“She was
trembling
like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling.
Lermontov - A Hero of Our Time
The atmosphere grew so rarefied that to breathe was painful; ever
and anon the blood rushed to my head, but withal a certain rapturous
sensation was diffused throughout my veins and I felt a species of
delight at being so high up above the world. A childish feeling, I
admit, but, when we retire from the conventions of society and draw
close to nature, we involuntarily become as children: each attribute
acquired by experience falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such
as it was once and will surely be again. He whose lot it has been, as
mine has been, to wander over the desolate mountains, long, long to
observe their fantastic shapes, greedily to gulp down the life-giving
air diffused through their ravines--he, of course, will understand my
desire to communicate, to narrate, to sketch those magic pictures.
Well, at length we reached the summit of Mount Gut and, halting, looked
around us. Upon the mountain a grey cloud was hanging, and its cold
breath threatened the approach of a storm; but in the east everything
was so clear and golden that we--that is, the staff-captain and
I--forgot all about the cloud. . . Yes, the staff-captain too; in
simple hearts the feeling for the beauty and grandeur of nature is a
hundred-fold stronger and more vivid than in us, ecstatic composers of
narratives in words and on paper.
“You have grown accustomed, I suppose, to these magnificent pictures! ” I
said.
“Yes, sir, you can even grow accustomed to the whistling of a bullet,
that is to say, accustomed to concealing the involuntary thumping of
your heart. ”
“I have heard, on the contrary, that many an old warrior actually finds
that music agreeable. ”
“Of course, if it comes to that, it is agreeable; but only just because
the heart beats more violently. Look! ” he added, pointing towards the
east. “What a country! ”
And, indeed, such a panorama I can hardly hope to see elsewhere. Beneath
us lay the Koishaur Valley, intersected by the Aragva and another stream
as if by two silver threads; a bluish mist was gliding along the valley,
fleeing into the neighbouring defiles from the warm rays of the morning.
To right and left the mountain crests, towering higher and higher,
intersected each other and stretched out, covered with snows and
thickets; in the distance were the same mountains, which now, however,
had the appearance of two cliffs, one like to the other. And all these
snows were burning in the crimson glow so merrily and so brightly that
it seemed as though one could live in such a place for ever. The sun was
scarcely visible behind the dark-blue mountain, which only a practised
eye could distinguish from a thunder-cloud; but above the sun was a
blood-red streak to which my companion directed particular attention.
“I told you,” he exclaimed, “that there would be dirty weather to-day!
We must make haste, or perhaps it will catch us on Mount Krestov. --Get
on! ” he shouted to the drivers.
Chains were put under the wheels in place of drags, so that they should
not slide, the drivers took the horses by the reins, and the descent
began. On the right was a cliff, on the left a precipice, so deep that
an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom looked like a swallow’s nest.
I shuddered, as the thought occurred to me that often in the depth of
night, on that very road, where two wagons could not pass, a courier
drives some ten times a year without climbing down from his rickety
vehicle. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the
other, an Ossete. The latter took out the leaders in good time and led
the shaft-horse by the reins, using every possible precaution--but
our heedless compatriot did not even climb down from his box! When I
remarked to him that he might put himself out a bit, at least in the
interests of my portmanteau, for which I had not the slightest desire to
clamber down into the abyss, he answered:
“Eh, master, with the help of Heaven we shall arrive as safe and sound
as the others; it’s not our first time, you know. ”
And he was right. We might just as easily have failed to arrive at
all; but arrive we did, for all that. And if people would only reason a
little more they would be convinced that life is not worth taking such a
deal of trouble about.
Perhaps, however, you would like to know the conclusion of the story
of Bela? In the first place, this is not a novel, but a collection of
travelling-notes, and, consequently, I cannot make the staff-captain
tell the story sooner than he actually proceeded to tell it. Therefore,
you must wait a bit, or, if you like, turn over a few pages. Though I do
not advise you to do the latter, because the crossing of Mount Krestov
(or, as the erudite Gamba calls it, le mont St. Christophe [15]) is
worthy of your curiosity.
Well, then, we descended Mount Gut into the Chertov Valley. . . There’s
a romantic designation for you! Already you have a vision of the evil
spirit’s nest amid the inaccessible cliffs--but you are out of your
reckoning there. The name “Chertov” is derived from the word cherta
(boundary-line) and not from chort (devil), because, at one time,
the valley marked the boundary of Georgia. We found it choked with
snow-drifts, which reminded us rather vividly of Saratov, Tambov, and
other charming localities of our fatherland.
“Look, there is Krestov! ” said the staff-captain, when we had descended
into the Chertov Valley, as he pointed out a hill covered with a shroud
of snow. Upon the summit stood out the black outline of a stone cross,
and past it led an all but imperceptible road which travellers use only
when the side-road is obstructed with snow. Our drivers, declaring that
no avalanches had yet fallen, spared the horses by conducting us round
the mountain. At a turning we met four or five Ossetes, who offered
us their services; and, catching hold of the wheels, proceeded, with
a shout, to drag and hold up our cart. And, indeed, it is a dangerous
road; on the right were masses of snow hanging above us, and ready,
it seemed, at the first squall of wind to break off and drop into the
ravine; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which, in many
places, gave way under our feet and, in others, was converted into ice
by the action of the sun by day and the frosts by night, so that the
horses kept falling, and it was with difficulty that we ourselves
made our way. On the left yawned a deep chasm, through which rolled a
torrent, now hiding beneath a crust of ice, now leaping and foaming
over the black rocks. In two hours we were barely able to double Mount
Krestov--two versts in two hours! Meanwhile the clouds had descended,
hail and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the ravines, howled and
whistled like Nightingale the Robber. [16] Soon the stone cross was
hidden in the mist, the billows of which, in ever denser and more
compact masses, rushed in from the east. . .
Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there exists the strange, but
widespread, tradition that it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the
First when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first place, however,
the Emperor went no farther than Daghestan; and, in the second place,
there is an inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to the
effect that it had been erected by order of General Ermolov, and that
too in the year 1824. Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm
root, in spite of the inscription, that really you do not know what to
believe; the more so, as it is not the custom to believe inscriptions.
To reach the station Kobi, we still had to descend about five versts,
across ice-covered rocks and plashy snow. The horses were exhausted;
we were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever-increasing violence,
exactly like the storms of our own northern land, only its wild melodies
were sadder and more melancholy.
“O Exile,” I thought, “thou art weeping for thy wide, free steppes!
There mayest thou unfold thy cold wings, but here thou art stifled and
confined, like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, against the
grating of his iron cage! ”
“A bad look out,” said the staff-captain. “Look! There’s nothing to be
seen all round but mist and snow. At any moment we may tumble into an
abyss or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I dare say, the
Baidara has risen so high that there is no getting across it. Oh, this
Asia, I know it! Like people, like rivers! There’s no trusting them at
all! ”
The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured the horses, which
snorted, resisted obstinately, and refused to budge on any account,
notwithstanding the eloquence of the whips.
“Your honour,” one of the drivers said to me at length, “you see, we
will never reach Kobi to-day. Won’t you give orders to turn to the left
while we can? There is something black yonder on the slope--probably
huts. Travellers always stop there in bad weather, sir. They say,” he
added, pointing to the Ossetes, “that they will lead us there if you
will give them a tip. ”
“I know that, my friend, I know that without your telling me,” said
the staff-captain. “Oh, these beasts! They are delighted to seize any
pretext for extorting a tip! ”
“You must confess, however,” I said, “that we should be worse off
without them. ”
“Just so, just so,” he growled to himself. “I know them well--these
guides! They scent out by instinct a chance of taking advantage of
people. As if it was impossible to find the way without them! ”
Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, somehow or other, after
a good deal of trouble, made our way to the wretched shelter, which
consisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a
wall of the same material. Our ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I
learned afterwards that the Government supplies them with money and food
upon condition that they put up travellers who are overtaken by storm.
CHAPTER VIII
“ALL is for the best,” I said, sitting down close by the fire. “Now you
will finish telling me your story about Bela. I am certain that what you
have already told me was not the end of it. ”
“Why are you so certain? ” answered the staff-captain, winking and
smiling slyly.
“Because things don’t happen like that. A story with such an unusual
beginning must also have an unusual ending. ”
“You have guessed, of course”. . .
“I am very glad to hear it. ”
“It is all very well for you to be glad, but, indeed, it makes me
sad when I think of it. Bela was a splendid girl. In the end I grew
accustomed to her just as if she had been my own daughter, and she loved
me. I must tell you that I have no family. I have had no news of my
father and mother for twelve years or so, and, in my earlier days, I
never thought of providing myself with a wife--and now, you know, it
wouldn’t do. So I was glad to have found someone to spoil. She used to
sing to us or dance the Lezginka. [17]. . And what a dancer she was! I
have seen our own ladies in provincial society; and on one occasion,
sir, about twenty years ago, I was even in the Nobles’ Club at
Moscow--but was there a woman to be compared with her? Not one! Grigori
Aleksandrovich dressed her up like a doll, petted and pampered her, and
it was simply astonishing to see how pretty she grew while she lived
with us. The sunburn disappeared from her face and hands, and a rosy
colour came into her cheeks. . . What a merry girl she was! Always making
fun of me, the little rogue! . . . Heaven forgive her! ”
“And when you told her of her father’s death? ”
“We kept it a secret from her for a long time, until she had grown
accustomed to her position; and then, when she was told, she cried for a
day or two and forgot all about it.
“For four months or so everything went on as well as it possibly
could. Grigori Aleksandrovich, as I think I have already mentioned, was
passionately fond of hunting; he was always craving to be off into the
forest after boars or wild goats--but now it would be as much as he
would do to go beyond the fortress rampart. All at once, however, I saw
that he was beginning again to have fits of abstraction, walking about
his room with his hands clasped behind his back. One day after that,
without telling anyone, he set off shooting. During the whole morning
he was not to be seen; then the same thing happened another time, and so
on--oftener and oftener. . .
“‘This looks bad! ’ I said to myself. ‘Something must have come between
them! ’
“One morning I paid them a visit--I can see it all in my mind’s eye, as
if it was happening now. Bela was sitting on the bed, wearing a black
silk jacket, and looking rather pale and so sad that I was alarmed.
“‘Where is Pechorin? ’ I asked.
“‘Hunting. ’
“‘When did he go--to-day? ’
“‘She was silent, as if she found a difficulty in answering.
“‘No, he has been gone since yesterday,’ she said at length, with a
heavy sigh.
“‘Surely nothing has happened to him! ’
“‘Yesterday I thought and thought the whole day,’ she answered through
her tears; ‘I imagined all sorts of misfortunes. At one time I fancied
that he had been wounded by a wild boar, at another time, that he had
been carried off by a Chechene into the mountains. . . But, now, I have
come to think that he no longer loves me. ’
“‘In truth, my dear girl, you could not have imagined anything worse! ’
“She burst out crying; then, proudly raising her head, she wiped away
the tears and continued:
“‘If he does not love me, then who prevents him sending me home? I am
not putting any constraint on him. But, if things go on like this, I
will go away myself--I am not a slave, I am a prince’s daughter! ’. . .
“I tried to talk her over.
“‘Listen, Bela. You see it is impossible for him to stop in here with
you for ever, as if he was sewn on to your petticoat. He is a young man
and fond of hunting. Off he’ll go, but you will find that he will come
back; and, if you are going to be unhappy, you will soon make him tired
of you. ’
“‘True, true! ’ she said. ‘I will be merry. ’
“And with a burst of laughter, she seized her tambourine, began to sing,
dance, and gambol around me. But that did not last long either; she fell
upon the bed again and buried her face in her hands.
“What could I do with her? You know I have never been accustomed to
the society of women. I thought and thought how to cheer her up, but
couldn’t hit on anything. For some time both of us remained silent. . . A
most unpleasant situation, sir!
“At length I said to her:
“‘Would you like us to go and take a walk on the rampart? The weather is
splendid. ’
“This was in September, and indeed it was a wonderful day, bright and
not too hot. The mountains could be seen as clearly as though they were
but a hand’s-breadth away. We went, and walked in silence to and fro
along the rampart of the fortress. At length she sat down on the sward,
and I sat beside her. In truth, now, it is funny to think of it all! I
used to run after her just like a kind of children’s nurse!
“Our fortress was situated in a lofty position, and the view from the
rampart was superb. On one side, the wide clearing, seamed by a few
clefts, was bounded by the forest which stretched out to the very ridge
of the mountains. Here and there, on the clearing, villages were to be
seen sending forth their smoke, and there were droves of horses roaming
about. On the other side flowed a tiny stream, and close to its banks
came the dense undergrowth which covered the flinty heights joining the
principal chain of the Caucasus. We sat in a corner of the bastion, so
that we could see everything on both sides. Suddenly I perceived
someone on a grey horse riding out of the forest; nearer and nearer he
approached until finally he stopped on the far side of the river, about
a hundred fathoms from us, and began to wheel his horse round and round
like one possessed. ‘Strange! ’ I thought.
“‘Look, look, Bela,’ I said, ‘you’ve got young eyes--what sort of a
horseman is that? Who is it he has come to amuse? ’. . .
“‘It is Kazbich! ’ she exclaimed after a glance.
“‘Ah, the robber! Come to laugh at us, has he? ’
“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kazbich, with his swarthy
face, and as ragged and dirty as ever.
“‘It is my father’s horse! ’ said Bela, seizing my arm.
“She was trembling like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling.
“‘Aha! ’ I said to myself. ‘There is robber’s blood in your veins still,
my dear! ’
“‘Come here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Look to your gun and unhorse that
gallant for me--and you shall have a silver ruble. ’
“‘Very well, your honour, only he won’t keep still. ’
“‘Tell him to! ’ I said, with a laugh.
“‘Hey, friend! ’ cried the sentry, waving his hand. ‘Wait a bit. What are
you spinning round like a humming-top for? ’
“Kazbich halted and gave ear to the sentry--probably thinking that we
were going to parley with him. Quite the contrary! . . . My grenadier took
aim. . . 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.
and anon the blood rushed to my head, but withal a certain rapturous
sensation was diffused throughout my veins and I felt a species of
delight at being so high up above the world. A childish feeling, I
admit, but, when we retire from the conventions of society and draw
close to nature, we involuntarily become as children: each attribute
acquired by experience falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such
as it was once and will surely be again. He whose lot it has been, as
mine has been, to wander over the desolate mountains, long, long to
observe their fantastic shapes, greedily to gulp down the life-giving
air diffused through their ravines--he, of course, will understand my
desire to communicate, to narrate, to sketch those magic pictures.
Well, at length we reached the summit of Mount Gut and, halting, looked
around us. Upon the mountain a grey cloud was hanging, and its cold
breath threatened the approach of a storm; but in the east everything
was so clear and golden that we--that is, the staff-captain and
I--forgot all about the cloud. . . Yes, the staff-captain too; in
simple hearts the feeling for the beauty and grandeur of nature is a
hundred-fold stronger and more vivid than in us, ecstatic composers of
narratives in words and on paper.
“You have grown accustomed, I suppose, to these magnificent pictures! ” I
said.
“Yes, sir, you can even grow accustomed to the whistling of a bullet,
that is to say, accustomed to concealing the involuntary thumping of
your heart. ”
“I have heard, on the contrary, that many an old warrior actually finds
that music agreeable. ”
“Of course, if it comes to that, it is agreeable; but only just because
the heart beats more violently. Look! ” he added, pointing towards the
east. “What a country! ”
And, indeed, such a panorama I can hardly hope to see elsewhere. Beneath
us lay the Koishaur Valley, intersected by the Aragva and another stream
as if by two silver threads; a bluish mist was gliding along the valley,
fleeing into the neighbouring defiles from the warm rays of the morning.
To right and left the mountain crests, towering higher and higher,
intersected each other and stretched out, covered with snows and
thickets; in the distance were the same mountains, which now, however,
had the appearance of two cliffs, one like to the other. And all these
snows were burning in the crimson glow so merrily and so brightly that
it seemed as though one could live in such a place for ever. The sun was
scarcely visible behind the dark-blue mountain, which only a practised
eye could distinguish from a thunder-cloud; but above the sun was a
blood-red streak to which my companion directed particular attention.
“I told you,” he exclaimed, “that there would be dirty weather to-day!
We must make haste, or perhaps it will catch us on Mount Krestov. --Get
on! ” he shouted to the drivers.
Chains were put under the wheels in place of drags, so that they should
not slide, the drivers took the horses by the reins, and the descent
began. On the right was a cliff, on the left a precipice, so deep that
an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom looked like a swallow’s nest.
I shuddered, as the thought occurred to me that often in the depth of
night, on that very road, where two wagons could not pass, a courier
drives some ten times a year without climbing down from his rickety
vehicle. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the
other, an Ossete. The latter took out the leaders in good time and led
the shaft-horse by the reins, using every possible precaution--but
our heedless compatriot did not even climb down from his box! When I
remarked to him that he might put himself out a bit, at least in the
interests of my portmanteau, for which I had not the slightest desire to
clamber down into the abyss, he answered:
“Eh, master, with the help of Heaven we shall arrive as safe and sound
as the others; it’s not our first time, you know. ”
And he was right. We might just as easily have failed to arrive at
all; but arrive we did, for all that. And if people would only reason a
little more they would be convinced that life is not worth taking such a
deal of trouble about.
Perhaps, however, you would like to know the conclusion of the story
of Bela? In the first place, this is not a novel, but a collection of
travelling-notes, and, consequently, I cannot make the staff-captain
tell the story sooner than he actually proceeded to tell it. Therefore,
you must wait a bit, or, if you like, turn over a few pages. Though I do
not advise you to do the latter, because the crossing of Mount Krestov
(or, as the erudite Gamba calls it, le mont St. Christophe [15]) is
worthy of your curiosity.
Well, then, we descended Mount Gut into the Chertov Valley. . . There’s
a romantic designation for you! Already you have a vision of the evil
spirit’s nest amid the inaccessible cliffs--but you are out of your
reckoning there. The name “Chertov” is derived from the word cherta
(boundary-line) and not from chort (devil), because, at one time,
the valley marked the boundary of Georgia. We found it choked with
snow-drifts, which reminded us rather vividly of Saratov, Tambov, and
other charming localities of our fatherland.
“Look, there is Krestov! ” said the staff-captain, when we had descended
into the Chertov Valley, as he pointed out a hill covered with a shroud
of snow. Upon the summit stood out the black outline of a stone cross,
and past it led an all but imperceptible road which travellers use only
when the side-road is obstructed with snow. Our drivers, declaring that
no avalanches had yet fallen, spared the horses by conducting us round
the mountain. At a turning we met four or five Ossetes, who offered
us their services; and, catching hold of the wheels, proceeded, with
a shout, to drag and hold up our cart. And, indeed, it is a dangerous
road; on the right were masses of snow hanging above us, and ready,
it seemed, at the first squall of wind to break off and drop into the
ravine; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which, in many
places, gave way under our feet and, in others, was converted into ice
by the action of the sun by day and the frosts by night, so that the
horses kept falling, and it was with difficulty that we ourselves
made our way. On the left yawned a deep chasm, through which rolled a
torrent, now hiding beneath a crust of ice, now leaping and foaming
over the black rocks. In two hours we were barely able to double Mount
Krestov--two versts in two hours! Meanwhile the clouds had descended,
hail and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the ravines, howled and
whistled like Nightingale the Robber. [16] Soon the stone cross was
hidden in the mist, the billows of which, in ever denser and more
compact masses, rushed in from the east. . .
Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there exists the strange, but
widespread, tradition that it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the
First when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first place, however,
the Emperor went no farther than Daghestan; and, in the second place,
there is an inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to the
effect that it had been erected by order of General Ermolov, and that
too in the year 1824. Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm
root, in spite of the inscription, that really you do not know what to
believe; the more so, as it is not the custom to believe inscriptions.
To reach the station Kobi, we still had to descend about five versts,
across ice-covered rocks and plashy snow. The horses were exhausted;
we were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever-increasing violence,
exactly like the storms of our own northern land, only its wild melodies
were sadder and more melancholy.
“O Exile,” I thought, “thou art weeping for thy wide, free steppes!
There mayest thou unfold thy cold wings, but here thou art stifled and
confined, like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, against the
grating of his iron cage! ”
“A bad look out,” said the staff-captain. “Look! There’s nothing to be
seen all round but mist and snow. At any moment we may tumble into an
abyss or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I dare say, the
Baidara has risen so high that there is no getting across it. Oh, this
Asia, I know it! Like people, like rivers! There’s no trusting them at
all! ”
The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured the horses, which
snorted, resisted obstinately, and refused to budge on any account,
notwithstanding the eloquence of the whips.
“Your honour,” one of the drivers said to me at length, “you see, we
will never reach Kobi to-day. Won’t you give orders to turn to the left
while we can? There is something black yonder on the slope--probably
huts. Travellers always stop there in bad weather, sir. They say,” he
added, pointing to the Ossetes, “that they will lead us there if you
will give them a tip. ”
“I know that, my friend, I know that without your telling me,” said
the staff-captain. “Oh, these beasts! They are delighted to seize any
pretext for extorting a tip! ”
“You must confess, however,” I said, “that we should be worse off
without them. ”
“Just so, just so,” he growled to himself. “I know them well--these
guides! They scent out by instinct a chance of taking advantage of
people. As if it was impossible to find the way without them! ”
Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, somehow or other, after
a good deal of trouble, made our way to the wretched shelter, which
consisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, surrounded by a
wall of the same material. Our ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I
learned afterwards that the Government supplies them with money and food
upon condition that they put up travellers who are overtaken by storm.
CHAPTER VIII
“ALL is for the best,” I said, sitting down close by the fire. “Now you
will finish telling me your story about Bela. I am certain that what you
have already told me was not the end of it. ”
“Why are you so certain? ” answered the staff-captain, winking and
smiling slyly.
“Because things don’t happen like that. A story with such an unusual
beginning must also have an unusual ending. ”
“You have guessed, of course”. . .
“I am very glad to hear it. ”
“It is all very well for you to be glad, but, indeed, it makes me
sad when I think of it. Bela was a splendid girl. In the end I grew
accustomed to her just as if she had been my own daughter, and she loved
me. I must tell you that I have no family. I have had no news of my
father and mother for twelve years or so, and, in my earlier days, I
never thought of providing myself with a wife--and now, you know, it
wouldn’t do. So I was glad to have found someone to spoil. She used to
sing to us or dance the Lezginka. [17]. . And what a dancer she was! I
have seen our own ladies in provincial society; and on one occasion,
sir, about twenty years ago, I was even in the Nobles’ Club at
Moscow--but was there a woman to be compared with her? Not one! Grigori
Aleksandrovich dressed her up like a doll, petted and pampered her, and
it was simply astonishing to see how pretty she grew while she lived
with us. The sunburn disappeared from her face and hands, and a rosy
colour came into her cheeks. . . What a merry girl she was! Always making
fun of me, the little rogue! . . . Heaven forgive her! ”
“And when you told her of her father’s death? ”
“We kept it a secret from her for a long time, until she had grown
accustomed to her position; and then, when she was told, she cried for a
day or two and forgot all about it.
“For four months or so everything went on as well as it possibly
could. Grigori Aleksandrovich, as I think I have already mentioned, was
passionately fond of hunting; he was always craving to be off into the
forest after boars or wild goats--but now it would be as much as he
would do to go beyond the fortress rampart. All at once, however, I saw
that he was beginning again to have fits of abstraction, walking about
his room with his hands clasped behind his back. One day after that,
without telling anyone, he set off shooting. During the whole morning
he was not to be seen; then the same thing happened another time, and so
on--oftener and oftener. . .
“‘This looks bad! ’ I said to myself. ‘Something must have come between
them! ’
“One morning I paid them a visit--I can see it all in my mind’s eye, as
if it was happening now. Bela was sitting on the bed, wearing a black
silk jacket, and looking rather pale and so sad that I was alarmed.
“‘Where is Pechorin? ’ I asked.
“‘Hunting. ’
“‘When did he go--to-day? ’
“‘She was silent, as if she found a difficulty in answering.
“‘No, he has been gone since yesterday,’ she said at length, with a
heavy sigh.
“‘Surely nothing has happened to him! ’
“‘Yesterday I thought and thought the whole day,’ she answered through
her tears; ‘I imagined all sorts of misfortunes. At one time I fancied
that he had been wounded by a wild boar, at another time, that he had
been carried off by a Chechene into the mountains. . . But, now, I have
come to think that he no longer loves me. ’
“‘In truth, my dear girl, you could not have imagined anything worse! ’
“She burst out crying; then, proudly raising her head, she wiped away
the tears and continued:
“‘If he does not love me, then who prevents him sending me home? I am
not putting any constraint on him. But, if things go on like this, I
will go away myself--I am not a slave, I am a prince’s daughter! ’. . .
“I tried to talk her over.
“‘Listen, Bela. You see it is impossible for him to stop in here with
you for ever, as if he was sewn on to your petticoat. He is a young man
and fond of hunting. Off he’ll go, but you will find that he will come
back; and, if you are going to be unhappy, you will soon make him tired
of you. ’
“‘True, true! ’ she said. ‘I will be merry. ’
“And with a burst of laughter, she seized her tambourine, began to sing,
dance, and gambol around me. But that did not last long either; she fell
upon the bed again and buried her face in her hands.
“What could I do with her? You know I have never been accustomed to
the society of women. I thought and thought how to cheer her up, but
couldn’t hit on anything. For some time both of us remained silent. . . A
most unpleasant situation, sir!
“At length I said to her:
“‘Would you like us to go and take a walk on the rampart? The weather is
splendid. ’
“This was in September, and indeed it was a wonderful day, bright and
not too hot. The mountains could be seen as clearly as though they were
but a hand’s-breadth away. We went, and walked in silence to and fro
along the rampart of the fortress. At length she sat down on the sward,
and I sat beside her. In truth, now, it is funny to think of it all! I
used to run after her just like a kind of children’s nurse!
“Our fortress was situated in a lofty position, and the view from the
rampart was superb. On one side, the wide clearing, seamed by a few
clefts, was bounded by the forest which stretched out to the very ridge
of the mountains. Here and there, on the clearing, villages were to be
seen sending forth their smoke, and there were droves of horses roaming
about. On the other side flowed a tiny stream, and close to its banks
came the dense undergrowth which covered the flinty heights joining the
principal chain of the Caucasus. We sat in a corner of the bastion, so
that we could see everything on both sides. Suddenly I perceived
someone on a grey horse riding out of the forest; nearer and nearer he
approached until finally he stopped on the far side of the river, about
a hundred fathoms from us, and began to wheel his horse round and round
like one possessed. ‘Strange! ’ I thought.
“‘Look, look, Bela,’ I said, ‘you’ve got young eyes--what sort of a
horseman is that? Who is it he has come to amuse? ’. . .
“‘It is Kazbich! ’ she exclaimed after a glance.
“‘Ah, the robber! Come to laugh at us, has he? ’
“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kazbich, with his swarthy
face, and as ragged and dirty as ever.
“‘It is my father’s horse! ’ said Bela, seizing my arm.
“She was trembling like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling.
“‘Aha! ’ I said to myself. ‘There is robber’s blood in your veins still,
my dear! ’
“‘Come here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Look to your gun and unhorse that
gallant for me--and you shall have a silver ruble. ’
“‘Very well, your honour, only he won’t keep still. ’
“‘Tell him to! ’ I said, with a laugh.
“‘Hey, friend! ’ cried the sentry, waving his hand. ‘Wait a bit. What are
you spinning round like a humming-top for? ’
“Kazbich halted and gave ear to the sentry--probably thinking that we
were going to parley with him. Quite the contrary! . . . My grenadier took
aim. . . 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.
