A Hero of Our Time (5 page)
Read A Hero of Our Time Online
Authors: Mikhail Lermontov
Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary
“No, there haven’t,” replied the cart driver. “But there’s a lot hanging up there—a lot.”
We were led off to spend the night in a smoky
saklya
since there was no bedchamber for travelers stopping at the station. I invited my fellow traveler to drink a glass of tea with me, for I had with me a cast-iron tea-kettle—the one and only comfort on my travels in the Caucasus.
saklya
since there was no bedchamber for travelers stopping at the station. I invited my fellow traveler to drink a glass of tea with me, for I had with me a cast-iron tea-kettle—the one and only comfort on my travels in the Caucasus.
The
saklya
was pinned to the rock-face on one side. Three slippery, wet steps led to its door. I felt my way through the entrance, and stumbled upon a cow (to these people, a cow-shed is easily substituted for servants’ quarters). I didn’t know where to put myself: there were sheep bleating in one corner, a dog was growling in the other. Fortunately, a dim light shone from the side and helped me to find another opening, which resembled a door. It gave onto a rather entertaining scene: a wide
saklya,
the roof of which was propped up on two soot-covered posts and filled with people. A little fire chattered, which had been laid on the bare earth in the center of the room; smoke was being forced back through an opening in the roof by the wind, and it unfurled throughout the room in such a dense shroud that I couldn’t make out my surroundings for a long time. Two old women, a multitude of children, and a lean Georgian sat by the fire, all of them in rags. There was nothing to do but take shelter by the fire and begin to smoke our pipes. Soon the tea-kettle started to fizz with friendliness.
saklya
was pinned to the rock-face on one side. Three slippery, wet steps led to its door. I felt my way through the entrance, and stumbled upon a cow (to these people, a cow-shed is easily substituted for servants’ quarters). I didn’t know where to put myself: there were sheep bleating in one corner, a dog was growling in the other. Fortunately, a dim light shone from the side and helped me to find another opening, which resembled a door. It gave onto a rather entertaining scene: a wide
saklya,
the roof of which was propped up on two soot-covered posts and filled with people. A little fire chattered, which had been laid on the bare earth in the center of the room; smoke was being forced back through an opening in the roof by the wind, and it unfurled throughout the room in such a dense shroud that I couldn’t make out my surroundings for a long time. Two old women, a multitude of children, and a lean Georgian sat by the fire, all of them in rags. There was nothing to do but take shelter by the fire and begin to smoke our pipes. Soon the tea-kettle started to fizz with friendliness.
“A wretched people!” I said to the staff captain, pointing to our dirty hosts, who were looking at us silently, sort of dumbfounded.
“Such dim-witted folk!” he replied. “Can you believe it? They can’t do anything, aren’t capable of any kind of learning! At least our Kabardin or Chechens, though they are robbers, and paupers too, they make up for it by being daredevils. But these ones have no affinity for weapons: you won’t find a decent dagger on any of them. Genuine Ossetians!”
“Were you in Chechnya for a long time?”
“Yes, I was posted there for about ten years with my company in the fortress at Kamenny Brod—do you know it?”
“Heard of it.”
“Well, old fellow, let me tell you, we were fed up with those bandits! Now, thank God, it’s quieter. But there was a time when if you took a hundred steps beyond the ramparts, there was a shaggy devil lying in wait. If you even stopped to gape, you’d have a lasso around your neck or a bullet in the back of your head. Oh, they’re clever ones . . . !”
“So, you’ve had many adventures I would think?” I said, my curiosity excited.
“How could I not?! Indeed I have . . .”
Here he started to pluck at the left side of his mustache, hung his head, and became pensive. I wanted terribly to extract some little story from him—a desire characteristic of all those who travel and write. Meanwhile, the tea was brewed; I took two little traveling glasses from my valise, filled them and set one of them in front of him. He took a sip and said, as if to himself: “Yes, I have!” This exclamation gave me more hope. I know that old soldiers of the Caucasus love to talk, to tell tales; and they rarely get the chance to do so. This one had been in post for five-odd years somewhere in the sticks with his military company, and not once in those five years did anyone say “good day” to him (because a sergeant-major always says “Preserve your health”). And there was plenty to chat about: the local peoples were savage, a curious people; there was danger present every day; miraculous events occurred; and you couldn’t help but regret that so little of this gets recorded.
“You wouldn’t like to add some rum?” I said to my interlocutor. “I have white rum from Tiflis. It’s cold outside now.”
“No, thank you sir, I don’t drink.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve taken an oath. You see, once when I was still a second lieutenant, we had a little too much to drink between us, and at night the alarm sounded. So we merrily turned out in front of the soldiers in our merry state, and we got it in the neck when Alexei Petrovich found out. Good God how furious he was! He nearly had us court-martialed. There’s no doubt that if you spend a whole year without seeing a soul, and you add vodka to that, you’ll be a missing person!”
Hearing this, I almost lost hope.
“Yes, and there’s the Circassians,” he continued. “As soon as they drink up the
bouza
6
at a wedding or funeral, the knives come out. Once I barely managed to walk away intact, even though I was the guest of a peaceable prince.”
7
“How did that happen?”
bouza
6
at a wedding or funeral, the knives come out. Once I barely managed to walk away intact, even though I was the guest of a peaceable prince.”
7
“How did that happen?”
“Well,” he packed his pipe, drew on it, and began his account, “allow me to explain. I was posted at the fortress near the Terek River with my company—almost five years ago. Once, in the autumn, a transport arrived with provisions. And in that transport was an officer—a young man, of about twenty-five years. He presents himself to me in full uniform and announces that he has orders to remain with me at the fortress. He was such a thin and fair thing, the full-dress uniform he wore was so new, that I guessed then and there that he hadn’t been long in the Caucasus.
“ ‘Would I be right in saying,’ I asked him, ‘that you have been transferred here from Russia?’
“ ‘Indeed, Mr. Staff Captain,’ he replied.
“I took him by the hand and said: ‘Very pleased, very pleased to meet you. You will find it somewhat tedious . . . but you and I will live together at ease. Yes, please, call me simply Maxim Maximych, and please—why this full uniform? Present yourself to me in your military cap.’
“They took him to his quarters and he settled at the fortress.”
“And what was his name?” I asked Maxim Maximych.
“His name was . . . Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. A wonderful fellow, I dare say. Only a little strange too. For example, he would spend the whole day hunting in a drizzling cold that would freeze and exhaust most others to the bone—but to him it was nothing. And then, at other times, he would be sitting in his room, and the wind would blow, and he’d swear to you that he was catching cold. A shutter would bang and he’d shiver and go pale. But I can attest that he would go out after wild boar, one on one. Sometimes whole hours would go by without a word from him, and then other times, he’d start telling a story, and immediately your belly would ache from laughing . . . Yes, he had a good deal of great oddities, and he must have been a rich man—he had so many expensive things!”
“Did he stay with you long?” I asked again.
“Almost a year. But that year is certainly memorable for me; he created a lot of trouble for me, but that is not why I mention it. It seems, in fact, that there is a type of person who is destined from birth to be subjected to various unusual things!”
“Unusual?” I exclaimed with a look of curiosity, helping him to more tea.
“Well, I’ll explain. About six
verst
s from the fortress lived a peaceable prince.
8
His young son, a boy of about fifteen, took to visiting us every day for one reason or another. Grigory Alexandrovich and I spoiled him, we did. And he was such a rascal, and nimble at whatever he did—whether he was picking up a hat at full gallop or firing a rifle. There was just one thing about him that was no good: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised him a gold piece if he would steal the best goat in his father’s herd. And what do you think? The very next night he dragged it in by its horns. But if we ever thought to tease him, his eyes would fill with blood, and he’d be at the ready with his dagger.
verst
s from the fortress lived a peaceable prince.
8
His young son, a boy of about fifteen, took to visiting us every day for one reason or another. Grigory Alexandrovich and I spoiled him, we did. And he was such a rascal, and nimble at whatever he did—whether he was picking up a hat at full gallop or firing a rifle. There was just one thing about him that was no good: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised him a gold piece if he would steal the best goat in his father’s herd. And what do you think? The very next night he dragged it in by its horns. But if we ever thought to tease him, his eyes would fill with blood, and he’d be at the ready with his dagger.
“‘Eh, Azamat, don’t lose your head now,’ I told him, ‘you’ll get it cut off!’
“Once the old prince himself came and invited us to a wedding. He was giving away his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage. Given I was his
kunak,
9
I couldn’t, you know, decline—he is a Tatar after all. So we went. We were met at the
aul
10
by a lot of dogs barking loudly. The women, having seen us, hid themselves. Those whose faces we could see were far from beautiful.
kunak,
9
I couldn’t, you know, decline—he is a Tatar after all. So we went. We were met at the
aul
10
by a lot of dogs barking loudly. The women, having seen us, hid themselves. Those whose faces we could see were far from beautiful.
“ ‘I had a much higher opinion of Circassian women,’ said Grigory Alexandrovich.
“ ‘Wait a moment!’ I replied, laughing. I had something in mind.
“A crowd of people had gathered in the prince’s
saklya.
The Asiatics, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone and anyone to their weddings. They received us with every honor, and led us to their special rooms. I, however, did not forget to note where they put our horses—you know, in the event of unforeseen circumstances.”
saklya.
The Asiatics, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone and anyone to their weddings. They received us with every honor, and led us to their special rooms. I, however, did not forget to note where they put our horses—you know, in the event of unforeseen circumstances.”
“How do they celebrate weddings?” I asked the staff captain.
“Oh, in the usual way. At the beginning the
Mullah
reads them something from the Koran. Then he gives presents to the young couple and all their relatives. They eat, drink
bouza
and then they begin trick riding—and there’s always one, some dirty ragamuffin on a lousy and lame nag, who poses, plays the clown, and makes the good company laugh. Then, when it gets dark, in the special rooms, what we would call a ‘ball’ starts up. A poor little old man strums away on a . . . I forget what it is in their language . . . well, yes, it’s something like our
balalaika.
11
The girls and the young men stand in two rows, facing each other, and they clap their palms together and sing. And then one of the girls and one of the men come forward into the middle and start to address each other in sung verse with whatever comes to them (any old thing), and the others join in with the chorus. Pechorin and I sat in the honored seats, and then our host’s youngest daughter, a girl of sixteen, approached him, and sang him a . . . how can I put it? A sort of compliment.”
Mullah
reads them something from the Koran. Then he gives presents to the young couple and all their relatives. They eat, drink
bouza
and then they begin trick riding—and there’s always one, some dirty ragamuffin on a lousy and lame nag, who poses, plays the clown, and makes the good company laugh. Then, when it gets dark, in the special rooms, what we would call a ‘ball’ starts up. A poor little old man strums away on a . . . I forget what it is in their language . . . well, yes, it’s something like our
balalaika.
11
The girls and the young men stand in two rows, facing each other, and they clap their palms together and sing. And then one of the girls and one of the men come forward into the middle and start to address each other in sung verse with whatever comes to them (any old thing), and the others join in with the chorus. Pechorin and I sat in the honored seats, and then our host’s youngest daughter, a girl of sixteen, approached him, and sang him a . . . how can I put it? A sort of compliment.”
“And what did she sing—do you remember?”
“Yes, it seems it was something like, ‘Our young
dzhigits
12
are strapping, and their caftans are covered in silver, but the young Russian officer is more strapping than they, and the galloon
13
he wears is in gold. He is like a poplar among them—only he won’t grow; he doesn’t bloom in our garden.’
dzhigits
12
are strapping, and their caftans are covered in silver, but the young Russian officer is more strapping than they, and the galloon
13
he wears is in gold. He is like a poplar among them—only he won’t grow; he doesn’t bloom in our garden.’
“Pechorin stood up, bowed to her, put his hand to his head and to his heart, and asked me to reply to her; I know how to speak like them and translated his answer.
“When she walked away from us, I whispered to Grigory Alexandrovich:
“ ‘Well, what do you think of her?’
“ ‘Enchanting!’ he replied. ‘What is her name?’
“ ‘Her name is Bela,’ I replied.
“And indeed, she was fine: tall, slim, with black eyes like a hill chamois
14
that cast a look straight into your soul. Pechorin, in his reverie, didn’t take his eyes off her, and she looked over at him from under her brow fairly often too. But it wasn’t only Pechorin who admired the winning princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes were looking at her, fixed and fiery. I looked over and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He was, you understand, neither peaceable nor unpeaceable as it were. There were lots of suspicions about him, even though he wasn’t ever discovered making even one bit of mischief. Sometimes, he would bring sheep to us at the fortress, and he sold them cheaply—he never haggled. You would give what he asked—come what may, he wouldn’t bend. They say that he loves to roam along the Kuban River with the
abreks,
15
and to tell the truth, he had a thievish snout on him. He was small, spindly, wide-shouldered . . . And then his cunning—he was as cunning as a demon! His
beshmet
16
was always in tatters and patches, but his weapon was in silver. And his horse was famous in the whole Kabarde—you couldn’t even dream of a better horse. Not for nothing that all the horsemen envied him—and they tried to steal him more than once but never managed it. I can see that horse even now: black as jet, legs like bow-strings, and eyes no worse than Bela’s—and what strength! He’ll gallop at least 50
verst
s—and he’s well-trained too—runs like a dog after his master, and knows the man’s voice even! They say that Kazbich never ties him up. What a perfect horse for a thief!
14
that cast a look straight into your soul. Pechorin, in his reverie, didn’t take his eyes off her, and she looked over at him from under her brow fairly often too. But it wasn’t only Pechorin who admired the winning princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes were looking at her, fixed and fiery. I looked over and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He was, you understand, neither peaceable nor unpeaceable as it were. There were lots of suspicions about him, even though he wasn’t ever discovered making even one bit of mischief. Sometimes, he would bring sheep to us at the fortress, and he sold them cheaply—he never haggled. You would give what he asked—come what may, he wouldn’t bend. They say that he loves to roam along the Kuban River with the
abreks,
15
and to tell the truth, he had a thievish snout on him. He was small, spindly, wide-shouldered . . . And then his cunning—he was as cunning as a demon! His
beshmet
16
was always in tatters and patches, but his weapon was in silver. And his horse was famous in the whole Kabarde—you couldn’t even dream of a better horse. Not for nothing that all the horsemen envied him—and they tried to steal him more than once but never managed it. I can see that horse even now: black as jet, legs like bow-strings, and eyes no worse than Bela’s—and what strength! He’ll gallop at least 50
verst
s—and he’s well-trained too—runs like a dog after his master, and knows the man’s voice even! They say that Kazbich never ties him up. What a perfect horse for a thief!
“That evening, Kazbich was as sullen as ever, and I noticed that he had a chain mail shirt under his
beshmet.
‘He’s wearing this chain mail shirt for a reason,’ I thought. ‘He has probably laid a plan.’
beshmet.
‘He’s wearing this chain mail shirt for a reason,’ I thought. ‘He has probably laid a plan.’
“It became stuffy in the
saklya,
and I went out into the fresh air to revive myself. Night had already fallen on the mountains, and a thundercloud began to wander along the ravines.
saklya,
and I went out into the fresh air to revive myself. Night had already fallen on the mountains, and a thundercloud began to wander along the ravines.
“It occurred to me to look in on our horses in the shelter, to see if they had feed, and besides, caution is never a hindrance—after all, I had a splendid horse. The Kabardin have, more than once, looked at it and repeated ingratiatingly, ‘Yakshi tkhe, chek yakshi!’
17
17
“I steal along the fence and suddenly I hear voices; I immediately recognized one voice: it was the rake Azamat, the son of our host. The other spoke more thinly and more quietly. ‘What are they talking about?’ I thought. ‘Not about my horse surely . . .’ So, I sat down by the fence and began listening, trying not to miss a word. Occasionally, the noise of singing and the sound of talking would fly over from the
saklya,
deafening this conversation that was so interesting to me.
saklya,
deafening this conversation that was so interesting to me.
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