"A CROWD was awaiting us at the fortress gate. Carefully we carried the wounded girl to Pechorin's quarters, and then we sent for the doctor. The latter was drunk, but he came, examined the wound, and announced that she could not live more than a day. He was mistaken, though." "She recovered?" I asked the staff-captain, seizing him by the arm, and involuntarily re- joicing. "No," he replied, "but the doctor was so far mistaken that she lived two days longer." "Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with her!" "It was like this: in spite of Pechorin's pro- hibition, she went out of the fortress and down to the river. It was a very hot day, you know, and she sat on a rock and dipped her feet in the water. Up crept Kazbich, pounced upon her, silenced her, and dragged her into the bushes. Then he sprang on his horse and made off. In the meantime she succeeded in crying out, the sentries took the alarm, fired, but wide of the mark; and thereupon we arrived on the scene." "But what did Kazbich want to carry her off for?" "Good gracious! Why, everyone knows these Circassians are a race of thieves; they can't keep their hands off anything that is left lying about! They may not want a thing, but they will steal it, for all that. Still, you mustn't be too hard on them. And, besides, he had been in love with her for a long time." "And Bela died?" "Yes, she died, but she suffered for a long time, and we were fairly knocked up with her, I can tell you. About ten o'clock in the evening she came to herself. We were sitting by her bed. As soon as ever she opened A HERO OF OUR TIME her eyes she began to call Pechorin. "'I am here beside you, my janechka' (that is, 'my darling'), he answered, taking her by the hand. "'I shall die,' she said. "We began to comfort her, telling her that the doctor had promised infallibly to cure her. She shook her little head and turned to the wall -- she did not want to die! . . . "At night she became delirious, her head burned, at times a feverish paroxysm convulsed her whole body. She talked incoherently about her father, her brother; she yearned for the mountains, for her home. . . Then she spoke of Pechorin also, called him various fond names, or reproached him for having ceased to love his janechka. He listened to her in silence, his head sunk in his hands; but yet, during the whole time, I did not notice a single tear-drop on his lashes. I do not know whether he was actually unable to weep or was mastering himself; but for my part I have never seen anything more pitiful. "Towards morning the delirium passed off. For an hour or so she lay motionless, pale, and so weak that it was hardly possible to observe that she was breathing. After that she grew better and began to talk: only about what, think you? Such thoughts come only to the dying! . . . She lamented that she was not a Christian, that in the other world her soul would never meet the soul of Grigori Aleksandrovich, and that in Paradise another woman would be his companion. The thought occurred to me to baptize her before her death. I told her my idea; she looked at me undecidedly, and for a long time was unable to utter a word. Finally she answered that she would die in the faith in which she had been born. A whole day passed thus. What a change that day made in her! Her pale cheeks fell in, her eyes grew ever so large, her lips burned. She felt a consuming heat within her, as though a red-hot blade was piercing her breast. "The second night came on. We did not close our eyes or leave the bedside. She suffered terribly, and groaned; and directly the pain began to abate she endeavoured to assure Grigori Aleksandrovich that she felt better, tried to persuade him to go to bed, kissed his hand and would not A HERO OF OUR TIME let it out of hers. Before the morning she began to feel the death agony and to toss about. She knocked the bandage off, and the blood flowed afresh. When the wound was bound up again she grew quiet for a moment and begged Pechorin to kiss her. He fell on his knees beside the bed, raised her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to hers -- which were growing cold. She threw her trembling arms closely round his neck, as if with that kiss she wished to yield up her soul to him. -- No, she did well to die! Why, what would have become of her if Grigori Aleksandrovich had abandoned her? And that is what would have happened, sooner or later. "During half the following day she was calm, silent and docile, however much the doctor tortured her with his fomentations and mixtures. "'Good heavens!' I said to him, 'you know you said yourself that she was certain to die, so what is the good of all these preparations of yours?' "'Even so, it is better to do all this,' he replied, 'so that I may have an easy conscience.' "A pretty conscience, forsooth! "After midday Bela began to suffer from thirst. We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside than in the room; we placed ice round the bed -- all to no purpose. I knew that that intolerable thirst was a sign of the approaching end, and I told Pechorin so. "'Water, water!' she said in a hoarse voice, raising herself up from the bed. "Pechorin turned pale as a sheet, seized a glass, filled it, and gave it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and began to say a prayer -- I can't remember what. . . Yes, my friend, many a time have I seen people die in hospitals or on the field of battle, but this was something altogether different! Still, this one thing grieves me, I must confess: she died without even once calling me to mind. Yet I loved her, I should think, like a father! . . . Well, God forgive her! . . . And, to tell the truth, what am I that she should have remembered me when she was dying? . . . "As soon as she had drunk the water, she grew easier -- but in about three minutes she breathed her last! We put a looking-glass to her lips -- it was undimmed! A HERO OF OUR TIME "I led Pechorin from the room, and we went on to the fortress rampart. For a long time we walked side by side, to and fro, speaking not a word and with our hands clasped behind our backs. His face expressed nothing out of the common -- and that vexed me. Had I been in his place, I should have died of grief. At length he sat down on the ground in the shade and began to draw something in the sand with his stick. More for form's sake than anything, you know, I tried to console him and began to talk. He raised his head and burst into a laugh! At that laugh a cold shudder ran through me. . . I went away to order a coffin. "I confess it was partly to distract my thoughts that I busied myself in that way. I possessed a little piece of Circassian stuff, and I covered the coffin with it, and decked it with some Circassian silver lace which Grigori Aleksandrovich had bought for Bela herself. "Early next morning we buried her behind the fortress, by the river, beside the spot where she had sat for the last time. Around her little grave white acacia shrubs and elder-trees have now grown up. I should have liked to erect a cross, but that would not have done, you know -- after all, she was not a Christian." "And what of Pechorin?" I asked. "Pechorin was ill for a long time, and grew thin, poor fellow; but we never spoke of Bela from that time forth. I saw that it would be dis- agreeable to him, so what would have been the use? About three months later he was appointed to the E---- Regiment, and departed for Georgia. We have never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, somebody told me not long ago that he had returned to Russia -- but it was not in the general orders for the corps. Besides, to the like of us news is late in coming." Hereupon -- probably to drown sad memories -- he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late. I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen. In an hour's time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin. "You have not heard what became of Kaz- bich?" I asked. A HERO OF OUR TIME "Kazbich? In truth, I don't know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and bows politely whenever one hums near him -- but it can scarcely be the same person!" . . . In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he, on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like, I will tell you how -- it is quite a history. . . You must acknowledge, though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect. . . If you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy story. A HERO OF OUR TIME BOOK II MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image -- especially to those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read. I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is impossible to knock any sense at all out of them. I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer, because the "Adventure" had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure![1] . . . 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. [1] In Russian -- okaziya=occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya=how unfortunate! 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME my own room with him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a smile -- a queer fellow, that! . . . Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to forget the modest number of dishes -- of which there was one, all told. Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down -- I by the window, and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted because the day was damp and cold. We remained silent. What had we to talk about? He had already told me all that was of interest about himself and I had nothing to relate. I looked out of the window. Here and there, behind the trees, I caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses straggling along the bank of the Terek, which flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream; farther off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the mountains, behind which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in his high- priest's hat of white. I took a mental farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them. . . Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys, when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a travelling- carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind of foreign stamp. Be- hind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant. From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master -- something in the nature of a Russian Figaro. "Tell me, my good man," I called to him out of the window. "What is it? -- Has the 'Ad- venture' arrived, eh?" A HERO OF OUR TIME He gave me a rather insolent glance, straight- ened his cravat, and turned away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for him that the "Adventure" had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the return journey the following morning. "Thank heavens!" said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at that moment. "What a wonderful carriage!" he added; "probably it belongs to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend, you're not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would shake even an English carriage to bits! -- But who could it be? Let us go and find out." We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging portmanteaux into the room. "I say, my man!" the staff-captain asked him: "Whose is that marvellous carriage? -- Eh? -- A beautiful carriage!" Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry. "I am speaking to you, my friend!" he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder. "Whose carriage? -- My master's." "And who is your master?" "Pechorin --" "What did you say? What? Pechorin? -- Great Heavens! . . . Did he not serve in the Caucasus?" exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with joy. "Yes, he served there, I think -- but I have not been with him long." "Well! Just so! . . . Just so! . . . Grigori Aleksandrovich? . . . that is his name, of course? Your master and I were friends," he added, giving the manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause him to stagger. "Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me," said the latter, frowning. "What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don't you know, your master and I were bosom friends, and lived together? . . . But where has he A HERO OF OUR TIME put up?" The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass the night at Colonel N----'s. "But won't he be looking in here in the evening?" said Maksim Maksimych. "Or, you, my man, won't you be going over to him for something? . . . If you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that -- he'll know! -- I'll give you half a ruble for a tip!" The manservant made a scornful face on hearing such a modest promise, but he assured Maksim Maksimych that he would execute his commission. "He'll be sure to come running up directly!" said Maksim Maksimych, with an air of triumph. "I will go outside the gate and wait for him! Ah, it's a pity I am not acquainted with Colonel N----!" Maksim Maksimych sat down on a little bench outside the gate, and I went to my room. I confess that I also was awaiting this Pechorin's appearance with a certain amount of impatience -- although, from the staff-captain's story, I had formed a by no means favourable idea of him. Still, certain traits in his character struck me as remarkable. In an hour's time one of the old soldiers brought a steaming samovar and a teapot. "Won't you have some tea, Maksim Mak- simych?" I called out of the window. "Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow." "Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and cold!" "No, thank you" . . . "Well, just as you like!" I began my tea alone. About ten minutes afterwards my old captain came in. "You are right, you know; it would be better to have a drop of tea -- but I was waiting for Pechorin. His man has been gone a long time now, but evidently something has detained him." The staff-captain hurriedly sipped a cup of tea, refused a second, and went off again outside the gate -- not without a certain amount of dis- quietude. 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME me of their friendship, and up to an hour ago had been convinced that Pechorin would come running up immediately on hearing his name. It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and began to call Maksim Maksimych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered something through his teeth. I repeated my invitation -- he made no answer. I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I lay down on the couch and soon fell into slumber; and I would have slept on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych awakened me as he came into the room. It was then very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began to walk up and down the room, and to rattle about at the stove. At last he lay down, but for a long time he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing about. "The bugs are biting you, are they not?" I asked. "Yes, that is it," he answered, with a heavy sigh. I woke early the next morning, but Maksim Maksimych had anticipated me. I found him sitting on the little bench at the gate. "I have to go to the Commandant," he said, "so, if Pechorin comes, please send for me." . . . I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs had regained their youthful strength and supple- ness. The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden clouds had massed themselves on the mountain- tops like a new range of aerial mountains. Before the gate a wide square spread out; behind it the bazaar was seething with people, the day being Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying wallets of honeycomb on their shoulders, were hovering around me. I cursed them; I had other things to think of -- I was beginning to share the worthy staff-captain's uneasiness. Before ten minutes had passed the man we were awaiting appeared at the end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N., who accom- panied him as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and then turned back to the fortress. I im- mediately despatched one of the old soldiers for Maksim Maksimych. Pechorin's manservant went out to meet him and informed him that A HERO OF OUR TIME they were going to put to at once; he handed him a box of cigars, received a few orders, and went off about his business. His master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice, and sat down on the bench on the other side of the gate. I must now draw his portrait for you. He was of medium height. His shapely, slim figure and broad shoulders gave evidence of a strong constitution, capable of enduring all the hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates, and of resisting with success both the demoral- ising 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 ex- pressly 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 care- less and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms -- a sure sign of a certain secretive- ness 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 observa- tion 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. A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 my- self -- which was not the reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance -- brief, but piercing and heavy -- left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil. It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance would have produced an entirely different im- pression upon another; but, as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have to rest content, nolens volens, with the descrip- tion I have given. In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance which are particularly pleasing to women. The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the shaft-bow;[1] 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. [1] The duga. I went up to him. "If you care to wait a little longer," I said, "you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend." "Oh, exactly!" he answered quickly. "They told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?" I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking. . . He was about A HERO OF OUR TIME to throw himself on Pechorin's neck, but the latter, rather coldly, though with a smile of welcome, stretched out his hand to him. For a moment the staff- captain was petrified, but then eagerly seized Pechorin's hand in both his own. He was still unable to speak. "How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?" said Pechorin. "And . . . thou . . . you?"[1] 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?" . . . [1] "Thou" is the form of address used in speaking to an intimate friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal "you." "I am going to Persia -- and farther." . . . "But surely not immediately? . . . Wait a little, my dear fellow! . . . Surely we are not going to part at once? . . . What a long time it is since we have seen each other!" . . . "It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych," was the reply. "Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry? There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question you about! . . . Well, what of your- self? Have you retired? . . . What? . . . How have you been getting along?" "Getting bored!" answered Pechorin, smiling. "You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know! . . . And Bela?" . . . Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head. "Yes, I remember!" he said, almost im- mediately forcing a yawn. Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours or so longer. "We will have a splendid dinner," he said. "I have two pheasants; and the Kakhetian wine is excellent here . . . not what it is in Georgia, of course, but still of the best sort. . . We will have a talk. . . You will tell me about your life in Petersburg. . . Eh?" . . . "In truth, there's nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych. . . However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off. . . I am in a hurry. . . I A HERO OF OUR TIME thank you for not having forgotten me," he added, taking him by the hand. The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings. "Forget!" he growled. "I have not for- gotten anything. . . Well, God be with you! . . . It is not like this that I thought we should meet." "Come! That will do, that will do!" said Pechorin, giving him a friendly embrace. "Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be? . . . What can we do? Everyone must go his own way. . . Are we ever going to meet again? -- God only knows!" While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the coachman was already gathering up the reins. "Wait, wait!" cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the carriage door. "I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich. . . I drag them about everywhere I go. . . I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has pleased Heaven that we should meet. What's to be done with them?" . . . "Whatever you like!" answered Pechorin. "Good-bye." . . . "So you are off to Persia? . . . But when will you return?" Maksim Maksimych cried after him. By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning: "It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either, why I should!" The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained standing in the same place, deep in thought. "Yes," he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference, although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his eyelashes. "Of course we were friends -- well, but what are friends nowadays? . . . What could I be to him? I'm not rich; I've no rank; and, moreover, I'm not at all his match in years! -- See what a dandy he has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again! . . . What a carriage! . . . What a quantity of luggage! . . . And such a haughty manservant too!" . . . These words were pronounced with an ironical smile. A HERO OF OUR TIME "Tell me," he continued, turning to me, "what do you think of it? Come, what the devil is he off to Persia for now? . . . Good Lord, it is ridiculous -- ridiculous! . . . But I always knew that he was a fickle man, and one you could never rely on! . . . But, indeed, it is a pity that he should come to a bad end . . . yet it can't be otherwise! . . . I always did say that there is no good to be got out of a man who forgets his old friends!" . . . Hereupon he turned away in order to hide his agitation and proceeded to walk about the court- yard, around his cart, pretending to be examining the wheels, whilst his eyes kept filling with tears every moment. "Maksim Maksimych," I said, going up to him, "what papers are these that Pechorin left you?" "Goodness knows! Notes of some sort" . . . "What will you do with them?" "What? I'll have cartridges made of them." "Hand them over to me instead." He looked at me in surprise, growled some- thing through his teeth, and began to rummage in his portmanteau. Out he drew a writing-book and threw it contemptuously on the ground; then a second -- a third -- a tenth shared the same fate. There was something childish in his vexation, and it struck me as ridiculous and pitiable. . . "Here they are," he said. "I congratulate you on your find!" . . . "And I may do anything I like with them?" "Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you like. What is it to me? Am I a friend or relation of his? It is true that for a long time we lived under one roof . . . but aren't there plenty of people with whom I have lived?" . . . I seized the papers and lost no time in carry- ing them away, fearing that the staff-captain might repent his action. Soon somebody came to tell us that the "Adventure" would set off in an hour's time. I ordered the horses to be put to. I had already put my cap on when the staff- captain entered the room. Apparently he had not got ready for departure. His manner was somewhat cold and constrained. "You are not going, then, Maksim Maksim- ych?" A HERO OF OUR TIME "No, sir!" "But why not?" "Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, and I have to deliver some Government things." "But you did go, you know." "I did, of course," he stammered, "but he was not at home . . . and I did not wait." I understood. For the first time in his life, probably, the poor old man had, to speak by the book, thrown aside official business 'for the sake of his personal requirements' . . . and how he had been rewarded! "I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very sorry indeed," I said, "that we must part sooner than necessary." "What should we rough old men be thinking of to run after you? You young men are fashionable and proud: under the Circassian bullets you are friendly enough with us . . . but when you meet us afterwards you are ashamed even to give us your hand!" "I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych." "Well, but you know I'm quite right. How- ever, I wish you all good luck and a pleasant journey." We took a rather cold farewell of each other. The kind-hearted Maksim Maksimych had be- come the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And why? Because Pechorin, through ab- sent-mindedness or from some other cause, had extended his hand to him when Maksim Maksimych was going to throw himself on his neck! Sad it is to see when a young man loses his best hopes and dreams, when from before his eyes is withdrawn the rose-hued veil through which he has looked upon the deeds and feelings of mankind; although there is the hope that the old illusions will be replaced by new ones, none the less evanescent, but, on the other hand, none the less sweet. But wherewith can they be replaced when one is at the age of Maksim Maksimych? Do what you will, the heart hardens and the soul shrinks in upon itself. I departed -- alone. I learned not long ago that Pechorin had died on his way back from A HERO OF OUR TIME Persia. The news afforded me great delight; it gave me the right to print these notes; and I have taken advantage of the opportunity of putting my name at the head of another person's productions. Heaven grant that my readers may not punish me for such an innocent deception! I must now give some explanation of the reasons which have induced me to betray to the public the inmost secrets of a man whom I never knew. If I had even been his friend, well and good: the artful indiscretion of the true friend is intelligible to everybody; but I only saw Pechorin once in my life -- on the high-road -- and, consequently, I cannot cherish towards him that inexplicable hatred, which, hiding its face under the mask of friendship, awaits but the death or misfortune of the beloved object to burst over its head in a storm of reproaches, admonitions, scoffs and regrets. On reading over these notes, I have become convinced of the sincerity of the man who has so unsparingly exposed to view his own weaknesses and vices. The history of a man's soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people; especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature mind upon itself, and has been written without any egoistical desire of arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rous- seau's Confessions has precisely this defect -- he read it to his friends. And, so, it is nothing but the desire to be useful that has constrained me to print fragments of this diary which fell into my hands by chance. Although I have altered all the proper names, those who are mentioned in it will probably recog- nise 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 under- stand. 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. A HERO OF OUR TIME 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. A HERO OF OUR TIME BOOK III THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN'S DIARY TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being drowned. I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired troika[1] 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[2] 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. [1] Team of three horses abreast. [2] Desyatnik, a superintendent of ten (men or huts), i.e. an officer like the old English tithing-man or headborough. "Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!" I cried; "to the devil himself, so long as there's a place to put up at!" "There is one other lodging," answered the headborough, scratching his head. "Only you won't like it, sir. It is uncanny!" Failing to grasp the exact signification of the last phrase, I ordered him to go on, and, after a lengthy peregrination through muddy byways, at the sides of which I could see nothing but old fences, we drove up to a small cabin, right on the shore of the sea. The full moon was shining on the little reed- thatched roof and the white walls of my new dwelling. In the courtyard, which was sur- rounded 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, A HERO OF OUR TIME plashed the dark-blue waves. The moon gazed softly upon the watery element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able by its light to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the pale line of the horizon. "There are vessels in the harbour," I said to myself. "To-morrow I will set out for Gelen- jik." I had with me, in the capacity of soldier- servant, a Cossack of the frontier army. Order- ing him to take down the portmanteau and dis- miss the driver, I began to call the master of the house. No answer! I knocked -- all was silent within! . . . What could it mean? At length a boy of about fourteen crept out from the hall. "Where is the master?" "There isn't one." "What! No master?" "None!" "And the mistress?" "She has gone off to the village." "Who will open the door for me, then?" I said, giving it a kick. The door opened of its own accord, and a breath of moisture-laden air was wafted from the hut. I struck a lucifer match and held it to the boy's face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally blind, obviously so from birth. He stood stock-still before me, and I began to examine his features. I confess that I have a violent prejudice against all blind, one-eyed, deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have observed that there is always a certain strange connection between a man's exterior and his soul; as, if when the body loses a limb, the soul also loses some power of feeling. And so I began to examine the blind boy's face. But what could be read upon a face from which the eyes are missing?. . . For a long time I gazed at him with involuntary compassion, when suddenly a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most unpleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a suspicion that the blind boy was not so blind as he appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured to A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 sus- picions. I am easily swayed by prejudice. . . "You are the master's son?" I asked at length. "No." "Who are you, then?" "An orphan -- a poor boy." "Has the mistress any children?" "No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar." "What sort of a Tartar?" "The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch." I entered the hut. Its whole furniture con- sisted of two benches and a table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. There was not a single ikon to be seen on the wall -- a bad sign! The sea-wind burst in through the broken window-pane. I drew a wax candle-end from my portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and gun I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the table. I spread my felt cloak out on one bench, and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep -- the image of the boy with the white eyes kept hovering before me in the dark. About an hour passed thus. The moon shone in at the window and its rays played along the earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow flitted across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. I raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. Again somebody ran by it and disappeared -- goodness knows where! It seemed impossible for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that was the only thing that could have happened. I rose, threw on my tunic, girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut. The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by the fence, and he passed by me with a sure but cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under his arm. He turned towards the harbour and began to descend a steep and narrow path. "On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see," I said to myself, following him just close enough to keep him in sight. Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 straight- way seize him and carry him off. But, judging by the confidence with which he stepped from rock to rock and avoided the water-channels, this was evidently not the first time that he had made that journey. Finally he stopped, as though listening for something, squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel beside him. Concealing myself behind a projecting rock on the shore, I kept watch on his movements. After a few minutes a white figure made its appearance from the opposite direction. It came up to the blind boy and sat down beside him. At times the wind wafted their conversation to me. "Well?" said a woman's voice. "The storm is violent; Yanko will not be here." "Yanko is not afraid of the storm!" the other replied. "The mist is thickening," rejoined the woman's voice, sadness in its tone. "In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships," was the answer. "And if he is drowned?" "Well, what then? On Sunday you won't have a new ribbon to go to church in." An interval of silence followed. One thing, however, struck me -- in talking to me the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now he was expressing himself in pure Russian. "You see, I am right!" the blind boy went on, clapping his hands. "Yanko is not afraid of sea, nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just listen! That is not the water plashing, you can't deceive me -- it is his long oars." The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance. "You are raving!" she said. "I cannot see anything." A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 de- scending from them, the boat drew near to the shore. "He must be a brave sailor," I thought, "to have determined to cross the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a weighty reason for doing so." Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at the poor boat. It dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging oars -- like wings -- it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of the foam. "Ah!" I thought, "it will be dashed against the shore with all its force and broken to pieces!" But it turned aside adroitly and leaped unharmed into a little creek. Out of it stepped a man of medium height, wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three set to work to drag something out of the boat. The cargo was so large that, to this day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat did not sink. Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set off along the shore, and I soon lost sight of them. I had to return home; but I confess I was rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found it hard to await the morning. My Cossack was very much astonished when, on waking up, he saw me fully dressed. I did not, however, tell him the reason. For some time I stood at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue sky all studded with wisps of cloud, and at the distant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a lilac-coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the summit of which the white tower of the lighthouse was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the fortress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the Commandant at what hour I should depart for Gelenjik. But the Commandant, alas! could not give me any definite information. The vessels lying in the harbour were all either guard-ships or merchant- vessels which had not yet even begun to take in lading. "Maybe in about three or four days' time a mail-boat will come in," A HERO OF OUR TIME said the Commandant, "and then we shall see." I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a frightened countenance. "Things are looking bad, sir!" he said. "Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away!" Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said in a whisper: "It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer from the Black Sea to-day - - he's an acquaintance of mine -- he was in my detachment last year. When I told him where we were staying, he said, 'That place is uncanny, old fellow; they're wicked people there!' . . . And, indeed, what sort of a blind boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch water and to buy bread at the bazaar. It is evident they have become accus- tomed to that sort of thing here." "Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in an appear- ance?" "During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived." "What daughter? She has no daughter!" "Goodness knows who it can be if it isn't her daughter; but the old woman is sitting over there in the hut now." I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning in the stove, and they were cooking a dinner which struck me as being a rather luxurious one for poor people. To all my questions the old woman replied that she was deaf and could not hear me. There was nothing to be got out of her. I turned to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the stove, putting twigs into the fire. "Now, then, you little blind devil," I said, taking him by the ear. "Tell me, where were you roaming with the bundle last night, eh?" The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing. "Where did I go? I did not go anywhere. . . With the bundle?. . . What bundle?" This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter: "Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you touching him for? What has he done to you?" A HERO OF OUR TIME I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved to find the key to the riddle. I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting down on a rock by the fence, gazed into the distance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated by the storm of the previous night, and its monotonous roar, like the murmur of a town over which slumber is beginning to creep, recalled bygone years to my mind, and trans- ported my thoughts northward to our cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I became oblivious of my surroundings. About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. Suddenly something resembling a song struck upon my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a woman's, young and fresh -- but, where was it coming from?. . . I listened; it was a harmonious melody -- now long-drawn- out and plaintive, now swift and lively. I looked around me -- there was nobody to be seen. I listened again -- the sounds seemed to be falling from the sky. I raised my eyes. On the roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a striped dress and with her hair hanging loose -- a regular water-nymph. Shading her eyes from the sun's rays with the palm of her hand, she was gazing intently into the distance. At one time, she would laugh and talk to herself, at another, she would strike up her song anew. I have retained that song in my memory, word for word: At their own free will They seem to wander O'er the green sea yonder, Those ships, as still They are onward going, With white sails flowing. And among those ships My eye can mark My own dear barque: By two oars guided (All unprovided With sails) it slips. The storm-wind raves: And the old ships -- see! A HERO OF OUR TIME With wings spread free, Over the waves They scatter and flee! The sea I will hail With obeisance deep: "Thou base one, hark! Thou must not fail My little barque From harm to keep!" For lo! 'tis bearing Most precious gear, And brave and daring The arms that steer Within the dark My little barque. Involuntarily the thought occurred to me that I had heard the same voice the night before. I reflected for a moment, and when I looked up at the roof again there was no girl to be seen. Suddenly she darted past me, with another song on her lips, and, snapping her fingers, she ran up to the old woman. Thereupon a quarrel arose between them. The old woman grew angry, and the girl laughed loudly. And then I saw my Undine running and gambolling again. She came up to where I was, stopped, and gazed fixedly into my face as if surprised at my presence. Then she turned carelessly away and went quietly towards the harbour. But this was not all. The whole day she kept hovering around my lodging, singing and gambolling without a moment's interruption. Strange creature! There was not the slightest sign of insanity in her face; on the contrary, her eyes, which were continually resting upon me, were bright and piercing. Moreover, they seemed to be endowed with a certain magnetic power, and each time they looked at me they appeared to be expecting a question. But I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she would run, with a sly smile. Certainly never before had I seen a woman like her. She was by no means beautiful; but, as in other matters, I have my own prepossessions on A HERO OF OUR TIME the subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breeding in her. . . Breeding in women, as in horses, is a great thing: a discovery, the credit of which belongs to young France. It -- that is to say, breeding, not young France -- is chiefly to be detected in the gait, in the hands and feet; the nose, in particular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a straight nose is rarer than a small foot. My songstress appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. The unusual suppleness of her figure, the characteristic and original way she had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, the golden sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and shoulders, and especially her straight nose - - all these held me fascinated. Although in her sidelong glances I could read a certain wildness and disdain, although in her smile there was a certain vagueness, yet -- such is the force of predilections -- that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fancied that I had found Goethe's Mignon -- that queer creature of his German imagination. And, indeed, there was a good deal of similarity between them; the same rapid transitions from the utmost restlessness to complete immobility, the same enigmatical speeches, the same gambols, the same strange songs. Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following conversation with her. "Tell me, my beauty," I asked, "what were you doing on the roof to- day?" "I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing." "What did you want to know for?" "Whence the wind blows comes happiness." "Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?" "Where there is singing there is also happi- ness." "But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?" "Well, what then? Where things won't be better, they will be worse; and from bad to good again is not far." "And who taught you that song?" "Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not understand it." A HERO OF OUR TIME "What is your name, my songstress?" "He who baptized me knows." "And who baptized you?" "How should I know?" "What a secretive girl you are! But look here, I have learned something about you" -- she neither changed countenance nor moved her lips, as though my discovery was of no concern to her -- "I have learned that you went to the shore last night." And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all that I had seen, thinking that I should embarrass her. Not a bit of it! She burst out laughing heartily. "You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you keep it under lock and key." "But supposing, now, I was to take it into my head to inform the Commandant?" and here I assumed a very serious, not to say stern, de- meanour. She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid herself like a bird frightened out of a thicket. My last words were altogether out of place. I had no suspicion then how momentous they were, but afterwards I had occasion to rue them. As soon as the dusk of evening fell, I ordered the Cossack to heat the teapot, campaign fashion. I lighted a candle and sat down by the table, smoking my travelling-pipe. I was just about to finish my second tumbler of tea when suddenly the door creaked and I heard behind me the sound of footsteps and the light rustle of a dress. I started and turned round. It was she -- my Undine. Softly and without saying a word she sat down opposite to me and fixed her eyes upon me. Her glance seemed wondrously tender, I know not why; it re- minded 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME little comedy was beginning to pall upon me, and I was about to break the silence in a most prosaic manner, that is, by offering her a glass of tea; when suddenly, springing up, she threw her arms around my neck, and I felt her moist, fiery lips pressed upon mine. Darkness came before my eyes, my head began to swim. I embraced her with the whole strength of youthful passion. But, like a snake, she glided from between my arms, whispering in my ear as she did so: "To-night, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore." Like an arrow she sprang from the room. In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle which was standing on the floor. "Little devil!" cried the Cossack, who had taken up his position on the straw and had contemplated warming himself with the remains of the tea. It was only then that I recovered my senses. In about two hours' time, when all had grown silent in the harbour, I awakened my Cossack. "If I fire a pistol," I said, "run to the shore." He stared open-eyed and answered mechanic- ally: "Very well, sir." I stuffed a pistol in my belt and went out. She was waiting for me at the edge of the cliff. Her attire was more than light, and a small kerchief girded her supple waist. "Follow me!" she said, taking me by the hand, and we began to descend. I cannot understand how it was that I did not break my neck. Down below we turned to the right and proceeded to take the path along which I had followed the blind boy the evening before. The moon had not yet risen, and only two little stars, like two guardian lighthouses, were twink- ling in the dark-blue vault of heaven. The heavy waves, with measured and even motion, rolled one after the other, scarcely lifting the solitary boat which was moored to the shore. "Let us get into the boat," said my com- panion. 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME had not time to recover my wits before I observed that we were adrift. "What is the meaning of this?" I said angrily. "It means," she answered, seating me on the bench and throwing her arms around my waist, "it means that I love you!" . . . Her cheek was pressed close to mine. and I felt her burning breath upon my face. Suddenly something fell noisily into the water. I clutched at my belt -- my pistol was gone! Ah, now a terrible suspicion crept into my soul, and the blood rushed to my head! I looked round. We were about fifty fathoms from the shore, and I could not swim a stroke! I tried to thrust her away from me, but she clung like a cat to my clothes, and suddenly a violent wrench all but threw me into the sea. The boat rocked, but I righted myself, and a desperate struggle began. Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I was no match for my opponent in point of agility. . . "What do you want?" I cried, firmly squeezing her little hands. Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature bore up against the torture, and she did not utter a cry. "You saw us," she answered. "You will tell on us." And, with a supernatural effort, she flung me on to the side of the boat; we both hung half overboard; her hair touched the water. The decisive moment had come. I planted my knee against the bottom of the boat, caught her by the tresses with one hand and by the throat with the other; she let go my clothes, and, in an instant, I had thrown her into the waves. It was now rather dark; once or twice her head appeared for an instant amidst the sea foam, and I saw no more of her. I found the half of an old oar at the bottom of the boat, and somehow or other, after lengthy efforts, I made fast to the harbour. Making my way along the shore towards my hut, I involun- tarily 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 happen- ing down below, and I was not very much A HERO OF OUR TIME aston- ished, but almost rejoiced, when I recognised my water-nymph. She was wringing the sea- foam from her long hair. Her wet garment out- lined her supple figure and her high bosom. Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it drew near rapidly; and, as on the night before, a man in a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but he now had his hair cropped round in the Cossack fashion, and a large knife was sticking out behind his leather belt. "Yanko," the girl said, "all is lost!" Then their conversation continued, but so softly that I could not catch a word of it. "But where is the blind boy?" said Yanko at last, raising his voice. "I have told him to come," was the reply. After a few minutes the blind boy appeared, dragging on his back a sack, which they placed in the boat. "Listen!" said Yanko to the blind boy. "Guard that place! You know where I mean? There are valuable goods there. Tell" -- I could not catch the name -- "that I am no longer his servant. Things have gone badly. He will see me no more. It is dangerous now. I will go seek work in another place, and he will never be able to find another dare-devil like me. Tell him also that if he had paid me a little better for my labours, I would not have forsaken him. For me there is a way anywhere, if only the wind blows and the sea roars." After a short silence Yanko continued. "She is coming with me. It is impossible for her to remain here. Tell the old woman that it is time for her to die; she has been here a long time, and the line must be drawn somewhere. As for us, she will never see us any more." "And I?" said the blind boy in a plaintive voice. "What use have I for you?" was the answer. In the meantime my Undine had sprung into the boat. She beckoned to her companion with her hand. He placed something in the blind boy's hand and added: "There, buy yourself some gingerbreads." "Is this all?" said the blind boy. A HERO OF OUR TIME "Well, here is some more." The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock. The blind boy did not pick it up. Yanko took his seat in the boat; the wind was blowing from the shore; they hoisted the little sail and sped rapidly away. For a long time the white sail gleamed in the moonlight amid the dark waves. Still the blind boy remained seated upon the shore, and then I heard something which sounded like sobbing. The blind boy was, in fact, weeping, and for a long, long time his tears flowed. . . I grew heavy-hearted. For what reason should fate have thrown me into the peaceful circle of honourable smugglers? Like a stone cast into a smooth well, I had disturbed their quietude, and I barely escaped going to the bottom like a stone. I returned home. In the hall the burnt-out candle was spluttering on a wooden platter, and my Cossack, contrary to orders, was fast asleep, with his gun held in both hands. I left him at rest, took the candle, and entered the hut. Alas! my cashbox, my sabre with the silver chasing, my Daghestan dagger -- the gift of a friend -- all had vanished! It was then that I guessed what articles the cursed blind boy had been dragging along. Roughly shaking the Cossack, I woke him up, rated him, and lost my temper. But what was the good of that? And would it not have been ridiculous to com- plain to the authorities that I had been robbed by a blind boy and all but drowned by an eighteen-year-old girl? Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away presented itself in the morning, and I left Taman. What became of the old woman and the poor blind boy I know not. And, besides, what are the joys and sorrows of mankind to me -- me, a travelling officer, and one, moreover, with an order for post-horses on Government business? A HERO OF OUR TIME BOOK IV THE SECOND EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN'S DIARY THE FATALIST I ONCE happened to spend a couple of weeks in a Cossack village on our left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there; and it was the custom of the officers to meet at each other's quarters in turn and play cards in the evening. On one occasion -- it was at Major S----'s -- finding our game of Boston not sufficiently ab- sorbing, we threw the cards under the table and sat on for a long time, talking. The con- versation, for once in a way, was interesting. The subject was the Mussulman tradition that a man's fate is written in heaven, and we dis- cussed the fact that it was gaining many votaries, even amongst our own countrymen. Each of us related various extraordinary occurrences, pro or contra. "What you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing," said the old major. "I presume there is not one of you who has actually been a witness of the strange events which you are citing in support of your opinions?" "Not one, of course," said many of the guests. "But we have heard of them from trustworthy people." . . . "It is all nonsense!" someone said. "Where are the trustworthy people who have seen the Register in which the appointed hour of our death is recorded? . . . And if predestination really exists, why are free will and reason granted us? Why are we obliged to render an account of our actions?" At that moment an officer who was sitting in a corner of the room stood up, and, coming slowly to the table, surveyed us all with a quiet and solemn glance. He was a native of Servia, as was evident from his name. The outward appearance of Lieutenant Vulich was quite in keeping with his character. His height, swarthy complexion, black hair, piercing black eyes, large but straight nose -- an attribute of his nation -- and the A HERO OF OUR TIME cold and melancholy smile which ever hovered around his lips, all seemed to concur in lending him the appearance of a man apart, incapable of reciprocating the thoughts and passions of those whom fate gave him for companions. He was brave; talked little, but sharply; confided his thoughts and family secrets to no one; drank hardly a drop of wine; and never dangled after the young Cossack girls, whose charm it is difficult to realise without having seen them. It was said, however, that the colonel's wife was not indifferent to those ex- pressive eyes of his; but he was seriously angry if any hint on the subject was made. There was only one passion which he did not conceal -- the passion for gambling. At the green table he would become oblivious of everything. He usually lost, but his constant ill success only aroused his obstinacy. It was related that, on one occasion, during a nocturnal expedition, he was keeping the bank on a pillow, and had a terrific run of luck. Suddenly shots rang out. The alarm was sounded; all but Vulich jumped up and rushed to arms. "Stake, va banque!" he cried to one of the most ardent gamblers. "Seven," the latter answered as he hurried off. Notwithstanding the general confusion, Vulich calmly finished the deal -- seven was the card. By the time he reached the cordon a violent fusillade was in progress. Vulich did not trouble himself about the bullets or the sabres of the Chechenes, but sought for the lucky gambler. "Seven it was!" he cried out, as at length he perceived him in the cordon of skirmishers who were beginning to dislodge the enemy from the wood; and going up to him, he drew out his purse and pocket-book and handed them to the winner, notwithstanding the latter's objections on the score of the inconvenience of the payment. That unpleasant duty discharged, Vulich dashed forward, carried the soldiers along after him, and, to the very end of the affair, fought the Chechenes with the utmost coolness. When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, we all became silent, expecting to hear, as usual, something original. "Gentlemen!" he said -- and his voice was quiet though lower in tone A HERO OF OUR TIME than usual -- "gentle- men, what is the good of futile discussions? You wish for proofs? I propose that we try the experiment on ourselves: whether a man can of his own accord dispose of his life, or whether the fateful moment is appointed beforehand for each of us. Who is agreeable?" "Not I. Not I," came from all sides. "There's a queer fellow for you! He does get strange ideas into his head!" "I propose a wager," I said in jest. "What sort of wager?" "I maintain that there is no such thing as predestination," I said, scattering on the table a score or so of ducats -- all I had in my pocket. "Done," answered Vulich in a hollow voice. "Major, you will be judge. Here are fifteen ducats, the remaining five you owe me, kindly add them to the others." "Very well," said the major; "though, indeed, I do not understand what is the question at issue and how you will decide it!" Without a word Vulich went into the major's bedroom, and we followed him. He went up to the wall on which the major's weapons were hang- ing, and took down at random one of the pistols -- of which there were several of different cali- bres. We were still in the dark as to what he meant to do. But, when he cocked the pistol and sprinkled powder in the pan, several of the officers, crying out in spite of themselves, seized him by the arms. "What are you going to do?" they exclaimed. "This is madness!" "Gentlemen!" he said slowly, disengaging his arm. "Who would like to pay twenty ducats for me?" They were silent and drew away. Vulich went into the other room and sat by the table; we all followed him. With a sign he invited us to sit round him. We obeyed in silence -- at that moment he had acquired a certain mysterious authority over us. I stared fixedly into his face; but he met my scrutinising gaze with a quiet and steady glance, and his pallid lips smiled. But, notwithstanding his composure, it seemed to me that I could read the stamp of death upon his A HERO OF OUR TIME pale countenance. I have noticed -- and many old soldiers have cor- roborated my observation -- that a man who is to die in a few hours frequently bears on his face a certain strange stamp of inevitable fate, so that it is difficult for practised eyes to be mistaken. "You will die to-day!" I said to Vulich. He turned towards me rapidly, but answered slowly and quietly: "May be so, may be not." . . . Then, addressing himself to the major, he asked: "Is the pistol loaded?" The major, in the confusion, could not quite remember. "There, that will do, Vulich!" exclaimed somebody. "Of course it must be loaded, if it was one of those hanging on the wall there over our heads. What a man you are for joking!" "A silly joke, too!" struck in another. "I wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!" cried a third. A new bet was made. I was beginning to get tired of it all. "Listen," I said, "either shoot yourself, or hang up the pistol in its place and let us go to bed." "Yes, of course!" many exclaimed. "Let us go to bed." "Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move," said Vulich, putting the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. We were all petrified. "Mr. Pechorin," he added, "take a card and throw it up in the air." I took, as I remember now, an ace of hearts off the table and threw it into the air. All held their breath. With eyes full of terror and a certain vague curiosity they glanced rapidly from the pistol to the fateful ace, which slowly descended, quivering in the air. At the moment it touched the table Vulich pulled the trigger . . . a flash in the pan! "Thank God!" many exclaimed. "It wasn't loaded!" "Let us see, though," said Vulich. He cocked the pistol again, and took aim at a forage-cap which was hanging above the window. A shot rang out. Smoke filled the room; when it cleared away, the forage-cap was taken down. It had been shot A HERO OF OUR TIME right through the centre, and the bullet was deeply embedded in the wall. For two or three minutes no one was able to utter a word. Very quietly Vulich poured my ducats from the major's purse into his own. Discussions arose as to why the pistol had not gone off the first time. Some maintained that probably the pan had been obstructed; others whispered that the powder had been damp the first time, and that, afterwards, Vulich had sprinkled some fresh powder on it; but I maintained that the last supposition was wrong, because I had not once taken my eyes off the pistol. "You are lucky at play!" I said to Vulich. . . "For the first time in my life!" he answered, with a complacent smile. "It is better than 'bank' and 'shtoss.'"[1] [1] Card-games. "But, on the other hand, slightly more dangerous!" "Well? Have you begun to believe in pre- destination? "I do believe in it; only I cannot understand now why it appeared to me that you must inevitably die to-day!" And this same man, who, such a short time before, had with the greatest calmness aimed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly fired up and became embarrassed. "That will do, though!" he said, rising to his feet. "Our wager is finished, and now your observations, it seems to me, are out of place." He took up his cap and departed. The whole affair struck me as being strange -- and not without reason. Shortly after that, all the officers broke up and went home, discussing Vulich's freaks from different points of view, and, doubt- less, with one voice calling me an egoist for having taken up a wager against a man who wanted to shoot himself, as if he could not have found a convenient opportunity without my intervention. I returned home by the deserted byways of the village. The moon, full and red like the glow of a conflagration, was beginning to make its appear- ance 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 exceed- ingly wise people who thought that the stars of A HERO OF OUR TIME 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, to- gether with their hopes and passions, have long been extinguished, like a little fire kindled at the edge of a forest by a careless wayfarer! But, on the other hand, what strength of will was lent them by the conviction that the entire heavens, with their innumerable habitants, were looking at them with a sympathy, unalterable, though mute! . . . And we, their miserable descendants, roaming over the earth, without faith, without pride, without enjoyment, and without terror -- except that involuntary awe which makes the heart shrink at the thought of the inevitable end -- we are no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of mankind or even for our own happiness, because we know the impossibility of such happiness; and, just as our ancestors used to fling themselves from one delusion to another, we pass indifferently from doubt to doubt, without possessing, as they did, either hope or even that vague though, at the same time, keen enjoyment which the soul encounters at every struggle with mankind or with destiny. These and many other similar thoughts passed through my mind, but I did not follow them up, because I do not like to dwell upon abstract ideas - - for what do they lead to? In my early youth I was a dreamer; I loved to hug to my bosom the images -- now gloomy, now rainbow- hued -- 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 con- fused memory full of regrets. In that vain contest I have exhausted the warmth of soul and firmness of will indispensable to an active life. I have entered upon that life after having already lived through it in thought, and it has become wearisome and nauseous to me, as the reading of a bad imitation of a book is to one who has long been familiar with the original. The events of that evening produced a some- what 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME 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 meta- physics aside and began to look at what was beneath my feet. The precaution was well- timed. I only just escaped stumbling over something thick and soft, but, to all appearance, inanimate. I bent down to see what it was, and, by the light of the moon, which now shone right upon the road, I perceived that it was a pig which had been cut in two with a sabre. . . I had hardly time to examine it before I heard the sound of steps, and two Cossacks came running out of a byway. One of them came up to me and enquired whether I had seen a drunken Cossack chasing a pig. I informed him that I had not met the Cossack and pointed to the unhappy victim of his rabid bravery. "The scoundrel!" said the second Cossack. "No sooner does he drink his fill of chikhir[1] 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" . . . [1] A Caucasian wine. They took themselves off, and I continued my way with greater caution, and at length arrived at my lodgings without mishap. I was living with a certain old Cossack under- officer whom I loved, not only on account of his kindly disposition, but also, and more especially, on account of his pretty daughter, Nastya. Wrapped up in a sheepskin coat she was waiting for me, as usual, by the wicket gate. The moon illumined her charming little lips, now turned blue by the cold of the night. Recognizing me she smiled; but I was in no mood to linger with her. "Good night, Nastya!" I said, and passed on. She was about to make some answer, but only sighed. I fastened the door of my room after me, lighted a candle, and threw myself on the bed; but, on that occasion, slumber caused its presence to be awaited longer than usual. By the time I fell asleep the east was beginning to grow pale, but I was evidently predestined not to have my sleep out. At four o'clock in the morning two fists knocked at my A HERO OF OUR TIME window. I sprang up. "What is the matter?" "Get up -- dress yourself!" I dressed hurriedly and went out. "Do you know what has happened?" said three officers who had come for me, speaking all in one voice. They were deadly pale. "No, what is it?" "Vulich has been murdered!" I was petrified. "Yes, murdered!" they continued. "Let us lose no time and go!" "But where to?" "You will learn as we go." We set off. They told me all that had hap- pened, supplementing their story with a variety of observations on the subject of the strange predestination which had saved Vulich from imminent death half an hour before he actually met his end. Vulich had been walking alone along a dark street, and the drunken Cossack who had cut up the pig had sprung out upon him, and perhaps would have passed him by without noticing him, had not Vulich stopped suddenly and said: "Whom are you looking for, my man?" "You!" answered the Cossack, striking him with his sabre; and he cleft him from the shoulder almost to the heart. . . The two Cossacks who had met me and followed the murderer had arrived on the scene and raised the wounded man from the ground. But he was already as his last gasp and said these three words only -- "he was right!" I alone understood the dark significance of those words: they referred to me. I had involuntarily foretold his fate to poor Vulich. My instinct had not deceived me; I had indeed read on his changed countenance the signs of approaching death. The murderer had locked himself up in an empty hut at the end of the village; and thither we went. A number of women, all of them weeping, A HERO OF OUR TIME were running in the same direction; at times a belated Cossack, hastily buckling on his dagger, sprang out into the street and overtook us at a run. The tumult was dreadful. At length we arrived on the scene and found a crowd standing around the hut, the door and shutters of which were locked on the inside. Groups of officers and Cossacks were engaged in heated discussions; the women were shrieking, wailing and talking all in one breath. One of the old women struck my attention by her meaning looks and the frantic despair expressed upon her face. She was sitting on a thick plank, leaning her elbows on her knees and supporting her head with her hands. It was the mother of the murderer. At times her lips moved. . . Was it a prayer they were whispering, or a curse? Meanwhile it was necessary to decide upon some course of action and to seize the criminal. Nobody, however, made bold to be the first to rush forward. I went up to the window and looked in through a chink in the shutter. The criminal, pale of face, was lying on the floor, holding a pistol in his right hand. The blood-stained sabre was beside him. His expressive eyes were rolling in terror; at times he shuddered and clutched at his head, as if indistinctly recalling the events of yesterday. I could not read any sign of great determination in that uneasy glance of his, and I told the major that it would be better at once to give orders to the Cossacks to burst open the door and rush in, than to wait until the murderer had quite recovered his senses. At that moment the old captain of the Cossacks went up to the door and called the murderer by name. The latter answered back. "You have committed a sin, brother Ephi- mych!" said the captain, "so all you can do now is to submit." "I will not submit!" answered the Cossack. "Have you no fear of God! You see, you are not one of those cursed Chechenes, but an honest Christian! Come, if you have done it in an unguarded moment there is no help for it! You cannot escape your fate!" "I will not submit!" exclaimed the Cossack menacingly, and we could hear the snap of the cocked trigger. A HERO OF OUR TIME "Hey, my good woman!" said the Cossack captain to the old woman. "Say a word to your son -- perhaps he will lend an ear to you. . . You see, to go on like this is only to make God angry. And look, the gentlemen here have already been waiting two hours." The old woman gazed fixedly at him and shook her head. "Vasili Petrovich," said the captain, going up to the major; "he will not surrender. I know him! If it comes to smashing in the door he will strike down several of our men. Would it not be better if you ordered him to be shot? There is a wide chink in the shutter." At that moment a strange idea flashed through my head -- like Vulich I proposed to put fate to the test. "Wait," I said to the major, "I will take him alive." Bidding the captain enter into a conversation with the murderer and setting three Cossacks at the door ready to force it open and rush to my aid at a given signal, I walked round the hut and approached the fatal window. My heart was beating violently. "Aha, you cursed wretch!" cried the captain. "Are you laughing at us, eh? Or do you think that we won't be able to get the better of you?" He began to knock at the door with all his might. Putting my eye to the chink, I followed the movements of the Cossack, who was not expecting an attack from that direction. I pulled the shutter away suddenly and threw myself in at the window, head foremost. A shot rang out right over my ear, and the bullet tore off one of my epaulettes. But the smoke which filled the room prevented my adversary from finding the sabre which was lying beside him. I seized him by the arms; the Cossacks burst in; and three minutes had not elapsed before they had the criminal bound and led off under escort. The people dispersed, the officers congratulated me -- and indeed there was cause for congratula- tion. 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 A HERO OF OUR TIME am concerned, I always advance more boldly when I do not know what is awaiting me. You see, nothing can happen worse than death -- and from death there is no escape. On my return to the fortress I related to Maksim Maksimych all that I had seen and experienced; and I sought to learn his opinion on the subject of predestination. At first he did not understand the word. I explained it to him as well as I could, and then he said, with a significant shake of the head: "Yes, sir, of course! It was a very ingenious trick! However, these Asiatic pistols often miss fire if they are badly oiled or if you don't press hard enough on the trigger. I confess I don't like the Circassian carbines either. Some- how or other they don't suit the like of us: the butt end is so small, and any minute you may get your nose burnt! On the other hand, their sabres, now -- well, all I need say is, my best respects to them!" Afterwards he said, on reflecting a little: "Yes, it is a pity about the poor fellow! The devil must have put it into his head to start a conversation with a drunken man at night! However, it is evident that fate had written it so at his birth!" I could not get anything more out of Maksim Maksimych; generally speaking, he had no liking for metaphysical disputations. A HERO OF OUR TIME BOOK V THE THIRD EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN'S DIARY