No More Learning

. And, indeed, I should
very much like to prove to you that you are mistaken in regard to me”. . .

“You will find that a rather difficult task”. . .

“But why? ”. . .

“Because you never visit us and, most likely, there will not be many
more of these balls. ”

“That means,” I thought, “that their doors are closed to me for ever. ”

“You know, Princess,” I said to her, with a certain amount of vexation,
“one should never spurn a penitent criminal: in his despair he may
become twice as much a criminal as before. . . and then”. . .

Sudden laughter and whispering from the people around us caused me to
turn my head and to interrupt my phrase. A few paces away from me stood
a group of men, amongst them the captain of dragoons, who had manifested
intentions hostile to the charming Princess. He was particularly well
pleased with something or other, and was rubbing his hands, laughing and
exchanging meaning glances with his companions. All at once a gentleman
in an evening-dress coat and with long moustaches and a red face
separated himself from the crowd and directed his uncertain steps
straight towards Princess Mary. He was drunk. Coming to a halt opposite
the embarrassed Princess and placing his hands behind his back, he fixed
his dull grey eyes upon her, and said in a hoarse treble:

“Permettez. . . but what is the good of that sort of thing here. . . All I
need say is: I engage you for the mazurka”. . .

“Very well! ” she replied in a trembling voice, throwing a beseeching
glance around. Alas! Her mother was a long way off, and not one of
the cavaliers of her acquaintance was near. A certain aide-de-camp
apparently saw the whole scene, but he concealed himself behind the
crowd in order not to be mixed up in the affair.

“What? ” said the drunken gentleman, winking to the captain of dragoons,
who was encouraging him by signs. “Do you not wish to dance then? . . . All
the same I again have the honour to engage you for the mazurka. . . You
think, perhaps, that I am drunk! That is all right! . . . I can dance all
the easier, I assure you”. . .

I saw that she was on the point of fainting with fright and indignation.

I went up to the drunken gentleman, caught him none too gently by the
arm, and, looking him fixedly in the face, requested him to retire.
“Because,” I added, “the Princess promised long ago to dance the mazurka
with me. ”

“Well, then, there’s nothing to be done! Another time! ” he said,
bursting out laughing, and he retired to his abashed companions, who
immediately conducted him into another room.

I was rewarded by a deep, wondrous glance.

The Princess went up to her mother and told her the whole story. The
latter sought me out among the crowd and thanked me. She informed me
that she knew my mother and was on terms of friendship with half a dozen
of my aunts.

“I do not know how it has happened that we have not made your
acquaintance up to now,” she added; “but confess, you alone are to blame
for that. You fight shy of everyone in a positively unseemly way. I hope
the air of my drawingroom will dispel your spleen. . . Do you not think
so? ”

I uttered one of the phrases which everybody must have ready for such an
occasion.

The quadrilles dragged on a dreadfully long time.

At last the music struck up from the gallery, Princess Mary and I took
up our places.

I did not once allude to the drunken gentleman, or to my previous
behaviour, or to Grushnitski. The impression produced upon her by the
unpleasant scene was gradually dispelled; her face brightened up; she
jested very charmingly; her conversation was witty, without pretensions
to wit, vivacious and spontaneous; her observations were sometimes
profound. . . In a very involved sentence I gave her to understand that I
had liked her for a long time. She bent her head and blushed slightly.

“You are a strange man! ” she said, with a forced laugh, lifting her
velvet eyes upon me.

“I did not wish to make your acquaintance,” I continued, “because you
are surrounded by too dense a throng of adorers, in which I was afraid
of being lost to sight altogether. ”

“You need not have been afraid; they are all very tiresome”. . .

“All? Not all, surely? ”

She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to recollect something, then
blushed slightly again and finally pronounced with decision:

“All! ”

“Even my friend, Grushnitski? ”

“But is he your friend? ” she said, manifesting some doubt.

“Yes. ”

“He, of course, does not come into the category of the tiresome”. . .

“But into that of the unfortunate! ” I said, laughing.

“Of course! But do you consider that funny? I should like you to be in
his place”. . .

“Well? I was once a cadet myself, and, in truth, it was the best time of
my life! ”

“Is he a cadet, then? ”. . . she said rapidly, and then added: “But I
thought”. . .

“What did you think? ”. . .

“Nothing! Who is that lady? ”

Thereupon the conversation took a different direction, and it did not
return to the former subject.

And now the mazurka came to an end and we separated--until we should
meet again. The ladies drove off in different directions. I went to get
some supper, and met Werner.

“Aha! ” he said: “so it is you! And yet you did not wish to make the
acquaintance of Princess Mary otherwise than by saving her from certain
death. ”

“I have done better,” I replied. “I have saved her from fainting at the
ball”. . .

“How was that? Tell me. ”

“No, guess! --O, you who guess everything in the world! ”




CHAPTER VI. 30th May.

ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, I was walking on the boulevard.
Grushnitski perceived me a long way off, and came up to me. A sort of
ridiculous rapture was shining in his eyes. He pressed my hand warmly,
and said in a tragic voice:

“I thank you, Pechorin. . . You understand me? ”

“No; but in any case it is not worth gratitude,” I answered, not having,
in fact, any good deed upon my conscience.

“What? But yesterday! Have you forgotten? . . . Mary has told me
everything”. . .

“Why! Have you everything in common so soon as this? Even gratitude? ”. . .

“Listen,” said Grushnitski very earnestly; “pray do not make fun of
my love, if you wish to remain my friend. . . You see, I love her to the
point of madness. . . and I think--I hope--she loves me too. . . I have a
request to make of you. You will be at their house this evening; promise
me to observe everything. I know you are experienced in these matters,
you know women better than I. . . Women! Women! Who can understand them?
Their smiles contradict their glances, their words promise and allure,
but the tone of their voice repels. . . At one time they grasp and divine
in a moment our most secret thoughts, at another they cannot understand
the clearest hints. . . Take Princess Mary, now: yesterday her eyes, as
they rested upon me, were blazing with passion; to-day they are dull and
cold”. . .

“That is possibly the result of the waters,” I replied.

“You see the bad side of everything. . . materialist,” he added
contemptuously. “However, let us talk of other matters. ”

And, satisfied with his bad pun, he cheered up.

At nine o’clock we went to Princess Ligovski’s together.

Passing by Vera’s windows, I saw her looking out. We threw a fleeting
glance at each other. She entered the Ligovskis’ drawing-room soon after
us. Princess Ligovski presented me to her, as a relation of her own. Tea
was served. The guests were numerous, and the conversation was general.
I endeavoured to please the Princess, jested, and made her laugh
heartily a few times. Princess Mary, also, was more than once on the
point of bursting out laughing, but she restrained herself in order not
to depart from the role she had assumed.
She finds languor becoming to
her, and perhaps she is not mistaken. Grushnitski appears to be very
glad that she is not infected by my gaiety.

After tea we all went into the drawingroom.

“Are you satisfied with my obedience, Vera? ” I said as I was passing
her.

She threw me a glance full of love and gratitude. I have grown
accustomed to such glances; but at one time they constituted my
felicity. The Princess seated her daughter at the pianoforte, and all
the company begged her to sing. I kept silence, and, taking advantage
of the hubbub, I went aside to the window with Vera, who wished to
say something of great importance to both of us. . . It turned out to
be--nonsense. . .

Meanwhile my indifference was vexing Princess Mary, as I was able to
make out from a single angry, gleaming glance which she cast at me. . .
Oh! I understand the method of conversation wonderfully well: mute but
expressive, brief but forceful! . . .

She began to sing. She has a good voice, but she sings badly. . . However,
I was not listening.

Grushnitski, on the contrary, leaning his elbows on the grand piano,
facing her, was devouring her with his eyes and saying in an undertone
every minute: “Charmant! Delicieux! ”

“Listen,” said Vera to me, “I do not wish you to make my husband’s
acquaintance, but you must, without fail, make yourself agreeable to
the Princess; that will be an easy task for you: you can do anything you
wish. It is only here that we shall see each other”. . .

“Only here? ”. . .

She blushed and continued:

“You know that I am your slave: I have never been able to resist you. . .
and I shall be punished for it, you will cease to love me! At least,
I want to preserve my reputation. . . not for myself--that you know very
well! . . . Oh! I beseech you: do not torture me, as before, with idle
doubts and feigned coldness! It may be that I shall die soon; I feel
that I am growing weaker from day to day. . . And, yet, I cannot think of
the future life, I think only of you. . . You men do not understand the
delights of a glance, of a pressure of the hand. . . but as for me, I
swear to you that, when I listen to your voice, I feel such a deep,
strange bliss that the most passionate kisses could not take its place. ”

Meanwhile, Princess Mary had finished her song. Murmurs of praise were
to be heard all around. I went up to her after all the other guests, and
said something rather carelessly to her on the subject of her voice.

She made a little grimace, pouting her lower lip, and dropped a very
sarcastic curtsey.

“That is all the more flattering,” she said, “because you have not been
listening to me at all; but perhaps you do not like music? ”. . .

“On the contrary, I do. . . After dinner, especially. ”

“Grushnitski is right in saying that you have very prosaic tastes. . . and
I see that you like music in a gastronomic respect. ”

“You are mistaken again: I am by no means an epicure. I have a most
wretched digestion. But music after dinner puts one to sleep, and
to sleep after dinner is healthful; consequently I like music in a
medicinal respect. In the evening, on the contrary, it excites my nerves
too much: I become either too melancholy or too gay. Both are fatiguing,
where there is no positive reason for being either sorrowful or glad.
And, moreover, melancholy in society is ridiculous, and too great gaiety
is unbecoming”. . .

She did not hear me to the end, but went away and sat beside
Grushnitski, and they entered into a sort of sentimental conversation.
Apparently the Princess answered his sage phrases rather absent-mindedly
and inconsequently, although endeavouring to show that she was
listening to him with attention, because sometimes he looked at her in
astonishment, trying to divine the cause of the inward agitation which
was expressed at times in her restless glance. . .

But I have found you out, my dear Princess! Have a care! You want to pay
me back in the same coin, to wound my vanity--you will not succeed! And
if you declare war on me, I will be merciless!

In the course of the evening, I purposely tried a few times to join in
their conversation, but she met my remarks rather coldly, and, at
last, I retired in pretended vexation. Princess Mary was triumphant,
Grushnitski likewise. Triumph, my friends, and be quick about it! . . .
You will not have long to triumph! . . . It cannot be otherwise. I have
a presentiment. . . On making a woman’s acquaintance I have always
unerringly guessed whether she would fall in love with me or not.

The remaining part of the evening I spent at Vera’s side, and talked to
the full about the old days. . . Why does she love me so much? In truth, I
am unable to say, all the more so because she is the only woman who
has understood me perfectly, with all my petty weaknesses and evil
passions. . . Can it be that wickedness is so attractive? . . .

Grushnitski and I left the house together. In the street he took my arm,
and, after a long silence, said:

“Well? ”

“You are a fool,” I should have liked to answer. But I restrained myself
and only shrugged my shoulders.




CHAPTER VII. 6th June.

ALL these days I have not once departed from my system. Princess Mary
has come to like talking to me; I have told her a few of the
strange events of my life, and she is beginning to look on me as
an extraordinary man. I mock at everything in the world, especially
feelings; and she is taking alarm. When I am present, she does not dare
to embark upon sentimental discussions with Grushnitski, and already, on
a few occasions, she has answered his sallies with a mocking smile. But
every time that Grushnitski comes up to her I assume an air of meekness
and leave the two of them together. On the first occasion, she was glad,
or tried to make it appear so; on the second, she was angry with me; on
the third--with Grushnitski.

“You have very little vanity! ” she said to me yesterday. “What makes you
think that I find Grushnitski the more entertaining? ”

I answered that I was sacrificing my own pleasure for the sake of the
happiness of a friend.

“And my pleasure, too,” she added.

I looked at her intently and assumed a serious air. After that for the
whole day I did not speak a single word to her. . . In the evening, she
was pensive; this morning, at the well, more pensive still. When I went
up to her, she was listening absent-mindedly to Grushnitski, who was
apparently falling into raptures about Nature, but, so soon as
she perceived me, she began to laugh--at a most inopportune
moment--pretending not to notice me. I went on a little further and
began stealthily to observe her. She turned away from her companion and
yawned twice. Decidedly she had grown tired of Grushnitski--I will not
talk to her for another two days.




CHAPTER VIII. 11th June.

I OFTEN ask myself why I am so obstinately endeavouring to win the love
of a young girl whom I do not wish to deceive, and whom I will never
marry. Why this woman-like coquetry? Vera loves me more than Princess
Mary ever will. Had I regarded the latter as an invincible beauty, I
should perhaps have been allured by the difficulty of the undertaking. . .

However, there is no such difficulty in this case! Consequently, my
present feeling is not that restless craving for love which torments us
in the early days of our youth, flinging us from one woman to
another until we find one who cannot endure us. And then begins our
constancy--that sincere, unending passion which may be expressed
mathematically by a line falling from a point into space--the secret of
that endlessness lying only in the impossibility of attaining the aim,
that is to say, the end.

From what motive, then, am I taking all this trouble? --Envy of
Grushnitski? Poor fellow!

He is quite undeserving of it. Or, is it the result of that ugly, but
invincible, feeling which causes us to destroy the sweet illusions of
our neighbour in order to have the petty satisfaction of saying to him,
when, in despair, he asks what he is to believe:

“My friend, the same thing happened to me, and you see, nevertheless,
that I dine, sup, and sleep very peacefully, and I shall, I hope, know
how to die without tears and lamentations. ”

There is, in sooth, a boundless enjoyment in the possession of a young,
scarce-budded soul! It is like a floweret which exhales its best perfume
at the kiss of the first ray of the sun. You should pluck the flower at
that moment, and, breathing its fragrance to the full, cast it upon the
road: perchance someone will pick it up! I feel within me that insatiate
hunger which devours everything it meets upon the way; I look upon
the sufferings and joys of others only from the point of view of their
relation to myself, regarding them as the nutriment which sustains my
spiritual forces. I myself am no longer capable of committing follies
under the influence of passion; with me, ambition has been repressed by
circumstances, but it has emerged in another form, because ambition is
nothing more nor less than a thirst for power, and my chief pleasure is
to make everything that surrounds me subject to my will. To arouse the
feeling of love, devotion and awe towards oneself--is not that the first
sign, and the greatest triumph, of power? To be the cause of suffering
and joy to another--without in the least possessing any definite right
to be so--is not that the sweetest food for our pride? And what is
happiness? --Satisfied pride. Were I to consider myself the best, the
most powerful man in the world, I should be happy; were all to love me,
I should find within me inexhaustible springs of love. Evil begets
evil; the first suffering gives us the conception of the satisfaction
of torturing another. The idea of evil cannot enter the mind without
arousing a desire to put it actually into practice. “Ideas are organic
entities,” someone has said. The very fact of their birth endows them
with form, and that form is action. He in whose brain the most ideas
are born accomplishes the most. From that cause a genius, chained to an
official desk, must die or go mad, just as it often happens that a man
of powerful constitution, and at the same time of sedentary life and
simple habits, dies of an apoplectic stroke.

Passions are naught but ideas in their first development; they are an
attribute of the youth of the heart, and foolish is he who thinks that
he will be agitated by them all his life. Many quiet rivers begin their
course as noisy waterfalls, and there is not a single stream which will
leap or foam throughout its way to the sea. That quietness, however, is
frequently the sign of great, though latent, strength. The fulness and
depth of feelings and thoughts do not admit of frenzied outbursts. In
suffering and in enjoyment the soul renders itself a strict account of
all it experiences and convinces itself that such things must be. It
knows that, but for storms, the constant heat of the sun would dry it
up! It imbues itself with its own life--pets and punishes itself like a
favourite child. It is only in that highest state of self-knowledge that
a man can appreciate the divine justice.

On reading over this page, I observe that I have made a wide digression
from my subject. . . But what matter? . . . You see, it is for myself that I
am writing this diary, and, consequently anything that I jot down in it
will in time be a valuable reminiscence for me.

. . . . .

Grushnitski has called to see me to-day. He flung himself upon my neck;
he has been promoted to be an officer. We drank champagne. Doctor Werner
came in after him.