesting just as you are! You really don’t realize how to take advantage of your lucky situation… That soldier’s cloak turns you into a hero and a martyr in the eyes of any sentimental lady!”
Grushnitski smiled complacently.
Grushnitski smiled confidently.
“What nonsense!” he said.
"That's ridiculous!" he said.
“I am convinced,” I continued, “that Princess Mary is in love with you already.”
“I’m sure,” I continued, “that Princess Mary is already in love with you.”
He blushed up to the ears and looked big.
He blushed all the way to his ears and looked really big.
Oh, vanity! Thou art the lever with which Archimedes was to lift the earthly sphere!...
Oh, vanity! You are the lever with which Archimedes was to lift the earthly sphere!...
“You are always jesting!” he said, pretending to be angry. “In the first place, she knows so little of me as yet”...
“You're always joking!” he said, pretending to be angry. “First of all, she doesn't know much about me yet...”
“Women love only those whom they do not know!”
“Women love only those they don’t know!”
“But I have no pretensions whatsoever to pleasing her. I simply wish to make the acquaintance of an agreeable household; and it would be extremely ridiculous if I were to cherish the slightest hope... With you, now, for instance, it is a different matter! You Petersburg conquerors! You have but to look—and women melt... But do you know, Pechorin, what Princess Mary said of you?”...
“But I have no illusions about trying to impress her. I just want to get to know a pleasant family; it would be totally silly for me to hold on to even the smallest hope... With you, for example, it's a different story! You Petersburg charmers! You just have to look—and women weaken... But do you know what Princess Mary said about you, Pechorin?”...
“What? She has spoken to you already about me?”...
“What? She’s already talked to you about me?”
“Do not rejoice too soon, though. The other day, by chance, I entered into conversation with her at the well; her third word was, ‘Who is that gentleman with such an unpleasant, heavy glance? He was with you when’... she blushed, and did not like to mention the day, remembering her own delightful little exploit. ‘You need not tell me what day it was,’ I answered; ‘it will ever be present to my memory!’... Pechorin, my friend, I cannot congratulate you, you are in her black books... And, indeed, it is a pity, because Mary is a charming girl!”...
“Don’t celebrate too early, though. The other day, I happened to start a conversation with her at the well; her third word was, ‘Who’s that guy with such an unpleasant, heavy stare? He was with you when’... she blushed and didn’t want to mention the day, remembering her own delightful little adventure. ‘You don’t need to tell me what day it was,’ I replied; ‘it will always be in my memory!’... Pechorin, my friend, I can’t congratulate you, you’re on her bad side... And honestly, it’s a shame because Mary is a lovely girl!”...
It must be observed that Grushnitski is one of those men who, in speaking of a woman with whom they are barely acquainted, call her my Mary, my Sophie, if she has had the good fortune to please them.
It should be noted that Grushnitski is one of those guys who, when talking about a woman he barely knows, refers to her as my Mary, my Sophie, if she's lucky enough to catch his eye.
I assumed a serious air and answered:
I took on a serious expression and replied:
“Yes, she is good-looking... Only be careful, Grushnitski! Russian ladies, for the most part, cherish only Platonic love, without mingling any thought of matrimony with it; and Platonic love is exceedingly embarrassing. Princess Mary seems to be one of those women who want to be amused. If she is bored in your company for two minutes on end—you are lost irrevocably. Your silence ought to excite her curiosity, your conversation ought never to satisfy it completely; you should alarm her every minute; ten times, in public, she will slight people’s opinion for you and will call that a sacrifice, and, in order to requite herself for it, she will torment you. Afterwards she will simply say that she cannot endure you. If you do not acquire authority over her, even her first kiss will not give you the right to a second. She will flirt with you to her heart’s content, and, in two years’ time, she will marry a monster, in obedience to her mother, and will assure herself that she is unhappy, that she has loved only one man—that is to say, you—but that Heaven was not willing to unite her to him because he wore a soldier’s cloak, although beneath that thick, grey cloak beat a heart, passionate and noble”...
“Yes, she's beautiful... Just be careful, Grushnitski! Most Russian women prefer to keep love platonic and don’t mix it with thoughts of marriage; and platonic love can be really awkward. Princess Mary seems like one of those women who just want to be entertained. If she gets bored with you for even two minutes—you’re done for. Your silence should intrigue her, and your conversation should never fully satisfy her curiosity; you should keep her on her toes every minute. Publicly, she’ll disregard what others think for your sake and call it a sacrifice, but then she’ll make you pay for it. Later, she'll just claim that she can't stand you. If you don’t gain some authority over her, even her first kiss won’t guarantee you a second. She’ll flirt with you as much as she likes, and in two years, she’ll marry someone terrible, all to please her mother, convincing herself that she’s unhappy and that she’s only ever loved one man—that is, you—but she believes fate won’t allow her to be with him because he wore a soldier’s coat, even though beneath that thick grey coat beats a passionate and noble heart.”
Grushnitski smote the table with his fist and fell to walking to and fro across the room.
Grushnitski slammed his fist on the table and started pacing back and forth across the room.
I laughed inwardly and even smiled once or twice, but fortunately he did not notice. It is evident that he is in love, because he has grown even more confiding than heretofore. Moreover, a ring has made its appearance on his finger, a silver ring with black enamel of local workmanship. It struck me as suspicious... I began to examine it, and what do you think I saw? The name Mary was engraved on the inside in small letters, and in a line with the name was the date on which she had picked up the famous tumbler. I kept my discovery a secret. I do not want to force confessions from him, I want him, of his own accord, to choose me as his confidant—and then I will enjoy myself!...
I laughed to myself and even smiled a couple of times, but luckily he didn’t notice. It’s clear that he’s in love because he’s become even more open than before. Plus, there’s now a ring on his finger, a silver ring with black enamel made locally. It seemed suspicious to me…I started to take a closer look, and guess what I found? The name Mary was engraved on the inside in small letters, along with the date she picked up the famous tumbler. I kept my find to myself. I don’t want to push him into confessing; I want him to choose me as his confidant on his own—and then I’ll have a great time!
To-day I rose late. I went to the well. I found nobody there. The day grew hot. White, shaggy cloudlets were flitting rapidly from the snow-clad mountains, giving promise of a thunderstorm; the summit of Mount Mashuk was smoking like a just extinguished torch; grey wisps of cloud were coiling and creeping like snakes around it, arrested in their rapid sweep and, as it were, hooked to its prickly brushwood. The atmosphere was charged with electricity. I plunged into the avenue of the vines leading to the grotto.
Today I got up late. I went to the well and found no one there. The day started getting hot. White, fluffy clouds were quickly moving away from the snow-covered mountains, hinting at a thunderstorm; the top of Mount Mashuk looked like it was smoking from a recently put out torch; gray strands of cloud were swirling around it like snakes, caught in their fast movement and seemingly hooked to its thorny brushwood. The air felt charged with electricity. I walked into the tree-lined path of the vines that led to the grotto.
I felt low-spirited. I was thinking of the lady with the little mole on her cheek, of whom the doctor had spoken to me... “Why is she here?” I thought. “And is it she? And what reason have I for thinking it is? And why am I so certain of it? Is there not many a woman with a mole on her cheek?” Reflecting in such wise I came right up to the grotto. I looked in and I saw that a woman, wearing a straw hat and wrapped in a black shawl, was sitting on a stone seat in the cold shade of the arch. Her head was sunk upon her breast, and the hat covered her face. I was just about to turn back, in order not to disturb her meditations, when she glanced at me.
I felt down. I was thinking about the woman with the little mole on her cheek that the doctor had mentioned... “Why is she here?” I wondered. “Is it really her? What makes me think that? Why am I so sure? Aren't there many women with a mole on their cheek?” While pondering this, I reached the grotto. I looked in and saw a woman, wearing a straw hat and wrapped in a black shawl, sitting on a stone seat in the chilly shade of the arch. Her head was bowed, and the hat was covering her face. I was about to turn back so I wouldn’t interrupt her thoughts when she glanced at me.
“Vera!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“Vera!” I exclaimed.
She started and turned pale.
She gasped and turned pale.
“I knew that you were here,” she said.
“I knew you were here,” she said.
I sat down beside her and took her hand. A long-forgotten tremor ran through my veins at the sound of that dear voice. She gazed into my face with her deep, calm eyes. Mistrust and something in the nature of reproach were expressed in her glance.
I sat down next to her and held her hand. A long-buried shiver ran through me at the sound of that beloved voice. She looked into my face with her deep, calm eyes. There was a hint of mistrust and a sense of accusation in her gaze.
“We have not seen each other for a long time,” I said.
“We haven't seen each other in a long time,” I said.
“A long time, and we have both changed in many ways.”
“A long time, and we’ve both changed in so many ways.”
“Consequently you love me no longer?”...
“So, you don’t love me anymore?”...
“I am married!”... she said.
“I’m married!”... she said.
“Again? A few years ago, however, that reason also existed, but, nevertheless”...
“Again? A few years ago, though, that reason was also there, but, still...”
She plucked her hand away from mine and her cheeks flamed.
She pulled her hand away from mine and her cheeks turned red.
“Perhaps you love your second husband?”...
“Maybe you love your second husband?”
She made no answer and turned her head away.
She didn't respond and turned her head away.
“Or is he very jealous?”
"Or is he super jealous?"
She remained silent.
She stayed quiet.
“What then? He is young, handsome and, I suppose, rich—which is the chief thing—and you are afraid?”...
“What now? He’s young, good-looking, and I guess wealthy—which is the main thing—and you’re scared?”...
I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound despair was depicted upon her countenance; tears were glistening in her eyes.
I looked at her and felt a jolt of alarm. Deep despair was written all over her face; tears were shining in her eyes.
“Tell me,” she whispered at length, “do you find it very amusing to torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we have known each other, you have given me naught but suffering”...
“Tell me,” she whispered at last, “do you find it funny to torture me? I should hate you. Since we met, you’ve done nothing but make me suffer.”
Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and let her head sink upon my breast.
Her voice trembled as she leaned over to me and rested her head on my chest.
“Perhaps,” I reflected, “it is for that very reason that you have loved me; joys are forgotten, but sorrows never”...
“Maybe,” I thought, “that's exactly why you've loved me; we forget joys, but we never forget sorrows.”
I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we remained for a long time. At length our lips drew closer and became blent in a fervent, intoxicating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her head was burning.
I held her tight against my chest, and we stayed like that for a long time. Eventually, our lips moved closer and met in a passionate, intoxicating kiss. Her hands were icy; her head was on fire.
And hereupon we embarked upon one of those conversations which, on paper, have no sense, which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible even to retain in memory. The meaning of the sounds replaces and completes the meaning of the words, as in Italian opera.
And with that, we started one of those conversations that, in writing, don't make any sense, that you can't repeat, and that are hard to remember. The meaning of the sounds takes over and fills in the meaning of the words, like in Italian opera.
She is decidedly averse to my making the acquaintance of her husband, the lame old man of whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard. She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich, and suffers from attacks of rheumatism. I did not allow myself even a single scoff at his expense. She respects him as a father, and will deceive him as a husband... A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman’s heart in particular.
She is definitely against me meeting her husband, the old man I saw briefly on the boulevard. She married him for her son's sake. He’s wealthy and struggles with rheumatism. I didn't let myself make a single joke at his expense. She respects him as a father and will betray him as a husband... It’s a strange thing, the human heart in general, and a woman’s heart in particular.
Vera’s husband, Semyon Vasilevich G——v, is a distant relation of Princess Ligovski. He lives next door to her. Vera frequently visits the Princess. I have given her my promise to make the Ligovskis’ acquaintance, and to pay court to Princess Mary in order to distract attention from Vera. In such way, my plans have been not a little deranged, but it will be amusing for me...
Vera's husband, Semyon Vasilevich G——v, is a distant relative of Princess Ligovski. He lives next door to her. Vera often visits the Princess. I've promised her that I'd get to know the Ligovskis and try to charm Princess Mary to take attention away from Vera. This has definitely thrown a wrench in my plans, but it will be entertaining for me...
Amusing!... Yes, I have already passed that period of spiritual life when happiness alone is sought, when the heart feels the urgent necessity of violently and passionately loving somebody. Now my only wish is to be loved, and that by very few. I even think that I would be content with one constant attachment. A wretched habit of the heart!...
Amusing!... Yes, I've moved past that phase of my spiritual life when all I sought was happiness, when my heart felt the desperate need to love someone intensely and passionately. Now my only wish is to be loved, and by just a few. I even believe I would be satisfied with one steady connection. A sad habit of the heart!...
One thing has always struck me as strange. I have never made myself the slave of the woman I have loved. On the contrary, I have always acquired an invincible power over her will and heart, without in the least endeavouring to do so. Why is this? Is it because I never esteem anything highly, and she has been continually afraid to let me out of her hands? Or is it the magnetic influence of a powerful organism? Or is it, simply, that I have never succeeded in meeting a woman of stubborn character?
One thing has always seemed odd to me. I've never let myself become a slave to the woman I loved. On the contrary, I've always gained an undeniable power over her will and heart, without even trying. Why is that? Is it because I don’t hold anything in high regard, and she has constantly feared losing me? Or is it the magnetic pull of a strong personality? Or is it simply that I've never managed to meet a woman with a stubborn character?
I must confess that, in fact, I do not love women who possess strength of character. What business have they with such a thing?
I have to admit that I really don't love women who show strong character. What do they need that for?
Indeed, I remember now. Once and once only did I love a woman who had a firm will which I was never able to vanquish... We parted as enemies—and then, perhaps, if I had met her five years later we would have parted otherwise...
Indeed, I remember now. Once and only once did I love a woman who had a strong will that I was never able to overcome... We separated as enemies—and then, perhaps, if I had met her five years later, we would have parted differently...
Vera is ill, very ill, although she does not admit it. I fear she has consumption, or that disease which is called “fievre lente”—a quite unRussian disease, and one for which there is no name in our language.
Vera is sick, really sick, even though she won’t acknowledge it. I worry she has tuberculosis, or that illness known as “slow fever”—a completely unRussian disease, and one that doesn't have a name in our language.
The storm overtook us while in the grotto and detained us half an hour longer. Vera did not make me swear fidelity, or ask whether I had loved others since we had parted... She trusted in me anew with all her former unconcern, and I will not deceive her: she is the only woman in the world whom it would never be within my power to deceive. I know that we shall soon have to part again, and perchance for ever. We will both go by different ways to the grave, but her memory will remain inviolable within my soul. I have always repeated this to her, and she believes me, although she says she does not.
The storm caught us in the grotto and kept us there for another half hour. Vera didn’t make me promise to be faithful or ask if I had loved anyone else since we split up... She trusted me again with all her previous ease, and I won’t let her down: she’s the only woman in the world I could never betray. I know we’ll have to separate again soon, maybe for good. We will both take different paths to our final rest, but her memory will always be safe in my heart. I’ve told her this many times, and she believes me, even though she says she doesn’t.
At length we separated. For a long time I followed her with my eyes, until her hat was hidden behind the shrubs and rocks. My heart was painfully contracted, just as after our first parting. Oh, how I rejoiced in that emotion! Can it be that youth is about to come back to me, with its salutary tempests, or is this only the farewell glance, the last gift—in memory of itself?... And to think that, in appearance, I am still a boy! My face, though pale, is still fresh; my limbs are supple and slender; my hair is thick and curly, my eyes sparkle, my blood boils...
At last, we parted ways. I watched her for a long time until her hat disappeared behind the bushes and rocks. My heart ached, just like it did after our first goodbye. Oh, how I savored that feeling! Could it be that youth is returning to me, with all its healing storms, or is this just a final glance, a last gift—in memory of itself?... And to think that, on the surface, I still look like a boy! My face, though pale, is still youthful; my limbs are flexible and slender; my hair is thick and curly, my eyes shine, my blood pumps...
Returning home, I mounted on horseback and galloped to the steppe. I love to gallop on a fiery horse through the tall grass, in the face of the desert wind; greedily I gulp down the fragrant air and fix my gaze upon the blue distance, endeavouring to seize the misty outlines of objects which every minute grow clearer and clearer. Whatever griefs oppress my heart, whatever disquietudes torture my thoughts—all are dispersed in a moment; my soul becomes at ease; the fatigue of the body vanquishes the disturbance of the mind. There is not a woman’s glance which I would not forget at the sight of the tufted mountains, illumined by the southern sun; at the sight of the dark-blue sky, or in hearkening to the roar of the torrent as it falls from cliff to cliff.
Returning home, I got on my horse and raced out to the steppe. I love galloping on a spirited horse through the tall grass, feeling the desert wind on my face; I greedily breathe in the sweet-smelling air and focus on the blue distance, trying to make out the blurry shapes that become clearer by the minute. No matter what worries weigh on my heart or what troubles haunt my thoughts—all of that fades away in an instant; my soul feels at peace; the exhaustion of my body overcomes the chaos in my mind. There's not a woman’s glance that I wouldn't forget when I see the lush mountains lit up by the southern sun; when I look at the deep blue sky, or when I listen to the roar of the water falling from cliff to cliff.
I believe that the Cossacks, yawning on their watch-towers, when they saw me galloping thus needlessly and aimlessly, were long tormented by that enigma, because from my dress, I am sure, they took me to be a Circassian. I have, in fact, been told that when riding on horseback, in my Circassian costume, I resemble a Kabardian more than many a Kabardian himself. And, indeed, so far as regards that noble, warlike garb, I am a perfect dandy. I have not a single piece of gold lace too much; my weapon is costly, but simply wrought; the fur on my cap is neither too long nor too short; my leggings and shoes are matched with all possible accuracy; my tunic is white; my Circassian jacket, dark-brown. I have long studied the mountaineer seat on horseback, and in no way is it possible to flatter my vanity so much as by acknowledging my skill in horsemanship in the Cossack mode. I keep four horses—one for myself and three for my friends, so that I may not be bored by having to roam about the fields all alone; they take my horses with pleasure, and never ride with me.
I think the Cossacks, lounging on their watchtowers, when they saw me galloping around without a purpose, were puzzled for a long time. They probably thought I was a Circassian because of my outfit. I've been told that when I'm on horseback in my Circassian attire, I look more like a Kabardian than many Kabardians do. And, honestly, when it comes to that noble, martial outfit, I'm quite a fashion plate. I have just the right amount of gold lace; my weapon is expensive but simply designed; the fur on my hat is the perfect length; my leggings and shoes match perfectly; my tunic is white, and my Circassian jacket is dark brown. I've spent a lot of time mastering the mountaineer way of sitting on a horse, and nothing flatters my ego more than when someone acknowledges my horse-riding skills in the Cossack style. I own four horses—one for me and three for my friends—so I won’t be bored riding around the fields alone; they happily take my horses but never ride alongside me.
It was already six o’clock in the evening, when I remembered that it was time to dine. My horse was jaded. I rode out on to the road leading from Pyatigorsk to the German colony, to which the society of the watering-place frequently rides en piquenique. The road meanders between bushes and descends into little ravines, through which flow noisy brooks beneath the shade of tall grasses. All around, in an amphitheatre, rise the blue masses of Mount Beshtau and the Zmeiny, Zhelezny and Lysy Mountains. 26 Descending into one of those ravines, I halted to water my horse. At that moment a noisy and glittering cavalcade made its appearance upon the road—the ladies in black and dark-blue riding habits, the cavaliers in costumes which formed a medley of the Circassian and Nizhegorodian. 27 In front rode Grushnitski with Princess Mary.
It was already six o’clock in the evening when I remembered it was time to eat. My horse was tired. I rode out onto the road leading from Pyatigorsk to the German colony, where the people from the spa often go for picnics. The road winds between bushes and dips into little ravines, through which noisy streams flow beneath the shade of tall grasses. All around, in an amphitheater, rise the blue slopes of Mount Beshtau and the Zmeiny, Zhelezny, and Lysy Mountains. 26 As I descended into one of those ravines, I stopped to water my horse. At that moment, a noisy and sparkling procession appeared on the road—the ladies in black and dark-blue riding outfits, the gentlemen in outfits that blended Circassian and Nizhegorodian styles. 27 In front rode Grushnitski with Princess Mary.
The ladies at the watering-place still believe in attacks by Circassians in broad daylight; for that reason, doubtless, Grushnitski had slung a sabre and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s cloak. He looked ridiculous enough in that heroic attire.
The women at the resort still believe in daytime attacks by Circassians; for that reason, no doubt, Grushnitski had strapped a saber and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s cloak. He looked pretty ridiculous in that heroic outfit.
I was concealed from their sight by a tall bush, but I was able to see everything through the leaves, and to guess from the expression of their faces that the conversation was of a sentimental turn. At length they approached the slope; Grushnitski took hold of the bridle of the Princess’s horse, and then I heard the conclusion of their conversation:
I was hidden from their view by a tall bush, but I could see everything through the leaves and could tell from their expressions that their conversation was sentimental. Eventually, they reached the slope; Grushnitski grabbed the reins of the Princess's horse, and then I heard the end of their conversation:
“And you wish to remain all your life in the Caucasus?” said Princess Mary.
“And you want to stay in the Caucasus for the rest of your life?” said Princess Mary.
“What is Russia to me?” answered her cavalier. “A country in which thousands of people, because they are richer than I, will look upon me with contempt, whilst here—here this thick cloak has not prevented my acquaintance with you”...
“What is Russia to me?” replied her cavalier. “A place where thousands of people, because they're wealthier than I am, will look down on me, while here—this heavy cloak hasn’t stopped me from getting to know you.”
“On the contrary”... said Princess Mary, blushing.
“Actually,” said Princess Mary, blushing.
Grushnitski’s face was a picture of delight. He continued:
Grushnitski's face lit up with joy. He went on:
“Here, my life will flow along noisily, unobserved, and rapidly, under the bullets of the savages, and if Heaven were every year to send me a single bright glance from a woman’s eyes—like that which—”
“Here, my life will rush by loudly, unnoticed, and quickly, under the guns of the savages, and if Heaven were to send me just one bright look from a woman's eyes each year—like that which—”
At that moment they came up to where I was. I struck my horse with the whip and rode out from behind the bush...
At that moment, they approached where I was. I hit my horse with the whip and rode out from behind the bush...
“Mon Dieu, un circassien!”... exclaimed Princess Mary in terror.
“Wow, a circus performer!”... exclaimed Princess Mary in terror.
In order completely to undeceive her, I replied in French, with a slight bow:
In order to completely clarify things for her, I replied in French, with a slight bow:
“Ne craignez rien, madame, je ne suis pas plus dangereux que votre cavalier”...
“Don’t worry, ma’am, I am no more dangerous than your rider.”
She grew embarrassed—but at what? At her own mistake, or because my answer struck her as insolent? I should like the latter hypothesis to be correct. Grushnitski cast a discontented glance at me.
She felt embarrassed—but about what? About her own mistake or because my answer came off as rude? I really hope it's the second one. Grushnitski gave me a frustrated look.
Late in the evening, that is to say, about eleven o’clock, I went for a walk in the lilac avenue of the boulevard. The town was sleeping; lights were gleaming in only a few windows. On three sides loomed the black ridges of the cliffs, the spurs of Mount Mashuk, upon the summit of which an ominous cloud was lying. The moon was rising in the east; in the distance, the snow-clad mountains glistened like a fringe of silver. The calls of the sentries mingled at intervals with the roar of the hot springs let flow for the night. At times the loud clattering of a horse rang out along the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nagai wagon and the plaintive burden of a Tartar song.
Late in the evening, around eleven o’clock, I went for a walk down the lilac-lined boulevard. The town was quiet; only a few windows were lit up. On three sides, the dark cliffs of Mount Mashuk rose up, with a gloomy cloud resting on top. The moon was rising in the east; in the distance, the snow-covered mountains sparkled like a silver fringe. The calls of the guards mixed with the roar of the hot springs running for the night. Occasionally, the loud clatter of a horse echoed down the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nagai wagon and the sad melody of a Tartar song.
I sat down upon a bench and fell into a reverie... I felt the necessity of pouring forth my thoughts in friendly conversation... But with whom?...
I sat down on a bench and drifted into thought... I felt the need to share my thoughts in friendly conversation... But with who?...
“What is Vera doing now?” I wondered.
“What is Vera up to now?” I wondered.
I would have given much to press her hand at that moment.
I would have given anything to hold her hand at that moment.
All at once I heard rapid and irregular steps... Grushnitski, no doubt!... So it was!
All of a sudden, I heard quick and uneven footsteps... Grushnitski, for sure!... And it was!
“Where have you come from?”
“Where are you from?”
“From Princess Ligovski’s,” he said very importantly. “How well Mary does sing!”...
“From Princess Ligovski’s,” he said with great importance. “Mary sings so well!”
“Do you know?” I said to him. “I wager that she does not know that you are a cadet. She thinks you are an officer reduced to the ranks”...
“Do you know?” I said to him. “I bet she doesn’t know that you’re a cadet. She thinks you’re an officer who’s been moved down to the ranks.”
“Maybe so. What is that to me!”... he said absently.
“Maybe so. What does that matter to me!”... he said absentmindedly.
“No, I am only saying so”...
“No, I’m just saying that...”
“But, do you know that you have made her terribly angry to-day? She considered it an unheard-of piece of insolence. It was only with difficulty that I was able to convince her that you are so well bred and know society so well that you could not have had any intention of insulting her. She says that you have an impudent glance, and that you have certainly a very high opinion of yourself.”
“But do you know that you've made her really angry today? She thinks it was an unbelievable act of rudeness. I had a hard time convincing her that you're so well-mannered and understand society so well that you couldn't have meant to insult her. She says you have a bold look and that you definitely think highly of yourself.”
“She is not mistaken... But do you not want to defend her?”
“She’s not wrong... But don’t you want to defend her?”
“I am sorry I have not yet the right to do so”...
“I’m sorry I don’t have the right to do that yet.”
“Oho!” I said to myself, “evidently he has hopes already.”
“Oho!” I thought to myself, “clearly, he already has hopes.”
“However, it is the worse for you,” continued Grushnitski; “it will be difficult for you to make their acquaintance now, and what a pity! It is one of the most agreeable houses I know”...
“However, it’s tougher for you,” continued Grushnitski; “it’ll be hard for you to meet them now, and what a shame! It’s one of the most pleasant houses I know...”
I smiled inwardly.
I smiled to myself.
“The most agreeable house to me now is my own,” I said, with a yawn, and I got up to go.
“The most pleasant house to me now is my own,” I said, yawning, and I got up to leave.
“Confess, though, you repent?”...
"Confess, though, do you regret?"
“What nonsense! If I like I will be at Princess Ligovski’s to-morrow evening!”...
“What nonsense! If I want, I’ll be at Princess Ligovski’s tomorrow evening!”
“We shall see”...
"We'll see"
“I will even begin to pay my addresses to Princess Mary, if you would like me to”...
“I'll even start to pursue Princess Mary, if that's what you want me to do.”
“Yes, if she is willing to speak to you”...
“Yes, if she’s willing to talk to you”...
“I am only awaiting the moment when she will be bored by your conversation... Goodbye”...
“I’m just waiting for the moment when she gets bored with your conversation... Goodbye...”
“Well, I am going for a stroll; I could not go to sleep now for anything... Look here, let us go to the restaurant instead, there is cardplaying going on there... What I need now is violent sensations”...
“Well, I'm going for a walk; there's no way I could fall asleep right now... How about we go to the restaurant instead? They're playing cards there... What I need right now is intense excitement...”
“I hope you will lose”...
"I hope you lose"
I went home.
I went back home.
CHAPTER IV. 21st May.
NEARLY a week has passed, and I have not yet made the Ligovskis’ acquaintance. I am awaiting a convenient opportunity. Grushnitski follows Princess Mary everywhere like a shadow. Their conversations are interminable; but, when will she be tired of him?... Her mother pays no attention, because he is not a man who is in a position to marry. Behold the logic of mothers! I have caught two or three tender glances—this must be put a stop to.
NEARLY a week has passed, and I still haven’t met the Ligovskis. I’m waiting for the right moment. Grushnitski follows Princess Mary everywhere like a shadow. Their conversations seem endless; but how long until she gets bored with him? Her mother doesn’t care, since he’s not in a position to marry. Just look at the logic of mothers! I’ve noticed two or three affectionate looks—this needs to be stopped.
Yesterday, for the first time, Vera made her appearance at the well... She has never gone out of doors since we met in the grotto. We let down our tumblers at the same time, and as she bent forward she whispered to me:
Yesterday, for the first time, Vera showed up at the well... She hasn't gone outside since we met in the grotto. We lowered our cups at the same time, and as she leaned forward, she whispered to me:
“You are not going to make the Ligovskis’ acquaintance?... It is only there that we can meet”...
“You're not going to meet the Ligovskis? It's the only place we can get together...”
A reproach!... How tiresome! But I have deserved it...
A criticism!... How annoying! But I brought it on myself...
By the way, there is a subscription ball tomorrow in the saloon of the restaurant, and I will dance the mazurka with Princess Mary.
By the way, there's a subscription ball tomorrow in the restaurant's saloon, and I’ll dance the mazurka with Princess Mary.
CHAPTER V. 29th May.
THE saloon of the restaurant was converted into the assembly room of a Nobles’ Club. The company met at nine o’clock. Princess Ligovski and her daughter were amongst the latest to make their appearance. Several of the ladies looked at Princess Mary with envy and malevolence, because she dresses with taste. Those who look upon themselves as the aristocracy of the place concealed their envy and attached themselves to her train. What else could be expected? Wherever there is a gathering of women, the company is immediately divided into a higher and a lower circle.
THE restaurant's saloon was turned into the meeting room for a Nobles’ Club. The group gathered at nine o’clock. Princess Ligovski and her daughter were among the last to arrive. Several ladies watched Princess Mary with envy and spite because she dresses stylishly. Those who consider themselves the local aristocracy hid their jealousy and clung to her group. What else would you expect? Whenever women gather, the crowd quickly splits into a higher and a lower circle.
Beneath the window, amongst a crowd of people, stood Grushnitski, pressing his face to the pane and never taking his eyes off his divinity. As she passed by, she gave him a hardly perceptible nod. He beamed like the sun... The first dance was a polonaise, after which the musicians struck up a waltz. Spurs began to jingle, and skirts to rise and whirl.
Beneath the window, among a crowd of people, stood Grushnitski, pressing his face to the glass and never taking his eyes off his idol. As she walked by, she gave him a barely noticeable nod. He lit up like the sun... The first dance was a polonaise, after which the musicians started a waltz. Spurs began to jingle, and skirts began to lift and swirl.
I was standing behind a certain stout lady who was overshadowed by rose-coloured feathers. The magnificence of her dress reminded me of the times of the farthingale, and the motley hue of her by no means smooth skin, of the happy epoch of the black taffeta patch. An immense wart on her neck was covered by a clasp. She was saying to her cavalier, a captain of dragoons:
I was standing behind a certain heavyset woman who was surrounded by pink feathers. The grandeur of her dress reminded me of the days of the farthingale, and the varied color of her definitely not smooth skin brought to mind the joyful era of black taffeta patches. A large wart on her neck was hidden by a clasp. She was speaking to her partner, a captain of dragoons:
“That young Princess Ligovski is a most intolerable creature! Just fancy, she jostled against me and did not apologise, but even turned round and stared at me through her lorgnette!... C’est impayable!... And what has she to be proud of? It is time somebody gave her a lesson”...
“That young Princess Ligovski is such an unbearable person! Can you believe she bumped into me and didn’t apologize, but instead turned around and stared at me through her lorgnette?... It’s outrageous!... And what does she have to be proud of? It’s about time someone taught her a lesson...”
“That will be easy enough,” replied the obliging captain, and he directed his steps to the other room.
"That'll be easy enough," replied the helpful captain, and he walked to the other room.
I went up to Princess Mary immediately, and, availing myself of the local customs which allowed one to dance with a stranger, I invited her to waltz with me.
I walked up to Princess Mary right away, and, using the local customs that let you dance with someone you don’t know, I asked her to waltz with me.
She was scarcely able to keep from smiling and letting her triumph be seen; but quickly enough she succeeded in assuming an air of perfect indifference and even severity. Carelessly she let her hand fall upon my shoulder, inclined her head slightly to one side, and we began to dance. I have never known a waist more voluptuous and supple! Her fresh breath touched my face; at times a lock of hair, becoming separated from its companions in the eddy of the waltz, glided over my burning cheek...
She could hardly stop herself from smiling and showing her victory; but she quickly managed to put on a façade of complete indifference and even sternness. Casually, she rested her hand on my shoulder, tilted her head slightly to the side, and we started to dance. I've never felt a waist so sensual and flexible! Her sweet breath brushed against my face; occasionally, a strand of hair, breaking free from its friends in the swirl of the waltz, brushed against my flushed cheek...
I made three turns of the ballroom (she waltzes surprisingly well). She was out of breath, her eyes were dulled, her half-open lips were scarcely able to whisper the indispensable: “merci, monsieur.”
I made three laps around the ballroom (she waltzes surprisingly well). She was out of breath, her eyes were tired, her slightly open lips barely managed to whisper the essential: “thank you, sir.”
After a few moments’ silence I said to her, assuming a very humble air:
After a brief silence, I said to her, putting on a very humble demeanor:
“I have heard, Princess, that although quite unacquainted with you, I have already had the misfortune to incur your displeasure... that you have considered me insolent. Can that possibly true?”
“I’ve heard, Princess, that even though we don’t know each other at all, I’ve already managed to upset you... that you think I’m rude. Is that really true?”
“Would you like to confirm me in that opinion now?” she answered, with an ironical little grimace—very becoming, however, to her mobile countenance.
“Do you want to confirm that opinion of mine now?” she replied, with a sarcastic little grimace—very charming, however, on her expressive face.
“If I had the audacity to insult you in any way, then allow me to have the still greater audacity to beg your pardon... And, indeed, I should very much like to prove to you that you are mistaken in regard to me”...
“If I had the nerve to insult you in any way, then let me have the even greater nerve to ask for your forgiveness... And, honestly, I would really like to show you that you’re wrong about me.”
“You will find that a rather difficult task”...
“You will find that a pretty tough task”...
“But why?”...
“But why?”
“Because you never visit us and, most likely, there will not be many more of these balls.”
“Since you never come to see us and, probably, there won't be many more of these parties.”
“That means,” I thought, “that their doors are closed to me for ever.”
“That means,” I thought, “that their doors are closed to me forever.”
“You know, Princess,” I said to her, with a certain amount of vexation, “one should never spurn a penitent criminal: in his despair he may become twice as much a criminal as before... and then”...
“You know, Princess,” I said to her, a bit frustrated, “you should never reject a remorseful criminal: in their despair, they might turn into even more of a criminal than before... and then”...
Sudden laughter and whispering from the people around us caused me to turn my head and to interrupt my phrase. A few paces away from me stood a group of men, amongst them the captain of dragoons, who had manifested intentions hostile to the charming Princess. He was particularly well pleased with something or other, and was rubbing his hands, laughing and exchanging meaning glances with his companions. All at once a gentleman in an evening-dress coat and with long moustaches and a red face separated himself from the crowd and directed his uncertain steps straight towards Princess Mary. He was drunk. Coming to a halt opposite the embarrassed Princess and placing his hands behind his back, he fixed his dull grey eyes upon her, and said in a hoarse treble:
Sudden laughter and whispers from the people around us made me turn my head and stop my sentence. A few steps away was a group of men, including the captain of the dragoons, who had shown hostility towards the charming Princess. He seemed particularly pleased with something and was rubbing his hands, laughing, and exchanging knowing glances with his friends. Suddenly, a man in an evening coat with long mustaches and a flushed face pushed his way out of the crowd and unsteadily approached Princess Mary. He was drunk. Stopping in front of the embarrassed Princess and putting his hands behind his back, he fixed his dull gray eyes on her and said in a hoarse voice:
“Permettez... but what is the good of that sort of thing here... All I need say is: I engage you for the mazurka”...
“Excuse me... but what's the point of that kind of thing here... All I need to say is: I'm hiring you for the mazurka.”
“Very well!” she replied in a trembling voice, throwing a beseeching glance around. Alas! Her mother was a long way off, and not one of the cavaliers of her acquaintance was near. A certain aide-de-camp apparently saw the whole scene, but he concealed himself behind the crowd in order not to be mixed up in the affair.
“Okay!” she replied in a shaky voice, casting a hopeful glance around. Unfortunately, her mother was far away, and none of the knights she knew were nearby. One aide-de-camp seemed to witness the whole thing, but he hid behind the crowd to avoid getting involved.
“What?” said the drunken gentleman, winking to the captain of dragoons, who was encouraging him by signs. “Do you not wish to dance then?... All the same I again have the honour to engage you for the mazurka... You think, perhaps, that I am drunk! That is all right!... I can dance all the easier, I assure you”...
“What?” said the drunk guy, winking at the captain of dragoons, who was signaling for him to keep going. “Don’t you want to dance then?... Either way, I still have the honor of asking you to dance the mazurka... You might think I’m drunk! That’s fine!... I promise you I can dance even better this way...”
I saw that she was on the point of fainting with fright and indignation.
I could see that she was about to faint from fear and anger.
I went up to the drunken gentleman, caught him none too gently by the arm, and, looking him fixedly in the face, requested him to retire. “Because,” I added, “the Princess promised long ago to dance the mazurka with me.”
I approached the drunken guy, grabbed him firmly by the arm, and, looking him straight in the face, asked him to leave. “Because,” I added, “the Princess promised a long time ago that she would dance the mazurka with me.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing to be done! Another time!” he said, bursting out laughing, and he retired to his abashed companions, who immediately conducted him into another room.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do! Maybe next time!” he said, laughing loudly, and he went back to his embarrassed friends, who quickly took him to another room.
I was rewarded by a deep, wondrous glance.
I received a deep, amazing look.
The Princess went up to her mother and told her the whole story. The latter sought me out among the crowd and thanked me. She informed me that she knew my mother and was on terms of friendship with half a dozen of my aunts.
The Princess approached her mother and shared the entire story. Her mother found me in the crowd and expressed her gratitude. She mentioned that she knew my mother and was friends with several of my aunts.
“I do not know how it has happened that we have not made your acquaintance up to now,” she added; “but confess, you alone are to blame for that. You fight shy of everyone in a positively unseemly way. I hope the air of my drawingroom will dispel your spleen... Do you not think so?”
“I don’t know how it happened that we haven’t met until now,” she added; “but honestly, it’s all your fault. You avoid everyone in a really inappropriate way. I hope the atmosphere of my living room will lift your mood... Don’t you agree?”
I uttered one of the phrases which everybody must have ready for such an occasion.
I said one of those phrases that everyone should have ready for moments like this.
The quadrilles dragged on a dreadfully long time.
The quadrilles went on for an unbearably long time.
At last the music struck up from the gallery, Princess Mary and I took up our places.
At last, the music started playing from the gallery, and Princess Mary and I took our places.
I did not once allude to the drunken gentleman, or to my previous behaviour, or to Grushnitski. The impression produced upon her by the unpleasant scene was gradually dispelled; her face brightened up; she jested very charmingly; her conversation was witty, without pretensions to wit, vivacious and spontaneous; her observations were sometimes profound... In a very involved sentence I gave her to understand that I had liked her for a long time. She bent her head and blushed slightly.
I didn’t mention the drunk guy, my past behavior, or Grushnitski once. The impact of the awkward scene slowly faded from her mind; her expression brightened; she joked in a very charming way; her conversation was clever, without trying too hard to be witty, lively, and spontaneous; her comments were sometimes deep... In a rather complicated way, I let her know that I had liked her for a long time. She lowered her head and blushed a little.
“You are a strange man!” she said, with a forced laugh, lifting her velvet eyes upon me.
“You're a weird guy!” she said, with a forced laugh, raising her velvet eyes to meet mine.
“I did not wish to make your acquaintance,” I continued, “because you are surrounded by too dense a throng of adorers, in which I was afraid of being lost to sight altogether.”
“I didn’t want to meet you,” I continued, “because you’re surrounded by so many admirers, and I was worried I’d get completely lost in the crowd.”
“You need not have been afraid; they are all very tiresome”...
“You didn't need to be scared; they're all really annoying.”
“All? Not all, surely?”
"Everyone? Not everyone, surely?"
She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to recollect something, then blushed slightly again and finally pronounced with decision:
She stared at me intensely, as if trying to remember something, then blushed a little again and finally said firmly:
“All!”
"All!"
“Even my friend, Grushnitski?”
“Even my friend Grushnitski?”
“But is he your friend?” she said, manifesting some doubt.
“But is he your friend?” she asked, sounding a bit unsure.
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“He, of course, does not come into the category of the tiresome”...
“He definitely doesn't fall into the annoying category…”
“But into that of the unfortunate!” I said, laughing.
“But into that of the unfortunate!” I said, laughing.
“Of course! But do you consider that funny? I should like you to be in his place”...
“Of course! But do you think that’s funny? I’d like to see you in his position...”
“Well? I was once a cadet myself, and, in truth, it was the best time of my life!”
“Well? I used to be a cadet too, and honestly, it was the best time of my life!”
“Is he a cadet, then?”... she said rapidly, and then added: “But I thought”...
“Is he a cadet, then?” she said quickly, then added, “But I thought...”
“What did you think?”...
“What did you think?”
“Nothing! Who is that lady?”
“Nothing! Who's that lady?”
Thereupon the conversation took a different direction, and it did not return to the former subject.
The conversation shifted gears, and it didn’t go back to the previous topic.
And now the mazurka came to an end and we separated—until we should meet again. The ladies drove off in different directions. I went to get some supper, and met Werner.
And now the mazurka was over and we parted—until we would meet again. The ladies left in different directions. I went to grab some dinner and ran into Werner.
“Aha!” he said: “so it is you! And yet you did not wish to make the acquaintance of Princess Mary otherwise than by saving her from certain death.”
“Aha!” he said. “So it’s you! And yet you didn’t want to meet Princess Mary except by saving her from certain death.”
“I have done better,” I replied. “I have saved her from fainting at the ball”...
“I've done better,” I replied. “I saved her from fainting at the ball.”
“How was that? Tell me.”
“How was that? Let me know.”
“No, guess!—O, you who guess everything in the world!”
“No, take a guess!—Oh, you who can figure out anything in the world!”
CHAPTER VI. 30th May.
ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, I was walking on the boulevard. Grushnitski perceived me a long way off, and came up to me. A sort of ridiculous rapture was shining in his eyes. He pressed my hand warmly, and said in a tragic voice:
ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, I was walking on the boulevard. Grushnitski spotted me from a distance and approached me. There was a kind of absurd excitement in his eyes. He shook my hand warmly and said in a dramatic tone:
“I thank you, Pechorin... You understand me?”
"I appreciate it, Pechorin... Do you get me?"
“No; but in any case it is not worth gratitude,” I answered, not having, in fact, any good deed upon my conscience.
“No; but anyway, it’s not worth being grateful,” I replied, not actually having any good deeds weighing on my conscience.
“What? But yesterday! Have you forgotten?... Mary has told me everything”...
“What? But yesterday! Have you forgotten?... Mary has told me everything.”
“Why! Have you everything in common so soon as this? Even gratitude?”...
“Wait! Do you really have everything in common this quickly? Even gratitude?”
“Listen,” said Grushnitski very earnestly; “pray do not make fun of my love, if you wish to remain my friend... You see, I love her to the point of madness... and I think—I hope—she loves me too... I have a request to make of you. You will be at their house this evening; promise me to observe everything. I know you are experienced in these matters, you know women better than I... Women! Women! Who can understand them? Their smiles contradict their glances, their words promise and allure, but the tone of their voice repels... At one time they grasp and divine in a moment our most secret thoughts, at another they cannot understand the clearest hints... Take Princess Mary, now: yesterday her eyes, as they rested upon me, were blazing with passion; to-day they are dull and cold”...
“Listen,” Grushnitski said very seriously, “please don’t make fun of my love if you want to stay my friend... You see, I love her to the point of madness... and I think—I hope—she loves me too... I have a favor to ask of you. You’ll be at their house this evening; promise me you’ll pay attention to everything. I know you’re experienced in these things, you know women better than I do... Women! Women! Who can figure them out? Their smiles don’t match their looks, their words promise and entice, but the tone of their voice pushes you away... One moment they grasp and understand our deepest thoughts, and the next they can’t get the simplest hints... Take Princess Mary, for example: yesterday her eyes, as they looked at me, were full of passion; today they’re dull and cold...”
“That is possibly the result of the waters,” I replied.
"That might be due to the waters," I replied.
“You see the bad side of everything... materialist,” he added contemptuously. “However, let us talk of other matters.”
"You always focus on the negative... so materialistic," he said with disdain. "Anyway, let's discuss something else."
And, satisfied with his bad pun, he cheered up.
And, pleased with his terrible joke, he felt better.
At nine o’clock we went to Princess Ligovski’s together.
At nine o’clock, we headed to Princess Ligovski’s together.
Passing by Vera’s windows, I saw her looking out. We threw a fleeting glance at each other. She entered the Ligovskis’ drawing-room soon after us. Princess Ligovski presented me to her, as a relation of her own. Tea was served. The guests were numerous, and the conversation was general. I endeavoured to please the Princess, jested, and made her laugh heartily a few times. Princess Mary, also, was more than once on the point of bursting out laughing, but she restrained herself in order not to depart from the role she had assumed. She finds languor becoming to her, and perhaps she is not mistaken. Grushnitski appears to be very glad that she is not infected by my gaiety.
Walking past Vera’s windows, I saw her looking out. We exchanged a quick glance. She came into the Ligovskis' drawing-room shortly after us. Princess Ligovski introduced me to her as a relative. Tea was served. There were a lot of guests, and the conversation flowed freely. I tried to charm the Princess, joked around, and made her laugh heartily a few times. Princess Mary also seemed on the verge of laughing several times but held back to stay in character. She thinks that being languid suits her, and maybe she’s right. Grushnitski seems quite pleased that she doesn’t catch my cheerfulness.
After tea we all went into the drawingroom.
After tea, we all went into the living room.
“Are you satisfied with my obedience, Vera?” I said as I was passing her.
“Are you happy with my obedience, Vera?” I said as I walked by her.
She threw me a glance full of love and gratitude. I have grown accustomed to such glances; but at one time they constituted my felicity. The Princess seated her daughter at the pianoforte, and all the company begged her to sing. I kept silence, and, taking advantage of the hubbub, I went aside to the window with Vera, who wished to say something of great importance to both of us... It turned out to be—nonsense...
She shot me a look full of love and gratitude. I’ve gotten used to those looks; but once, they were my happiness. The Princess sat her daughter at the piano, and everyone in the room asked her to sing. I stayed quiet and, taking advantage of the noise, I stepped aside to the window with Vera, who wanted to share something really important with both of us... It turned out to be—nonsense...
Meanwhile my indifference was vexing Princess Mary, as I was able to make out from a single angry, gleaming glance which she cast at me... Oh! I understand the method of conversation wonderfully well: mute but expressive, brief but forceful!...
Meanwhile, my indifference was frustrating Princess Mary, as I could tell from the single angry, sharp glance she shot at me... Oh! I understand the art of conversation incredibly well: silent but meaningful, brief but impactful!...
She began to sing. She has a good voice, but she sings badly... However, I was not listening.
She started to sing. She has a nice voice, but she doesn't sing well... However, I wasn’t paying attention.
Grushnitski, on the contrary, leaning his elbows on the grand piano, facing her, was devouring her with his eyes and saying in an undertone every minute: “Charmant! Delicieux!”
Grushnitski, on the other hand, leaned his elbows on the grand piano, facing her, and was devouring her with his eyes while saying quietly every minute: “Charming! Delicious!”
“Listen,” said Vera to me, “I do not wish you to make my husband’s acquaintance, but you must, without fail, make yourself agreeable to the Princess; that will be an easy task for you: you can do anything you wish. It is only here that we shall see each other”...
“Listen,” Vera said to me, “I don’t want you to meet my husband, but you absolutely have to be friendly with the Princess; that should be easy for you: you can achieve whatever you want. This is the only place we'll see each other.”
“Only here?”...
“Just here?”...
She blushed and continued:
She blushed and kept going:
“You know that I am your slave: I have never been able to resist you... and I shall be punished for it, you will cease to love me! At least, I want to preserve my reputation... not for myself—that you know very well!... Oh! I beseech you: do not torture me, as before, with idle doubts and feigned coldness! It may be that I shall die soon; I feel that I am growing weaker from day to day... And, yet, I cannot think of the future life, I think only of you... You men do not understand the delights of a glance, of a pressure of the hand... but as for me, I swear to you that, when I listen to your voice, I feel such a deep, strange bliss that the most passionate kisses could not take its place.”
"You know I'm completely devoted to you; I've never been able to resist you... and I'll pay for it—you're going to stop loving me! At least, I want to keep my reputation... not for myself—you know that very well!... Oh! Please, don't torture me again with meaningless doubts and fake indifference! I might not have much time left; I feel myself getting weaker every day... And yet, I can't think about what comes after; I can only think of you... You men don't understand the joy of a glance or a gentle touch... but I swear to you, when I hear your voice, I feel such a profound, strange happiness that even the most passionate kisses couldn't compare."
Meanwhile, Princess Mary had finished her song. Murmurs of praise were to be heard all around. I went up to her after all the other guests, and said something rather carelessly to her on the subject of her voice.
Meanwhile, Princess Mary had finished her song. You could hear murmurs of praise all around. I approached her after all the other guests and said something rather casually about her voice.
She made a little grimace, pouting her lower lip, and dropped a very sarcastic curtsey.
She made a slight grimace, pouted her lower lip, and dropped a very sarcastic curtsy.
“That is all the more flattering,” she said, “because you have not been listening to me at all; but perhaps you do not like music?”...
"That's even more flattering," she said, "because you haven't been listening to me at all; but maybe you just don't like music?"
“On the contrary, I do... After dinner, especially.”
“Actually, I do... After dinner, especially.”
“Grushnitski is right in saying that you have very prosaic tastes... and I see that you like music in a gastronomic respect.”
“Grushnitski is right when he says that you have pretty ordinary tastes... and I can tell that you enjoy music in a very culinary way.”
“You are mistaken again: I am by no means an epicure. I have a most wretched digestion. But music after dinner puts one to sleep, and to sleep after dinner is healthful; consequently I like music in a medicinal respect. In the evening, on the contrary, it excites my nerves too much: I become either too melancholy or too gay. Both are fatiguing, where there is no positive reason for being either sorrowful or glad. And, moreover, melancholy in society is ridiculous, and too great gaiety is unbecoming”...
“You're wrong again: I'm definitely not a foodie. I have terrible digestion. But music after dinner makes me sleepy, and sleeping after dinner is good for your health; so I enjoy music for its therapeutic benefits. In the evening, on the other hand, it makes me too anxious: I either feel too sad or too happy. Both are exhausting when there's no real reason to be either sad or happy. Plus, being sad in a group is silly, and being too cheerful is inappropriate.”
She did not hear me to the end, but went away and sat beside Grushnitski, and they entered into a sort of sentimental conversation. Apparently the Princess answered his sage phrases rather absent-mindedly and inconsequently, although endeavouring to show that she was listening to him with attention, because sometimes he looked at her in astonishment, trying to divine the cause of the inward agitation which was expressed at times in her restless glance...
She didn't listen to me completely, but got up and sat next to Grushnitski, and they started a somewhat sentimental conversation. It seemed like the Princess responded to his wise remarks a bit absent-mindedly and without much direction, even though she was trying to show that she was really paying attention to him. Sometimes he looked at her in surprise, trying to figure out the reason for the inner turmoil that showed in her restless eyes at times...
But I have found you out, my dear Princess! Have a care! You want to pay me back in the same coin, to wound my vanity—you will not succeed! And if you declare war on me, I will be merciless!
But I’ve figured you out, my dear Princess! Be careful! You want to get back at me in the same way, to hurt my pride—you won't win! And if you declare war on me, I won’t hold back!
In the course of the evening, I purposely tried a few times to join in their conversation, but she met my remarks rather coldly, and, at last, I retired in pretended vexation. Princess Mary was triumphant, Grushnitski likewise. Triumph, my friends, and be quick about it!... You will not have long to triumph!... It cannot be otherwise. I have a presentiment... On making a woman’s acquaintance I have always unerringly guessed whether she would fall in love with me or not.
During the evening, I intentionally tried a few times to join their conversation, but she reacted to my comments pretty coldly, and eventually, I left in fake frustration. Princess Mary was feeling victorious, and so was Grushnitski. Enjoy your victory, my friends, and do it quickly!... You won’t have much time to enjoy it!... It can't be any other way. I have a feeling... Whenever I meet a woman, I can always tell for sure whether she’ll fall for me or not.
The remaining part of the evening I spent at Vera’s side, and talked to the full about the old days... Why does she love me so much? In truth, I am unable to say, all the more so because she is the only woman who has understood me perfectly, with all my petty weaknesses and evil passions... Can it be that wickedness is so attractive?...
The rest of the evening I spent next to Vera, talking a lot about the old days... Why does she love me so much? Honestly, I can’t say, especially since she’s the only woman who has truly understood me, with all my flaws and bad habits... Is it possible that being bad is so appealing?...
Grushnitski and I left the house together. In the street he took my arm, and, after a long silence, said:
Grushnitski and I left the house together. In the street, he took my arm and, after a long silence, said:
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“You are a fool,” I should have liked to answer. But I restrained myself and only shrugged my shoulders.
"You’re an idiot," I thought I would have liked to say. But I held back and just shrugged my shoulders.
CHAPTER VII. 6th June.
ALL these days I have not once departed from my system. Princess Mary has come to like talking to me; I have told her a few of the strange events of my life, and she is beginning to look on me as an extraordinary man. I mock at everything in the world, especially feelings; and she is taking alarm. When I am present, she does not dare to embark upon sentimental discussions with Grushnitski, and already, on a few occasions, she has answered his sallies with a mocking smile. But every time that Grushnitski comes up to her I assume an air of meekness and leave the two of them together. On the first occasion, she was glad, or tried to make it appear so; on the second, she was angry with me; on the third—with Grushnitski.
All these days, I haven't strayed from my approach. Princess Mary has started to enjoy talking to me; I've shared some of the strange happenings in my life, and she's beginning to see me as someone extraordinary. I make fun of everything in the world, especially feelings, and she’s getting worried. When I’m around, she doesn’t dare to dive into sentimental conversations with Grushnitski, and already, on a few occasions, she’s responded to his teasing with a smirk. But every time Grushnitski approaches her, I put on a humble act and let them be. The first time, she seemed pleased, or at least tried to act that way; the second time, she was upset with me; and the third time—she was annoyed with Grushnitski.
“You have very little vanity!” she said to me yesterday. “What makes you think that I find Grushnitski the more entertaining?”
“You're not very vain at all!” she said to me yesterday. “What makes you think I find Grushnitski more entertaining?”
I answered that I was sacrificing my own pleasure for the sake of the happiness of a friend.
I replied that I was giving up my own enjoyment for the happiness of a friend.
“And my pleasure, too,” she added.
“And my pleasure, too,” she said.
I looked at her intently and assumed a serious air. After that for the whole day I did not speak a single word to her... In the evening, she was pensive; this morning, at the well, more pensive still. When I went up to her, she was listening absent-mindedly to Grushnitski, who was apparently falling into raptures about Nature, but, so soon as she perceived me, she began to laugh—at a most inopportune moment—pretending not to notice me. I went on a little further and began stealthily to observe her. She turned away from her companion and yawned twice. Decidedly she had grown tired of Grushnitski—I will not talk to her for another two days.
I stared at her seriously and put on a serious face. After that, I didn’t say a word to her all day. In the evening, she seemed thoughtful; this morning, by the well, even more so. When I approached her, she was zoning out while listening to Grushnitski, who was clearly getting lost in his admiration for nature, but as soon as she spotted me, she started laughing—at a really awkward moment—acting like she didn’t see me. I walked a bit farther and started watching her from a distance. She turned away from Grushnitski and yawned twice. It was clear she was tired of him—I decided I wouldn’t talk to her for another two days.
CHAPTER VIII. 11th June.
I OFTEN ask myself why I am so obstinately endeavouring to win the love of a young girl whom I do not wish to deceive, and whom I will never marry. Why this woman-like coquetry? Vera loves me more than Princess Mary ever will. Had I regarded the latter as an invincible beauty, I should perhaps have been allured by the difficulty of the undertaking...
I often ask myself why I'm so stubbornly trying to win the love of a young girl I don’t want to deceive and whom I will never marry. Why this woman-like flirtation? Vera loves me more than Princess Mary ever will. If I had seen the latter as an unattainable beauty, I might have been tempted by the challenge...
However, there is no such difficulty in this case! Consequently, my present feeling is not that restless craving for love which torments us in the early days of our youth, flinging us from one woman to another until we find one who cannot endure us. And then begins our constancy—that sincere, unending passion which may be expressed mathematically by a line falling from a point into space—the secret of that endlessness lying only in the impossibility of attaining the aim, that is to say, the end.
However, there’s no difficulty here! So, my current feeling isn’t that restless longing for love that torments us in our youth, driving us from one woman to another until we find someone who can't stand us. Then comes our loyalty—that genuine, never-ending passion that can be represented mathematically by a line dropping from a point into space—the secret of that endlessness lies only in the impossibility of reaching the goal, which is to say, the end.
From what motive, then, am I taking all this trouble?—Envy of Grushnitski? Poor fellow!
From what motivation am I going through all this trouble?—Jealousy of Grushnitski? Poor guy!
He is quite undeserving of it. Or, is it the result of that ugly, but invincible, feeling which causes us to destroy the sweet illusions of our neighbour in order to have the petty satisfaction of saying to him, when, in despair, he asks what he is to believe:
He really doesn't deserve it. Or is it because of that ugly but unstoppable feeling that makes us shatter the nice illusions of others just so we can get the small satisfaction of telling them, when they’re desperate and ask what they should believe:
“My friend, the same thing happened to me, and you see, nevertheless, that I dine, sup, and sleep very peacefully, and I shall, I hope, know how to die without tears and lamentations.”
“My friend, the same thing happened to me, and you see, I still eat, have dinner, and sleep peacefully, and I hope I’ll know how to die without tears and sadness.”
There is, in sooth, a boundless enjoyment in the possession of a young, scarce-budded soul! It is like a floweret which exhales its best perfume at the kiss of the first ray of the sun. You should pluck the flower at that moment, and, breathing its fragrance to the full, cast it upon the road: perchance someone will pick it up! I feel within me that insatiate hunger which devours everything it meets upon the way; I look upon the sufferings and joys of others only from the point of view of their relation to myself, regarding them as the nutriment which sustains my spiritual forces. I myself am no longer capable of committing follies under the influence of passion; with me, ambition has been repressed by circumstances, but it has emerged in another form, because ambition is nothing more nor less than a thirst for power, and my chief pleasure is to make everything that surrounds me subject to my will. To arouse the feeling of love, devotion and awe towards oneself—is not that the first sign, and the greatest triumph, of power? To be the cause of suffering and joy to another—without in the least possessing any definite right to be so—is not that the sweetest food for our pride? And what is happiness?—Satisfied pride. Were I to consider myself the best, the most powerful man in the world, I should be happy; were all to love me, I should find within me inexhaustible springs of love. Evil begets evil; the first suffering gives us the conception of the satisfaction of torturing another. The idea of evil cannot enter the mind without arousing a desire to put it actually into practice. “Ideas are organic entities,” someone has said. The very fact of their birth endows them with form, and that form is action. He in whose brain the most ideas are born accomplishes the most. From that cause a genius, chained to an official desk, must die or go mad, just as it often happens that a man of powerful constitution, and at the same time of sedentary life and simple habits, dies of an apoplectic stroke.
There is truly endless enjoyment in having a young, barely blossomed soul! It’s like a flower that releases its best fragrance at the touch of the first ray of sunlight. You should pick the flower at that moment and, breathing in its scent deeply, toss it onto the path: maybe someone will pick it up! I feel within me this unquenchable thirst that devours everything in its path; I view the suffering and joys of others only in relation to myself, seeing them as the nourishment that feeds my spirit. I’m no longer capable of acting foolishly out of passion; for me, ambition has been stifled by circumstances, but it has taken another form, because ambition is simply a thirst for power, and my greatest pleasure is making everything around me subject to my will. To inspire feelings of love, devotion, and awe for oneself—isn't that the first sign and greatest triumph of power? To cause joy and suffering for another—without having any real right to do so—isn’t that the sweetest food for our pride? And what is happiness?—Satisfied pride. If I considered myself the best, the most powerful person in the world, I would be happy; if everyone loved me, I would find within myself endless wells of love. Evil begets evil; the first suffering gives us the idea of the satisfaction of torturing another. The thought of evil cannot enter the mind without stirring a desire to actually carry it out. “Ideas are living entities,” someone has said. The very act of their birth gives them form, and that form is action. The person in whose mind the most ideas are born achieves the most. Because of this, a genius, confined to a desk job, must either die or go mad, just as it often happens that a person of strong constitution, who lives a sedentary life with simple habits, dies from a stroke.
Passions are naught but ideas in their first development; they are an attribute of the youth of the heart, and foolish is he who thinks that he will be agitated by them all his life. Many quiet rivers begin their course as noisy waterfalls, and there is not a single stream which will leap or foam throughout its way to the sea. That quietness, however, is frequently the sign of great, though latent, strength. The fulness and depth of feelings and thoughts do not admit of frenzied outbursts. In suffering and in enjoyment the soul renders itself a strict account of all it experiences and convinces itself that such things must be. It knows that, but for storms, the constant heat of the sun would dry it up! It imbues itself with its own life—pets and punishes itself like a favourite child. It is only in that highest state of self-knowledge that a man can appreciate the divine justice.
Passions are just ideas in their early stages; they reflect the youthful spirit, and it’s foolish to think one will feel this way for a lifetime. Many calm rivers start as loud waterfalls, and no stream continues to rush and churn all the way to the sea. That calmness, however, often signals a great, though hidden, strength. The fullness and depth of feelings and thoughts don’t lead to wild outbursts. In both pain and joy, the soul keeps a close account of everything it goes through and convinces itself that such experiences are necessary. It understands that without storms, the relentless sun would dry it up! It nurtures itself and disciplines itself like a beloved child. Only in that highest state of self-awareness can a person truly appreciate divine justice.
On reading over this page, I observe that I have made a wide digression from my subject... But what matter?... You see, it is for myself that I am writing this diary, and, consequently anything that I jot down in it will in time be a valuable reminiscence for me.
On reading this page, I notice that I've strayed quite a bit from my topic... But does it really matter?... You see, I'm writing this diary for myself, so anything I put in it will eventually be a valuable memory for me.
. . . . .
. . . . .
Grushnitski has called to see me to-day. He flung himself upon my neck; he has been promoted to be an officer. We drank champagne. Doctor Werner came in after him.
Grushnitski came to see me today. He threw his arms around me; he just got promoted to be an officer. We toasted with champagne. Doctor Werner came in after him.
“I do not congratulate you,” he said to Grushnitski.
“I don't congratulate you,” he said to Grushnitski.
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“Because the soldier’s cloak suits you very well, and you must confess that an infantry uniform, made by one of the local tailors, will not add anything of interest to you... Do you not see? Hitherto, you have been an exception, but now you will come under the general rule.”
“Since the soldier’s cloak looks great on you, you have to admit that an infantry uniform from one of the local tailors won't really add anything interesting to your style... Don’t you see? Until now, you've been an exception, but now you'll fall in line with the general rule.”
“Talk away, doctor, talk away! You will not prevent me from rejoicing. He does not know,” added Grushnitski in a whisper to me, “how many hopes these epaulettes have lent me... Oh!... Epaulettes, epaulettes! Your little stars are guiding stars! No! I am perfectly happy now!”
“Go ahead and talk, doctor, go ahead! You won't stop me from feeling happy. He doesn’t realize,” Grushnitski whispered to me, “how many hopes these epaulettes have given me... Oh!... Epaulettes, epaulettes! Your little stars are like guiding stars! No! I am completely happy right now!”
“Are you coming with us on our walk to the hollow?” I asked him.
“Are you coming with us on our walk to the hollow?” I asked him.
“I? Not on any account will I show myself to Princess Mary until my uniform is finished.”
“I? There's no way I'm going to show myself to Princess Mary until my uniform is done.”
“Would you like me to inform her of your happiness?”
“Do you want me to let her know that you’re happy?”
“No, please, not a word... I want to give her a surprise”...
“No, please, not a word... I want to surprise her.”
“Tell me, though, how are you getting on with her?”
“Tell me, though, how are you doing with her?”
He became embarrassed, and fell into thought; he would gladly have bragged and told lies, but his conscience would not let him; and, at the same time, he was ashamed to confess the truth.
He felt embarrassed and fell into deep thought; he would have happily bragged and lied, but his conscience wouldn't allow it; and at the same time, he felt ashamed to admit the truth.
“What do you think? Does she love you?”...
“What do you think? Does she love you?”
“Love me? Good gracious, Pechorin, what ideas you do have!... How could she possibly love me so soon?... And a well-bred woman, even if she is in love, will never say so”...
“Love me? Good grief, Pechorin, what ideas you have!... How could she possibly love me so soon?... And a well-bred woman, even if she is in love, would never admit it.”
“Very well! And, I suppose, in your opinion, a well-bred man should also keep silence in regard to his passion?”...
“Very well! And, I suppose, in your opinion, a well-mannered man should also stay quiet about his feelings?”...
“Ah, my dear fellow! There are ways of doing everything; often things may remain unspoken, but yet may be guessed”...
“Ah, my dear friend! There are ways to do everything; often things can stay unmentioned, but they can still be inferred.”
“That is true... But the love which we read in the eyes does not pledge a woman to anything, whilst words... Have a care, Grushnitski, she is befooling you!”
“That’s true... But the love we see in her eyes doesn’t commit a woman to anything, while words... Be careful, Grushnitski, she’s deceiving you!”
“She?” he answered, raising his eyes heavenward and smiling complacently. “I am sorry for you, Pechorin!”...
“She?” he replied, looking up and smiling smugly. “I feel sorry for you, Pechorin!”...
He took his departure.
He left.
In the evening, a numerous company set off to walk to the hollow.
In the evening, a large group set off to walk to the hollow.
In the opinion of the learned of Pyatigorsk, the hollow in question is nothing more nor less than an extinct crater. It is situated on a slope of Mount Mashuk, at the distance of a verst from the town, and is approached by a narrow path between brushwood and rocks. In climbing up the hill, I gave Princess Mary my arm, and she did not leave it during the whole excursion.
In the view of the educated people of Pyatigorsk, this hollow is just an extinct crater. It's located on a slope of Mount Mashuk, about a kilometer from the town, and can be reached by a narrow path through bushes and rocks. As we climbed the hill, I offered my arm to Princess Mary, and she held onto it the entire time we were out.
Our conversation commenced with slander; I proceeded to pass in review our present and absent acquaintances; at first I exposed their ridiculous, and then their bad, sides. My choler rose. I began in jest, and ended in genuine malice. At first she was amused, but afterwards frightened.
Our conversation started with gossip; I went on to talk about our friends, both those here and those who weren't. At first, I pointed out their silly traits, and then their negative ones. I got worked up. I began joking around but ended up being genuinely mean. At first, she found it funny, but later she got scared.
“You are a dangerous man!” she said. “I would rather perish in the woods under the knife of an assassin than under your tongue... In all earnestness I beg of you: when it comes into your mind to speak evil of me, take a knife instead and cut my throat. I think you would not find that a very difficult matter.”
“You’re a dangerous man!” she said. “I’d rather die in the woods by an assassin’s blade than hear your words... Seriously, I beg you: if you ever think about speaking badly of me, just take a knife and cut my throat instead. I don’t think that would be too hard for you.”
“Am I like an assassin, then?”...
“Am I like a hitman, then?”...
“You are worse”...
"You're worse..."
I fell into thought for a moment; then, assuming a deeply moved air, I said:
I paused to think for a moment; then, putting on a deeply emotional expression, I said:
“Yes, such has been my lot from very childhood! All have read upon my countenance the marks of bad qualities, which were not existent; but they were assumed to exist—and they were born. I was modest—I was accused of slyness: I grew secretive. I profoundly felt both good and evil—no one caressed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive. I was gloomy—other children merry and talkative; I felt myself higher than they—I was rated lower: I grew envious. I was prepared to love the whole world—no one understood me: I learned to hate. My colourless youth flowed by in conflict with myself and the world; fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth—I was not believed: I began to deceive. Having acquired a thorough knowledge of the world and the springs of society, I grew skilled in the science of life; and I saw how others without skill were happy, enjoying gratuitously the advantages which I so unweariedly sought. Then despair was born within my breast—not that despair which is cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but the cold, powerless despair concealed beneath the mask of amiability and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple. One half of my soul ceased to exist; it dried up, evaporated, died, and I cut it off and cast it from me. The other half moved and lived—at the service of all; but it remained unobserved, because no one knew that the half which had perished had ever existed. But, now, the memory of it has been awakened within me by you, and I have read you its epitaph. To many, epitaphs in general seem ridiculous, but to me they do not; especially when I remember what reposes beneath them. I will not, however, ask you to share my opinion. If this outburst seems absurd to you, I pray you, laugh! I forewarn you that your laughter will not cause me the least chagrin.”
“Yes, this has been my fate since childhood! Everyone has seen on my face the signs of flaws that weren’t really there; but they were assumed to exist—and they became real. I was modest—but was accused of being sneaky, so I became secretive. I deeply felt both good and evil—no one showed me affection, everyone insulted me, so I became bitter. I was gloomy—while other kids were cheerful and chatty; I felt above them, yet I was seen as lesser: I became envious. I wanted to love the whole world—no one understood me, so I learned to hate. My dull youth passed in conflict with myself and the outside world; fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings deep in my heart, and there they withered. I spoke the truth—but no one believed me: I began to deceive. After learning the ins and outs of the world and society, I became adept at the rules of life; I saw how others, without any skill, were happy, enjoying the advantages I tirelessly sought. Then despair took root in my heart—not the type that can be ended with a gun, but the cold, helpless despair hidden under a friendly mask and a warm smile. I became a moral cripple. One half of my soul ceased to exist; it dried up, evaporated, died, and I cut it off and discarded it. The other half remained alive and served everyone; but it went unnoticed because no one knew that the half that had perished ever existed. But now, you’ve awakened the memory of it within me, and I’ve shared its epitaph with you. Many find epitaphs silly, but I don’t; especially when I remember what lies beneath them. I won’t ask you to share my view. If this outpouring seems ridiculous to you, please, go ahead and laugh! I warn you that your laughter won’t bother me at all.”
At that moment I met her eyes: tears were welling in them. Her arm, as it leaned upon mine, was trembling; her cheeks were aflame; she pitied me! Sympathy—a feeling to which all women yield so easily, had dug its talons into her inexperienced heart. During the whole excursion she was preoccupied, and did not flirt with anyone—and that is a great sign!
At that moment, I looked into her eyes: tears were forming in them. Her arm, resting on mine, was shaking; her cheeks were hot; she felt sorry for me! Sympathy—a feeling that all women easily give into—had taken hold of her naive heart. Throughout the entire trip, she seemed distracted and didn't flirt with anyone—and that’s a big deal!
We arrived at the hollow; the ladies left their cavaliers, but she did not let go my arm. The witticisms of the local dandies failed to make her laugh; the steepness of the declivity beside which she was standing caused her no alarm, although the other ladies uttered shrill cries and shut their eyes.
We got to the hollow; the women left their partners, but she didn't let go of my arm. The jokes from the local guys didn’t make her laugh; she wasn’t scared by the steep slope next to her, even though the other women let out high-pitched screams and closed their eyes.
On the way back, I did not renew our melancholy conversation, but to my idle questions and jests she gave short and absent-minded answers.
On the way back, I didn't bring up our sad conversation again, but in response to my casual questions and jokes, she gave brief and distracted replies.
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked her at length.
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked her after a while.
She looked at me intently, shook her head and again fell into a reverie. It was evident that she was wishing to say something, but did not know how to begin. Her breast heaved... And, indeed, that was but natural! A muslin sleeve is a weak protection, and an electric spark was running from my arm to hers. Almost all passions have their beginning in that way, and frequently we are very much deceived in thinking that a woman loves us for our moral and physical merits; of course, these prepare and predispose the heart for the reception of the holy flame, but for all that it is the first touch that decides the matter.
She looked at me closely, shook her head, and drifted off into thought again. It was clear she wanted to say something but didn't know how to start. Her chest rose and fell... And honestly, that was completely understandable! A muslin sleeve offers weak protection, and there was an electric spark moving from my arm to hers. Most passions begin like that, and we often deceive ourselves into thinking a woman loves us for our moral and physical qualities; of course, these do prepare and set the heart up for the acceptance of that sacred flame, but ultimately, it's the first touch that makes the difference.
“I have been very amiable to-day, have I not?” Princess Mary said to me, with a forced smile, when we had returned from the walk.
“I’ve been really friendly today, haven’t I?” Princess Mary said to me with a forced smile when we got back from our walk.
We separated.
We broke up.
She is dissatisfied with herself. She accuses herself of coldness... Oh, that is the first, the chief triumph!
She is unhappy with herself. She blames herself for being distant... Oh, that is the first, the main victory!
To-morrow, she will be feeling a desire to recompense me. I know the whole proceeding by heart already—that is what is so tiresome!
Tomorrow, she will want to repay me. I already know the whole process by heart—it's so annoying!
CHAPTER IX. 12th June.
I HAVE seen Vera to-day. She has begun to plague me with her jealousy. Princess Mary has taken it into her head, it seems, to confide the secrets of her heart to Vera: a happy choice, it must be confessed!
I saw Vera today. She's started to bother me with her jealousy. Princess Mary seems to have decided to share her heart's secrets with Vera: a great choice, I must admit!
“I can guess what all this is leading to,” said Vera to me. “You had better simply tell me at once that you are in love with her.”
“I can see where this is going,” Vera said to me. “You might as well just tell me right now that you’re in love with her.”
“But supposing I am not in love with her?”
“But what if I’m not in love with her?”
“Then why run after her, disturb her, agitate her imagination!... Oh, I know you well! Listen—if you wish me to believe you, come to Kislovodsk in a week’s time; we shall be moving thither the day after to-morrow. Princess Mary will remain here longer. Engage lodgings next door to us. We shall be living in the large house near the spring, on the mezzanine floor. Princess Ligovski will be below us, and next door there is a house belonging to the same landlord, which has not yet been taken... Will you come?”...
“Then why chase after her, disturb her, and mess with her head!... Oh, I know you well! Listen—if you want me to believe you, come to Kislovodsk in a week; we’ll be heading there the day after tomorrow. Princess Mary will stay here longer. Get a place next door to us. We’ll be in the big house near the spring, on the mezzanine floor. Princess Ligovski will be below us, and next door there’s a house owned by the same landlord that hasn’t been rented yet... Will you come?”...
I gave my promise, and this very same day I have sent to engage the lodgings.
I made my promise, and I’ve sent to book the accommodations today.
Grushnitski came to me at six o’clock and announced that his uniform would be ready to-morrow, just in time for him to go to the ball in it.
Grushnitski came to me at six o'clock and said that his uniform would be ready tomorrow, just in time for him to wear it to the ball.
“At last I shall dance with her the whole evening through... And then I shall talk to my heart’s content,” he added.
“At last, I’ll dance with her all night long... And then I’ll talk as much as I want,” he added.
“When is the ball?”
"When is the game?"
“Why, to-morrow! Do you not know, then? A great festival—and the local authorities have undertaken to organize it”...
“Why, tomorrow! Don’t you know? There’s a big festival—and the local authorities are in charge of organizing it.”
“Let us go to the boulevard”...
“Let’s go to the avenue”…
“Not on any account, in this nasty cloak”...
“Not for any reason, in this nasty cloak”...
“What! Have you ceased to love it?”...
“What! Have you stopped loving it?”...
I went out alone, and, meeting Princess Mary I asked her to keep the mazurka for me. She seemed surprised and delighted.
I went out by myself, and when I ran into Princess Mary, I asked her to save the mazurka for me. She looked surprised and thrilled.
“I thought that you would only dance from necessity as on the last occasion,” she said, with a very charming smile...
“I thought you would only dance out of necessity like last time,” she said, with a very charming smile...
She does not seem to notice Grushnitski’s absence at all.
She doesn't seem to notice that Grushnitski is gone at all.
“You will be agreeably surprised to-morrow,” I said to her.
"You'll be pleasantly surprised tomorrow," I said to her.
“At what?”
"At what time?"
“That is a secret... You will find it out yourself, at the ball.”
"That's a secret... You'll figure it out yourself at the party."
I finished up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; there were no other guests present except Vera and a certain very amusing, little old gentleman. I was in good spirits, and improvised various extraordinary stories. Princess Mary sat opposite me and listened to my nonsense with such deep, strained, and even tender attention that I grew ashamed of myself. What had become of her vivacity, her coquetry, her caprices, her haughty mien, her contemptuous smile, her absentminded glance?...
I wrapped up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; the only other guests were Vera and a very entertaining, little old man. I was in a good mood and came up with all sorts of wild stories. Princess Mary sat across from me, listening to my ramblings with such intense and almost tender focus that I started to feel embarrassed. What happened to her liveliness, her flirtatiousness, her whims, her proud demeanor, her disdainful smile, her distracted gaze?...
Vera noticed everything, and her sickly countenance was a picture of profound grief. She was sitting in the shadow by the window, buried in a wide arm-chair... I pitied her.
Vera noticed everything, and her pale face showed deep sadness. She was sitting in the shadows by the window, slumped in a large armchair... I felt sorry for her.
Then I related the whole dramatic story of our acquaintanceship, our love—concealing it all, of course, under fictitious names.
Then I told the whole dramatic story of how we met, our love—hiding it all, of course, with fake names.
So vividly did I portray my tenderness, my anxieties, my raptures; in so favourable a light did I exhibit her actions and her character, that involuntarily she had to forgive me for my flirtation with Princess Mary.
So vividly did I show my feelings, my worries, my joys; in such a positive light did I present her actions and her character, that she couldn’t help but forgive me for my flirtation with Princess Mary.
She rose, sat down beside us, and brightened up... and it was only at two o’clock in the morning that we remembered that the doctors had ordered her to go to bed at eleven.
She got up, sat down next to us, and became more cheerful... and it was only at 2:00 AM that we remembered the doctors had told her to go to bed at 11.
CHAPTER X. 13th June.
HALF an hour before the ball, Grushnitski presented himself to me in the full splendour of the uniform of the Line infantry. Attached to his third button was a little bronze chain, on which hung a double lorgnette. Epaulettes of incredible size were bent backwards and upwards in the shape of a cupid’s wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he held cinnamon-coloured kid gloves and a forage-cap, and with his right he kept every moment twisting his frizzled tuft of hair up into tiny curls. Complacency and at the same time a certain diffidence were depicted upon his face. His festal appearance and proud gait would have made me burst out laughing, if such a proceeding had been in accordance with my intentions.
Half an hour before the ball, Grushnitski showed up in the full glory of his Line infantry uniform. Attached to his third button was a small bronze chain with a double lorgnette hanging from it. His epaulettes were ridiculously oversized, bent back and up like Cupid's wings; his boots creaked as he walked. In his left hand, he held cinnamon-colored kid gloves and a forage cap, while with his right he kept twisting his frizzled tuft of hair into tiny curls. His face showed a mix of self-satisfaction and a hint of shyness. His festive outfit and proud stride would have made me laugh out loud if I had planned to do that.
He threw his cap and gloves on the table and began to pull down the skirts of his coat and to put himself to rights before the looking-glass. An enormous black handkerchief, which was twisted into a very high stiffener for his cravat, and the bristles of which supported his chin, stuck out an inch over his collar. It seemed to him to be rather small, and he drew it up as far as his ears. As a result of that hard work—the collar of his uniform being very tight and uncomfortable—he grew red in the face.
He tossed his hat and gloves onto the table and started to adjust the hems of his coat as he organized himself in front of the mirror. A huge black handkerchief, twisted into a tall stiffener for his tie and propping up his chin, stuck out about an inch over his collar. It felt a bit small to him, so he pulled it up as high as his ears. After all that effort—since the collar of his uniform was very tight and uncomfortable—his face turned red.
“They say you have been courting my princess terribly these last few days?” he said, rather carelessly and without looking at me.
“They say you’ve been making quite an impression on my princess lately?” he said, rather casually and without looking at me.
“‘Where are we fools to drink tea!’” 271 I answered, repeating a pet phrase of one of the cleverest rogues of past times, once celebrated in song by Pushkin.
“‘Where are we fools to drink tea!’” 271 I answered, repeating a favorite saying of one of the smartest tricksters from the past, once celebrated in a song by Pushkin.
“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well?... Oh, the cursed Jew!... How it cuts me under the armpits!... Have you got any scent?”
“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well?... Oh, that damn Jew!... It’s so uncomfortable under the armpits!... Do you have any cologne?”
“Good gracious, what more do you want? You are reeking of rose pomade as it is.”
“Goodness, what else do you want? You already smell like rose pomade as it is.”
“Never mind. Give me some”...
“It's fine. Just give me some.”
He poured half a phial over his cravat, his pocket-handkerchief, his sleeves.
He spilled half a bottle on his tie, his pocket square, and his sleeves.
“You are going to dance?” he asked.
“You're going to dance?” he asked.
“I think not.”
"I don't think so."
“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka with Princess Mary, and I scarcely know a single figure”...
“I’m afraid I’ll have to start the mazurka with Princess Mary, and I barely know any of the steps.”
“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you?”
“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you?”
“Not yet”...
“Not available yet”
“Mind you are not forestalled”...
“Make sure you are not forestalled”
“Just so, indeed!” he said, striking his forehead. “Good-bye... I will go and wait for her at the entrance.”
“Exactly right!” he said, hitting his forehead. “Goodbye... I’ll go and wait for her at the entrance.”
He seized his forage-cap and ran.
He grabbed his cap and ran.
Half an hour later I also set off. The street was dark and deserted. Around the assembly rooms, or inn—whichever you prefer—people were thronging. The windows were lighted up, the strains of the regimental band were borne to me on the evening breeze. I walked slowly; I felt melancholy.
Half an hour later, I headed out too. The street was dark and empty. Around the assembly rooms, or the inn—whichever you prefer—people were gathered. The windows were lit, and I could hear the sounds of the regimental band carried on the evening breeze. I walked slowly; I felt sad.
“Can it be possible,” I thought, “that my sole mission on earth is to destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and to act, it seems always to have been my fate to play a part in the ending of other people’s dramas, as if, but for me, no one could either die or fall into despair! I have been the indispensable person of the fifth act; unwillingly I have played the pitiful part of an executioner or a traitor. What object has fate had in this?... Surely, I have not been appointed by destiny to be an author of middle-class tragedies and family romances, or to be a collaborator with the purveyor of stories—for the ‘Reader’s Library,’ 272 for example?... How can I tell?... Are there not many people who, in beginning life, think to end it like Lord Byron or Alexander the Great, and, nevertheless, remain Titular Councillors 273 all their days?”
“Is it possible,” I thought, “that my only purpose in life is to ruin the hopes of others? Ever since I started living and acting, it feels like my destiny has been to play a role in the endings of other people’s stories, as if, without me, no one could ever die or fall into despair! I have been the essential character in the final act; reluctantly, I have taken on the unfortunate roles of an executioner or a betrayer. What does fate intend by this?... Surely, I’m not meant to be a creator of mundane tragedies and family dramas, or to team up with the storyteller—for the ‘Reader’s Library,’ 272 for instance?... How can I know?... Aren’t there many people who, when starting their lives, imagine they will end up like Lord Byron or Alexander the Great, yet still remain mere Titular Councillors 273 for their entire lives?”
Entering the saloon, I concealed myself in a crowd of men, and began to make my observations.
Entering the saloon, I blended into a crowd of men and started to take in my surroundings.
Grushnitski was standing beside Princess Mary and saying something with great warmth. She was listening to him absent-mindedly and looking about her, her fan laid to her lips. Impatience was depicted upon her face, her eyes were searching all around for somebody. I went softly behind them in order to listen to their conversation.
Grushnitski was standing next to Princess Mary and talking to her with a lot of enthusiasm. She was half-heartedly listening and scanning her surroundings, her fan pressed to her lips. Frustration was written all over her face, and her eyes darted around looking for someone. I quietly moved behind them to catch their conversation.
“You torture me, Princess!” Grushnitski was saying. “You have changed dreadfully since I saw you last”...
“You’re torturing me, Princess!” Grushnitski said. “You’ve changed so much since I last saw you.”
“You, too, have changed,” she answered, casting a rapid glance at him, in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.
“You’ve changed too,” she replied, giving him a quick look, in which he couldn’t see the hidden sneer.
“I! Changed?... Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible! Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for ever.”
“I! Changed?... Oh, never! You know that’s simply impossible! Whoever has seen you once will carry your divine image with them forever.”
“Stop”...
"Stop."
“But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often listened to with condescension—and just recently, too?”...
“But why won’t you let me say tonight what you’ve listened to with such condescension—especially recently too?”
“Because I do not like repetitions,” she answered, laughing.
“Because I don’t like repeating myself,” she replied, laughing.
“Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken!... I thought, fool that I was, that these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope... No, it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that contemptible soldier’s cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for your attention”...
“Oh! I have been terribly wrong!... I thought, silly me, that these epaulettes would at least give me the right to hope... No, it would have been better for me to have stayed forever in that shameful soldier’s cloak, which, probably, I owe your attention to.”
“As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you”...
“As a matter of fact, the cloak looks much better on you...”
At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a little, and went on rapidly:
At that moment, I approached and bowed to Princess Mary. She flushed slightly and quickly continued:
“Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur Grushnitski much better?”...
“Isn’t it true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the gray cloak looks much better on Monsieur Grushnitski?”
“I do not agree with you,” I answered: “he is more youthful-looking still in his uniform.”
“I don’t agree with you,” I replied. “He looks even younger in his uniform.”
That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself off.
That was a hit that Grushnitski couldn’t handle: like all young guys, he thinks he knows what it means to be mature; he believes that the intense expressions of feeling on his face substitute for the wrinkles brought on by age. He shot an angry look at me, stomped his foot, and walked away.
“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that although he has always been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be interesting... in the grey cloak?”...
“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that even though he’s always been pretty ridiculous, not too long ago, he actually seemed interesting to you... in the grey cloak?”...
She cast her eyes down and made no reply.
She looked down and didn’t say anything.
Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes, sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third quadrille she had begun to hate him.
Grushnitski followed the Princess around all evening and danced either with her or facing her. He watched her intently, sighed, and exhausted her with his pleas and complaints. By the third quadrille, she had started to despise him.
“I did not expect this from you,” he said, coming up to me and taking my arm.
“I didn't expect this from you,” he said, walking up to me and grabbing my arm.
“What?”
“What’s up?”
“You are going to dance the mazurka with her?” he asked in a solemn tone. “She admitted it”...
“You're going to dance the mazurka with her?” he asked seriously. “She admitted it”...
“Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it”?
“Well, what then? It’s not a secret, right?”
“Of course not... I ought to have expected such a thing from that chit—that flirt... I will have my revenge, though!”
“Of course not... I should have seen that coming from that girl—that flirt... I’ll get my revenge, though!”
“You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any longer?”...
“You should blame your cloak or your epaulettes, but why accuse her? What has she done wrong that she no longer likes you?”
“But why give me hopes?”
“But why give me hope?”
“Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something—that I can understand! But who ever hopes?”
“Why did you have hope? I can get wanting and working towards something! But who actually hopes?”
“You have won the wager, but not quite,” he said, with a malignant smile.
“You've won the bet, but not entirely,” he said, with a wicked smile.
The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me—all the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her—she will want to twice as much.
The mazurka started. Grushnitski picked no one but the Princess, while other guys chose her every second: clearly, there’s a plot against me—all the better! She wants to speak with me, but they’re stopping her—she’ll want to even more.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away without saying a word.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she pulled it away without saying anything.
“I shall sleep badly to-night,” she said to me when the mazurka was over.
“I’m going to sleep badly tonight,” she told me when the mazurka was over.
“Grushnitski is to blame for that.”
“Grushnitski is accountable for that.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, no!”
And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.
And her face became so thoughtful, so sad, that I promised myself I wouldn't forget to kiss her hand that evening.
The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was dark and nobody could see.
The guests started to leave. As I helped Princess Mary into her carriage, I quickly pressed her small hand to my lips. The night was dark, and no one could see.
I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.
I went back to the bar feeling really good about myself.
The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air...
The young men, including Grushnitski, were having dinner at the big table. When I walked in, they all suddenly went quiet: clearly, they had been discussing me. Since the last dance, many of them have been upset with me, especially the captain of the dragoons; now it looks like a group is actually being organized against me, led by Grushnitski. He has such a proud and bold demeanor...
I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one’s guard, to catch every glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to crush conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly with one blow to overthrow the whole immense and laboriously constructed edifice of cunning and design—that is what I call life.
I’m really happy; I love my enemies, but not in the Christian way. They entertain me and get my adrenaline pumping. Always being alert, catching every look, interpreting every word, guessing their motives, thwarting their plots, pretending to be fooled, and then with one decisive move, bringing down the entire massive and carefully built structure of deceit and planning—that’s what I consider living.
During supper Grushnitski kept whispering and exchanging winks with the captain of dragoons.
During dinner, Grushnitski kept whispering and exchanging winks with the dragoon captain.
CHAPTER XI. 14th June.
VERA and her husband left this morning for Kislovodsk. I met their carriage as I was walking to Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me: reproach was in her glance.
VERA and her husband left this morning for Kislovodsk. I saw their carriage while I was walking to Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me; there was a look of reproach in her eyes.
Who is to blame, then? Why will she not give me an opportunity of seeing her alone? Love is like fire—if not fed it dies out. Perchance, jealousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed to do.
Who should I blame, then? Why won’t she give me a chance to see her alone? Love is like fire—if you don’t feed it, it goes out. Maybe jealousy will do what my pleas couldn’t achieve.
I stayed a whole hour at Princess Ligovski’s. Mary has not been out, she is ill. In the evening she was not on the boulevard. The newly formed gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact assumed a menacing aspect. I am glad that Princess Mary is ill; they might be guilty of some impertinence towards her. Grushnitski goes about with dishevelled locks, and wears an appearance of despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a matter of fact; his vanity especially has been injured. But, you see, there are some people in whom even despair is diverting!...
I spent a whole hour at Princess Ligovski's place. Mary hasn't been out; she's sick. She wasn't on the boulevard in the evening. The new group, armed with opera glasses, really does look threatening. I'm actually glad that Princess Mary is sick; they might have been rude to her. Grushnitski is walking around with unkempt hair, giving off an air of despair: he's clearly troubled, especially since his vanity has taken a hit. But, you know, there are some people who can still be entertaining even when they're in despair!...
On my way home I noticed that something was lacking. I have not seen her! She is ill! Surely I have not fallen in love with her in real earnest?... What nonsense!
On my way home, I realized that something was missing. I haven't seen her! She's sick! Could it be that I've actually fallen in love with her for real?... What nonsense!
CHAPTER XII. 15th June.
AT eleven o’clock in the morning—the hour at which Princess Ligovski is usually perspiring in the Ermolov baths—I walked past her house. Princess Mary was sitting pensively at the window; on seeing me she sprang up.
AT eleven o’clock in the morning—the time when Princess Ligovski usually sweats it out in the Ermolov baths—I walked past her house. Princess Mary was sitting thoughtfully at the window; upon seeing me, she jumped up.
I entered the ante-room, there was nobody there, and, availing myself of the freedom afforded by the local customs, I made my way, unannounced, into the drawing-room.
I walked into the waiting room, and since there was no one around, I seized the opportunity given by the local customs and went, without knocking, into the living room.
Princess Mary’s charming countenance was shrouded with a dull pallor. She was standing by the pianoforte, leaning one hand on the back of an arm-chair; her hand was very faintly trembling. I went up to her softly and said:
Princess Mary’s lovely face was covered with a dull pallor. She was standing by the piano, leaning one hand on the back of an armchair; her hand was slightly trembling. I approached her quietly and said:
“You are angry with me?”...
"Are you mad at me?"
She lifted a deep, languid glance upon me and shook her head. Her lips were about to utter something, but failed; her eyes filled with tears; she sank into the arm-chair and buried her face in her hands.
She looked at me with a heavy, slow gaze and shook her head. Her lips were about to say something, but she couldn't get the words out; her eyes filled with tears; she sank into the armchair and buried her face in her hands.
“What is the matter with you?” I said, taking her hand.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, taking her hand.
“You do not respect me!... Oh, leave me!”...
“You don’t respect me!... Oh, just leave me alone!”...
I took a few steps... She drew herself up in the chair, her eyes sparkled.
I took a few steps... She sat up in the chair, her eyes sparkling.
I stopped still, took hold of the handle of the door, and said:
I paused, grabbed the doorknob, and said:
“Forgive me, Princess. I have acted like a madman... It will not happen another time; I shall see to that... But how can you know what has been taking place hitherto within my soul? That you will never learn, and so much the better for you. Farewell.”
“Forgive me, Princess. I've acted like a lunatic... It won’t happen again; I’ll make sure of that... But how could you possibly know what’s been going on inside me? That’s something you’ll never understand, and that’s probably for the best. Goodbye.”
As I was going out, I seemed to hear her weeping.
As I was leaving, I thought I could hear her crying.
I wandered on foot about the environs of Mount Mashuk till evening, fatigued myself terribly and, on arriving home, flung myself on my bed, utterly exhausted.
I walked around the area of Mount Mashuk on foot until evening, wore myself out completely, and when I got home, I collapsed onto my bed, totally exhausted.
Werner came to see me.
Werner came to visit me.
“Is it true,” he asked, “that you are going to marry Princess Mary?”
“Is it true,” he asked, “that you’re going to marry Princess Mary?”
“What?”
“Wait, what?”
“The whole town is saying so. All my patients are occupied with that important piece of news; but you know what these patients are: they know everything.”
“The whole town is saying that. All my patients are caught up with that important piece of news; but you know what these patients are like: they know everything.”
“This is one of Grushnitski’s tricks,” I said to myself.
"This is one of Grushnitski's tricks," I thought to myself.
“To prove the falsity of these rumours, doctor, I may mention, as a secret, that I am moving to Kislovodsk to-morrow”...
“To prove that these rumors are false, doctor, I can share, as a secret, that I’m moving to Kislovodsk tomorrow...”
“And Princess Mary, too?”
"And Princess Mary, as well?"
“No, she remains here another week”...
“No, she’s staying here for another week.”
“So you are not going to get married?”...
“So you’re not going to get married?”
“Doctor, doctor! Look at me! Am I in the least like a bridegroom, or any such thing?”
“Doctor, doctor! Look at me! Do I look anything like a groom, or anything like that?”
“I am not saying so... But you know there are occasions...” he added, with a crafty smile—“in which an honourable man is obliged to marry, and there are mothers who, to say the least, do not prevent such occasions... And so, as a friend, I should advise you to be more cautious. The air of these parts is very dangerous. How many handsome young men, worthy of a better fate, have I not seen departing from here straight to the altar!... Would you believe me, they were even going to find a wife for me! That is to say, one person was—a lady belonging to this district, who had a very pale daughter. I had the misfortune to tell her that the latter’s colour would be restored after wedlock, and then with tears of gratitude she offered me her daughter’s hand and the whole of her own fortune—fifty souls, 28 I think. But I replied that I was unfit for such an honour.”
“I’m not saying it’s the case... But you know there are times...” he added, with a sly smile—“when an honorable man has to marry, and there are mothers who, to put it mildly, don’t stop such things... So, as a friend, I’d advise you to be more careful. The atmosphere around here is pretty dangerous. How many handsome young men, deserving of a better fate, have I seen leave straight to the altar!... Can you believe it, they were even trying to find a wife for me! Well, one person was—a lady from this area, who had a very pale daughter. I unfortunately told her that the daughter’s color would come back after marriage, and then with tears of gratitude, she offered me her daughter’s hand and her entire fortune—fifty souls, 28 I think. But I responded that I wasn’t worthy of such an honor.”
Werner left, fully convinced that he had put me on my guard.
Werner left, completely convinced that he had made me cautious.
I gathered from his words that various ugly rumours were already being spread about the town on the subject of Princess Mary and myself: Grushnitski shall smart for this!
I understood from what he said that all sorts of nasty rumors were already circulating around town about Princess Mary and me: Grushnitski will pay for this!
CHAPTER XIII. 18th June.
I HAVE been in Kislovodsk three days now. Every day I see Vera at the well and out walking. In the morning, when I awake, I sit by my window and direct my lorgnette at her balcony. She has already been dressed long ago, and is waiting for the signal agreed upon. We meet, as though unexpectedly, in the garden which slopes down from our houses to the well. The life-giving mountain air has brought back her colour and her strength. Not for nothing is Narzan called the “Spring of Heroes.” The inhabitants aver that the air of Kislovodsk predisposes the heart to love and that all the romances which have had their beginning at the foot of Mount Mashuk find their consummation here. And, in very fact, everything here breathes of solitude; everything has an air of secrecy—the thick shadows of the linden avenues, bending over the torrent which falls, noisy and foaming, from flag to flag and cleaves itself a way between the mountains now becoming clad with verdure—the mist-filled, silent ravines, with their ramifications straggling away in all directions—the freshness of the aromatic air, laden with the fragrance of the tall southern grasses and the white acacia—the never-ceasing, sweetly-slumberous babble of the cool brooks, which, meeting at the end of the valley, flow along in friendly emulation, and finally fling themselves into the Podkumok. On this side, the ravine is wider and becomes converted into a verdant dell, through which winds the dusty road. Every time I look at it, I seem to see a carriage coming along and a rosy little face looking out of the carriage-window. Many carriages have already driven by—but still there is no sign of that particular one. The village which lies behind the fortress has become populous. In the restaurant, built upon a hill a few paces distant from my lodgings, lights are beginning to flash in the evening through the double row of poplars; noise and the jingling of glasses resound till late at night.
I’ve been in Kislovodsk for three days now. Every day I see Vera at the well and out walking. In the morning, when I wake up, I sit by my window and focus my binoculars on her balcony. She’s already dressed and waiting for our agreed signal. We meet, as if by chance, in the garden that slopes down from our houses to the well. The refreshing mountain air has restored her color and vitality. It’s no coincidence that Narzan is called the “Spring of Heroes.” The locals claim that the air in Kislovodsk encourages love, and that all the romances that start at the foot of Mount Mashuk find their resolution here. Indeed, everything here feels isolated; everything has an air of mystery—the thick shadows of the linden trees along the path that looms over the noisy, foaming torrent that rushes from one spot to another and carves its way between the now lush mountains—the fog-filled, silent ravines with their paths stretching out in all directions—the fresh, aromatic air filled with the scent of tall southern grasses and white acacia—the gentle, soothing babble of the cool streams, which, joining at the end of the valley, flow along in a friendly competition before finally rushing into the Podkumok. On this side, the ravine widens and turns into a lush dell, where a dusty road winds through. Every time I look at it, I feel like I see a carriage coming down the road with a rosy little face peering out of the window. Many carriages have already passed by—but still, there’s no sign of that one special carriage. The village behind the fortress has become busy. At the restaurant built on a hill just a short walk from my lodgings, lights are beginning to twinkle in the evening through the double row of poplars; the noise and clinking of glasses resonate late into the night.
In no place are such quantities of Kakhetian wine and mineral waters drunk as here.
Nowhere are there as many Kakhetian wines and mineral waters consumed as here.
“And many are willing to mix the two,
But that is a thing I never do.”
“And many are willing to mix the two,
But that's something I never do.”Every day Grushnitski and his gang are to be found brawling in the inn, and he has almost ceased to greet me.
Every day, Grushnitski and his crew can be found fighting in the inn, and he's almost stopped saying hello to me.
He only arrived yesterday, and has already succeeded in quarrelling with three old men who were going to take their places in the baths before him.
He just arrived yesterday and has already managed to argue with three old men who were about to take their spots in the baths before him.
Decidedly, his misfortunes are developing a warlike spirit within him.
Clearly, his misfortunes are awakening a fighting spirit in him.
CHAPTER XIV. 22nd June.
AT last they have arrived. I was sitting by the window when I heard the clattering of their carriage. My heart throbbed... What does it mean? Can it be that I am in love?... I am so stupidly constituted that such a thing might be expected of me.
AT last they have arrived. I was sitting by the window when I heard the clattering of their carriage. My heart raced... What does it mean? Could it be that I am in love?... I am so foolishly set up that something like this could be expected of me.
I dined at their house. Princess Ligovski looked at me with much tenderness, and did not leave her daughter’s side... a bad sign! On the other hand, Vera is jealous of me in regard to Princess Mary—however, I have been striving for that good fortune. What will not a woman do in order to chagrin her rival? I remember that once a woman loved me simply because I was in love with another woman. There is nothing more paradoxical than the female mind; it is difficult to convince a woman of anything; they have to be led into convincing themselves. The order of the proofs by which they demolish their prejudices is most original; to learn their dialectic it is necessary to overthrow in your own mind every scholastic rule of logic. For example, the usual way:
I had dinner at their place. Princess Ligovski looked at me with a lot of warmth and stayed close to her daughter... a bad sign! On the flip side, Vera is jealous of me when it comes to Princess Mary—though I’ve been trying for that fortune. What won’t a woman do to get under her rival's skin? I remember a time when a woman liked me just because I was into another woman. There's nothing more paradoxical than the female mind; convincing a woman of anything is tough; they need to be led to figure it out themselves. The way they dismantle their biases is truly unique; to understand their logic, you have to challenge every traditional rule of reasoning you know. For example, the usual way:
“This man loves me; but I am married: therefore I must not love him.”
“This man loves me; but I’m married: so I can’t love him back.”
The woman’s way:
The woman's approach:
“I must not love him, because I am married; but he loves me—therefore”...
“I shouldn’t love him because I’m married; but he loves me—so...”
A few dots here, because reason has no more to say. But, generally, there is something to be said by the tongue, and the eyes, and, after these, the heart—if there is such a thing.
A few dots here, because reason has nothing more to say. But, generally, there is something to be expressed by the tongue, and the eyes, and, after those, the heart—if that's even a real thing.
What if these notes should one day meet a woman’s eye?
What if these notes should someday be seen by a woman?
“Slander!” she will exclaim indignantly.
"Defamation!" she will exclaim indignantly.
Ever since poets have written and women have read them (for which the poets should be most deeply grateful) women have been called angels so many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity of soul, they have believed the compliment, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have glorified Nero as a demigod...
Ever since poets started writing and women began reading their work (which poets should be very thankful for), women have been called angels so often that, in all honesty, they have come to believe the flattery, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have praised Nero as a demigod...
It would be unreasonable were I to speak of women with such malignity—I who have loved nothing else in the world—I who have always been ready to sacrifice for their sake ease, ambition, life itself... But, you see, I am not endeavouring, in a fit of vexation and injured vanity, to pluck from them the magic veil through which only an accustomed glance can penetrate. No, all that I say about them is but the result of
It would be unfair for me to speak about women with such bitterness—I who have loved nothing else in the world—I who have always been willing to sacrifice comfort, ambition, and even my life for them... But, you see, I'm not trying, out of frustration and wounded pride, to tear away the magical veil that only a familiar gaze can see through. No, everything I say about them is just the result of
“A mind which coldly hath observed,
A heart which bears the stamp of woe.” 29
“A mind that has observed without emotion,
A heart that carries the mark of sadness.” 29Women ought to wish that all men knew them as well as I because I have loved them a hundred times better since I have ceased to be afraid of them and have comprehended their little weaknesses.
Women should hope that all men understand them as well as I do because I have loved them a hundred times more since I stopped being afraid of them and learned about their little quirks.
By the way: the other day, Werner compared women to the enchanted forest of which Tasso tells in his “Jerusalem Delivered.” 30
By the way, the other day, Werner compared women to the enchanted forest described by Tasso in his “Jerusalem Delivered.” 30
“So soon as you approach,” he said, “from all directions terrors, such as I pray Heaven may preserve us from, will take wing at you: duty, pride, decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt... You must simply go straight on without looking at them; gradually the monsters disappear, and, before you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the midst of which blooms the green myrtle. On the other hand, woe to you if, at the first steps, your heart trembles and you turn back!”
“As soon as you step forward,” he said, “you’ll be bombarded from all sides by fears that I hope we can be spared from: obligation, pride, social norms, public opinion, mockery, disdain... You just need to keep going straight ahead without paying attention to them; eventually, the fears will fade away, and before you will open a bright, peaceful clearing, where the green myrtle blooms. But be warned: if at the very first step your heart starts to quiver and you decide to turn back, you’re doomed!”
CHAPTER XV. 24th June.
THIS evening has been fertile in events. About three versts from Kislovodsk, in the gorge through which the Podkumok flows, there is a cliff called the Ring. It is a naturally formed gate, rising upon a lofty hill, and through it the setting sun throws its last flaming glance upon the world. A numerous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at the sunset through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not one of them was thinking about the sun. I rode beside Princess Mary. On the way home, we had to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even the smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because the bottom is a perfect kaleidoscope: it changes every day owing to the pressure of the current; where yesterday there was a rock, to-day there is a cavity. I took Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle and led it into the water, which came no higher than its knees. We began to move slowly in a slanting direction against the current. It is a well-known fact that, in crossing rapid streamlets, you should never look at the water, because, if you do, your head begins to whirl directly. I forgot to warn Princess Mary of that.
THIS evening has been full of events. About three versts from Kislovodsk, in the gorge where the Podkumok flows, there’s a cliff called the Ring. It’s a naturally formed gate, rising on a high hill, and through it, the setting sun casts its last fiery glance at the world. A large group set off there to watch the sunset through the rock-window. Honestly, not one of them was thinking about the sun. I rode beside Princess Mary. On the way home, we had to cross the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even the smallest ones, can be dangerous, especially because the bottom is like a perfect kaleidoscope; it changes every day due to the current’s pressure—where there was a rock yesterday, today there might be a hole. I took Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle and led it into the water, which came no higher than its knees. We started to move slowly at an angle against the current. It’s a well-known fact that when crossing fast streams, you should never look at the water because, if you do, your head starts to spin right away. I forgot to warn Princess Mary about that.
We had reached the middle and were right in the vortex, when suddenly she reeled in her saddle.
We had gotten to the middle and were right in the middle of it, when suddenly she swayed in her saddle.
“I feel ill!” she said in a faint voice.
“I feel sick!” she said in a weak voice.
I bent over to her rapidly and threw my arm around her supple waist.
I leaned in quickly and wrapped my arm around her soft waist.
“Look up!” I whispered. “It is nothing; just be brave! I am with you.”
“Look up!” I whispered. “It’s nothing; just be brave! I’m with you.”
She grew better; she was about to disengage herself from my arm, but I clasped her tender, soft figure in a still closer embrace; my cheek almost touched hers, from which was wafted flame.
She got better; she was about to pull away from my arm, but I held her tender, soft body in an even tighter hug; my cheek nearly brushed against hers, and I could feel the heat coming off her.
“What are you doing to me?... Oh, Heaven!”...
“What are you doing to me?... Oh my God!”...
I paid no attention to her alarm and confusion, and my lips touched her tender cheek. She shuddered, but said nothing. We were riding behind the others: nobody saw us.
I ignored her alarm and confusion, and I kissed her soft cheek. She flinched, but didn’t say a word. We were trailing behind the others: nobody noticed us.
When we made our way out on the bank, the horses were all put to the trot. Princess Mary kept hers back; I remained beside her. It was evident that my silence was making her uneasy, but I swore to myself that I would not speak a single word—out of curiosity. I wanted to see how she would extricate herself from that embarrassing position.
When we made our way out to the bank, the horses all started trotting. Princess Mary held hers back; I stayed next to her. It was clear that my silence was making her uncomfortable, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t say a word—out of curiosity. I wanted to see how she would get herself out of that awkward situation.
“Either you despise me, or you love me very much!” she said at length, and there were tears in her voice. “Perhaps you want to laugh at me, to excite my soul and then to abandon me... That would be so base, so vile, that the mere supposition... Oh, no!” she added, in a voice of tender trustfulness; “there is nothing in me which would preclude respect; is it not so? Your presumptuous action... I must, I must forgive you for it, because I permitted it... Answer, speak, I want to hear your voice!”...
“Either you hate me, or you love me a lot!” she said finally, her voice filled with tears. “Maybe you want to make fun of me, stir my emotions, and then leave me... That would be so low, so cruel, that just thinking about it... Oh, no!” she added, her voice soft and trusting; “there’s nothing about me that would deserve disrespect; isn’t that right? Your arrogant behavior... I have to, I have to forgive you for it, because I allowed it... Answer me, speak, I want to hear your voice!”
There was such womanly impatience in her last words that, involuntarily, I smiled; happily it was beginning to grow dusk... I made no answer.
There was such a feminine impatience in her last words that, without thinking, I smiled; thankfully, it was starting to get dark... I didn’t say anything.
“You are silent!” she continued; “you wish, perhaps, that I should be the first to tell you that I love you.”...
“You're quiet!” she went on; “you probably want me to be the first to admit that I love you.”
I remained silent.
I stayed quiet.
“Is that what you wish?” she continued, turning rapidly towards me.... There was something terrible in the determination of her glance and voice.
“Is that what you want?” she continued, quickly turning towards me.... There was something intense in the resolve of her gaze and voice.
“Why?” I answered, shrugging my shoulders.
“Why?” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
She struck her horse with her riding-whip and set off at full gallop along the narrow, dangerous road. It all happened so quickly that I was scarcely able to overtake her, and then only by the time she had joined the rest of the company.
She whipped her horse and took off at full speed down the narrow, risky road. It happened so fast that I barely managed to catch up with her, and only by the time she had reached the rest of the group.
All the way home she was continually talking and laughing. There was something feverish in her movements; not once did she look in my direction. Everybody observed her unusual gaiety. Princess Ligovski rejoiced inwardly as she looked at her daughter. However, the latter simply has a fit of nerves: she will spend a sleepless night, and will weep.
All the way home, she kept talking and laughing. There was something frantic about her movements; she didn't glance my way even once. Everyone noticed her strange happiness. Princess Ligovski felt secretly pleased as she watched her daughter. However, the daughter is just having a nervous breakdown: she'll have a sleepless night and end up crying.
This thought affords me measureless delight: there are moments when I understand the Vampire... And yet I am reputed to be a good fellow, and I strive to earn that designation!
This thought brings me endless joy: there are times when I understand the Vampire... And yet I'm known to be a decent guy, and I try hard to live up to that label!
On dismounting, the ladies went into Princess Ligovski’s house. I was excited, and I galloped to the mountains in order to dispel the thoughts which had thronged into my head. The dewy evening breathed an intoxicating coolness. The moon was rising from behind the dark summits. Each step of my unshod horse resounded hollowly in the silence of the gorges. I watered the horse at the waterfall, and then, after greedily inhaling once or twice the fresh air of the southern night.
When they got off, the ladies went into Princess Ligovski’s house. I was excited, so I raced off to the mountains to clear my head. The cool evening air felt refreshing and intoxicating. The moon was rising from behind the dark peaks. Each step of my barefoot horse echoed in the quiet of the gorges. I stopped to let the horse drink at the waterfall, then took in the fresh southern night air a couple of times, feeling invigorated.
I set off on my way back.
I went back.
I rode through the village. The lights in the windows were beginning to go out; the sentries on the fortress-rampart and the Cossacks in the surrounding pickets were calling out in drawling tones to one another.
I rode through the village. The lights in the windows were starting to go out; the guards on the fortress wall and the Cossacks in the nearby outposts were calling out to each other in slow voices.
In one of the village houses, built at the edge of a ravine, I noticed an extraordinary illumination. At times, discordant murmurs and shouting could be heard, proving that a military carouse was in full swing. I dismounted and crept up to the window. The shutter had not been made fast, and I could see the banqueters and catch what they were saying. They were talking about me.
In one of the village houses, built on the edge of a ravine, I noticed an unusual light. Occasionally, I could hear loud laughter and shouting, indicating that a military party was in full swing. I got off my horse and quietly approached the window. The shutter wasn't secured, so I could see the revelers and overhear their conversation. They were talking about me.
The captain of dragoons, flushed with wine, struck the table with his fist, demanding attention.
The captain of the dragoons, tipsy from wine, slammed his fist on the table, calling for everyone's attention.
“Gentlemen!” he said, “this won’t do! Pechorin must be taught a lesson! These Petersburg fledglings always carry their heads high until they get a slap in the face! He thinks that because he always wears clean gloves and polished boots he is the only one who has ever lived in society. And what a haughty smile! All the same, I am convinced that he is a coward—yes, a coward!”
“Gentlemen!” he said, “this isn’t right! Pechorin needs to be taught a lesson! These Petersburg novices always act cocky until they get knocked down a peg! He thinks that just because he always wears clean gloves and shiny boots, he's the only one who's ever been part of society. And that arrogant smile! Still, I’m sure he’s a coward—yep, a coward!”
“I think so too,” said Grushnitski. “He is fond of getting himself out of trouble by pretending to be only having a joke. I once gave him such a talking to that anyone else in his place would have cut me to pieces on the spot. But Pechorin turned it all to the ridiculous side. I, of course, did not call him out because that was his business, but he did not care to have anything more to do with it.”
“I think so too,” said Grushnitski. “He loves to get himself out of trouble by pretending he was just joking. I once gave him such a talking-to that anyone else in his position would have attacked me right then and there. But Pechorin just turned it into a joke. Of course, I didn’t challenge him because that was his choice, but he didn’t want to deal with it anymore.”
“Grushnitski is angry with him for having captured Princess Mary from him,” somebody said.
“Grushnitski is mad at him for taking Princess Mary away from him,” someone said.
“That’s a new idea! It is true I did run after Princess Mary a little, but I left off at once because I do not want to get married; and it is against my rules to compromise a girl.”
"That’s a new idea! It’s true I chased after Princess Mary for a bit, but I stopped right away because I don’t want to get married; plus, I have a rule about not putting a girl in a difficult position."
“Yes, I assure you that he is a coward of the first water, I mean Pechorin, not Grushnitski—but Grushnitski is a fine fellow, and, besides, he is my true friend!” the captain of dragoons went on.
“Yes, I assure you that he is a total coward, I mean Pechorin, not Grushnitski—but Grushnitski is a great guy, and, besides, he is my true friend!” the captain of dragoons continued.
“Gentlemen! Nobody here stands up for him? Nobody? So much the better! Would you like to put his courage to the test? It would be amusing”...
“Gentlemen! No one here is on his side? No one? All the better! Want to see how brave he really is? That could be fun…”
“We would; but how?”
"We want to, but how?"
“Listen here, then: Grushnitski in particular is angry with him—therefore to Grushnitski falls the chief part. He will pick a quarrel over some silly trifle or other, and will challenge Pechorin to a duel... Wait a bit; here is where the joke comes in... He will challenge him to a duel; very well! The whole proceeding—challenge, preparations, conditions—will be as solemn and awe-inspiring as possible—I will see to that. I will be your second, my poor friend! Very well! Only here is the rub; we will put no bullets in the pistols. I can answer for it that Pechorin will turn coward—I will place them six paces apart, devil take it! Are you agreed, gentlemen?”
“Listen up: Grushnitski is really mad at him—so it’s up to Grushnitski to take the lead. He’ll start a fight over some petty issue and challenge Pechorin to a duel... Hold on; this is where it gets funny... He’ll challenge him to a duel; fine! The whole thing—challenge, preparations, terms—will be as serious and dramatic as possible—I’ll make sure of it. I’ll be your second, my poor friend! Great! But here’s the catch; we won't load the pistols. I can guarantee that Pechorin will back down—I’ll position them six paces apart, damn it! Are you in, gentlemen?”
“Splendid idea!... Agreed!... And why not?”... came from all sides.
“Great idea!... Absolutely!... And why not?”... came from all around.
“And you, Grushnitski?”
"And you, Grushnitski?"
Tremblingly I awaited Grushnitski’s answer. I was filled with cold rage at the thought that, but for an accident, I might have made myself the laughing-stock of those fools. If Grushnitski had not agreed, I should have thrown myself upon his neck; but, after an interval of silence, he rose from his place, extended his hand to the captain, and said very gravely:
Trembling, I waited for Grushnitski’s answer. I was consumed with cold anger at the thought that, if not for a fluke, I could have made a fool of myself in front of those idiots. If Grushnitski hadn’t agreed, I would have thrown my arms around him; but after a moment of silence, he got up from his seat, reached out his hand to the captain, and said very seriously:
“Very well, I agree!”
"Alright, I'm in!"
It would be difficult to describe the enthusiasm of that honourable company.
It was hard to capture the excitement of that distinguished group.
I returned home, agitated by two different feelings. The first was sorrow.
I came back home, feeling conflicted by two different emotions. The first was sadness.
“Why do they all hate me?” I thought—“why? Have I affronted anyone? No. Can it be that I am one of those men the mere sight of whom is enough to create animosity?”
“Why does everyone hate me?” I thought—“why? Have I upset anyone? No. Could it be that I’m one of those guys whose mere presence is enough to cause resentment?”
And I felt a venomous rage gradually filling my soul.
And I felt a toxic anger slowly filling my soul.
“Have a care, Mr. Grushnitski!” I said, walking up and down the room: “I am not to be jested with like this! You may pay dearly for the approbation of your foolish comrades. I am not your toy!”...
“Be careful, Mr. Grushnitski!” I said, pacing the room. “I’m not someone to be taken lightly! You might pay a heavy price for the approval of your silly friends. I am not your plaything!”...
I got no sleep that night. By daybreak I was as yellow as an orange.
I didn't get any sleep that night. By morning, I was as yellow as an orange.
In the morning I met Princess Mary at the well.
In the morning, I ran into Princess Mary at the well.
“You are ill?” she said, looking intently at me.
"You’re sick?" she asked, looking closely at me.
“I did not sleep last night.”
"I didn't sleep at all."
“Nor I either... I was accusing you... perhaps groundlessly. But explain yourself, I can forgive you everything”...
“Me neither... I was blaming you... maybe without reason. But just explain yourself, and I can forgive you for anything...”
“Everything?”...
"Everything?"...
“Everything... only speak the truth... and be quick... You see, I have been thinking a good deal, trying to explain, to justify, your behaviour. Perhaps you are afraid of opposition on the part of my relations... that will not matter. When they learn”...
“Everything... just tell the truth... and be quick... You see, I have been thinking a lot, trying to explain and justify your behavior. Maybe you’re worried about facing opposition from my family... but that won’t matter. When they find out...”
Her voice shook.
Her voice trembled.
“I will win them over by entreaties. Or, is it your own position?... But you know that I can sacrifice everything for the sake of the man I love... Oh, answer quickly—have pity... You do not despise me—do you?”
“I will win them over by begging. Or, is it your own situation?... But you know that I can give up everything for the man I love... Oh, answer quickly—have mercy... You don’t look down on me—do you?”
She seized my hand.
She grabbed my hand.
Princess Ligovski was walking in front of us with Vera’s husband, and had not seen anything; but we might have been observed by some of the invalids who were strolling about—the most inquisitive gossips of all inquisitive folk—and I rapidly disengaged my hand from her passionate pressure.
Princess Ligovski was walking ahead of us with Vera’s husband and hadn't noticed anything; however, some of the invalids casually strolling around—the most curious gossipers of all curious people—might have seen us, so I quickly pulled my hand away from her intense grasp.
“I will tell you the whole truth,” I answered. “I will not justify myself, nor explain my actions: I do not love you.”
“I’ll tell you the whole truth,” I replied. “I won’t justify myself or explain my actions: I don’t love you.”
Her lips grew slightly pale.
Her lips became a bit pale.
“Leave me,” she said, in a scarcely audible voice.
“Leave me,” she said, in a barely audible voice.
I shrugged my shoulders, turned round, and walked away.
I shrugged, turned around, and walked away.
CHAPTER XVI. 25th June.
I SOMETIMES despise myself... Is not that the reason why I despise others also?... I have grown incapable of noble impulses; I am afraid of appearing ridiculous to myself. In my place, another would have offered Princess Mary son coeur et sa fortune; but over me the word “marry” has a kind of magical power. However passionately I love a woman, if she only gives me to feel that I have to marry her—then farewell, love! My heart is turned to stone, and nothing will warm it anew. I am prepared for any other sacrifice but that; my life twenty times over, nay, my honour I would stake on the fortune of a card... but my freedom I will never sell. Why do I prize it so highly? What is there in it to me? For what am I preparing myself? What do I hope for from the future?... In truth, absolutely nothing. It is a kind of innate dread, an inexplicable prejudice... There are people, you know, who have an unaccountable dread of spiders, beetles, mice... Shall I confess it? When I was but a child, a certain old woman told my fortune to my mother. She predicted for me death from a wicked wife. I was profoundly struck by her words at the time: an irresistible repugnance to marriage was born within my soul... Meanwhile, something tells me that her prediction will be realized; I will try, at all events, to arrange that it shall be realized as late in life as possible.
I sometimes hate myself... Is that why I also hate others? I've become incapable of noble feelings; I'm afraid of looking ridiculous to myself. If I were in a different situation, someone would have offered Princess Mary their heart and fortune; but for me, the word “marry” has a kind of magical power. No matter how passionately I love a woman, if she makes me feel like I have to marry her—then goodbye, love! My heart turns to stone, and nothing will bring it back to life. I’m ready for any other sacrifice but that; I’d risk my life a hundred times over, even my honor, on a roll of the dice... but I will never trade my freedom. Why do I value it so much? What does it mean to me? What am I preparing for? What do I hope for in the future?... Honestly, absolutely nothing. It’s an instinctive fear, an irrational bias... You know, there are people who have an unexplainable fear of spiders, beetles, mice... Should I confess? When I was a child, an old woman told my mother my fortune. She predicted I would die because of a wicked wife. Her words struck me deeply at the time: an irresistible aversion to marriage was born in my soul... Meanwhile, something tells me that her prediction will come true; I will try, at least, to make sure it happens as late in life as possible.
CHAPTER XVII. 26th June.
YESTERDAY, the conjurer Apfelbaum arrived here. A long placard made its appearance on the door of the restaurant, informing the most respected public that the above-mentioned marvellous conjurer, acrobat, chemist, and optician would have the honour to give a magnificent performance on the present day at eight o’clock in the evening, in the saloon of the Nobles’ Club (in other words, the restaurant); tickets—two rubles and a half each.
YESTERDAY, the magician Apfelbaum showed up here. A long sign appeared on the restaurant door, letting the esteemed public know that the previously mentioned amazing magician, acrobat, chemist, and optician would be giving a spectacular show today at eight o’clock in the evening, in the Nobles’ Club saloon (in other words, the restaurant); tickets—two and a half rubles each.
Everyone intends to go and see the marvellous conjurer; even Princess Ligovski has taken a ticket for herself, in spite of her daughter being ill.
Everyone plans to go see the amazing magician; even Princess Ligovski has bought herself a ticket, despite her daughter being sick.
After dinner to-day, I walked past Vera’s windows; she was sitting by herself on the balcony. A note fell at my feet:
After dinner today, I walked past Vera's windows; she was sitting by herself on the balcony. A note fell at my feet:
“Come to me at ten o’clock this evening by the large staircase. My husband has gone to Pyatigorsk and will not return before to-morrow morning. My servants and maids will not be at home; I have distributed tickets to all of them, and to the princess’s servants as well. I await you; come without fail.”
“Meet me at ten o’clock tonight by the big staircase. My husband has gone to Pyatigorsk and won’t be back until tomorrow morning. My staff won’t be home; I’ve given tickets to all of them, including the princess’s staff. I’m waiting for you; please come.”
“Aha!” I said to myself, “so then it has turned out at last as I thought it would.”
“Aha!” I said to myself, “so it finally turned out exactly as I thought it would.”
At eight o’clock I went to see the conjurer. The public assembled before the stroke of nine. The performance began. On the back rows of chairs I recognized Vera’s and Princess Ligovski’s menservants and maids. They were all there, every single one. Grushnitski, with his lorgnette, was sitting in the front row, and the conjurer had recourse to him every time he needed a handkerchief, a watch, a ring and so forth.
At eight o’clock, I went to see the magician. The audience gathered before nine o’clock. The show started. In the back rows of chairs, I spotted Vera’s and Princess Ligovski’s servants and maidservants. They were all there, every single one. Grushnitski, with his lorgnette, was sitting in the front row, and the magician called on him whenever he needed a handkerchief, a watch, a ring, and so on.
For some time past, Grushnitski has ceased to bow to me, and to-day he has looked at me rather insolently once or twice. It will all be remembered to him when we come to settle our scores.
For a while now, Grushnitski has stopped bowing to me, and today he looked at me quite disrespectfully a couple of times. I'll make sure to remember all of this when we settle our scores.
Before ten o’clock had struck, I stood up and went out.
Before ten o’clock rang, I got up and went outside.
It was dark outside, pitch dark. Cold, heavy clouds were lying on the summit of the surrounding mountains, and only at rare intervals did the dying breeze rustle the tops of the poplars which surrounded the restaurant. People were crowding at the windows. I went down the mountain and, turning in under the gate, I hastened my pace. Suddenly it seemed to me that somebody was following my steps. I stopped and looked round. It was impossible to make out anything in the darkness. However, out of caution, I walked round the house, as if taking a stroll. Passing Princess Mary’s windows, I again heard steps behind me; a man wrapped in a cloak ran by me. That rendered me uneasy, but I crept up to the flight of steps, and hastily mounted the dark staircase. A door opened, and a little hand seized mine...
It was pitch dark outside. Cold, heavy clouds hung over the peaks of the surrounding mountains, and only occasionally did the dying breeze rustle the tops of the poplars surrounding the restaurant. People were crowded at the windows. I made my way down the mountain and, as I went under the gate, I quickened my pace. Suddenly, it felt like someone was following me. I stopped and looked around. It was impossible to see anything in the darkness. However, out of caution, I walked around the house, pretending to take a stroll. As I passed by Princess Mary’s windows, I heard footsteps behind me again; a man in a cloak ran past me. That made me uneasy, but I quietly approached the staircase and hurried up the dark steps. A door opened, and a small hand grabbed mine...
“Nobody has seen you?” said Vera in a whisper, clinging to me.
“Nobody has seen you?” Vera whispered, holding onto me.
“Nobody.”
"Nobody."
“Now do you believe that I love you? Oh! I have long hesitated, long tortured myself... But you can do anything you like with me.”
“Do you believe that I love you now? Oh! I’ve hesitated for so long, tortured myself... But you can do whatever you want with me.”
Her heart was beating violently, her hands were cold as ice. She broke out into complaints and jealous reproaches. She demanded that I should confess everything to her, saying that she would bear my faithlessness with submission, because her sole desire was that I should be happy. I did not quite believe that, but I calmed her with oaths, promises and so on.
Her heart was racing, and her hands felt icy. She started making complaints and throwing jealous accusations. She insisted that I confess everything to her, claiming she would accept my betrayal because all she wanted was for me to be happy. I wasn't entirely convinced, but I soothed her with promises and reassurances.
“So you will not marry Mary? You do not love her?... But she thinks... Do you know, she is madly in love with you, poor girl!”...
“So you’re not going to marry Mary? You don’t love her? ... But she thinks... Do you know, she’s crazy about you, poor girl!”...
About two o’clock in the morning I opened the window and, tying two shawls together, I let myself down from the upper balcony to the lower, holding on by the pillar. A light was still burning in Princess Mary’s room. Something drew me towards that window. The curtain was not quite drawn, and I was able to cast a curious glance into the interior of the room. Mary was sitting on her bed, her hands crossed upon her knees; her thick hair was gathered up under a lace-frilled nightcap; her white shoulders were covered by a large crimson kerchief, and her little feet were hidden in a pair of many-coloured Persian slippers. She was sitting quite still, her head sunk upon her breast; on a little table in front of her was an open book; but her eyes, fixed and full of inexpressible grief, seemed for the hundredth time to be skimming the same page whilst her thoughts were far away.
About two in the morning, I opened the window and tied two shawls together to lower myself from the upper balcony to the lower one, holding on to the pillar. A light was still on in Princess Mary’s room. Something drew me to that window. The curtain was slightly open, allowing me to sneak a glance inside. Mary was sitting on her bed, her hands crossed on her knees; her thick hair was pulled up under a lace-trimmed nightcap; her bare shoulders were covered by a large red scarf, and her small feet were tucked into colorful Persian slippers. She sat completely still, her head bowed on her chest; on a small table in front of her was an open book, but her eyes, vacant and filled with deep sorrow, seemed to be reading the same page for the hundredth time while her thoughts drifted far away.
At that moment somebody stirred behind a shrub. I leaped from the balcony on to the sward. An invisible hand seized me by the shoulder.
At that moment, someone moved behind a bush. I jumped off the balcony onto the grass. An unseen hand grabbed me by the shoulder.
“Aha!” said a rough voice: “caught!... I’ll teach you to be entering princesses’ rooms at night!”
“Aha!” said a gruff voice: “Gotcha!... I’ll teach you to sneak into princesses’ rooms at night!”
“Hold him fast!” exclaimed another, springing out from a corner.
“Hold him tight!” shouted another, jumping out from a corner.
It was Grushnitski and the captain of dragoons.
It was Grushnitski and the dragoon captain.
I struck the latter on the head with my fist, knocked him off his feet, and darted into the bushes. All the paths of the garden which covered the slope opposite our houses were known to me.
I hit the guy on the head with my fist, knocked him down, and ran into the bushes. I knew all the paths in the garden that sloped down from our houses.
“Thieves, guard!”... they cried.
“Thieves, alert!”... they shouted.
A gunshot rang out; a smoking wad fell almost at my feet.
A gunshot went off; a smoking wad landed almost at my feet.
Within a minute I was in my own room, undressed and in bed. My manservant had only just locked the door when Grushnitski and the captain began knocking for admission.
Within a minute, I was in my own room, undressed and in bed. My butler had just locked the door when Grushnitski and the captain started knocking to get in.
“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there?”... cried the captain.
“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there?”... shouted the captain.
“I am in bed,” I answered angrily.
"I’m in bed," I replied angrily.
“Get up! Thieves!... Circassians!”...
"Get up! Thieves!... Circassians!"...
“I have a cold,” I answered. “I am afraid of catching a chill.”
"I have a cold," I replied. "I'm worried about catching a chill."
They went away. I had gained no useful purpose by answering them: they would have been looking for me in the garden for another hour or so.
They left. I hadn’t achieved anything useful by responding to them: they would have been searching for me in the garden for another hour or so.
Meanwhile the alarm became terrific. A Cossack galloped up from the fortress. The commotion was general; Circassians were looked for in every shrub—and of course none were found. Probably, however, a good many people were left with the firm conviction that, if only more courage and despatch had been shown by the garrison, at least a score of brigands would have failed to get away with their lives.
Meanwhile, the alarm grew overwhelming. A Cossack rode up from the fortress. Panic spread everywhere; everyone was scanning the bushes for Circassians—and of course, none were found. However, many people likely remained convinced that, if the garrison had shown more courage and urgency, at least twenty bandits would have been captured.
CHAPTER XVIII. 27th June.
THIS morning, at the well, the sole topic of conversation was the nocturnal attack by the Circassians. I drank the appointed number of glasses of Narzan water, and, after sauntering a few times about the long linden avenue, I met Vera’s husband, who had just arrived from Pyatigorsk. He took my arm and we went to the restaurant for breakfast. He was dreadfully uneasy about his wife.
THIS morning, at the well, the only topic everyone was talking about was the nighttime attack by the Circassians. I had the usual amount of Narzan water, and after strolling a few times down the long linden avenue, I ran into Vera’s husband, who had just gotten back from Pyatigorsk. He took my arm, and we headed to the restaurant for breakfast. He was really worried about his wife.
“What a terrible fright she had last night,” he said. “Of course, it was bound to happen just at the very time when I was absent.”
“What a terrible scare she had last night,” he said. “Of course, it was bound to happen right when I wasn’t there.”
We sat down to breakfast near the door leading into a corner-room in which about a dozen young men were sitting. Grushnitski was amongst them. For the second time destiny provided me with the opportunity of overhearing a conversation which was to decide his fate. He did not see me, and, consequently, it was impossible for me to suspect him of design; but that only magnified his fault in my eyes.
We sat down for breakfast near the door leading into a corner room where about a dozen young men were gathered. Grushnitski was among them. For the second time, fate gave me the chance to overhear a conversation that would determine his fate. He didn’t see me, so there was no way for me to suspect him of plotting; but that only made his wrongdoing seem worse to me.
“Is it possible, though, that they were really Circassians?” somebody said. “Did anyone see them?”
“Is it possible, though, that they were actually Circassians?” someone said. “Did anyone see them?”
“I will tell you the whole truth,” answered Grushnitski: “only please do not betray me. This is how it was: yesterday, a certain man, whose name I will not tell you, came up to me and told me that, at ten o’clock in the evening, he had seen somebody creeping into the Ligovskis’ house. I must observe that Princess Ligovski was here, and Princess Mary at home. So he and I set off to wait beneath the windows and waylay the lucky man.”
“I'll tell you everything,” Grushnitski replied, “but please don’t betray me. Here’s what happened: yesterday, a guy whose name I won’t share came up to me and said that at ten o’clock last night, he saw someone sneaking into the Ligovski house. I should mention that Princess Ligovski was here and Princess Mary was at home. So, he and I went to wait under the windows to catch the lucky guy.”
I confess I was frightened, although my companion was very busily engaged with his breakfast: he might have heard things which he would have found rather displeasing, if Grushnitski had happened to guess the truth; but, blinded by jealousy, the latter did not even suspect it.
I admit I was scared, even though my friend was completely focused on his breakfast: he might have heard things that would have bothered him if Grushnitski had figured out the truth; but, consumed by jealousy, he had no idea.
“So, do you see?” Grushnitski continued. “We set off, taking with us a gun, loaded with blank cartridge, so as just to give him a fright. We waited in the garden till two o’clock. At length—goodness knows, indeed, where he appeared from, but he must have come out by the glass door which is behind the pillar; it was not out of the window that he came, because the window had remained unopened—at length, I say, we saw someone getting down from the balcony... What do you think of Princess Mary—eh? Well, I admit, it is hardly what you might expect from Moscow ladies! After that what can you believe? We were going to seize him, but he broke away and darted like a hare into the shrubs. Thereupon I fired at him.”
“So, do you see?” Grushnitski continued. “We set off, taking a gun loaded with blanks, just to scare him. We waited in the garden until two o’clock. Finally—goodness knows where he came from, but he must have come out through the glass door behind the pillar; he didn’t go out the window because it was still closed—so, I say, we saw someone come down from the balcony... What do you think of Princess Mary—eh? Well, I admit, it’s not exactly what you’d expect from Moscow ladies! After that, what can you believe? We were going to catch him, but he broke free and darted into the bushes like a hare. Then I fired at him.”
There was a general murmur of incredulity.
There was a general murmur of disbelief.
“You do not believe it?” he continued. “I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that it is all perfectly true, and, in proof, I will tell you the man’s name if you like.”
“You don’t believe it?” he continued. “I swear to you as a gentleman that it’s all completely true, and to prove it, I’ll tell you the man’s name if you want.”
“Tell us, tell us, who was he?” came from all sides.
“Tell us, tell us, who was he?” came from all around.
“Pechorin,” answered Grushnitski.
“Pechorin,” Grushnitski replied.
At that moment he raised his eyes—I was standing in the doorway opposite to him. He grew terribly red. I went up to him and said, slowly and distinctly:
At that moment, he looked up—I was standing in the doorway across from him. He turned bright red. I walked up to him and said, slowly and clearly:
“I am very sorry that I did not come in before you had given your word of honour in confirmation of a most abominable calumny: my presence would have saved you from that further act of baseness.”
“I’m really sorry I didn’t come in before you committed to a terrible lie: if I had been there, I could have saved you from that additional act of disgrace.”
Grushnitski jumped up from his seat and seemed about to fly into a passion.
Grushnitski jumped up from his seat and looked like he was about to lose his temper.
“I beg you,” I continued in the same tone: “I beg you at once to retract what you have said; you know very well that it is all an invention. I do not think that a woman’s indifference to your brilliant merits should deserve so terrible a revenge. Bethink you well: if you maintain your present attitude, you will lose the right to the name of gentleman and will risk your life.”
"I’m asking you," I continued in the same tone, "I’m asking you to take back what you said right now; you know very well it’s all made up. I don’t believe that a woman’s indifference to your amazing qualities deserves such a harsh response. Consider this carefully: if you keep going like this, you’re going to lose the right to call yourself a gentleman and could endanger your life."
Grushnitski stood before me in violent agitation, his eyes cast down. But the struggle between his conscience and his vanity was of short duration. The captain of dragoons, who was sitting beside him, nudged him with his elbow. Grushnitski started, and answered rapidly, without raising his eyes:
Grushnitski stood in front of me, visibly agitated, his eyes downward. But the fight between his conscience and his pride didn't last long. The captain of dragoons next to him nudged him with his elbow. Grushnitski jumped and quickly answered without looking up:
“My dear sir, what I say, I mean, and I am prepared to repeat... I am not afraid of your menaces and am ready for anything.”
“My dear sir, I mean what I say, and I'm ready to say it again... I'm not scared of your threats and am prepared for anything.”
“The latter you have already proved,” I answered coldly; and, taking the captain of dragoons by the arm, I left the room.
“The latter you have already proven,” I replied coldly; and, taking the captain of dragoons by the arm, I left the room.
“What do you want?” asked the captain.
“What do you want?” the captain asked.
“You are Grushnitski’s friend and will no doubt be his second?”
"You’re Grushnitski’s friend, so you’ll definitely be his second, right?"
The captain bowed very gravely.
The captain bowed seriously.
“You have guessed rightly,” he answered.
"You got it," he replied.
“Moreover, I am bound to be his second, because the insult offered to him touches myself also. I was with him last night,” he added, straightening up his stooping figure.
“Besides, I have to be his second because the insult directed at him also affects me. I was with him last night,” he added, standing up straighter.
“Ah! So it was you whose head I struck so clumsily?”...
“Ah! So it was you whose head I hit so awkwardly?”...
He turned yellow in the face, then blue; suppressed rage was portrayed upon his countenance.
He went pale, then turned dark; suppressed anger showed on his face.
“I shall have the honour to send my second to you to-day,” I added, bowing adieu to him very politely, without appearing to have noticed his fury.
“I’ll have the honor of sending my second to you today,” I said, bowing politely as I bid him farewell, without showing that I noticed his anger.
On the restaurant-steps I met Vera’s husband. Apparently he had been waiting for me.
On the restaurant steps, I ran into Vera’s husband. It seemed he had been waiting for me.
He seized my hand with a feeling akin to rapture.
He took my hand with a feeling similar to joy.
“Noble young man!” he said, with tears in his eyes. “I have heard everything. What a scoundrel! Ingrate!... Just fancy such people being admitted into a decent household after this! Thank God I have no daughters! But she for whom you are risking your life will reward you. Be assured of my constant discretion,” he continued. “I have been young myself and have served in the army: I know that these affairs must take their course. Good-bye.”
“Noble young man!” he said, tears in his eyes. “I’ve heard everything. What a scoundrel! An ingrate!... Just imagine such people being welcomed into a decent home after this! Thank God I don’t have any daughters! But the one for whom you are risking your life will reward you. You can count on my discretion,” he continued. “I’ve been young myself and served in the army: I know that these things have to play out. Goodbye.”
Poor fellow! He is glad that he has no daughters!...
Poor guy! He's happy he doesn't have any daughters!...
I went straight to Werner, found him at home, and told him the whole story—my relations with Vera and Princess Mary, and the conversation which I had overheard and from which I had learned the intention of these gentlemen to make a fool of me by causing me to fight a duel with blank cartridges. But, now, the affair had gone beyond the bounds of jest; they probably had not expected that it would turn out like this.
I went right to Werner, found him at home, and told him everything—my relationship with Vera and Princess Mary, and the conversation I had overheard where I learned about these guys planning to make a fool out of me by getting me to duel with blank cartridges. But now, things had gone too far; they probably didn’t expect it to end up like this.
The doctor consented to be my second; I gave him a few directions with regard to the conditions of the duel. He was to insist upon the affair being managed with all possible secrecy, because, although I am prepared, at any moment, to face death, I am not in the least disposed to spoil for all time my future in this world.
The doctor agreed to be my second; I gave him a few instructions regarding the details of the duel. He was to make sure that everything was kept as secret as possible, because while I’m ready to face death at any moment, I really don’t want to ruin my future in this world forever.
After that I went home. In an hour’s time the doctor returned from his expedition.
After that, I went home. An hour later, the doctor came back from his trip.
“There is indeed a conspiracy against you,” he said. “I found the captain of dragoons at Grushnitski’s, together with another gentleman whose surname I do not remember. I stopped a moment in the ante-room, in order to take off my goloshes. They were squabbling and making a terrible uproar. ‘On no account will I agree,’ Grushnitski was saying: ‘he has insulted me publicly; it was quite a different thing before’...
“There really is a conspiracy against you,” he said. “I found the captain of dragoons at Grushnitski’s, along with another guy whose last name I can’t recall. I paused for a moment in the hallway to take off my galoshes. They were arguing and making a huge noise. ‘I absolutely won’t agree,’ Grushnitski was saying. ‘He’s publicly insulted me; it was a whole different situation before’...
“‘What does it matter to you?’ answered the captain. ‘I will take it all upon myself. I have been second in five duels, and I should think I know how to arrange the affair. I have thought it all out. Just let me alone, please. It is not a bad thing to give people a bit of a fright. And why expose yourself to danger if it is possible to avoid it?’...
“‘What does it matter to you?’ replied the captain. ‘I'll handle it all myself. I’ve been second in five duels, and I think I know how to manage the situation. I’ve thought it all through. Just leave me alone, please. It's not a bad idea to give people a little scare. And why put yourself in danger if you can avoid it?’...”
“At that moment I entered the room. They suddenly fell silent. Our negotiations were somewhat protracted. At length we decided the matter as follows: about five versts from here there is a hollow gorge; they will ride thither tomorrow at four o’clock in the morning, and we shall leave half an hour later. You will fire at six paces—Grushnitski himself demanded that condition. Whichever of you is killed—his death will be put down to the account of the Circassians. And now I must tell you what I suspect: they, that is to say the seconds, may have made some change in their former plan and may want to load only Grushnitski’s pistol. That is something like murder, but in time of war, and especially in Asiatic warfare, such tricks are allowed. Grushnitski, however, seems to be a little more magnanimous than his companions. What do you think? Ought we not to let them see that we have guessed their plan?”
“At that moment, I walked into the room. They suddenly fell silent. Our negotiations had dragged on a bit. Finally, we decided the following: about five miles from here, there’s a valley; they will ride there tomorrow at four in the morning, and we’ll leave half an hour later. You will shoot from six paces—Grushnitski himself insisted on that condition. Whoever gets killed will have their death blamed on the Circassians. Now, I need to tell you what I suspect: the seconds might have changed their initial plan and could be planning to load only Grushnitski’s pistol. That’s pretty much like murder, but in wartime, especially in Asian conflicts, such tricks are permitted. However, Grushnitski seems to be a bit more noble than his companions. What do you think? Shouldn’t we let them know that we’ve figured out their plan?”
“Not on any account, doctor! Make your mind easy; I will not give in to them.”
“Absolutely not, doctor! Don’t worry; I won’t give in to them.”
“But what are you going to do, then?”
“But what are you going to do now?”
“That is my secret.”
"That's my secret."
“Mind you are not caught... six paces, you know!”
“Just make sure you’re not caught... six steps, you know!”
“Doctor, I shall expect you to-morrow at four o’clock. The horses will be ready... Goodbye.”
“Doctor, I'll expect you tomorrow at four o'clock. The horses will be ready... Goodbye.”
I remained in the house until the evening, with my door locked. A manservant came to invite me to Princess Ligovski’s—I bade him say that I was ill.
I stayed in the house until the evening, with my door locked. A servant came to invite me to Princess Ligovski’s—I told him to say that I was sick.
Two o’clock in the morning... I cannot sleep... Yet sleep is what I need, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow. However, at six paces it is difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnitski, your wiles will not succeed!... We shall exchange roles: now it is I who shall have to seek the signs of latent terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have you yourself appointed these fatal six paces? Think you that I will tamely expose my forehead to your aim?...
Two o’clock in the morning... I can’t sleep... But I really need to get some rest if I want a steady hand tomorrow. Still, it’s hard to miss from six paces. Aha! Mr. Grushnitski, your tricks won’t work!... We will switch roles: now I’ll be the one looking for signs of hidden fear on your pale face. Why did you choose these deadly six paces? Do you think I’ll just let you take a shot at my forehead?
No, we shall cast lots... And then—then—what if his luck should prevail? If my star at length should betray me?... And little wonder if it did: it has so long and faithfully served my caprices.
No, we'll draw lots... And then—what if luck is on his side? What if my fortune finally turns against me?... And it's no surprise if it does; it has served my whims for so long and so faithfully.
Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the world will not be great; and I myself am already downright weary of everything. I am like a guest at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, simply because his carriage has not come for him. But now the carriage is here... Good-bye!...
Well? If I have to die, then I have to! The world won't suffer much from my absence, and I'm already tired of everything. I feel like a guest at a party who’s bored but doesn’t leave because their ride hasn’t arrived yet. But now the ride is here... Goodbye!...
My whole past life I live again in memory, and, involuntarily, I ask myself: ‘why have I lived—for what purpose was I born?’... A purpose there must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted destiny, because I feel that within my soul are powers immeasurable... But I was not able to discover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions, inane and ignoble. From their crucible I issued hard and cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of noble aspirations—the fairest flower of life. And, from that time forth, how often have I not played the part of an axe in the hands of fate! Like an implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the head of doomed victims, often without malice, always without pity... To none has my love brought happiness, because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those I have loved: for myself alone I have loved—for my own pleasure. I have only satisfied the strange craving of my heart, greedily draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joys, their sufferings—and I have never been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent with hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees before him sumptuous viands and sparkling wines; he devours with rapture the aerial gifts of the imagination, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. Let him but awake: the vision vanishes—twofold hunger and despair remain!
My entire past life plays out in my mind again, and, without meaning to, I find myself asking: ‘why have I lived—for what purpose was I born?’... There must have been a purpose, and surely mine was meant to be something great, because I feel I have immense potential within my soul... But I never figured out that purpose; I let myself be swept away by the lures of shallow and unworthy passions. I came out of that experience hard and cold like iron, but the spark of noble aspirations—the most beautiful part of life—was lost forever. From that point on, how many times have I acted like a tool in fate’s hands! Like an instrument of punishment, I’ve struck down those destined for misfortune, often without malice, always without compassion... My love has brought happiness to no one, because I’ve never sacrificed anything for those I cared about: I loved only for myself—for my own pleasure. I’ve only indulged the strange hunger of my heart, greedily taking their feelings, their kindness, their joys, their pains—and I've never been able to fill myself up. I’m like someone who, exhausted from hunger, falls asleep and dreams of lavish feasts and sparkling wines; he devours the imagined delights with joy, and his suffering seems a little lighter. But when he wakes, the vision disappears—now he's faced with double hunger and despair!
And to-morrow, it may be, I shall die!... And there will not be left on earth one being who has understood me completely. Some will consider me worse, others, better, than I have been in reality... Some will say: ‘he was a good fellow’; others: ‘a villain.’ And both epithets will be false. After all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live—out of curiosity! We expect something new... How absurd, and yet how vexatious!
And tomorrow, I might die!... And there won’t be anyone left on earth who really understands me. Some will think I was worse, others will think I was better than I actually was... Some will say, “He was a nice guy,” while others will call me “a villain.” And both labels will be wrong. After all this, is life even worth it? And yet, we continue to live—out of curiosity! We’re always expecting something new... How ridiculous, and yet how annoying!
CHAPTER XIX
IT is now a month and a half since I have been in the N——Fortress.
IT has now been a month and a half since I arrived at the N——Fortress.
Maksim Maksimych is out hunting... I am alone. I am sitting by the window. Grey clouds have covered the mountains to the foot; the sun appears through the mist as a yellow spot. It is cold; the wind is whistling and rocking the shutters... I am bored!... I will continue my diary which has been interrupted by so many strange events.
Maksim Maksimych is out hunting... I'm alone. I'm sitting by the window. Grey clouds have covered the mountains below; the sun peeks through the mist like a yellow spot. It's cold; the wind is whistling and shaking the shutters... I'm so bored!... I’ll continue my diary, which has been interrupted by so many odd happenings.
I read the last page over: how ridiculous it seems!... I thought to die; it was not to be. I have not yet drained the cup of suffering, and now I feel that I still have long to live.
I read the last page again: how silly it seems!... I thought I would die; it wasn’t meant to be. I haven’t finished experiencing my share of suffering, and now I realize I still have a long life ahead of me.
How clearly and how sharply have all these bygone events been stamped upon my memory! Time has not effaced a single line, a single shade.
How clearly and sharply all these past events have been etched in my memory! Time hasn't faded a single detail, not one nuance.
I remember that during the night preceding the duel I did not sleep a single moment. I was not able to write for long: a secret uneasiness took possession of me. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat down and opened a novel by Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It was “The Scottish Puritans.” 301 At first I read with an effort; then, carried away by the magical fiction, I became oblivious of everything else.
I remember that the night before the duel, I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't write for long; I was overcome by a secret anxiety. For about an hour, I walked around the room, then sat down and picked up a novel by Walter Scott that was on my table. It was “The Scottish Puritans.” 301 At first, I read with difficulty; then, swept up by the captivating story, I forgot about everything else.
At last day broke. My nerves became composed. I looked in the glass: a dull pallor covered my face, which preserved the traces of harassing sleeplessness; but my eyes, although encircled by a brownish shadow, glittered proudly and inexorably. I was satisfied with myself.
At last, morning arrived. I started to calm down. I looked in the mirror: a dull pallor covered my face, showing the signs of exhausting sleeplessness; but my eyes, although surrounded by a brownish shadow, sparkled with pride and determination. I felt good about myself.
I ordered the horses to be saddled, dressed myself, and ran down to the baths. Plunging into the cold, sparkling water of the Narzan Spring, I felt my bodily and mental powers returning. I left the baths as fresh and hearty as if I was off to a ball. After that, who shall say that the soul is not dependent upon the body!...
I ordered the horses to be saddled, got dressed, and ran down to the baths. Jumping into the cold, sparkling water of the Narzan Spring, I felt my body and mind coming back to life. I left the baths feeling refreshed and full of energy, as if I was heading to a party. After that, who can say that the soul isn't influenced by the body!
On my return, I found the doctor at my rooms. He was wearing grey riding-breeches, a jacket and a Circassian cap. I burst out laughing when I saw that little figure under the enormous shaggy cap. Werner has a by no means warlike countenance, and on that occasion it was even longer than usual.
On my return, I found the doctor in my room. He was wearing gray riding breeches, a jacket, and a Circassian cap. I couldn't help but laugh when I saw that small figure under the huge, shaggy cap. Werner doesn’t have a very fierce look, and that day, his expression was even longer than usual.
“Why so sad, doctor?” I said to him. “Have you not a hundred times, with the greatest indifference, escorted people to the other world? Imagine that I have a bilious fever: I may get well; also, I may die; both are in the usual course of things. Try to look on me as a patient, afflicted with an illness with which you are still unfamiliar—and then your curiosity will be aroused in the highest degree. You can now make a few important physiological observations upon me... Is not the expectation of a violent death itself a real illness?”
“Why so sad, doc?” I said to him. “Haven’t you casually walked a hundred people to the other side? Picture me with a bad case of fever: I might get better; I might die; both are just part of life. Try to see me as a patient dealing with an illness you still don’t know much about—and then your curiosity will be piqued. You can make some important observations about my condition... Isn’t the fear of a violent death in itself a real illness?”
The doctor was struck by that idea, and he brightened up.
The doctor was hit by that idea, and he perked up.
We mounted our horses. Werner clung on to his bridle with both hands, and we set off. In a trice we had galloped past the fortress, through the village, and had ridden into the gorge. Our winding road was half-overgrown with tall grass and was intersected every moment by a noisy brook, which we had to ford, to the great despair of the doctor, because each time his horse would stop in the water.
We got on our horses. Werner held onto his bridle tightly with both hands, and we took off. In no time, we had raced past the fortress, through the village, and into the gorge. Our winding path was partly overgrown with tall grass and was crossed every moment by a noisy stream that we had to cross, much to the doctor's frustration, because each time his horse would stop in the water.
A morning more fresh and blue I cannot remember! The sun had scarce shown his face from behind the green summits, and the blending of the first warmth of his rays with the dying coolness of the night produced on all my feelings a sort of sweet languor. The joyous beam of the young day had not yet penetrated the gorge; it gilded only the tops of the cliffs which overhung us on both sides. The tufted shrubs, growing in the deep crevices of the cliffs, besprinkled us with a silver shower at the least breath of wind. I remember that on that occasion I loved Nature more than ever before. With what curiosity did I examine every dewdrop trembling upon the broad vine leaf and reflecting millions of rainbowhued rays! How eagerly did my glance endeavour to penetrate the smoky distance! There the road grew narrower and narrower, the cliffs bluer and more dreadful, and at last they met, it seemed, in an impenetrable wall.
A morning more fresh and blue I can't remember! The sun had just begun to peek out from behind the green peaks, and the mix of the first warmth of its rays with the fading coolness of the night gave me a kind of sweet drowsiness. The joyful light of the new day hadn't yet reached the gorge; it only touched the tops of the cliffs above us on both sides. The lush shrubs growing in the deep cracks of the cliffs sprinkled us with a silver mist at the slightest breath of wind. I remember that on that occasion, I loved Nature more than ever before. How curiously I examined every dewdrop trembling on the broad vine leaf, reflecting millions of rainbow-colored rays! How eagerly my eyes tried to see through the smoky distance! There, the road narrowed and narrowed, the cliffs became bluer and more daunting, and eventually, they seemed to meet in an impenetrable wall.
We rode in silence.
We rode quietly.
“Have you made your will?” Werner suddenly inquired.
“Have you written your will?” Werner suddenly asked.
“No.”
“No.”
“And if you are killed?”
"And if you get killed?"
“My heirs will be found of themselves.”
“My heirs will take care of themselves.”
“Is it possible that you have no friends, to whom you would like to send a last farewell?”...
“Is it possible that you have no friends to whom you would like to say a final goodbye?”...
I shook my head.
I shook my head.
“Is there, really, not one woman in the world to whom you would like to leave some token in remembrance?”...
“Is there really not one woman in the world you would want to leave something to remember you by?”
“Do you want me to reveal my soul to you, doctor?” I answered... “You see, I have outlived the years when people die with the name of the beloved on their lips and bequeathing to a friend a lock of pomaded—or unpomaded—hair. When I think that death may be near, I think of myself alone; others do not even do as much. The friends who to-morrow will forget me or, worse, will utter goodness knows what falsehoods about me; the women who, while embracing another, will laugh at me in order not to arouse his jealousy of the deceased—let them go! Out of the storm of life I have borne away only a few ideas—and not one feeling. For a long time now I have been living, not with my heart, but with my head. I weigh, analyse my own passions and actions with severe curiosity, but without sympathy. There are two personalities within me: one lives—in the complete sense of the word—the other reflects and judges him; the first, it may be, in an hour’s time, will take farewell of you and the world for ever, and the second—the second?... Look, doctor, do you see those three black figures on the cliff, to the right? They are our antagonists, I suppose?”...
“Do you want me to open up my soul to you, doctor?” I replied... “You see, I’ve outlasted the time when people die whispering the name of their beloved and leaving a friend a lock of hair—whether styled or not. When I think that death might be close, I think of myself alone; others don’t even think that much. The friends who will forget me by tomorrow or, worse, will spread who knows what lies about me; the women who, while embracing someone else, will laugh at me to avoid triggering his jealousy for the deceased—let them go! From the storm of life, I’ve taken away only a few ideas—and not a single feeling. For a long time now, I’ve been living not with my heart but with my head. I weigh and analyze my passions and actions with harsh curiosity, but without any sympathy. There are two personalities within me: one lives—in every sense of the word—the other reflects and judges him; the first might, in an hour's time, say goodbye to you and the world forever, and the second—the second?... Look, doctor, do you see those three black figures on the cliff to the right? They are our opponents, I assume?”...
We pushed on.
We kept going.
In the bushes at the foot of the cliff three horses were tethered; we tethered ours there too, and then we clambered up the narrow path to the ledge on which Grushnitski was awaiting us in company with the captain of dragoons and his other second, whom they called Ivan Ignatevich. His surname I never heard.
In the bushes at the bottom of the cliff, three horses were tied up; we tied ours there too, and then we climbed up the narrow path to the ledge where Grushnitski was waiting for us along with the captain of the dragoons and another guy they called Ivan Ignatevich. I never caught his last name.
“We have been expecting you for quite a long time,” said the captain of dragoons, with an ironical smile.
“We've been waiting for you for a long time,” said the captain of the dragoons with a sarcastic smile.
I drew out my watch and showed him the time.
I took out my watch and showed him the time.
He apologized, saying that his watch was fast.
He apologized, saying that his watch was running fast.
There was an embarrassing silence for a few moments. At length the doctor interrupted it.
There was an awkward silence for a few moments. Finally, the doctor broke it.
“It seems to me,” he said, turning to Grushnitski, “that as you have both shown your readiness to fight, and thereby paid the debt due to the conditions of honour, you might be able to come to an explanation and finish the affair amicably.”
“It looks to me,” he said, turning to Grushnitski, “that since you both have demonstrated your willingness to fight, and thus fulfilled the obligation of honor, you could reach an understanding and resolve this matter peacefully.”
“I am ready,” I said.
"I'm ready," I said.
The captain winked to Grushnitski, and the latter, thinking that I was losing courage, assumed a haughty air, although, until that moment, his cheeks had been covered with a dull pallor. For the first time since our arrival he lifted his eyes on me; but in his glance there was a certain disquietude which evinced an inward struggle.
The captain winked at Grushnitski, and Grushnitski, thinking I was losing my nerve, put on a proud front, even though up to that point his face had been a dull shade of pale. For the first time since we got here, he looked at me; but in his eyes, there was a hint of unease that indicated an internal conflict.
“Declare your conditions,” he said, “and anything I can do for you, be assured”...
“State what you need,” he said, “and anything I can do for you, you can count on.”
“These are my conditions: you will this very day publicly recant your slander and beg my pardon”...
“These are my conditions: you will publicly take back your slander today and apologize to me.”
“My dear sir, I wonder how you dare make such a proposal to me?”
“My dear sir, I’m curious how you have the nerve to make such a proposal to me?”
“What else could I propose?”...
“What else can I suggest?”
“We will fight.”
"We will fight."
I shrugged my shoulders.
I shrugged.
“Be it so; only, bethink you that one of us will infallibly be killed.”
“Alright; just remember that one of us is definitely going to get killed.”
“I hope it will be you”...
“I hope it’s you...”
“And I am so convinced of the contrary”...
“And I am so convinced of the opposite”...
He became confused, turned red, and then burst out into a forced laugh.
He got confused, blushed, and then let out a strained laugh.
The captain took his arm and led him aside; they whispered together for a long time. I had arrived in a fairly pacific frame of mind, but all this was beginning to drive me furious.
The captain grabbed his arm and pulled him aside; they talked quietly for a long time. I had come in with a pretty calm mindset, but all of this was starting to make me really angry.
The doctor came up to me.
The doctor came over to me.
“Listen,” he said, with manifest uneasiness, “you have surely forgotten their conspiracy!... I do not know how to load a pistol, but in this case... You are a strange man! Tell them that you know their intention—and they will not dare... What sport! To shoot you like a bird”...
“Listen,” he said, clearly uneasy, “you must have forgotten their plot!... I don’t know how to load a gun, but in this situation... You’re a strange guy! Tell them that you know what they’re planning—and they won’t dare... What a thrill! To shoot you like a bird”...
“Please do not be uneasy, doctor, and wait awhile... I shall arrange everything in such a way that there will be no advantage on their side. Let them whisper”...
“Please don’t be worried, doctor, and just wait a bit... I’ll make sure everything is set up so they won’t have any advantage. Let them gossip...”
“Gentlemen, this is becoming tedious,” I said to them loudly: “if we are to fight, let us fight; you had time yesterday to talk as much as you wanted to.”
“Guys, this is getting boring,” I said to them loudly. “If we’re going to fight, let’s just do it; you had all yesterday to talk as much as you wanted.”
“We are ready,” answered the captain. “Take your places, gentlemen! Doctor, be good enough to measure six paces”...
“We're ready,” the captain said. “Everyone, take your positions! Doctor, please measure out six paces.”
“Take your places!” repeated Ivan Ignatevich, in a squeaky voice.
“Take your places!” Ivan Ignatevich repeated in a high-pitched voice.
“Excuse me!” I said. “One further condition. As we are going to fight to the death, we are bound to do everything possible in order that the affair may remain a secret, and that our seconds may incur no responsibility. Do you agree?”...
“Excuse me!” I said. “One more condition. Since we’re going to fight to the death, we need to do everything we can to keep this a secret, and our seconds shouldn’t be held responsible. Do you agree?”...
“Quite.”
"Absolutely."
“Well, then, this is my idea. Do you see that narrow ledge on the top of the perpendicular cliff on the right? It must be thirty fathoms, if not more, from there to the bottom; and, down below, there are sharp rocks. Each of us will stand right at the extremity of the ledge—in such manner even a slight wound will be mortal: that ought to be in accordance with your desire, as you yourselves have fixed upon six paces. Whichever of us is wounded will be certain to fall down and be dashed to pieces; the doctor will extract the bullet, and, then, it will be possible very easily to account for that sudden death by saying it was the result of a fall. Let us cast lots to decide who shall fire first. In conclusion, I declare that I will not fight on any other terms.”
“Well, here’s my idea. Do you see that narrow ledge on top of the sheer cliff to the right? It must be about thirty fathoms down to the bottom, if not more, and there are sharp rocks down there. Each of us will stand right at the edge of the ledge—in such a way that even a minor wound could be fatal: that should align with what you want since you’ve set it at six paces. Whoever gets hit is guaranteed to fall and be smashed to pieces; the doctor will remove the bullet, and then, it’ll be easy to explain that sudden death as a result of the fall. Let’s draw lots to decide who shoots first. Finally, I state that I will not fight under any other conditions.”
“Be it so!” said the captain after an expressive glance at Grushnitski, who nodded his head in token of assent. Every moment he was changing countenance. I had placed him in an embarrassing position. Had the duel been fought upon the usual conditions, he could have aimed at my leg, wounded me slightly, and in such wise gratified his vengeance without overburdening his conscience. But now he was obliged to fire in the air, or to make himself an assassin, or, finally, to abandon his base plan and to expose himself to equal danger with me. I should not have liked to be in his place at that moment. He took the captain aside and said something to him with great warmth. His lips were blue, and I saw them trembling; but the captain turned away from him with a contemptuous smile.
“Fine!” said the captain after giving Grushnitski a meaningful look, who nodded his head in agreement. His expression kept changing. I had really put him in a tough spot. If the duel had followed the usual rules, he could have aimed for my leg, given me a minor injury, and satisfied his desire for revenge without feeling too guilty. But now he had to either shoot into the air, become a murderer, or abandon his sneaky plan and risk the same danger I was facing. I wouldn’t have wanted to be him at that moment. He pulled the captain aside and spoke to him passionately. His lips were blue, and I noticed they were trembling; but the captain turned away from him with a scornful smile.
“You are a fool,” he said to Grushnitski rather loudly. “You can’t understand a thing!... Let us be off, then, gentlemen!”
“You're an idiot,” he said to Grushnitski rather loudly. “You can't understand anything!... Let's go, then, gentlemen!”
The precipice was approached by a narrow path between bushes, and fragments of rock formed the precarious steps of that natural staircase. Clinging to the bushes we proceeded to clamber up. Grushnitski went in front, his seconds behind him, and then the doctor and I.
The cliff was reached by a narrow path lined with bushes, and bits of rock made up the tricky steps of that natural staircase. Holding onto the bushes, we climbed up. Grushnitski led the way, followed by his friends, and then the doctor and I.
“I am surprised at you,” said the doctor, pressing my hand vigorously. “Let me feel your pulse!... Oho! Feverish!... But nothing noticeable on your countenance... only your eyes are gleaming more brightly than usual.”
“I’m surprised by you,” said the doctor, squeezing my hand firmly. “Let me check your pulse!... Oh! You have a fever!... But nothing obvious on your face... just your eyes are shining more than usual.”
Suddenly small stones rolled noisily right under our feet. What was it? Grushnitski had stumbled; the branch to which he was clinging had broken off, and he would have rolled down on his back if his seconds had not held him up.
Suddenly, small stones rolled noisily right beneath our feet. What was that? Grushnitski had tripped; the branch he was holding onto had snapped, and he would have fallen onto his back if his friends hadn’t kept him upright.
“Take care!” I cried. “Do not fall prematurely: that is a bad sign. Remember Julius Caesar!”
“Be careful!” I shouted. “Don’t fall too soon: that’s a bad omen. Remember Julius Caesar!”
CHAPTER XX
AND now we had climbed to the summit of the projecting cliff. The ledge was covered with fine sand, as if on purpose for a duel. All around, like an innumerable herd, crowded the mountains, their summits lost to view in the golden mist of the morning; and towards the south rose the white mass of Elbruz, closing the chain of icy peaks, among which fibrous clouds, which had rushed in from the east, were already roaming. I walked to the extremity of the ledge and gazed down. My head nearly swam. At the foot of the precipice all seemed dark and cold as in a tomb; the moss-grown jags of the rocks, hurled down by storm and time, were awaiting their prey.
AND now we had climbed to the top of the jutting cliff. The ledge was covered with fine sand, almost like it was set up for a duel. All around, like an endless crowd, the mountains loomed, their peaks hidden in the golden morning mist; to the south, the white mass of Elbruz rose, marking the end of the icy peaks, where wispy clouds, rushing in from the east, were already drifting. I walked to the edge of the ledge and looked down. My head nearly spun. At the base of the cliff, everything seemed dark and cold like a tomb; the moss-covered jagged rocks, worn down by storms and time, were waiting for their next victim.
The ledge on which we were to fight formed an almost regular triangle. Six paces were measured from the projecting corner, and it was decided that whichever had first to meet the fire of his opponent should stand in the very corner with his back to the precipice; if he was not killed the adversaries would change places.
The ledge where we were going to fight formed nearly a perfect triangle. We measured six steps from the jutting corner, and it was agreed that whoever had to face the fire from his opponent first would stand right in the corner, with his back to the drop. If he wasn’t killed, the opponents would switch places.
I determined to relinquish every advantage to Grushnitski; I wanted to test him. A spark of magnanimity might awake in his soul—and then all would have been settled for the best. But his vanity and weakness of character had perforce to triumph!... I wished to give myself the full right to refrain from sparing him if destiny were to favour me. Who would not have concluded such an agreement with his conscience?
I decided to give up every advantage to Grushnitski; I wanted to test him. A spark of generosity might ignite in his soul—and then everything would be resolved for the best. But his vanity and weak character inevitably won out!... I wanted to give myself the complete right to hold nothing back if fate were to favor me. Who wouldn’t have made such a deal with their conscience?
“Cast the lot, doctor!” said the captain.
“Roll the dice, doctor!” said the captain.
The doctor drew a silver coin from his pocket and held it up.
The doctor pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and showed it.
“Tail!” cried Grushnitski hurriedly, like a man suddenly aroused by a friendly nudge.
“Tail!” shouted Grushnitski quickly, like someone who’s just been woken up by a friendly nudge.
“Head,” I said.
"Head," I said.
The coin spun in the air and fell, jingling. We all rushed towards it.
The coin flipped through the air and landed, making a jingling sound. We all sprinted towards it.
“You are lucky,” I said to Grushnitski. “You are to fire first! But remember that if you do not kill me I shall not miss—I give you my word of honour.”
“You're lucky,” I said to Grushnitski. “You get to fire first! But remember, if you don't kill me, I won't miss—I promise you that.”
He flushed up; he was ashamed to kill an unarmed man. I looked at him fixedly; for a moment it seemed to me that he would throw himself at my feet, imploring forgiveness; but how to confess so base a plot?... One expedient only was left to him—to fire in the air! I was convinced that he would fire in the air! One consideration alone might prevent him doing so—the thought that I would demand a second duel.
He turned red; he felt ashamed to kill an unarmed man. I stared at him intently; for a moment, it looked like he might drop to his knees, begging for forgiveness; but how could he admit to such a cowardly scheme?... He had only one choice left—to shoot in the air! I was sure he would shoot in the air! The only thing that might stop him from doing that was the idea that I would insist on a second duel.
“Now is the time!” the doctor whispered to me, plucking me by the sleeve. “If you do not tell them now that we know their intentions, all is lost. Look, he is loading already... If you will not say anything, I will”...
“Now is the time!” the doctor whispered to me, tugging at my sleeve. “If you don’t tell them now that we know their intentions, it’s all over. Look, he’s already loading... If you won’t say anything, I will.”
“On no account, doctor!” I answered, holding him back by the arm. “You will spoil everything. You have given me your word not to interfere... What does it matter to you? Perhaps I wish to be killed”...
“Absolutely not, doctor!” I replied, grabbing his arm to stop him. “You'll ruin everything. You promised me you wouldn’t get involved... What does it matter to you? Maybe I want to die...”
He looked at me in astonishment.
He stared at me in shock.
“Oh, that is another thing!... Only do not complain of me in the other world”...
“Oh, that's another thing!... Just don’t complain about me in the next world.”
Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols and given one to Grushnitski, after whispering something to him with a smile; the other he gave to me.
Meanwhile, the captain had loaded his pistols and handed one to Grushnitski after whispering something to him with a smile; he gave the other one to me.
I placed myself in the corner of the ledge, planting my left foot firmly against the rock and bending slightly forward, so that, in case of a slight wound, I might not fall over backwards.
I positioned myself in the corner of the ledge, pressing my left foot firmly against the rock and leaning slightly forward, so that if I happened to get hurt a bit, I wouldn’t fall backwards.
Grushnitski placed himself opposite me and, at a given signal, began to raise his pistol. His knees shook. He aimed right at my forehead... Unutterable fury began to seethe within my breast.
Grushnitski stood across from me and, at a certain signal, started to lift his pistol. His knees were shaking. He aimed directly at my forehead... Uncontainable rage began to boil within me.
Suddenly he dropped the muzzle of the pistol and, pale as a sheet, turned to his second.
Suddenly, he lowered the gun and, looking pale as a ghost, turned to his assistant.
“I cannot,” he said in a hollow voice.
“I can’t,” he said in a flat voice.
“Coward!” answered the captain.
“Coward!” replied the captain.
A shot rang out. The bullet grazed my knee. Involuntarily I took a few paces forward in order to get away from the edge as quickly as possible.
A shot fired. The bullet brushed against my knee. Without thinking, I stumbled a few steps forward to get away from the edge as fast as I could.
“Well, my dear Grushnitski, it is a pity that you have missed!” said the captain. “Now it is your turn, take your stand! Embrace me first: we shall not see each other again!”
“Well, my dear Grushnitski, it's a shame you missed!” said the captain. “Now it's your turn, step up! Give me a hug first: we won't see each other again!”
They embraced; the captain could scarcely refrain from laughing.
They hugged; the captain could hardly hold back his laughter.
“Do not be afraid,” he added, glancing cunningly at Grushnitski; “everything in this world is nonsense... Nature is a fool, fate a turkeyhen, and life a copeck!” 31
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, looking slyly at Grushnitski; “everything in this world is nonsense... Nature is foolish, fate is a joke, and life is just a penny!” 31
After that tragic phrase, uttered with becoming gravity, he went back to his place. Ivan Ignatevich, with tears, also embraced Grushnitski, and there the latter remained alone, facing me. Ever since then, I have been trying to explain to myself what sort of feeling it was that was boiling within my breast at that moment: it was the vexation of injured vanity, and contempt, and wrath engendered at the thought that the man now looking at me with such confidence, such quiet insolence, had, two minutes before, been about to kill me like a dog, without exposing himself to the least danger, because had I been wounded a little more severely in the leg I should inevitably have fallen over the cliff.
After that tragic statement, said with the right seriousness, he returned to his spot. Ivan Ignatevich, in tears, also hugged Grushnitski, and there he was left alone, facing me. Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out what kind of feeling was boiling inside me at that moment: it was a mix of hurt pride, contempt, and anger, fueled by the thought that the man now looking at me with such confidence and quiet disrespect had, just two minutes earlier, been ready to kill me like a dog, without putting himself in any danger, because if I had been hurt a little worse in the leg, I would have inevitably fallen off the cliff.
For a few moments I looked him fixedly in the face, trying to discern thereon even a slight trace of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was restraining a smile.
For a moment, I stared at him, trying to see even a hint of regret on his face. But it looked like he was holding back a smile.
“I should advise you to say a prayer before you die,” I said.
"I think you should say a prayer before you die," I said.
“Do not worry about my soul any more than your own. One thing I beg of you: be quick about firing.”
“Don’t worry about my soul any more than you do about your own. There’s one thing I ask of you: hurry up and shoot.”
“And you do not recant your slander? You do not beg my forgiveness?... Bethink you well: has your conscience nothing to say to you?”
“And you won’t take back your lies? You won’t ask for my forgiveness?... Think carefully: doesn’t your conscience have anything to say to you?”
“Mr. Pechorin!” exclaimed the captain of dragoons. “Allow me to point out that you are not here to preach... Let us lose no time, in case anyone should ride through the gorge and we should be seen.”
“Mr. Pechorin!” shouted the captain of dragoons. “Let me remind you that you’re not here to preach... We should hurry, in case anyone rides through the gorge and spots us.”
“Very well. Doctor, come here!”
"Sure. Doctor, come here!"
The doctor came up to me. Poor doctor! He was paler than Grushnitski had been ten minutes before.
The doctor walked over to me. Poor guy! He looked even paler than Grushnitski had just ten minutes earlier.
The words which followed I purposely pronounced with a pause between each—loudly and distinctly, as the sentence of death is pronounced:
The words that came next, I deliberately said with a pause between each—loudly and clearly, like a death sentence is announced:
“Doctor, these gentlemen have forgotten, in their hurry, no doubt, to put a bullet in my pistol. I beg you to load it afresh—and properly!”
“Doctor, these guys must have forgotten, probably in their rush, to load my pistol. Please reload it—and do it right!”
“Impossible!” cried the captain, “impossible! I loaded both pistols. Perhaps the bullet has rolled out of yours... That is not my fault! And you have no right to load again... No right at all. It is altogether against the rules, I shall not allow it”...
“Impossible!” shouted the captain, “impossible! I loaded both guns. Maybe the bullet fell out of yours... That’s not my fault! And you don’t have the right to reload... Not at all. It’s completely against the rules; I won’t allow it.”
“Very well!” I said to the captain. “If so, then you and I shall fight on the same terms”...
“Sounds good!” I said to the captain. “If that's the case, then you and I will fight under the same conditions.”
He came to a dead stop.
He came to a complete stop.
Grushnitski stood with his head sunk on his breast, embarrassed and gloomy.
Grushnitski stood with his head down, feeling embarrassed and moody.
“Let them be!” he said at length to the captain, who was going to pull my pistol out of the doctor’s hands. “You know yourself that they are right.”
“Let them be!” he finally said to the captain, who was about to take my pistol from the doctor’s hands. “You know they’re right.”
In vain the captain made various signs to him. Grushnitski would not even look.
In vain, the captain signaled to him in several ways. Grushnitski wouldn't even glance his way.
Meanwhile the doctor had loaded the pistol and handed it to me. On seeing that, the captain spat and stamped his foot.
Meanwhile, the doctor loaded the pistol and handed it to me. Seeing that, the captain spat and stomped his foot.
“You are a fool, then, my friend,” he said: “a common fool!... You trusted to me before, so you should obey me in everything now... But serve you right! Die like a fly!”...
“You're such a fool, my friend,” he said. “A complete fool!... You relied on me before, so you should listen to me now... But you deserve it! Die like a fly!”...
He turned away, muttering as he went:
He turned away, mumbling to himself as he walked.
“But all the same it is absolutely against the rules.”
“But still, it is completely against the rules.”
“Grushnitski!” I said. “There is still time: recant your slander, and I will forgive you everything. You have not succeeded in making a fool of me; my self-esteem is satisfied. Remember—we were once friends”...
“Grushnitski!” I said. “There's still time: take back your lies, and I’ll forgive you for everything. You haven’t managed to make a fool out of me; my self-esteem is intact. Remember—we were once friends...”
His face flamed, his eyes flashed.
His face turned red, and his eyes sparkled.
“Fire!” he answered. “I despise myself and I hate you. If you do not kill me I will lie in wait for you some night and cut your throat. There is not room on the earth for both of us”...
“Fire!” he replied. “I hate myself and I hate you. If you don't kill me, I’ll be waiting for you one night to slit your throat. There’s not enough space on this earth for both of us...”
I fired.
I shot.
When the smoke had cleared away, Grushnitski was not to be seen on the ledge. Only a slender column of dust was still eddying at the edge of the precipice.
When the smoke cleared, Grushnitski was gone from the ledge. Only a thin column of dust was still swirling at the edge of the cliff.
There was a simultaneous cry from the rest.
There was a simultaneous shout from the others.
“Finita la commedia!” I said to the doctor.
“Game over!” I said to the doctor.
He made no answer, and turned away with horror.
He didn’t respond and turned away in shock.
I shrugged my shoulders and bowed to Grushnitski’s seconds.
I shrugged my shoulders and nodded to Grushnitski’s seconds.
CHAPTER XXI
AS I descended by the path, I observed Grushnitski’s bloodstained corpse between the clefts of the rocks. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes.
AS I walked down the path, I saw Grushnitski’s bloodied body lying between the cracks in the rocks. Without thinking, I shut my eyes.
Untying my horse, I set off home at a walking pace. A stone lay upon my heart. To my eyes the sun seemed dim, its beams were powerless to warm me.
Untying my horse, I headed home at a slow pace. A weight was on my heart. To me, the sun looked dim, and its rays felt useless against my coldness.
I did not ride up to the village, but turned to the right, along the gorge. The sight of a man would have been painful to me: I wanted to be alone. Throwing down the bridle and letting my head fall on my breast, I rode for a long time, and at length found myself in a spot with which I was wholly unfamiliar. I turned my horse back and began to search for the road. The sun had already set by the time I had ridden up to Kislovodsk—myself and my horse both utterly spent!
I didn't ride up to the village but instead turned right along the gorge. Seeing another person would have hurt; I needed to be alone. Throwing down the reins and letting my head drop to my chest, I rode for a long time and finally ended up in a place I didn't recognize at all. I turned my horse around and started looking for the road. By the time I made it back to Kislovodsk, the sun had already set, and both my horse and I were completely exhausted!
My servant told me that Werner had called, and he handed me two notes: one from Werner, the other... from Vera.
My servant informed me that Werner had called, and he gave me two notes: one from Werner and the other from Vera.
I opened the first; its contents were as follows:
I opened the first one, and here’s what it contained:
“Everything has been arranged as well as could be; the mutilated body has been brought in; and the bullet extracted from the breast. Everybody is convinced that the cause of death was an unfortunate accident; only the Commandant, who was doubtless aware of your quarrel, shook his head, but he said nothing. There are no proofs at all against you, and you may sleep in peace... if you can.... Farewell!”...
“Everything has been organized as best as possible; the mutilated body has been brought in, and the bullet removed from the chest. Everyone believes the cause of death was an unfortunate accident; only the Commandant, who surely knew about your fight, shook his head, but he didn’t say anything. There’s no evidence against you, and you can sleep peacefully... if you can... Farewell!”
For a long time I could not make up my mind to open the second note... What could it be that she was writing to me?... My soul was agitated by a painful foreboding.
For a long time, I couldn't decide to open the second note... What could she be writing to me?... My soul was troubled by a painful sense of dread.
Here it is, that letter, each word of which is indelibly engraved upon my memory:
Here it is, that letter, every word of which is permanently etched in my memory:
“I am writing to you in the full assurance that we shall never see each other again. A few years ago on parting with you I thought the same. However, it has been Heaven’s will to try me a second time: I have not been able to endure the trial, my frail heart has again submitted to the well-known voice... You will not despise me for that—will you? This letter will be at once a farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tell you everything that has been treasured up in my heart since it began to love you. I will not accuse you—you have acted towards me as any other man would have acted; you have loved me as a chattel, as a source of joys, disquietudes and griefs, interchanging one with the other, without which life would be dull and monotonous. I have understood all that from the first... But you were unhappy, and I have sacrificed myself, hoping that, some time, you would appreciate my sacrifice, that some time you would understand my deep tenderness, unfettered by any conditions. A long time has elapsed since then: I have fathomed all the secrets of your soul... and I have convinced myself that my hope was vain. It has been a bitter blow to me! But my love has been grafted with my soul; it has grown dark, but has not been extinguished.
“I’m writing to you fully aware that we’ll never meet again. A few years ago, when we parted, I felt the same way. However, it seems it was meant to be that I would face this again: I couldn’t handle it, and my fragile heart has once more yielded to that familiar voice... You won’t look down on me for that, will you? This letter is both a farewell and a confession: I need to share everything that I've kept in my heart since I fell in love with you. I won’t blame you—you’ve treated me like any other man would; you loved me as an object, as a source of happiness, anxiety, and sorrow, switching between the two, which makes life vibrant and varied. I understood that from the start... But you were unhappy, and I sacrificed myself, hoping that one day you would recognize my sacrifice, and realize my deep, unconditional affection. A long time has passed since then: I’ve explored all the depths of your soul... and I've come to understand that my hope was in vain. That realization has hit me hard! But my love is intertwined with my very being; it has darkened but hasn’t gone out."
“We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure that I shall never love another. Upon you my soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears, its hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look without a certain disdain upon other men, not because you have been better than they, oh, no! but in your nature there is something peculiar—belonging to you alone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, whatever the words spoken, there is an invincible power. No one can so constantly wish to be loved, in no one is wickedness ever so attractive, no one’s glance promises so much bliss, no one can better make use of his advantages, and no one can be so truly unhappy as you, because no one endeavours so earnestly to convince himself of the contrary.
“We're parting for good; but you can be sure that I will never love anyone else. I have poured all my soul’s treasures, its tears, and hopes into you. Once someone has loved you, they can’t help but look at other men with a certain disdain, not because you are better than them, oh no! But there is something unique about you—something that belongs to you alone, something proud and mysterious; in your voice, no matter what you say, there’s an undeniable power. No one wishes to be loved as constantly as you do; in no one else is wickedness so appealing, no one’s gaze promises as much happiness, no one knows how to use their advantages better, and no one can be as genuinely unhappy as you, because no one tries as hard to convince themselves otherwise.”
“Now I must explain the cause of my hurried departure; it will seem of little importance to you, because it concerns me alone.
“Now I need to explain why I left in such a hurry; it may seem unimportant to you since it only affects me.”
“This morning my husband came in and told me about your quarrel with Grushnitski. Evidently I changed countenance greatly, because he looked me in the face long and intently. I almost fainted at the thought that you had to fight a duel to-day, and that I was the cause of it; it seemed to me that I should go mad... But now, when I am able to reason, I am sure that you remain alive: it is impossible that you should die, and I not with you—impossible! My husband walked about the room for a long time. I do not know what he said to me, I do not remember what I answered... Most likely I told him that I loved you... I only remember that, at the end of our conversation, he insulted me with a dreadful word and left the room. I heard him ordering the carriage... I have been sitting at the window three hours now, awaiting your return... But you are alive, you cannot have died!... The carriage is almost ready... Good-bye, good-bye!... I have perished—but what matter? If I could be sure that you will always remember me—I no longer say love—no, only remember... Good-bye, they are coming!... I must hide this letter.
“This morning, my husband came in and told me about your fight with Grushnitski. I must have looked really shocked because he stared at me for a long time. I almost passed out at the thought that you had to duel today, and that I was the reason for it; it felt like I might go crazy... But now that I can think clearly, I know you’re alive: there’s no way you could die without me dying too—impossible! My husband paced around the room for quite a while. I don’t remember what he said to me or what I replied... Most likely, I told him I loved you... I just remember that, at the end of our talk, he insulted me with a horrible word and left the room. I heard him ordering the carriage... I’ve been sitting by the window for three hours now, waiting for you to come back... But you’re alive, you can’t have died!... The carriage is almost ready... Goodbye, goodbye!... I’ve perished—but who cares? If I could be sure you would always remember me—I’m not asking for love anymore—just remember... Goodbye, they’re coming!... I need to hide this letter.
“You do not love Mary, do you? You will not marry her? Listen, you must offer me that sacrifice. I have lost everything in the world for you”...
“You don’t love Mary, do you? You’re not going to marry her? Listen, you have to make that sacrifice for me. I’ve lost everything in the world for you.”
Like a madman I sprang on the steps, jumped on my Circassian horse which was being led about the courtyard, and set off at full gallop along the road to Pyatigorsk. Unsparingly I urged on the jaded horse, which, snorting and all in a foam, carried me swiftly along the rocky road.
Like a lunatic, I leaped onto the steps, hopped on my Circassian horse that was being led around the courtyard, and took off at full speed down the road to Pyatigorsk. I relentlessly pushed the tired horse, which, snorting and covered in foam, rushed me swiftly along the rocky path.
The sun had already disappeared behind a black cloud, which had been resting on the ridge of the western mountains; the gorge grew dark and damp. The Podkumok, forcing its way over the rocks, roared with a hollow and monotonous sound. I galloped on, choking with impatience. The idea of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck my heart like a hammer. For one minute, again to see her for one minute, to say farewell, to press her hand... I prayed, cursed, wept, laughed... No, nothing could express my anxiety, my despair!... Now that it seemed possible that I might be about to lose her for ever, Vera became dearer to me than aught in the world—dearer than life, honour, happiness! God knows what strange, what mad plans swarmed in my head... Meanwhile I still galloped, urging on my horse without pity. And, now, I began to notice that he was breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled once or twice on level ground... I was five versts from Essentuki—a Cossack village where I could change horses.
The sun had already vanished behind a dark cloud sitting on the ridge of the western mountains; the gorge grew dim and damp. The Podkumok, crashing over the rocks, roared with a hollow, monotonous sound. I rode on, filled with impatience. The thought of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk hit my heart like a hammer. Just to see her for one more minute, to say goodbye, to hold her hand... I prayed, cursed, cried, laughed... No words could capture my anxiety, my despair!... Now that it seemed I might lose her forever, Vera became more precious to me than anything in the world—more precious than life, honor, happiness! God knows what strange, crazy plans raced through my mind... Meanwhile, I kept riding, pushing my horse hard. Now, I began to notice he was breathing heavier; he had stumbled a couple of times even on flat ground... I was five versts from Essentuki—a Cossack village where I could switch horses.
All would have been saved had my horse been able to hold out for another ten minutes. But suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulley where the road emerges from the mountains at a sharp turn, he fell to the ground. I jumped down promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged at his bridle—in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst through his clenched teeth; in a few moments he expired. I was left on the steppe, alone; I had lost my last hope. I endeavoured to walk—my legs sank under me; exhausted by the anxieties of the day and by sleeplessness, I fell upon the wet grass and burst out crying like a child.
All would have been saved if my horse could have lasted just ten more minutes. But suddenly, as he was trying to lift himself out of a small gully where the road turns sharply to leave the mountains, he collapsed. I jumped down quickly, tried to lift him up, and pulled at his bridle, but it was useless. A barely audible moan escaped his clenched teeth, and moments later he passed away. I was left on the steppe, alone; I'd lost my last hope. I tried to walk, but my legs gave out; worn out from the day’s worries and lack of sleep, I fell onto the wet grass and cried like a child.
For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, without attempting to restrain my tears and sobs. I thought my breast would burst. All my firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; my soul grew powerless, my reason silent, and, if anyone had seen me at that moment, he would have turned aside with contempt.
For a long time, I lay still and cried hard, not even trying to hold back my tears and sobs. I felt like my chest would explode. All my strength, all my composure, vanished like smoke; my spirit felt weak, my mind quiet, and if anyone had seen me then, they would have looked away in disgust.
When the night-dew and the mountain breeze had cooled my burning brow, and my thoughts had resumed their usual course, I realized that to pursue my perished happiness would be unavailing and unreasonable. What more did I want?—To see her?—Why? Was not all over between us? A single, bitter, farewell kiss would not have enriched my recollections, and, after it, parting would only have been more difficult for us.
When the night dew and the mountain breeze had cooled my burning forehead, and my thoughts had returned to normal, I realized that chasing after my lost happiness would be pointless and irrational. What more did I want?—To see her?—Why? Wasn’t everything over between us? A single, painful farewell kiss wouldn’t have added anything to my memories, and after that, saying goodbye would only have been harder for both of us.
Still, I am pleased that I can weep. Perhaps, however, the cause of that was my shattered nerves, a night passed without sleep, two minutes opposite the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach.
Still, I'm glad that I can cry. Maybe the reason for that was my frayed nerves, a sleepless night, two minutes facing the barrel of a gun, and an empty stomach.
It is all for the best. That new suffering created within me a fortunate diversion—to speak in military style. To weep is healthy, and then, no doubt, if I had not ridden as I did and had not been obliged to walk fifteen versts on my way back, sleep would not have closed my eyes on that night either.
It's all for the best. That new pain made way for a welcome distraction—if I can use a military term. Crying is good for you, and honestly, if I hadn't ridden like I did and had to walk fifteen versts on my way back, I probably wouldn't have been able to sleep that night either.
I returned to Kislovodsk at five o’clock in the morning, threw myself on my bed, and slept the sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo.
I got back to Kislovodsk at five in the morning, collapsed onto my bed, and slept like Napoleon after Waterloo.
By the time I awoke it was dark outside. I sat by the open window, with my jacket unbuttoned—and the mountain breeze cooled my breast, still troubled by the heavy sleep of weariness. In the distance beyond the river, through the tops of the thick lime trees which overshadowed it, lights were glancing in the fortress and the village. Close at hand all was calm. It was dark in Princess Ligovski’s house.
By the time I woke up, it was dark outside. I sat by the open window, my jacket unbuttoned, and the mountain breeze cooled my chest, still weighed down by deep sleep from exhaustion. In the distance, beyond the river and through the tops of the thick lime trees that shaded it, lights were flickering in the fortress and the village. Nearby, everything was quiet. It was dark in Princess Ligovski’s house.
The doctor entered; his brows were knit; contrary to custom, he did not offer me his hand.
The doctor walked in, his eyebrows furrowed; unlike usual, he didn't offer me his hand.
“Where have you come from, doctor?”
“Where did you come from, doctor?”
“From Princess Ligovski’s; her daughter is ill—nervous exhaustion... That is not the point, though. This is what I have come to tell you: the authorities are suspicious, and, although it is impossible to prove anything positively, I should, all the same, advise you to be cautious. Princess Ligovski told me to-day that she knew that you fought a duel on her daughter’s account. That little old man—what’s his name?—has told her everything. He was a witness of your quarrel with Grushnitski in the restaurant. I have come to warn you. Good-bye. Maybe we shall not meet again: you will be banished somewhere.”
“From Princess Ligovski’s; her daughter is sick—nervous exhaustion... That's not the main point, though. This is what I came to tell you: the authorities are suspicious, and while it's impossible to prove anything for sure, I still advise you to be careful. Princess Ligovski told me today that she knew you had a duel over her daughter. That little old man—what's his name?—told her everything. He witnessed your argument with Grushnitski in the restaurant. I came to warn you. Goodbye. We might not see each other again: you could be sent away somewhere.”
He stopped on the threshold; he would gladly have pressed my hand... and, had I shown the slightest desire to embrace him, he would have thrown himself upon my neck; but I remained cold as a rock—and he left the room.
He paused at the door; he would have happily taken my hand... and, if I had shown even the smallest interest in hugging him, he would have rushed to embrace me; but I stayed completely indifferent—and he walked out of the room.
That is just like men! They are all the same: they know beforehand all the bad points of an act, they help, they advise, they even encourage it, seeing the impossibility of any other expedient—and then they wash their hands of the whole affair and turn away with indignation from him who has had the courage to take the whole burden of responsibility upon himself. They are all like that, even the best-natured, the wisest...
That’s just like men! They’re all the same: they know all the downsides of an action beforehand, they assist, they advise, they even encourage it, realizing there’s no other option—and then they distance themselves from the whole situation and look down on the one who had the guts to take full responsibility. They’re all like that, even the kindest, the smartest...
CHAPTER XXII
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.
NEXT morning, after getting orders from the top authority to go to the N——Fortress, I visited Princess Ligovski to say goodbye.
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.
She was surprised when, in response to her question about whether I had anything important to tell her, I said I had come to say goodbye, and so on.
“But I must have a very serious talk with you.”
“But I really need to have a serious conversation with you.”
I sat down in silence.
I sat quietly.
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:
It was obvious that she didn’t know how to start; her face turned pale, she tapped the table with her chubby fingers; finally, in a shaky voice, she said:
“Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you are a gentleman.”
“Listen, Mr. Pechorin, I believe you are a gentleman.”
I bowed.
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”...
“Nay, I’m sure of it,” she continued, “even though your behavior is a bit unclear. You might have reasons I don’t know about, and you need to share them with me now. You’ve protected my daughter from rumors, you’ve fought a duel for her—so you’ve risked your life... Don’t reply. I know you won’t admit it because Grushnitski is dead”—she crossed herself. “God forgive him—and you too, I hope... That’s not my concern... I can’t condemn you because my daughter, even unknowingly, has been the cause. She’s told me everything... everything, I think. You’ve declared your love for her... She has confessed hers to you.” Here, Princess Ligovski sighed heavily. “But she is unwell, and I’m sure it’s not just a simple illness! Secret grief is eating her up; she won’t admit it, but I believe you’re the reason... Listen: you might think I’m after status or great wealth—let me clear that up, my only desire is my daughter’s happiness. Your current situation is difficult, but it can improve: you have options; my daughter loves you; she’s been raised to make her husband a happy man. I’m wealthy, and she is my only child... Tell me, what’s stopping you?... You see, I shouldn’t be saying all of this to you, but I trust your heart, your honor—remember she is my only daughter... my only one...”
She burst into tears.
She started crying.
“Princess,” I said, “it is impossible for me to answer you; allow me to speak to your daughter, alone”...
“Princess,” I said, “I can’t answer you; please let me talk to your daughter, alone.”
“Never!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair in violent agitation.
“Never!” she said, standing up from her chair in a fit of anger.
“As you wish,” I answered, preparing to go away.
“As you wish,” I replied, getting ready to leave.
She fell into thought, made a sign to me with her hand that I should wait a little, and left the room.
She got lost in thought, gestured for me to wait a moment, and walked out of 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!
Five minutes went by. My heart was racing, but my thoughts were calm and my head clear. No matter how hard I tried to find even a hint of love for the lovely Mary, I just couldn't do it!
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!
Then the door opened, and she walked in. Wow! She had changed so much since the last time I saw her—and that was just a little while ago!
When she reached the middle of the room, she staggered. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and led her to a chair.
When she got to the middle of the room, she stumbled. I jumped up, offered 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.
I stood facing her. We were silent for a long time; her big eyes, full of overwhelming sadness, seemed to be searching mine for something like hope; her pale lips tried to smile but failed; her delicate hands, folded on her knees, were so thin and translucent that I felt sorry for her.
“Princess,” I said, “you know that I have been making fun of you?... You must despise me.”
“Princess,” I said, “you know I’ve been teasing you?... You must hate me.”
A sickly flush suffused her cheeks.
A faint blush spread across her cheeks.
“Consequently,” I continued, “you cannot love me”...
“Therefore,” I continued, “you can’t 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.
She turned her head away, leaned her elbows on the table, covered her eyes with her hand, and it looked to me like she was about to cry.
“Oh, God!” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, barely audible.
The situation was growing intolerable. Another minute—and I should have fallen at her feet.
The situation was becoming unbearable. One more minute—and I would have dropped to 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?”...
“So you see,” I said as firmly as I could manage, forcing a smile, “you see that I can’t marry you. Even if you wanted to now, you’d soon regret it. My conversation with your mom has forced me to be brutally honest with you. I hope she’s under some kind of misunderstanding; it’ll be easy for you to clear that up. You see, I’m playing a pretty pathetic and ugly role in your eyes, and I admit that—that’s the most I can do for you. No matter how poorly you think of me, I accept it... You see that I’m beneath you, right?... Isn’t it true that even if you’ve loved me, you’d look down on me from this moment on?”
She turned round to me. She was pale as marble, but her eyes were sparkling wondrously.
She turned to me. She was as pale as marble, but her eyes were sparkling brilliantly.
“I hate you”... she said.
"I hate you," she said.
I thanked her, bowed respectfully, and left the room.
I thanked her, nodded 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...
An hour later, a postal express was quickly taking me away from Kislovodsk. A few miles from Essentuki, I spotted my spirited horse’s body alongside the road. The saddle had clearly been removed by a passing Cossack, and instead, two ravens were perched on the horse’s back. I sighed and looked 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?
And now, here in this exhausting fortress, I often ask myself, as my thoughts drift back to the past: why didn’t I choose to follow that path, opened by fate, where soft joys and peace of mind were waiting for me?... No, I could never have gotten used to such a life! I’m like a sailor born and raised on a pirate ship: his soul has adapted to storms and battles; but once he’s cast ashore, he feels restless, he withers away, no matter how inviting the shady groves are, or how brightly the peaceful sun shines. All day long he walks the sandy beach, listening to the monotonous sound of the crashing waves, and staring into the misty distance: look! There, on the pale line where the blue ocean meets the gray clouds, isn’t that the longed-for sail, initially like a seagull’s wing, but slowly separating from the foam of the waves and, steadily, coming closer to the deserted harbor?
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 preface of a book acts as both an introduction and a conclusion. It gives the author a chance to explain the purpose of the work or to defend himself and respond to criticism. Generally, though, readers are not really interested in the book's moral purpose or in the reviewers' attacks, so they often skip the preface. This is unfortunate, especially for us Russians! The public in this country is so young, if not a bit naïve, that it can't grasp the meaning of a fable unless the moral is clearly stated at the end. Incapable of seeing a joke and insensitive to irony, it has, in short, been poorly educated. It hasn't yet realized that in a proper book, as in decent society, open insults are inappropriate; that our modern civilization has developed a sharper tool, equally deadly but almost invisible, which, under the guise of flattery, strikes with precise and unavoidable effect. The Russian public resembles a simple person from the countryside who, by chance, overhears a conversation between two diplomats from rival nations and walks away convinced that each has been deceiving his government for the sake of a heartfelt personal 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.
The unfortunate consequences of some readers and even reviewers taking words too literally have recently been shown in relation to this book. Many readers have been truly and seriously shocked to see such an immoral character as Pechorin presented as a role model. Others have pointed out, quite insightfully, that the author has depicted his own image and those of his friends!... What a tired and miserable joke! But it seems that Russia is structured in such a way that these kinds of absurdities will never be eliminated. It’s questionable whether even the most ethereal fairy tales in this country could escape accusations of being personally offensive.
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?”
Pechorin, gentlemen, is essentially a portrait, but not just of one individual; he’s a composite portrait, made up of all the vices that thrive among today’s generation. You might tell me, as you have before, that no one can be as bad as this; and my response will be: “If you think that people like the villains in tragedies and romances could really exist, then why can't you believe in Pechorin's reality? If you find much more terrifying and monstrous fictions admirable, why is it that this character, even if seen merely as a product of imagination, cannot find some sympathy from you? Isn't it because there is more truth in him than you might find completely acceptable?”
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!
You might say that this book doesn’t help the cause of morality. I respectfully disagree. People have been overwhelmed with sweets, and now their digestion is messed up: so, bitter medicine and harsh truths are needed. But let me be clear: the author never fancied himself a reformer of human flaws. Heaven help him from such arrogance! He simply finds it interesting to portray a person who he feels is typical of today and whom he has encountered in real life—too often, unfortunately, both for the author and for you. It’s enough to point out the issue: as for how to fix it—only God knows!
FOOTNOTES:
2 (return)
[ A verst is a measure of
length, about 3500 English feet.]
2 (return)
[ A verst is a unit of measurement for length, approximately 3500 feet.]
3 (return)
[ 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.]
3 (return)
[ Ermolov, that is, General Ermolov. Russians have three names—given name, patronymic, and surname. They are referred to by the first two only. The surname of Maksim Maksimych (short for Maksimovich) is not mentioned.]
4 (return)
[ The bell on the duga, a
wooden arch joining the shafts of a Russian conveyance over the horse’s
neck.]
4 (return)
[ The bell on the duga, a wooden arch connecting the shafts of a Russian vehicle over the horse’s neck.]
5 (return)
[ Rocky Ford.]
5 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Rocky Ford.]
7 (return)
[ i.e. acknowledging Russian
supremacy.]
7 (return)
[ i.e. recognizing Russian dominance.]
8 (return)
[ A kind of two-stringed or
three-stringed guitar.]
8 (return)
[ A type of guitar with two or three strings.]
9 (return)
[ “Good—very good.”]
9 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ "Awesome—very awesome." ]
10 (return)
[ Turkish for “Black-eye.”]
10 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Turkish for “Black-eye.”]
11 (return)
[ “No!”]
11 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ “No way!”]
12 (return)
[ A particular kind of
ancient and valued sabre.]
12 (return)
[ A specific type of ancient and prized sword.]
13 (return)
[ King—a title of the
Sultan of Turkey.]
13 (return)
[ King—a title for the Sultan of Turkey.]
14 (return)
[ 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.)]
14 (return)
[ I apologize to my readers for putting Kazbich’s song into verse, which, as I heard it, was actually in prose; but habit becomes second nature. (Author’s note.)]
151 (return)
[ “No! Russian—bad,
bad!”]
151 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ “No! Russian—awful, awful!”]
15 (return)
[ Krestov is an adjective
meaning “of the cross” (Krest=cross); and, of course, is not the Russian
for “Christophe.”]
15 (return)
[ Krestov is an adjective meaning “of the cross” (Krest=cross); and, of course, is not the Russian for “Christophe.”]
16 (return)
[ A legendary Russian hero
whose whistling knocked people down.]
16 (return)
[ A famous Russian hero whose whistle could knock people over.]
17 (return)
[ Lezghian dance.]
17 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Lezginka dance.]
18 (return)
[ In Russian—okaziya=occasion,
adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate!]
18 (return)
[ In Russian—okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate!]
19 (return)
[ The duga.]
19 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ The duga.]
20 (return)
[ “Thou” is the form of
address used in speaking to an intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the
more formal “you.”]
20 (return)
[ “You” is the form of address used when speaking to a close friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal “you.”]
22 (return)
[ Desyatnik, a
superintendent of ten (men or huts), i.e. an officer like the old English
tithing-man or headborough.]
22 (return)
[Desyatnik, a supervisor of ten (people or huts), meaning an officer similar to the old English tithing-man or headborough.]
23 (return)
[ Card-games.]
23 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Card games.]
24 (return)
[ A Caucasian wine.]
24 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[A white wine.]
25 (return)
[ Pushkin. Compare
Shelley’s Adonais, xxxi. 3: “as the last cloud of an expiring storm.”]
25 (return)
[ Pushkin. Compare
Shelley’s Adonais, xxxi. 3: “like the final cloud of a fading storm.”]
26 (return)
[ The Snake, the Iron and
the Bald Mountains.]
26 (return)
[ The Snake, the Iron and the Bald Mountains.]
27 (return)
[ Nizhegorod is the
“government” of which Nizhniy Novgorod is the capital.]
27 (return)
[ Nizhegorod is the "government" of which Nizhniy Novgorod is the capital.]
271 (return)
[ A popular phrase,
equivalent to: “How should I think of doing such a thing?”]
271 (return)
[ A common phrase, equivalent to: “Why would I consider doing something like that?”]
272 (return)
[ Published by Senkovski,
and under the censorship of the Government.]
272 (return)
[ Published by Senkovski, and approved by the Government.]
273 (return)
[ Civil servants of the
ninth (the lowest) class.]
273 (return)
[Civil servants in the ninth class (the lowest).]
28 (return)
[ i.e. serfs.]
28 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ i.e. peasants.]
29 (return)
[ Pushkin: Eugene Onyegin.]
29 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Pushkin: Eugene Onegin.]
“Quinci al bosco t’ invia, dove cotanti]
Son fantasmi inganne vole e bugiardi”...]
“Go into the woods, where so many are deceptive and dishonest ghosts...”
301 (return)
[ 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.]
301 (return)
[ None of the Waverley novels actually has this title. The book being mentioned is definitely “Old Mortality,” which inspired Bellini’s opera, “I Puritani di Scozia.”]
31 (return)
[ Popular phrases,
equivalent to: “Men are fools, fortune is blind, and life is not worth a
straw.”]
31 (return)
[ Common sayings, equivalent to: “Men are foolish, luck is random, and life isn’t worth anything.”]
Download ePUB
If you like this ebook, consider a donation!