A Hero of Our Time (9 page)
Read A Hero of Our Time Online
Authors: Mikhail Lermontov
Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary
“She looked over and cried out, ‘It’s Kazbich!’
“‘Ach, that scamp! What—has he come to laugh at us?’ I’m peering down and she’s right, it’s Kazbich: that’s his swarthy snout, ragged and dirty, as always.
“‘That’s my father’s horse,’ said Bela, grabbing my hand. She was shaking like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Aha!’ I thought, ‘that roguish blood hasn’t quieted down in you either, my darling!’
“‘Come over here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Train your rifle, and help this clever man off his horse—and you’ll get a silver ruble for it!’
“‘Yes, Your Honor. But he isn’t standing still!’
“‘Make him move!’ I said, laughing . . .
“‘Hello there, kind sir!’ shouted the sentry, waving at him. ‘Slow down, why are you twirling like a spinning top?’
“Kazbich actually stopped and started to listen attentively—he probably thought that someone was initiating negotiations with him—not at all!
“My grenadier took aim . . . Batz! . . . Missed. As soon as the gunpowder flared at the barrel, Kazbich nudged his horse and it leapt to the side. He came up a little in his stirrups and cried something in his own language, threatening us with his whip—and that was the last we saw of him.
“‘Shame on you!’ I said to the sentry.
“‘Your Honor! He’s gone off to die,’ he replied. ‘Those damned people don’t die instantly.’
“A quarter of an hour later, Pechorin returned from hunting. Bela threw herself around his neck, without complaint, without any reproach for his long absence . . .
“But even I was getting angry with him. ‘For pity’s sake,’ I said, ‘just here, a moment ago, Kazbich was by the stream and we fired at him. It’s been a while since you’ve come across him, hasn’t it? These mountain-dwelling people are vindictive. Do you think he has guessed that you had a part in helping Azamat? I’ll wager that he recognized Bela just now. And I know that about a year ago, he liked her tremendously—he told me so himself—and if he had figured out how to collect a decent amount of bride-money, then he’d probably have sought a marriage with her . . .’
“Pechorin then fell to thinking. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘we must be more careful . . . Bela, from today you must not walk on the fortress ramparts.’
“In the evening, I had a long, elucidating discussion with him. I was vexed that he had so changed toward the poor girl. Apart from the fact that he would spend half the day hunting, his treatment of her had turned cold, he rarely caressed her, and she had noticeably started to wither, her little face was drawn, and her big eyes had lost their luster.
“Sometimes you would ask her:
“‘Why such a big sigh Bela? Are you sad?’
“‘No!’
“‘Is there something you would like?’
“‘No!’
“‘Do you miss your kin?’
“‘I don’t have kin.’
“Sometimes you would get nothing more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of her for whole days.
“So I told him as much.
“‘Listen, Maxim Maximych,’ he replied. ‘I have an unfortunate character—whether it is how I was brought up, or whether God created me this way, I don’t know. I only know that if I am the cause of unhappiness in others, then I am no less unhappy myself. In my early youth, from the moment I left the care of my parents, I began furiously enjoying all the many pleasures you can obtain for money, and then, it seems, these pleasures became loathsome to me. Then I set forth into the wide world, and soon I’d had enough of society too. I fell in love with society beauties and was loved by them too—but their love only inflamed my imagination and pride, leaving my heart empty . . . I started to read, to study—but academics also bored me. I realized that neither glory nor happiness depends on them, because the happiest people are the ignorant. Glory comes from good fortune, and to attain it, you must merely be cunning. And then everything became tedious . . . Soon after, they transferred me to the Caucasus: this was the happiest time of my life. I hoped that boredom didn’t exist under Chechen bullets, but it was in vain—within a month I was so used to their whirring and to the nearness of death, that really, I paid more attention to the mosquitoes. And I was more bored than before, because I had lost what was nearly my last hope. When I saw Bela in my home, when for the first time I held her on my knees, I kissed her black curls, like a fool, I thought that she was an angel, sent to me by compassionate Fate . . . I was again mistaken. The love of a savage girl is not much better than the love of a noblewoman. The ignorance and simple-heartedness of the one becomes as tiresome as the coquettishness of the other. If you like, I still love her, I am grateful to her for several sufficiently sweet minutes. I would give my life for her, only I am bored in her company . . . Whether I’m a fool or a scoundrel, I don’t know. But one thing is sure—that I am as worthy of pity, maybe even more so, as she is. The soul inside me is corrupted by the world, my imagination is restless, my heart is insatiable. Nothing is ever enough. I have become as used to sorrow as I am to delight, and my life becomes more empty from one day to the next. There is only one remedy left for me: travel. As soon as I can, I will set off—only not to Europe, God forbid! I’ll go to America, to Arabia, to India—maybe I’ll perish somewhere along the way! At least, I am certain, that this final solace will not be exhausted too quickly, with the help of storms and bad roads.’
“He spoke like this for a long time, and his words engraved themselves on my memory because it was the first time I had heard such things from a twenty-five-year-old, and, God willing, it will be the last . . . How extraordinary!
“So tell me,” the staff captain continued, addressing himself to me, “from the sound of things, you have been in the capital recently—surely the youth there are not all like that?”
I answered that there are many people who speak in the same way; that there are, probably, some that are telling the truth; however, disillusionment, like every fashion, having begun at the highest social strata, had descended to the lower strata, who were now wearing it out, and that now, those who are most bored of all try to hide this misfortune as though it were a vice. The staff captain didn’t understand these nuances, shook his head, and smiled slyly.
“And it was the French, no doubt, who brought in this fashion of boredom?”
“No, the English.”
“Aha, that’s it!” he replied. “Indeed, they have always been inveterate drunks!”
I couldn’t help remembering one Muscovite lady, who had assured me that Byron had been nothing more than a drunk. But the staff captain’s observation was more pardonable: in order to restrain himself from wine, he, of course, was trying to persuade himself that all the misfortunes of the world have their origins in drink.
Meanwhile, he continued his story in this way:
“Kazbich didn’t appear again. Only, and I don’t know why, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was not for nothing that he had come, and that he was preparing himself for something nefarious.
“One day, Pechorin had tried to persuade me to go boar-hunting with him. I refused at length. Wild boar was no marvel to me! But, he managed to drag me off with him anyway. We took about five soldiers and set off early in the morning. Until ten o’clock we darted about the rushes and forest without seeing one beast.
“‘Ho! Shouldn’t we go back?’ I said. ‘What is there to aim at? It’s clear that it’s turned out to be an unlucky day!’ But Grigory Alexandrovich did not want to turn back without some sort of quarry, never mind the intense heat and exhaustion . . . that’s the kind of person he was—as soon as something occurs to him, he has to have it. He must have been spoiled by his mama as a child . . . Finally, at midday, we tracked down a damned boar. Paff! Paff! . . . No luck. It fled into the rushes. That’s the sort of unlucky day it was! . . . Then we paused to catch our breath for a moment, and set off home.
“We rode side by side, saying nothing, with loose reins, and we were right near the fortress—only bushes were hiding it from view. Suddenly a shot was fired . . . and we looked at each other. We were seized by the same suspicion . . . We galloped headlong toward the shot, and saw that soldiers had gathered in a bunch on the ramparts and were pointing to a field. And there, flying along, was a horseman carrying something white in his saddle. Grigory Alexandrovich gave out a cry worthy of a Chechen, pulled his rifle from its case and was off. I followed.
“Fortunately, due to our unsuccessful hunting efforts, our horses were not worn out, they strained under our saddles, and with each moment we were closer and closer . . . And at last, I recognized Kazbich, though I couldn’t make out what it was that he was holding in front of him. I drew up to Pechorin and yelled to him: ‘It’s Kazbich!’ And he looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse with his whip.
“At last we were within a rifle shot’s distance of him. Whether it was that Kazbich’s horse was exhausted, or that it was a worse horse than ours, much as he tried, it wasn’t making much progress. I imagine at that moment Kazbich was harking back to his Karagyoz . . .
“As I watched, Pechorin took aim with his rifle at full gallop . . . ‘Don’t shoot!’ I yelled to him. ‘Hold your fire! We’ll catch up with him!’ But—young men! Forever flaring up when they shouldn’t . . . A shot rang out, and the bullet broke the horse’s back leg. It sprang along another ten times or so, compelled by the heat of the moment, then stumbled and fell to its knees. Kazbich leapt off, and then we saw that he was holding a woman covered in a
yashmak
in his arms . . . It was Bela . . . Poor Bela! He then shouted something in his tongue and raised his dagger over her . . . There wasn’t a moment to waste. I took a shot in turn, a random shot. It looked as though the bullet had hit him in the shoulder because his arm suddenly fell . . . But when the smoke had dispersed, the horse lay wounded on the ground, and Bela next to it. And Kazbich, having thrown his rifle into the bushes, was clambering up the cliff like a cat. I would have liked to pick him off, but I didn’t have a ready cartridge! We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. The poor thing, she was lying there, unmoving, and blood was pouring in streams from her wound. That scoundrel—he could have at least struck her in the heart and ended it all with one blow, but to stick her in the back . . . the most treacherous of attacks! She wasn’t conscious. We tore up the
yashmak
and bandaged the wound as tightly as we could. Pechorin kissed her cold lips, but to no avail—nothing could bring her to her senses.
yashmak
in his arms . . . It was Bela . . . Poor Bela! He then shouted something in his tongue and raised his dagger over her . . . There wasn’t a moment to waste. I took a shot in turn, a random shot. It looked as though the bullet had hit him in the shoulder because his arm suddenly fell . . . But when the smoke had dispersed, the horse lay wounded on the ground, and Bela next to it. And Kazbich, having thrown his rifle into the bushes, was clambering up the cliff like a cat. I would have liked to pick him off, but I didn’t have a ready cartridge! We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. The poor thing, she was lying there, unmoving, and blood was pouring in streams from her wound. That scoundrel—he could have at least struck her in the heart and ended it all with one blow, but to stick her in the back . . . the most treacherous of attacks! She wasn’t conscious. We tore up the
yashmak
and bandaged the wound as tightly as we could. Pechorin kissed her cold lips, but to no avail—nothing could bring her to her senses.
“Pechorin mounted his horse. I lifted her from the ground and somehow installed her in his saddle. He embraced her with his arm, and we went back to the fortress. After several minutes of silence, Grigory Alexandrovich said to me, ‘Listen, Maxim Maximych, we won’t get her back alive like this.’
“ ‘Right!’ I said. We gave our horses their heads, and rode at full tilt. A crowd of people awaited us at the gates of the fortress. Carefully we transferred the wounded girl to Pechorin’s quarters and sent for the doctor. Though he was drunk, he made it; he inspected her wound and announced that she wouldn’t live more than a day—but he was mistaken . . .”
“Did she get better?” I asked the staff captain, grabbing his arm, unable to help myself from feeling glad.
“No,” he replied, “the doctor was mistaken in that she lasted two more days.”
“But explain to me—how did Kazbich manage to kidnap her?”
“Here’s how: in spite of Pechorin’s rules, she left the fortress and went down to the stream. It was, you see, very hot that day. She was sitting on a rock and lowered her feet into the water. Then Kazbich crept up and grabbed her, covered her mouth, and dragged her into the bushes, where he jumped on his horse and he was off! In the meantime she managed to let out a cry, the sentry was alerted, and he fired a shot, which missed, and that’s when we appeared.”
“But why did Kazbich want to take her?”
“For pity’s sake! These Circassians are notoriously thieving folk. If anything is lying around, they can’t help but pinch it. Even if they don’t need it, they’ll steal it anyway . . . but they must be forgiven for that! Besides, he had liked her for a long time.”
“And Bela died?”
“She died. But she suffered for a long time, and we suffered very much with her. At about ten o’clock in the evening she came to. We were sitting at her bedside and as soon as she opened her eyes, she started asking for Pechorin.
“‘I’m here, beside you, my
djanechka,
’ he replied (our word for this is ‘sweetheart’), taking her hand. ‘I am dying!’ she said. We started comforting her, saying that the doctor had promised to cure her without fail. She shook her head and turned toward the wall: she didn’t want to die!
djanechka,
’ he replied (our word for this is ‘sweetheart’), taking her hand. ‘I am dying!’ she said. We started comforting her, saying that the doctor had promised to cure her without fail. She shook her head and turned toward the wall: she didn’t want to die!
“That night she started to become delirious. Her head was burning, the trembling of a fever ran up and down her body.
She was uttering disconnected phrases about her father, her brother. She wanted to go to the mountains, to go home . . . Then she also started speaking about Pechorin, calling him various affectionate things or reproaching him for ceasing to love his
djanechka
. . .
djanechka
. . .
“He listened to her without saying anything, his head lowered into his hands. But I never once noticed a tear on his lashes. Indeed, he either couldn’t cry or he was containing himself—I don’t know. Personally, I have never laid eyes on anything more pitiable.
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