“‘No!’
“‘You are pining for your kinsfolk?’
“‘I have none!’
“Sometimes for whole days not a word could be drawn from her but ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’
“So I straightway proceeded to talk to Pechorin about her.”
CHAPTER IX
“‘LISTEN, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Pech- orin. ‘Mine is an unfortunate dis-
position; whether it is the result of my up- bringing or whether it is innate — I know not. I only know this, that if I am the cause of un- happiness in others I myself am no less unhappy. Of course, that is a poor consolation to them — only the fact remains that such is the case. In my early youth, from the moment I ceased to be under the guardianship of my relations, I began madly to enjoy all the pleasures which money could buy — and, of course, such pleasures became irksome to me. Then I launched out into the world of fashion — and that, too, soon palled upon me. I fell in love with fashionable beauties and was loved by them, but my imagina- tion and egoism alone were aroused; my heart remained empty. . . I began to read, to study — but sciences also became utterly wearisome to me. I saw that neither fame nor happiness depends on them in the least, because the happiest people are the uneducated, and fame is good fortune, to attain which you have only to be smart. Then I grew bored. . . Soon after- wards I was transferred to the Caucasus; and that was the happiest time of my life. I hoped that under the bullets of the Chechenes boredom could not exist — a vain hope! In a month I grew so accustomed to the buzzing of the bullets and to the proximity of death that, to tell the truth, I paid more attention to the gnats — and I became more bored than ever, because I had lost what was almost my last hope. When I saw Bela in my own house; when, for the first time, I held her on my knee and kissed her black locks, I, fool that I was, thought that she was an angel sent to me by sympathetic fate. . . Again I was mistaken; the love of a savage is little better than that of your lady of quality, the barbaric ignorance and simplicity of the one weary you as much as the coquetry of the other. I am not saying that I do not love her still; I am grateful to her for a few fairly sweet moments; I would give my life for her — only I am bored with her. . . Whether I am a fool or a villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also most deserving of pity — perhaps more than she. My soul has been spoiled by the world, my imagination is unquiet, my heart insatiate. To me everything is of little moment. I become as easily accus- tomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows emptier day by day. One expedient only is left to me — travel.
“‘As soon as I can, I shall set off — but not to Europe. Heaven forfend! I shall go to America, to Arabia, to India — perchance I shall die some- where on the way. At any rate, I am convinced that, thanks to storms and bad roads, that last consolation will not quickly be exhausted!’
“For a long time he went on speaking thus, and his words have remained stamped upon my memory, because it was the first time that I had heard such things from a man of five-and-twenty — and Heaven grant it may be the last. Isn’t it astonishing? Tell me, please,” continued the staff-captain, appealing to me. “You used to live in the Capital, I think, and that not so very long ago. Is it possible that the young men there are all like that?”
I replied that there were a good many people who used the same sort of language, that, prob- ably, there might even be some who spoke in all sincerity; that disillusionment, moreover, like all other vogues, having had its beginning in the higher strata of society, had descended to the lower, where it was being worn threadbare, and that, now, those who were really and truly bored strove to conceal their misfortune as if it were a vice. The staff-captain did not under- stand these subtleties, shook his head, and smiled slyly.
“Anyhow, I suppose it was the French who introduced the fashion?”
“No, the English.”
“Aha, there you are!” he answered. “They always have been arrant drunkards, you know!”
Involuntarily I recalled to mind a certain lady, living in Moscow, who used to maintain that Byron was nothing more nor less than a drunkard. However, the staff-captain’s observation was more excusable; in order to abstain from strong drink, he naturally endeavoured to convince himself that all the misfortunes in the world are the result of drunkenness.
CHAPTER X
MEANWHILE the staff-captain continued his story.
“Kazbich never put in an appearance again; but somehow — I don’t know why — I could not get the idea out of my head that he had had a reason for coming, and that some mischievous scheme was in his mind.
“Well, one day Pechorin tried to persuade me to go boar-hunting with him. For a long time I refused. What novelty was a wild boar to me?
“However, off he dragged me, all the same. We took four or five soldiers and set out early in the morning. Up till ten o’clock we scurried about the reeds and the forest — there wasn’t a wild beast to be found!
“‘I say, oughtn’t we to be going back?’ I said. ‘What’s the use of sticking at it? It is evident enough that we have happened on an unlucky day!’
“But, in spite of heat and fatigue, Pechorin didn’t like to return empty-handed. . . That is just the kind of man he was; whatever he set his heart on he had to have — evidently, in his childhood, he had been spoiled by an indulgent mother. At last, at midday, we discovered one of those cursed wild boars — Bang! Bang! — No good! — Off it went into the reeds. That was an unlucky day, to be sure! . . . So, after a short rest, we set off homeward. . .
“We rode in silence, side by side, giving the horses their head. We had almost reached the fortress, and only the brushwood concealed it from view. Suddenly a shot rang out. . . We glanced at each other, both struck with the self- same suspicion. . . We galloped headlong in the direction of the shot, looked, and saw the soldiers clustered together on the rampart and pointing towards a field, along which a rider was flying at full speed, holding something white across his saddle. Grigori Aleksandrovich yelled like any Chechene, whipped his gun from its cover, and gave chase — I after him.
“Luckily, thanks to our unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not jaded; they strained under the saddle, and with every moment we drew nearer and nearer. . . At length I recognised Kazbich, only I could not make out what it was that he was holding in front of him.
“Then I drew level with Pechorin and shouted to him:
“‘It is Kazbich!’
“He looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse with his whip.
“At last we were within gunshot of Kazbich. Whether it was that his horse was jaded or not so good as ours, I don’t know, but, in spite of all his efforts, it did not get along very fast. I fancy at that moment he remembered his Karagyoz!
“I looked at Pechorin. He was taking aim as he galloped. . .
“‘Don’t shoot,’ I cried. ‘Save the shot! We will catch up with him as it is.’
“Oh, these young men! Always taking fire at the wrong moment! The shot rang out and the bullet broke one of the horse’s hind legs. It gave a few fiery leaps forward, stumbled, and fell to its knees. Kazbich sprang off, and then we perceived that it was a woman he was holding in his arms — a woman wrapped in a veil. It was Bela — poor Bela! He shouted something to us in his own language and raised his dagger over her. . . Delay was useless; I fired in my turn, at haphazard. Probably the bullet struck him in the shoulder, because he dropped his hand suddenly. When the smoke cleared off, we could see the wounded horse lying on the ground and Bela beside it; but Kazbich, his gun flung away, was clambering like a cat up the cliff, through the brushwood. I should have liked to have brought him down from there — but I hadn’t a charge ready. We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor girl! She was lying motionless, and the blood was pouring in streams from her wound. The villain! If he had struck her to the heart — well and good, everything would at least have been finished there and then; but to stab her in the back like that — the scoundrel! She was unconscious. We tore the veil into strips and bound up the wound as tightly as we could. In vain Pechorin kissed her cold lips — it was impossible to bring her to.
“Pechorin mounted; I lifted Bela from the ground and somehow managed to place her
before him on his saddle; he put his arm round her and we rode back.
“‘Look here, Maksim Maksimych,’ said
Grigori Aleksandrovich, after a few moments of silence. ‘We will never bring her in alive like this.’
“‘True!’ I said, and we put our horses to a full gallop.
CHAPTER XI
“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 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 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!
“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.
“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.
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 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?”
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 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 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 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.
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 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 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.
“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?”
“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.
FOREWORD TO BOOKS III, IV, AND V
CONCERNING PECHORIN’S DIARY
I LEARNED not long ago that Pechorin had died on his way back from 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.
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.
BOOK III THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY
TAMAN
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, 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 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 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.”
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,” 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?”
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!
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 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.”
“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 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 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 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.