No More Learning

” he said, pressing my hand vigorously. “She is an angel,
simply an angel! ”

“Why? ” I inquired, with an air of the purest simplicity.

“Did you not see, then? ”

“No. I saw her picking up your tumbler. If there had been an attendant
there he would have done the same thing--and quicker too, in the hope
of receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to understand that she
pitied you; you made such a terrible grimace when you walked on the
wounded foot. ”

“And can it be that seeing her, as you did, at that moment when her soul
was shining in her eyes, you were not in the least affected? ”

“No. ”

I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I have an innate passion
for contradiction--my whole life has been nothing but a series of
melancholy and vain contradictions of heart or reason. The presence of
an enthusiast chills me with a twelfth-night cold, and I believe
that constant association with a person of a flaccid and phlegmatic
temperament would have turned me into an impassioned visionary. I
confess, too, that an unpleasant but familiar sensation was coursing
lightly through my heart at that moment. It was--envy. I say “envy”
boldly, because I am accustomed to acknowledge everything to myself.
It would be hard to find a young man who, if his idle fancy had been
attracted by a pretty woman and he had suddenly found her openly
singling out before his eyes another man equally unknown to her--it
would be hard, I say, to find such a young man (living, of course, in
the great world and accustomed to indulge his self-love) who would not
have been unpleasantly taken aback in such a case.

In silence Grushnitski and I descended the mountain and walked along
the boulevard, past the windows of the house where our beauty had hidden
herself. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitski, plucking me by the
arm, cast upon her one of those gloomily tender glances which have so
little effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, and observed
that she smiled at his glance and that my insolent lorgnette made
her downright angry. And how, indeed, should a Caucasian military man
presume to direct his eyeglass at a princess from Moscow? . . .




CHAPTER II. 13th May.

THIS morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he is
a Russian. What is there surprising in that? I have known a man named
Ivanov, who was a German.

Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all
medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he
is a genuine poet--a poet always in deeds and often in words, although
he has never written two verses in his life. He has mastered all the
living chords of the human heart, just as one learns the veins of a
corpse, but he has never known how to avail himself of his knowledge. In
like manner, it sometimes happens that an excellent anatomist does not
know how to cure a fever. Werner usually made fun of his patients in
private; but once I saw him weeping over a dying soldier. . . He was poor,
and dreamed of millions, but he would not take a single step out of his
way for the sake of money. He once told me that he would rather do a
favour to an enemy than to a friend, because, in the latter case,
it would mean selling his beneficence, whilst hatred only increases
proportionately to the magnanimity of the adversary. He had a malicious
tongue; and more than one good, simple soul has acquired the reputation
of a vulgar fool through being labelled with one of his epigrams. His
rivals, envious medical men of the watering-place, spread the report
that he was in the habit of drawing caricatures of his patients. The
patients were incensed, and almost all of them discarded him. His
friends, that is to say all the genuinely well-bred people who were
serving in the Caucasus, vainly endeavoured to restore his fallen
credit.

His outward appearance was of the type which, at the first glance,
creates an unpleasant impression, but which you get to like in course of
time, when the eye learns to read in the irregular features the stamp of
a tried and lofty soul. Instances have been known of women falling madly
in love with men of that sort, and having no desire to exchange their
ugliness for the beauty of the freshest and rosiest of Endymions.
We must give women their due: they possess an instinct for spiritual
beauty, for which reason, possibly, men such as Werner love women so
passionately.

Werner was small and lean and as weak as a baby. One of his legs was
shorter than the other, as was the case with Byron. In comparison with
his body, his head seemed enormous. His hair was cropped close, and
the unevennesses of his cranium, thus laid bare, would have struck a
phrenologist by reason of the strange intertexture of contradictory
propensities. His little, ever restless, black eyes seemed as if they
were endeavouring to fathom your thoughts. Taste and neatness were to be
observed in his dress. His small, lean, sinewy hands flaunted themselves
in bright-yellow gloves. His frock-coat, cravat and waistcoat were
invariably of black. The young men dubbed him Mephistopheles; he
pretended to be angry at the nickname, but in reality it flattered his
vanity. Werner and I soon understood each other and became friends,
because I, for my part, am illadapted for friendship. Of two friends,
one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither
acknowledges the fact to himself. Now, the slave I could not be; and to
be the master would be a wearisome trouble, because, at the same time,
deception would be required. Besides, I have servants and money!

Our friendship originated in the following circumstances. I met Werner
at S----, in the midst of a numerous and noisy circle of young
people. Towards the end of the evening the conversation took a
philosophico-metaphysical turn. We discussed the subject of convictions,
and each of us had some different conviction to declare.

“So far as I am concerned,” said the doctor, “I am convinced of one
thing only”. . .

“And that is--? ” I asked, desirous of learning the opinion of a man who
had been silent till then.

“Of the fact,” he answered, “that sooner or later, one fine morning, I
shall die. ”

“I am better off than you,” I said. “In addition to that, I have a
further conviction, namely, that, one very nasty evening, I had the
misfortune to be born. ”

All the others considered that we were talking nonsense, but indeed not
one of them said anything more sensible. From that moment we singled
each other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently to meet and discuss
abstract subjects in a very serious manner, until each observed that the
other was throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking significantly at each
other--as, according to Cicero, the Roman augurs used to do--we
would burst out laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we would
separate, well content with our evening.

I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the ceiling and my hands
clasped behind my head, when Werner entered my room. He sat down in an
easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and announced that it
was getting hot out of doors. I replied that the flies were bothering
me--and we both fell silent.

“Observe, my dear doctor,” I said, “that, but for fools, the world would
be a very dull place. Look! Here are you and I, both sensible men!
We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute ad infinitum about
everything--and so we do not dispute. Each of us knows almost all the
other’s secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole history; we see
the grain of every one of our feelings through a threefold husk. What
is sad, we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; but, to tell the
truth, we are fairly indifferent, generally speaking, to everything
except ourselves. Consequently, there can be no interchange of feelings
and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he cares to know about
the other, and that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient remains--to
tell the news. So tell me some news. ”

Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor
answered after thinking awhile:

“There is an idea, all the same, in that nonsense of yours. ”

“Two,” I replied.

“Tell me one, and I will tell you the other. ”

“Very well, begin! ” I said, continuing to examine the ceiling and
smiling inwardly.

“You are anxious for information about some of the new-comers here, and
I can guess who it is, because they, for their part, have already been
inquiring about you. ”

“Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to hold a conversation! We
read into each other’s soul. ”

“Now the other idea? ”. . .

“Here it is: I wanted to make you relate something, for the following
reasons: firstly, listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly,
the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he can learn another’s
secret; fourthly, sensible people, such as you, prefer listeners to
speakers. Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell you about
me? ”

“You are quite sure that it was Princess Ligovski. . . and not Princess
Mary? ”. . .

“Quite sure. ”

“Why? ”

“Because Princess Mary inquired about Grushnitski. ”

“You are gifted with a fine imagination! Princess Mary said that she was
convinced that the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been reduced to
the ranks on account of a duel”. . .

“I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant delusion”. . .

“Of course”. . .

“A plot! ” I exclaimed in rapture. “We will make it our business to see
to the denouement of this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is
taking care that I shall not be bored! ”

“I have a presentiment,” said the doctor, “that poor Grushnitski will be
your victim. ”

“Proceed, doctor. ”

“Princess Ligovski said that your face was familiar to her. I observed
that she had probably met you in Petersburg--somewhere in society. . .
I told her your name. She knew it well. It appears that your history
created a great stir there. . . She began to tell us of your adventures,
most likely supplementing the gossip of society with observations of her
own. . . Her daughter listened with curiosity. In her imagination you
have become the hero of a novel in a new style. . . I did not contradict
Princess Ligovski, although I knew that she was talking nonsense. ”

“Worthy friend! ” I said, extending my hand to him.

The doctor pressed it feelingly and continued:

“If you like I will present you”. . .

“Good heavens! ” I said, clapping my hands. “Are heroes ever presented?
In no other way do they make the acquaintance of their beloved than by
saving her from certain death! ”. . .

“And you really wish to court Princess Mary? ”

“Not at all, far from it! . . . Doctor, I triumph at last! You do not
understand me! . . . It vexes me, however,” I continued after a moment’s
silence. “I never reveal my secrets myself, but I am exceedingly fond of
their being guessed, because in that way I can always disavow them upon
occasion. However, you must describe both mother and daughter to me.
What sort of people are they? ”

“In the first place, Princess Ligovski is a woman of forty-five,”
answered Werner. “She has a splendid digestion, but her blood is out of
order--there are red spots on her cheeks. She has spent the latter half
of her life in Moscow, and has grown stout from leading an inactive
life there. She loves spicy stories, and sometimes says improper things
herself when her daughter is out of the room. She has declared to me
that her daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that matter to
me? . . . I was going to answer that she might be at her ease, because I
would never tell anyone. Princess Ligovski is taking the cure for her
rheumatism, and the daughter, for goodness knows what. I have ordered
each of them to drink two tumblers a day of sulphurous water, and to
bathe twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligovski is
apparently unaccustomed to giving orders. She cherishes respect for
the intelligence and attainments of her daughter, who has read Byron in
English and knows algebra: in Moscow, evidently, the ladies have entered
upon the paths of erudition--and a good thing, too! The men here are
generally so unamiable, that, for a clever woman, it must be intolerable
to flirt with them. Princess Ligovski is very fond of young people;
Princess Mary looks on them with a certain contempt--a Moscow habit! In
Moscow they cherish only wits of not less than forty. ”

“You have been in Moscow, doctor? ”

“Yes, I had a practice there. ”

“Continue. ”

“But I think I have told everything. . . No, there is something else:
Princess Mary, it seems, loves to discuss emotions, passions, etcetera.
She was in Petersburg for one winter, and disliked it--especially the
society: no doubt she was coldly received. ”

“You have not seen anyone with them today?
”

“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a stiff guardsman, and a
lady--one of the latest arrivals, a relation of Princess Ligovski on the
husband’s side--very pretty, but apparently very ill. . . Have you not met
her at the well? She is of medium height, fair, with regular features;
she has the complexion of a consumptive, and there is a little black
mole on her right cheek. I was struck by the expressiveness of her
face. ”

“A mole! ” I muttered through my teeth. “Is it possible? ”

The doctor looked at me, and, laying his hand on my heart, said
triumphantly:

“You know her! ”

My heart was, in fact, beating more violently than usual.

“It is your turn, now, to triumph,” I said. “But I rely on you: you
will not betray me. I have not seen her yet, but I am convinced that I
recognise from your portrait a woman whom I loved in the old days. . . Do
not speak a word to her about me; if she asks any questions, give a bad
report of me. ”

“Be it so! ” said Werner, shrugging his shoulders.

When he had departed, my heart was compressed with terrible grief.
Has destiny brought us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come
hither on purpose, knowing that she would meet me? . . . And how shall we
meet? . . . And then, is it she? . . . My presentiments have never deceived
me. There is not a man in the world over whom the past has acquired such
a power as over me. Every recollection of bygone grief or joy strikes
my soul with morbid effect, and draws forth ever the same sounds. . . I am
stupidly constituted: I forget nothing--nothing!

After dinner, about six o’clock, I went on to the boulevard. It was
crowded. The two princesses were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young
men, who were vying with each other in paying them attention. I took
up my position on another bench at a little distance off, stopped two
Dragoon officers whom I knew, and proceeded to tell them something.
Evidently it was amusing, because they began to laugh loudly like a
couple of madmen. Some of those who were surrounding Princess Mary were
attracted to my side by curiosity, and gradually all of them left her
and joined my circle. I did not stop talking; my anecdotes were clever
to the point of absurdity, my jests at the expense of the queer people
passing by, malicious to the point of frenzy. I continued to entertain
the public till sunset. Princess Mary passed by me a few times,
arm-in-arm with her mother, and accompanied by a certain lame old man.
A few times her glance as it fell upon me expressed vexation, while
endeavouring to express indifference. . .

“What has he been telling you? ” she inquired of one of the young men,
who had gone back to her out of politeness. “No doubt a most interesting
story--his own exploits in battle? ”. . .

This was said rather loudly, and probably with the intention of stinging
me.

“Aha! ” I thought to myself. “You are downright angry, my dear Princess.
Wait awhile, there is more to follow. ”

Grushnitski kept following her like a beast of prey, and would not let
her out of his sight. I wager that to-morrow he will ask somebody to
present him to Princess Ligovski. She will be glad, because she is
bored.




CHAPTER III. 16th May.

IN the course of two days my affairs have gained ground tremendously.
Princess Mary positively hates me. Already I have had repeated to me two
or three epigrams on the subject of myself--rather caustic, but at the
same time very flattering. She finds it exceedingly strange that I, who
am accustomed to good society, and am so intimate with her Petersburg
cousins and aunts, do not try to make her acquaintance. Every day we
meet at the well and on the boulevard. I exert all my powers to entice
away her adorers, glittering aides-de-camp, pale-faced visitors from
Moscow, and others--and I almost always succeed. I have always hated
entertaining guests: now my house is full every day; they dine, sup,
gamble, and alas! my champagne triumphs over the might of Princess
Mary’s magnetic eyes!

I met her yesterday in Chelakhov’s shop. She was bargaining for a
marvellous Persian rug, and implored her mother not to be niggardly: the
rug would be such an ornament to her boudoir. . . I outbid her by forty
rubles, and bought it over her head. I was rewarded with a glance in
which the most delightful fury sparkled. About dinnertime, I ordered my
Circassian horse, covered with that very rug, purposely to be led past
her windows. Werner was with the princesses at the time, and told me
that the effect of the scene was most dramatic. Princess Mary wishes to
preach a crusade against me, and I have even noticed that, already,
two of the aides-de-camp salute me very coldly, when they are in her
presence--they dine with me every day, however.

Grushnitski has assumed an air of mystery; he walks with his arms folded
behind his back and does not recognise anyone. His foot has got well
all at once, and there is hardly a sign of a limp. He has found an
opportunity of entering into conversation with Princess Ligovski and of
paying Princess Mary some kind of a compliment. The latter is evidently
not very fastidious, for, ever since, she answers his bow with a most
charming smile.

“Are you sure you do not wish to make the Ligovskis’ acquaintance? ” he
said to me yesterday.

“Positive. ”

“Good gracious! The pleasantest house at the waters! All the best
society of Pyatigorsk is to be found there”. . .

“My friend, I am terribly tired of even other society than that of
Pyatigorsk. So you visit the Ligovskis? ”

“Not yet. I have spoken to Princess Mary once or twice, but that is
all. You know it is rather awkward to go and visit them without being
invited, although that is the custom here. . . It would be a different
matter if I was wearing epaulettes”. . .

“Good heavens! Why, you are much more interesting as it is! You simply
do not know how to avail yourself of your advantageous position. . . Why,
that soldier’s cloak makes a hero and a martyr of you in the eyes of any
lady of sentiment! ”

Grushnitski smiled complacently.

“What nonsense! ” he said.

“I am convinced,” I continued, “that Princess Mary is in love with you
already. ”

He blushed up to the ears and looked big.

Oh, vanity! Thou art the lever with which Archimedes was to lift the
earthly sphere! . . .

“You are always jesting! ” he said, pretending to be angry. “In the first
place, she knows so little of me as yet”. . .

“Women love only those whom they do not know! ”

“But I have no pretensions whatsoever to pleasing her. I simply wish
to make the acquaintance of an agreeable household; and it would be
extremely ridiculous if I were to cherish the slightest hope. . . With
you, now, for instance, it is a different matter! You Petersburg
conquerors! You have but to look--and women melt. . . But do you know,
Pechorin, what Princess Mary said of you? ”. . .

“What? She has spoken to you already about me? ”. . .

“Do not rejoice too soon, though. The other day, by chance, I entered
into conversation with her at the well; her third word was, ‘Who is
that gentleman with such an unpleasant, heavy glance? He was with you
when’. . . she blushed, and did not like to mention the day, remembering
her own delightful little exploit. ‘You need not tell me what day it
was,’ I answered; ‘it will ever be present to my memory! ’. . . Pechorin,
my friend, I cannot congratulate you, you are in her black books. . . And,
indeed, it is a pity, because Mary is a charming girl! ”. . .

It must be observed that Grushnitski is one of those men who, in
speaking of a woman with whom they are barely acquainted, call her my
Mary, my Sophie, if she has had the good fortune to please them.

I assumed a serious air and answered:

“Yes, she is good-looking. . . Only be careful, Grushnitski! Russian
ladies, for the most part, cherish only Platonic love, without mingling
any thought of matrimony with it; and Platonic love is exceedingly
embarrassing. Princess Mary seems to be one of those women who want to
be amused. If she is bored in your company for two minutes on end--you
are lost irrevocably. Your silence ought to excite her curiosity, your
conversation ought never to satisfy it completely; you should alarm her
every minute; ten times, in public, she will slight people’s opinion for
you and will call that a sacrifice, and, in order to requite herself for
it, she will torment you. Afterwards she will simply say that she cannot
endure you. If you do not acquire authority over her, even her first
kiss will not give you the right to a second. She will flirt with you to
her heart’s content, and, in two years’ time, she will marry a monster,
in obedience to her mother, and will assure herself that she is unhappy,
that she has loved only one man--that is to say, you--but that Heaven
was not willing to unite her to him because he wore a soldier’s cloak,
although beneath that thick, grey cloak beat a heart, passionate and
noble”. . .

Grushnitski smote the table with his fist and fell to walking to and fro
across the room.

I laughed inwardly and even smiled once or twice, but fortunately he did
not notice. It is evident that he is in love, because he has grown even
more confiding than heretofore. Moreover, a ring has made its appearance
on his finger, a silver ring with black enamel of local workmanship. It
struck me as suspicious. . . I began to examine it, and what do you think
I saw? The name Mary was engraved on the inside in small letters, and in
a line with the name was the date on which she had picked up the
famous tumbler. I kept my discovery a secret. I do not want to force
confessions from him, I want him, of his own accord, to choose me as his
confidant--and then I will enjoy myself! . . .

*****

To-day I rose late. I went to the well. I found nobody there. The
day grew hot. White, shaggy cloudlets were flitting rapidly from the
snow-clad mountains, giving promise of a thunderstorm; the summit of
Mount Mashuk was smoking like a just extinguished torch; grey wisps of
cloud were coiling and creeping like snakes around it, arrested in
their rapid sweep and, as it were, hooked to its prickly brushwood. The
atmosphere was charged with electricity. I plunged into the avenue of
the vines leading to the grotto.

I felt low-spirited. I was thinking of the lady with the little mole on
her cheek, of whom the doctor had spoken to me. . .