Read A Hero of Our Time Online
Authors: Mikhail Lermontov
Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary
A Hero of Our Time (10 page)
“The delirium lifted toward morning. For an hour, she lay there motionless and pale, with such feebleness that it was barely possible to see her breathing. Then she seemed better, and she started talking—but what do you think she was on about? . . . This kind of thing only occurs to the dying! She had started lamenting the fact that she wasn’t a Christian, and that in the other world, her soul wouldn’t meet Pechorin’s, and that some other woman would become his companion in heaven. I had an idea to christen her before she died and I suggested it to her. She looked at me with indecision and couldn’t utter anything for a long while. Eventually, she responded saying she would die of the same faith with which she was born. A whole day passed in this way. How she changed over the course of that day! Her pale cheeks sank, her eyes grew larger and larger, her lips burned. She felt an inner heat, as though there was a piece of burning-hot iron in her breast.
“The next night fell; we didn’t close our eyes, didn’t leave her bedside. She was suffering terribly, moaning, and when the pain subsided, she would try to convince Grigory Alexandrovich that she was better, persuading him to get some sleep, she kissed his hand, she wouldn’t release it from her own. Before morning she began to feel the anguish of death, she started to toss around, dislodged her bandage, and she bled again. When they dressed the wound, she was calm for a minute and started asking Pechorin if he would kiss her. He got onto his knees by the bed, lifted her head a little from the pillow, and pressed his lips to her ever-colder lips. She threw her shaking arms tightly around his neck as though with this kiss she wanted to convey her soul to him . . . But she did well to die! What would have become of her if Grigory Alexandrovich had abandoned her? It would have happened sooner or later . . .
“The first half of the next day she was quiet, un-talking and obedient, as the doctor tortured her with poultices and mixtures.
“‘For pity’s sake!’ I said to him. ‘You said yourself that she would die for certain, so why all these medical preparations? ’
“‘It’s still better than nothing, Maxim Maximych,’ he responded, ‘for the sake of a peaceful conscience.’ A peaceful conscience!
“After midday, she started to be tormented by thirst. We opened the window, but it was hotter in the courtyard than in her room. We put pieces of ice by her bed but nothing was helping. I knew that this was an unbearable thirst—a sign of the approaching end—and told this to Pechorin. ‘Water! Water!’ she said with a hoarse voice, rising up slightly in her bed.
“He became as white as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured water into it and gave it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and started to recite a prayer, I don’t remember which . . . Yes, my dear sir, I have often seen people dying in hospitals and on battlefields—but it didn’t compare—didn’t compare! . . . And what’s more, I should confess, that there’s something that particularly saddens me: she didn’t once think of me before her death. And, it seems, I loved her like a father . . . God forgive her! . . . But, in actuality, it must be said: who am I that she should remember me before her death?
“As soon as she had taken a drink of water, she felt a certain ease, and after three minutes she perished. We put a mirror up to her lips—it was clear! . . . I led Pechorin straight out of the room, and we went to the fortress ramparts. For a long time we walked back and forth along the ramparts side by side, without saying a word, our hands clasped behind our backs. His face expressed nothing in particular and I became vexed. In his place I would have died of grief. Eventually, he sat on the ground, in the shade, and started scratching something in the sand with a stick. I wanted to comfort him, and started to say something, mostly out of a sense of decency, you know. And he raised his head and burst out laughing . . . a chill ran along my skin with that laughter . . . I went off to order the coffin.
“I admit that I was occupying myself with this task partly in order to distract myself. I had a piece of
thermalam,
34
with which I lined her coffin, and I decorated it with the Circassian silver galloon, which Grigory Alexandrovich had bought for her earlier anyway.
thermalam,
34
with which I lined her coffin, and I decorated it with the Circassian silver galloon, which Grigory Alexandrovich had bought for her earlier anyway.
“The next day, in the early morning, we buried her behind the fortress, by the stream, near the place where last she had sat. White acacia and elders have now spread around her grave. I wanted to mount a cross, but, you know, it wouldn’t be right: after all, she wasn’t a Christian . . .”
“And what happened to Pechorin?” I asked.
“Pechorin was unwell for a long while, he wasted away, poor fellow, but we never spoke of Bela again. I saw that it would have been unpleasant for him—so why mention it? About three months later he was appointed to the E——regiment and he left for Georgia. We haven’t seen each other since then . . . Yes, I seem to remember someone telling me not long ago that he had returned to Russia, but it wasn’t in corps orders. But then, news is always late in arriving to the likes of us.”
Then he launched into a long dissertation about how unpleasant it is to receive news a year after the fact—probably in an effort to dampen his sad memories.
I didn’t interrupt him, but I didn’t listen either.
After an hour, an opportunity to continue our journey arose. The blizzard had abated, the sky had cleared, and we set off. On the road, I couldn’t help but start a conversation about Bela and Pechorin again.
“Did you ever hear what happened to Kazbich?” I asked.
“To Kazbich? I really don’t know . . . I heard that there is some Kazbich in the right flank of the
Shapsugs,
a daring fellow, who rides around at a slow pace under our fire, and very courteously takes a bow when a bullet buzzes near him—but it’s unlikely that it’s the same man!”
Shapsugs,
a daring fellow, who rides around at a slow pace under our fire, and very courteously takes a bow when a bullet buzzes near him—but it’s unlikely that it’s the same man!”
In Kobi I parted ways with Maxim Maximych. I went on, traveling post, and he was unable to follow me since his load was heavy. We didn’t have a hope of ever meeting again, but nonetheless we did. And if you like, I’ll tell you about it—but that’s another story . . . Won’t you agree, however, that Maxim Maximych is a man worthy of respect? . . . If you agree, then I will have been rewarded for my story, overlong though it may have been.
II
MAXIM MAXIMYCH
Having parted ways with Maxim Maximych, I galloped quickly through the Terek Gorge and the Daryal, stopped for dinner at Kazbek, had tea at Lars, and made it to Vladikavkaz for supper. I will spare you from descriptions of the mountains, from exclamations that express nothing, from pictures that depict nothing—especially for those of you who have not been there—and from those statistical notes that nobody can bear to read.
I stopped at the inn where travelers always stop but where, nonetheless, there is no one of whom to request a roast pheasant or some cabbage soup, for the three veteran soldiers in charge of it are so stupid or so drunk that no sense can be got out of them.
I was informed that I would have to endure another three days here since the
Opportunity
from Ekaterinograd hadn’t yet arrived, and hence could not set off back again. What opportunity! . . . But a bad pun isn’t much comfort to a Russian man, and for amusement’s sake, I struck on the idea of writing down Maxim Maximych’s tale about Bela, not imagining that this would be the first link in a long chain of stories. How insignificant happenings sometimes have cruel consequences! . . . Perhaps you don’t know what the
Opportunity
is? It is a convoy, consisting of a half company of infantry and a cannon, which escorts transports through the Kabarde, from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd.
Opportunity
from Ekaterinograd hadn’t yet arrived, and hence could not set off back again. What opportunity! . . . But a bad pun isn’t much comfort to a Russian man, and for amusement’s sake, I struck on the idea of writing down Maxim Maximych’s tale about Bela, not imagining that this would be the first link in a long chain of stories. How insignificant happenings sometimes have cruel consequences! . . . Perhaps you don’t know what the
Opportunity
is? It is a convoy, consisting of a half company of infantry and a cannon, which escorts transports through the Kabarde, from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd.
The first day I spent there was very boring. The next day a cart rolled into the courtyard in the early morning . . . Ah! Maxim Maximych! . . . We greeted each other like old friends. I invited him to stay in my quarters. He didn’t stand on ceremony, and he even clapped me on the shoulder and twisted his mouth into the semblance of a smile. What an eccentric!
Maxim Maximych possessed a deep knowledge of the culinary arts: he roasted a pheasant amazingly well, and successfully added a cucumber brine to it, and I must admit that without him there would have only been dry food left to me. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to forget the modest number of dishes, which amounted to all of one, and having smoked a pipe, we settled in—I sat by the window and he by the heated stove, because the day had been damp and cold. We were silent. What was there to talk about? . . . He had already told me everything that was of interest about himself, and I had nothing to tell. I looked through the window. A multitude of low dwellings twinkled among the trees, scattered along the banks of the Terek River, which runs more and more widely here; and in the distance a toothy wall of mountains shined blue, and from behind them the peak of Mount Kazbek emerged in its white cardinal’s hat. I said farewell to them in my thoughts and I was sorry to do so . . .
We sat like that for a long time. The sun had hidden itself behind the cold peaks, and a whitish mist had begun to disperse in the valley, when the sound of a harness bell and the shouts of cart drivers resounded in the street. Several carts of dirty-looking Armenians drove into the courtyard of the inn; an empty carriage arrived behind them, with an easy gait, a comfortable construction and dandified appearance—all of which gave it some sort of stamp of foreignness. A man with a large mustache walked behind it, wearing a
dolman,
1
looking rather well-dressed for a lackey. But it was impossible to mistake his position, seeing the rakish manner with which he shook the ash from his pipe and shouted at the coachman. He was clearly the spoiled servant of a lazy master—a sort of Russian
Figaro.
dolman,
1
looking rather well-dressed for a lackey. But it was impossible to mistake his position, seeing the rakish manner with which he shook the ash from his pipe and shouted at the coachman. He was clearly the spoiled servant of a lazy master—a sort of Russian
Figaro.
“Tell me, my good man,” I cried to him from the window, “is this the
Opportunity
that has arrived?”
Opportunity
that has arrived?”
He looked at me impertinently, adjusted his tie and turned around. There was an Armenian walking next to him, smiling, who replied for him that the
Opportunity
had indeed arrived and tomorrow morning it would set off back again.
Opportunity
had indeed arrived and tomorrow morning it would set off back again.
“Thank God!” said Maxim Maximych, walking up to the window at that moment. “What a marvelous carriage!” he added. “There’s probably some official heading to an inquiry in Tiflis. But he obviously doesn’t know our hills! No, he can’t be serious, the good man—these hills aren’t kind—they’ll give a good jolting even to an English carriage!”
“But who do you think he is? Let’s go and find out . . .” We went out into the corridor. At the end of the corridor, the door to a side room was open. The lackey and the coachman were dragging valises inside.
“Listen, my friend,” the staff captain asked him, “whose is this marvelous carriage, eh? It’s an excellent carriage!”
The lackey, not turning around, mumbled something to himself as he unfastened the valise. Maxim Maximych became angry; he touched the rude man on the shoulder and said:
“I’m talking to you, good man.”
“Whose carriage? . . . It’s my master’s . . .”
“And who is your master?”
“Pechorin . . .”
“Really? Really? Pechorin? . . . Oh good God! . . . Did he perhaps once serve in the Caucasus?” exclaimed Maxim Maximych, tugging at my sleeve. Joy was sparkling in his eyes.
“Yes, he did, I’d guess—but I haven’t been with him for long.”
“Well there you go! There it is! Grigory Alexandrovich? . . . That’s his name, right? . . . Your master and I were friends,” he added, slapping the lackey fraternally on the shoulder so hard that it caused the man to stagger . . .
“If you please, sir, you are getting in my way,” said the man, frowning.
“Well, look at that! . . . Do you understand? Your master and I were once the best of friends, we lived together . . . So, where is the man himself?”
The servant declared that Pechorin had stopped to dine and spend the night with Colonel N——.
“Won’t he drop by here this evening?” said Maxim Maximych. “Or will you, good man, be going to him for anything? . . . If you are, will you tell him that Maxim Maximych is here. Tell him that. He’ll understand . . . I’ll give you eighty
kopeck
s for your vodka.”
kopeck
s for your vodka.”
The lackey assumed a contemptuous demeanor hearing such a modest pledge, but assured Maxim Maximych that he would fulfill his instructions.
“He’ll come running, you’ll see!” Maxim Maximych told me with a triumphant air, “I’ll go to the gate and wait for him . . . Eh! It’s a shame that I’m not acquainted with N____ . . .”
Maxim Maximych sat in front of the gate on a bench, and I went back to my room. I’ll admit I also awaited the appearance of this Pechorin with a certain amount of impatience, though from the staff captain’s tale I had formed an opinion of him that wasn’t very favorable. But several features of his character seemed remarkable to me. After an hour, one of the veterans brought a boiling samovar and a teapot.
“Maxim Maximych, would you like some tea?” I called to him through the window.
“I thank you, but I don’t really want any.”
“Come now, have some! Look here, it’s late already, and cold.”
“No, it’s fine, thank you.”
“As you like!”
I started drinking my tea alone, and about ten minutes later my old friend came in.
“Indeed, you’re right—it’s a good idea to have some tea. I just kept waiting . . . his man went to get him a while ago, and it seems something has kept them.”
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