No More Learning

He was walking with Colonel N. , who accompanied him
as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and then turned back to the
fortress. I immediately 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 demoralising 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 expressly 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 careless
and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms--a sure sign
of a certain secretiveness 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 observation 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 myself--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 impression upon another; but,
as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have
to rest content, nolens volens, with the description 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; [19] 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.

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? ” [20] 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? ”. . .

“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 yourself? 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 immediately 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 forgotten 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 courtyard, 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 something 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 carrying 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 Maksimych? ”

“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. However, 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 become the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And why?
Because Pechorin, through absent-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. Rousseau’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 recognise 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 understand.

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 [21] 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 [22]
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.

“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 surrounded 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 Gelenjik. ”

I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, a Cossack of the
frontier army. Ordering him to take down the portmanteau and dismiss
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 suspicions. 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.