A Hero of Our Time (27 page)

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Authors: Mikhail Lermontov

Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary

BOOK: A Hero of Our Time
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The incidents of the evening had made a rather deep impression on me and agitated my nerves. I do not know whether now I do indeed believe in predestination or not, but I firmly believed in it that night. The proof was striking, and despite the fact that I had mocked our ancestors and their obliging astrology, I had fallen involuntarily into their trap but stopped myself from following this dangerous path just in time. And having the rule of never rejecting anything absolutely, and never believing in anything blindly, I threw out metaphysics and started to look beneath my feet. Such precaution was very apt. I nearly fell, stumbling on something fat and soft, but by all appearances, not living. I stooped—the moon was shining directly onto the road—and what was it? In front of me lay a swine, cleaved in half by a saber . . . I had barely managed to examine it when I heard the noise of footsteps. Two Cossacks were running from the alley; one walked up to me and asked if I had seen a drunk Cossack chasing a swine. I declared to them that I had not met said Cossack and pointed to the unfortunate victim of his frenzied bravery.
“What a scoundrel!” said the second Cossack. “When he drinks too much
chikhir,
5
then he’s off hacking to pieces everything that he sees. Let’s go after him, Yeremeich, we must tie him up, otherwise . . .”
They went off, and I continued on my path with great care and happily made it to my quarters at last.
I stayed with an old
uryadnik,
6
whom I loved for his good morals, and especially for his pretty daughter, Nastya.
She was waiting for me at the wicket gate as usual, wrapped in a fur coat. The moon lit up her lovely lips, which had turned a little blue from the cold of the night. Having recognized me, she smiled, but I wasn’t in the mood. “Good night, Nastya,” I said, walking past. She wanted to say something in reply but simply sighed.
I closed the door to my room behind me and lit the candle and fell onto my bed. But slumber made me wait for it longer than usual. The east was already paling when I fell asleep, but apparently it was written in the skies that I wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep. At four o’clock in the morning, two fists knocked on my window. I jumped up. “What is it?”
“Get up! Get dressed!” various voices cried to me. I quickly dressed and went out. “Do you know what has happened?” three officers asked me in unison, coming for me. They were as pale as death.
“What?”
“Vulich has been killed.”
I turned to stone.
“Yes, killed,” they continued. “Let’s go, quickly.”
“Where to?!”
“You’ll find out on the way . . .”
We went off. They told me all that had happened, adding remarks about the strange predestination that had saved him from inevitable death half an hour before his death. Vulich had been walking alone along a dark street; the drunk Cossack who had cleaved the swine galloped at him and might have passed him by without noticing Vulich had the latter not stopped and said:
“Brother, whom are you looking for?”
“You!” replied the Cossack, striking him with his saber, slicing him from the shoulder almost to the heart . . . The two Cossacks I encountered, who had been tracking the murderer, had appeared just then; they picked up the wounded man, but he was already at his final breath, saying, “He was right!” I alone understood the dark meaning of these words. They referred to me. I had involuntarily predicted his poor fate. My instinct had not fooled me. I had correctly read the stamp of near demise in his altered face.
The murderer had locked himself in an empty hut at the end of the
stanitsa.
We went there. A mass of women were weeping while running in the same direction. From time to time a tardy Cossack galloped out onto the street, hurriedly fastening his dagger to his belt, and outstripping us at a gallop.
The turmoil was terrible.
At long last we arrived. We watched: a crowd stood around the peasant house, the doors and shutters of which were locked from the inside. Officers and Cossacks talked heatedly among themselves. The women were wailing, condemning and reckoning. My eyes were cast on to an old woman among them, whose conspicuous face was expressing mad despair. She was sitting on a thick log, leaning her elbows on her knees, and supporting her head with her hands: it was the mother of the murderer. Her lips stirred from time to time. Were they whispering a curse or a prayer?
In the meantime, something needed to be resolved, and the criminal needed to be captured. No one, however, dared to cast himself forward. I walked up to the window and looked through a chink in the shutters. He lay on the floor, pale, holding a pistol in his right hand. His bloodied saber lay next to him. His expressive eyes were rolling around in a frightening way. Now and then he flinched and grabbed hold of his head, as if indistinctly remembering yesterday’s events. I didn’t read any significant resolution in this agitated gaze and said to the major that it was pointless of him not to order the Cossacks to break down the door and rush in because it would be better done now than later when he had completely come to his senses.
At this time, old Esaul walked up to the door and called him by name; the latter responded.
“You have sinned, brother Efimych,” said Esaul, “and there’s nothing to be done—give yourself up!”
“I will not give up!” answered the Cossack.
“Fear God. After all, you are not an accursed Chechen, but an honest Christian. And well, if your sin has led you astray, then there is nothing to be done—you won’t avoid your fate!”
“I will not give up!” the Cossack cried threateningly, and the cracking of his cocking-piece was audible.
“Hey, auntie,” said Esaul to the old woman, “talk to your boy, perhaps he will listen to you . . . All this will only anger God. Yes, and see here, these men have waited two hours already.”
The old woman looked at him intently and shook her head.
“Vasily Petrovich,” said Esaul, walking up to the major. “He won’t give himself up—I know him. But if we break down the door, then many of our people will be killed. Would it not be better to order him shot? There is a big chink in the shutters.”
At that minute a strange thought flashed through my head: like Vulich, I was thinking of testing fate.
“Wait,” I said to the major, “I will get him alive.”
Having ordered Esaul to engage him in conversation and placing three Cossacks at the door, ready to beat it down and rush to my aid at the given signal, I walked around the peasant house and approached the fateful window. My heart was pounding.
“Oh, you, accursed man!” cried Esaul. “What are you doing—mocking us, are you? Or do you think we won’t get the better of you?”
He started knocking on the door with all his might. Having put my eye to the chink in the shutter, I followed the movements of the Cossack, who wasn’t expecting an attack from this side. And suddenly I ripped off the shutter and flung myself headfirst through the window. A shot rang out just above my ear; the bullet tore my epaulet. But the smoke that had filled the room prevented my opponent from finding his saber, which was lying next to him. I grabbed him by the arm; the Cossacks burst in, and three minutes hadn’t passed before the criminal was tied up and led off under guard. The people walked off. The officers congratulated me—and for good reason!
After all this, how could one not become a fatalist? But who knows for sure if he is convinced of something or not? . . . And how often do we take a deception of feelings or a blunder of common sense for a conviction!
I love to doubt everything: this inclination of mind doesn’t hinder the decisiveness of a character—on the contrary, as far as I am concerned, I am always braver going forward when I don’t know what to expect. After all, nothing can happen that is worse than death—and you can’t avoid death!
Having returned to the fortress, I recounted to Maxim Maximych all that had happened to me and all that I had witnessed, and wanted to know his opinion on the count of predestination. At first he didn’t understand the word, but I explained it to him as best I could and then he said significantly, shaking his head:
“Yes, sir. Of course. Quite a wise old joke! . . . But those Asian cocking-pieces frequently misfire if they are badly greased or if you haven’t pressed hard enough with your finger. I admit I don’t much like Chechen rifles, either. They are somehow unbecoming to our brothers. The butt is small—look into them and you burn your nose! That said, their sabers demand respect, pure and simple!”
Then, having thought for a while, he added:
“Yes, I have pity for the wretch . . . The devil possessed him to talk to a drunk that night! But, clearly, it had been written for him in the sky at his birth . . . !”
I couldn’t get any more out of him; he doesn’t like metaphysical debates in general.
Notes
FOREWORD
1.
Rus’: A term referring to an ancient people and their land, which are latterly represented by the Belarusian, Ukrainian, and Russian peoples and their territories.
I. BELA
1
dukhan:
An inn in the Caucasus.
2
verst:
An obsolete Russian measurement equal to about 3,500 feet.
3
troika:
A carriage drawn by three horses harnessed side by side.
4
saklyas:
Caucasian mountain huts.
5
Lermontov uses the word
burka
here, a felt cloak worn in the Caucasus.
6
bouza:
A kind of fermented alcohol made from millet.
7
peaceable prince: The term for a local chieftain who took no sides in the war between the Caucasian tribes and the Russians.
8
peaceable prince: A tribal leader who cooperated with Russian forces in the Caucasus.
9
kunak:
This means true friend, blood brother.
10
aul:
A Caucasian village.
11
balalaika:
A Russian stringed instrument with a triangular body and long neck.
12
dzhigits:
Caucasian horsemen known for equestrian feats and trick-riding.
13
galloon: Braid or lace made of metal, typically used in military uniform.
14
chamois: A goatlike animal native to the Caucasus mountains.
15
abreks:
A kind of freedom-fighter in the Caucasus. This word is also used to describe bandits and outcasts.
16
beshmet:
A kind of quilted coat.
17
“
Yakshi tkhe, chek yakshi!”: This means “A good horse, very good!”
18
gyaurs:
Non-Muslims. The word is a Turkic version of the Persian word for infidel.
19
Karagyoz: A Turkic name, which literally means “black eyes,” but also refers to a Turkish shadow puppet, popular for many centuries in countries near Turkey.
20
Yok:
This means “no” or “not.” It is said to be Tatar.
21
gurda:
An expensive weapon made of high-quality steel.
22
Padishah:
This was a title for the Sultan of Turkey.
23
There is a footnote here in Lermontov’s original: Я прошу прощения у читателей в том, что переложил в стихи песню Казбича, переданную мне, разумеется, прозой; но привычка
—
вторая натура. (Прим. Лермонтова.)
24
yashmak:
A type of Turkish veil worn by women.
25
Urus—yaman, yaman!:
This means “The Russian is bad, bad!”
26
peri:
A term of endearment referring to fairylike creatures who are fallen angels.
27
muzhik:
A male Russian peasant.
28
Russ: An older word meaning “Russian man.”
29
dear little:
this refers to provincial Russian cities and has a slightly pejorative tone (hence the italics, which were in Lermontov’s original).
30
Krestovaya: This is a mountain, the name of which translates as “Mountain of the Cross.”
31
Nightingale-Robber: A figure from Russian folklore who wrought havoc and was able to render people immobile by whistling.
32
lezginka:
A folk dance of the Lezgin people.
33
sazhen:
An obsolete Russian measurement equal to seven feet.
34
thermalam:
Fabric used for lining, usually linen or cotton.
II. MAXIM MAXIMICH
1
dolman:
A Hungarian jacket.
2
Balzac’s thirty-year-old coquette: This refers to Honoré de Balzac’s novel
La Femme de Trente Ans
(1834).

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