No More Learning

Bang! . . . Missed! . . . Just as the powder flashed in the pan Kazbich
jogged his horse, which gave a bound to one side. He stood up in his
stirrups, shouted something in his own language, made a threatening
gesture with his whip--and was off.

“‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? ’ I said to the sentry.

“‘He has gone away to die, your honour,’ he answered. ‘There’s no
killing a man of that cursed race at one stroke. ’

“A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned from hunting. Bela
threw herself on his neck without a single complaint, without a single
reproach for his lengthy absence! . . . Even I was angry with him by this
time!

“‘Good heavens! ’ I said; ‘why, I tell you, Kazbich was here on the other
side of the river just a moment ago, and we shot at him. How easily
you might have run up against him, you know! These mountaineers are a
vindictive race! Do you suppose he does not guess that you gave Azamat
some help? And I wager that he recognised Bela to-day! I know he was
desperately fond of her a year ago--he told me so himself--and, if he
had had any hope of getting together a proper bridegroom’s gift, he
would certainly have sought her in marriage. ’

“At this Pechorin became thoughtful.

“‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We must be more cautious--Bela, from this day
forth you mustn’t walk on the rampart any more. ’

“In the evening I had a lengthy explanation with him. I was vexed that
his feelings towards the poor girl had changed; to say nothing of his
spending half the day hunting, his manner towards her had become cold.
He rarely caressed her, and she was beginning perceptibly to pine away;
her little face was becoming drawn, her large eyes growing dim.

“‘What are you sighing for, Bela? ’ I would ask her. ‘Are you sad? ’

“‘No! ’

“‘Do you want anything? ’

“‘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 Pechorin. ‘Mine is an unfortunate
disposition; whether it is the result of my upbringing or whether it
is innate--I know not. I only know this, that if I am the cause of
unhappiness 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 imagination 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 afterwards 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 accustomed 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
somewhere 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, probably, 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 understand 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 selfsame 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 rejoicing.

“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 prohibition, 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
disagreeable 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 Kazbich? ” 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!
[18]. . . 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.

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 highpriest’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. Behind 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 ‘Adventure’ arrived, eh? ”

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straightened 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! . .