No More Learning

. . In all
earnestness I beg of you: when it comes into your mind to speak evil of
me, take a knife instead and cut my throat. I think you would not find
that a very difficult matter. ”

“Am I like an assassin, then? ”. . .

“You are worse”. . .

I fell into thought for a moment; then, assuming a deeply moved air, I
said:

“Yes, such has been my lot from very childhood! All have read upon my
countenance the marks of bad qualities, which were not existent; but
they were assumed to exist--and they were born. I was modest--I was
accused of slyness: I grew secretive. I profoundly felt both good and
evil--no one caressed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive. I was
gloomy--other children merry and talkative; I felt myself higher than
they--I was rated lower: I grew envious. I was prepared to love the
whole world--no one understood me: I learned to hate. My colourless
youth flowed by in conflict with myself and the world; fearing ridicule,
I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there they
died. I spoke the truth--I was not believed: I began to deceive. Having
acquired a thorough knowledge of the world and the springs of society, I
grew skilled in the science of life; and I saw how others without skill
were happy, enjoying gratuitously the advantages which I so unweariedly
sought. Then despair was born within my breast--not that despair which
is cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but the cold, powerless despair
concealed beneath the mask of amiability and a good-natured smile. I
became a moral cripple. One half of my soul ceased to exist; it dried
up, evaporated, died, and I cut it off and cast it from me. The other
half moved and lived--at the service of all; but it remained unobserved,
because no one knew that the half which had perished had ever existed.
But, now, the memory of it has been awakened within me by you, and I
have read you its epitaph. To many, epitaphs in general seem ridiculous,
but to me they do not; especially when I remember what reposes beneath
them. I will not, however, ask you to share my opinion. If this outburst
seems absurd to you, I pray you, laugh! I forewarn you that your
laughter will not cause me the least chagrin. ”

At that moment I met her eyes: tears were welling in them. Her arm, as
it leaned upon mine, was trembling; her cheeks were aflame; she pitied
me! Sympathy--a feeling to which all women yield so easily, had dug its
talons into her inexperienced heart. During the whole excursion she was
preoccupied, and did not flirt with anyone--and that is a great sign!

We arrived at the hollow; the ladies left their cavaliers, but she did
not let go my arm. The witticisms of the local dandies failed to make
her laugh; the steepness of the declivity beside which she was standing
caused her no alarm, although the other ladies uttered shrill cries and
shut their eyes.

On the way back, I did not renew our melancholy conversation, but to my
idle questions and jests she gave short and absent-minded answers.

“Have you ever been in love? ” I asked her at length.

She looked at me intently, shook her head and again fell into a reverie.
It was evident that she was wishing to say something, but did not know
how to begin. Her breast heaved. . . And, indeed, that was but natural!
A muslin sleeve is a weak protection, and an electric spark was running
from my arm to hers. Almost all passions have their beginning in that
way, and frequently we are very much deceived in thinking that a woman
loves us for our moral and physical merits; of course, these prepare and
predispose the heart for the reception of the holy flame, but for all
that it is the first touch that decides the matter.

“I have been very amiable to-day, have I not? ” Princess Mary said to me,
with a forced smile, when we had returned from the walk.

We separated.

She is dissatisfied with herself. She accuses herself of coldness. . . Oh,
that is the first, the chief triumph!

To-morrow, she will be feeling a desire to recompense me. I know the
whole proceeding by heart already--that is what is so tiresome!




CHAPTER IX. 12th June.

I HAVE seen Vera to-day. She has begun to plague me with her jealousy.
Princess Mary has taken it into her head, it seems, to confide the
secrets of her heart to Vera: a happy choice, it must be confessed!

“I can guess what all this is leading to,” said Vera to me. “You had
better simply tell me at once that you are in love with her. ”

“But supposing I am not in love with her? ”

“Then why run after her, disturb her, agitate her imagination! . . . Oh, I
know you well! Listen--if you wish me to believe you, come to Kislovodsk
in a week’s time; we shall be moving thither the day after to-morrow.
Princess Mary will remain here longer. Engage lodgings next door to us.
We shall be living in the large house near the spring, on the mezzanine
floor. Princess Ligovski will be below us, and next door there is a
house belonging to the same landlord, which has not yet been taken. . .
Will you come? ”. . .

I gave my promise, and this very same day I have sent to engage the
lodgings.

Grushnitski came to me at six o’clock and announced that his uniform
would be ready to-morrow, just in time for him to go to the ball in it.

“At last I shall dance with her the whole evening through. . . And then I
shall talk to my heart’s content,” he added.

“When is the ball? ”

“Why, to-morrow! Do you not know, then? A great festival--and the local
authorities have undertaken to organize it”. . .

“Let us go to the boulevard”. . .

“Not on any account, in this nasty cloak”. . .

“What! Have you ceased to love it? ”. . .

I went out alone, and, meeting Princess Mary I asked her to keep the
mazurka for me. She seemed surprised and delighted.

“I thought that you would only dance from necessity as on the last
occasion,” she said, with a very charming smile. . .

She does not seem to notice Grushnitski’s absence at all.

“You will be agreeably surprised to-morrow,” I said to her.

“At what? ”

“That is a secret. . . You will find it out yourself, at the ball. ”

I finished up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; there were no other
guests present except Vera and a certain very amusing, little old
gentleman. I was in good spirits, and improvised various extraordinary
stories. Princess Mary sat opposite me and listened to my nonsense with
such deep, strained, and even tender attention that I grew ashamed of
myself. What had become of her vivacity, her coquetry, her caprices, her
haughty mien, her contemptuous smile, her absentminded glance? . . .

Vera noticed everything, and her sickly countenance was a picture of
profound grief. She was sitting in the shadow by the window, buried in a
wide arm-chair. . . I pitied her.

Then I related the whole dramatic story of our acquaintanceship, our
love--concealing it all, of course, under fictitious names.

So vividly did I portray my tenderness, my anxieties, my raptures; in
so favourable a light did I exhibit her actions and her character, that
involuntarily she had to forgive me for my flirtation with Princess
Mary.

She rose, sat down beside us, and brightened up. . . and it was only
at two o’clock in the morning that we remembered that the doctors had
ordered her to go to bed at eleven.




CHAPTER X. 13th June.

HALF an hour before the ball, Grushnitski presented himself to me in
the full splendour of the uniform of the Line infantry. Attached to
his third button was a little bronze chain, on which hung a double
lorgnette. Epaulettes of incredible size were bent backwards and upwards
in the shape of a cupid’s wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he
held cinnamon-coloured kid gloves and a forage-cap, and with his right he
kept every moment twisting his frizzled tuft of hair up into tiny curls.
Complacency and at the same time a certain diffidence were depicted upon
his face. His festal appearance and proud gait would have made me
burst out laughing, if such a proceeding had been in accordance with my
intentions.

He threw his cap and gloves on the table and began to pull down
the skirts of his coat and to put himself to rights before the
looking-glass. An enormous black handkerchief, which was twisted into a
very high stiffener for his cravat, and the bristles of which supported
his chin, stuck out an inch over his collar. It seemed to him to be
rather small, and he drew it up as far as his ears. As a result of
that hard work--the collar of his uniform being very tight and
uncomfortable--he grew red in the face.

“They say you have been courting my princess terribly these last few
days? ” he said, rather carelessly and without looking at me.

“‘Where are we fools to drink tea! ’” [271] I answered, repeating a pet
phrase of one of the cleverest rogues of past times, once celebrated in
song by Pushkin.

“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well? . . . Oh, the cursed Jew! . . . How it
cuts me under the armpits! . . . Have you got any scent? ”

“Good gracious, what more do you want? You are reeking of rose pomade as
it is. ”

“Never mind. Give me some”. . .

He poured half a phial over his cravat, his pocket-handkerchief, his
sleeves.

“You are going to dance? ” he asked.

“I think not. ”

“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka with Princess Mary,
and I scarcely know a single figure”. . .

“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you? ”

“Not yet”. . .

“Mind you are not forestalled”. . .

“Just so, indeed! ” he said, striking his forehead. “Good-bye. . . I will
go and wait for her at the entrance. ”

He seized his forage-cap and ran.

Half an hour later I also set off. The street was dark and deserted.
Around the assembly rooms, or inn--whichever you prefer--people were
thronging. The windows were lighted up, the strains of the regimental
band were borne to me on the evening breeze. I walked slowly; I felt
melancholy.

“Can it be possible,” I thought, “that my sole mission on earth is to
destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and to act, it
seems always to have been my fate to play a part in the ending of other
people’s dramas, as if, but for me, no one could either die or fall
into despair! I have been the indispensable person of the fifth act;
unwillingly I have played the pitiful part of an executioner or a
traitor. What object has fate had in this? . . .
Surely, I have not been
appointed by destiny to be an author of middle-class tragedies and family
romances, or to be a collaborator with the purveyor of stories--for the
‘Reader’s Library,’ [272] for example? . . . How can I tell? . . . Are there
not many people who, in beginning life, think to end it like Lord Byron
or Alexander the Great, and, nevertheless, remain Titular Councillors
[273] all their days? ”

Entering the saloon, I concealed myself in a crowd of men, and began to
make my observations.

Grushnitski was standing beside Princess Mary and saying something with
great warmth. She was listening to him absent-mindedly and looking about
her, her fan laid to her lips. Impatience was depicted upon her face,
her eyes were searching all around for somebody. I went softly behind
them in order to listen to their conversation.

“You torture me, Princess! ” Grushnitski was saying. “You have changed
dreadfully since I saw you last”. . .

“You, too, have changed,” she answered, casting a rapid glance at him,
in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.

“I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible!
Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for
ever. ”

“Stop”. . .

“But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often
listened to with condescension--and just recently, too? ”. . .

“Because I do not like repetitions,” she answered, laughing.

“Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken! . . . I thought, fool that I was, that
these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope. . . No,
it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that
contemptible soldier’s cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for
your attention”. . .

“As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you”. . .

At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a
little, and went on rapidly:

“Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur
Grushnitski much better? ”. . .

“I do not agree with you,” I answered: “he is more youthful-looking
still in his uniform. ”

That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he
has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces
of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by
Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself
off.

“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that although he has always
been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be
interesting. . . in the grey cloak? ”. . .

She cast her eyes down and made no reply.

Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and
danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes,
sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third
quadrille she had begun to hate him.

“I did not expect this from you,” he said, coming up to me and taking my
arm.

“What? ”

“You are going to dance the mazurka with her? ” he asked in a solemn
tone. “She admitted it”. . .

“Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it”?

“Of course not. . . I ought to have expected such a thing from that
chit--that flirt. . . I will have my revenge, though! ”

“You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why
accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any
longer? ”. . .

“But why give me hopes? ”

“Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something--that I can
understand! But who ever hopes? ”

“You have won the wager, but not quite,” he said, with a malignant
smile.

The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other
cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me--all
the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her--she will
want to twice as much.

I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away
without saying a word.

“I shall sleep badly to-night,” she said to me when the mazurka was
over.

“Grushnitski is to blame for that. ”

“Oh, no! ”

And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I
would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.

The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her
carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was
dark and nobody could see.

I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.

The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the
large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been
talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with
me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile
gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of
Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air. . .

I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They
amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one’s guard, to catch every
glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to crush
conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly with one blow
to overthrow the whole immense and laboriously constructed edifice of
cunning and design--that is what I call life.

During supper Grushnitski kept whispering and exchanging winks with the
captain of dragoons.




CHAPTER XI. 14th June.

VERA and her husband left this morning for Kislovodsk. I met their
carriage as I was walking to Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me:
reproach was in her glance.

Who is to blame, then? Why will she not give me an opportunity of
seeing her alone? Love is like fire--if not fed it dies out. Perchance,
jealousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed to do.

I stayed a whole hour at Princess Ligovski’s. Mary has not been out, she
is ill. In the evening she was not on the boulevard. The newly formed
gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact assumed a menacing aspect.
I am glad that Princess Mary is ill; they might be guilty of some
impertinence towards her. Grushnitski goes about with dishevelled locks,
and wears an appearance of despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a
matter of fact; his vanity especially has been injured. But, you see,
there are some people in whom even despair is diverting! . . .

On my way home I noticed that something was lacking. I have not seen
her! She is ill! Surely I have not fallen in love with her in real
earnest? . . . What nonsense!




CHAPTER XII. 15th June.

AT eleven o’clock in the morning--the hour at which Princess Ligovski
is usually perspiring in the Ermolov baths--I walked past her house.
Princess Mary was sitting pensively at the window; on seeing me she
sprang up.

I entered the ante-room, there was nobody there, and, availing myself of
the freedom afforded by the local customs, I made my way, unannounced,
into the drawing-room.

Princess Mary’s charming countenance was shrouded with a dull pallor.
She was standing by the pianoforte, leaning one hand on the back of an
arm-chair; her hand was very faintly trembling. I went up to her softly
and said:

“You are angry with me? ”. . .

She lifted a deep, languid glance upon me and shook her head. Her lips
were about to utter something, but failed; her eyes filled with tears;
she sank into the arm-chair and buried her face in her hands.

“What is the matter with you? ” I said, taking her hand.

“You do not respect me! . . . Oh, leave me! ”. . .

I took a few steps. . . She drew herself up in the chair, her eyes
sparkled.

I stopped still, took hold of the handle of the door, and said:

“Forgive me, Princess. I have acted like a madman. . . It will not happen
another time; I shall see to that. . . But how can you know what has been
taking place hitherto within my soul? That you will never learn, and so
much the better for you. Farewell. ”

As I was going out, I seemed to hear her weeping.

I wandered on foot about the environs of Mount Mashuk till evening,
fatigued myself terribly and, on arriving home, flung myself on my bed,
utterly exhausted.

Werner came to see me.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that you are going to marry Princess Mary? ”

“What? ”

“The whole town is saying so. All my patients are occupied with that
important piece of news; but you know what these patients are: they know
everything. ”

“This is one of Grushnitski’s tricks,” I said to myself.

“To prove the falsity of these rumours, doctor, I may mention, as a
secret, that I am moving to Kislovodsk to-morrow”. . .

“And Princess Mary, too? ”

“No, she remains here another week”. . .

“So you are not going to get married? ”. . .

“Doctor, doctor!