No More Learning

”

“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. . . “Why is she here? ” I
thought. “And is it she? And what reason have I for thinking it is? And
why am I so certain of it? Is there not many a woman with a mole on her
cheek? ” Reflecting in such wise I came right up to the grotto. I looked
in and I saw that a woman, wearing a straw hat and wrapped in a black
shawl, was sitting on a stone seat in the cold shade of the arch. Her
head was sunk upon her breast, and the hat covered her face. I was just
about to turn back, in order not to disturb her meditations, when she
glanced at me.

“Vera! ” I exclaimed involuntarily.

She started and turned pale.

“I knew that you were here,” she said.

I sat down beside her and took her hand. A long-forgotten tremor ran
through my veins at the sound of that dear voice. She gazed into my
face with her deep, calm eyes. Mistrust and something in the nature of
reproach were expressed in her glance.

“We have not seen each other for a long time,” I said.

“A long time, and we have both changed in many ways. ”

“Consequently you love me no longer? ”. . .

“I am married! ”. . . she said.

“Again? A few years ago, however, that reason also existed, but,
nevertheless”. . .

She plucked her hand away from mine and her cheeks flamed.

“Perhaps you love your second husband? ”. . .

She made no answer and turned her head away.

“Or is he very jealous? ”

She remained silent.

“What then? He is young, handsome and, I suppose, rich--which is the
chief thing--and you are afraid? ”. . .

I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound despair was depicted upon her
countenance; tears were glistening in her eyes.

“Tell me,” she whispered at length, “do you find it very amusing to
torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we have known each other, you
have given me naught but suffering”. . .

Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and let her head sink upon my
breast.

“Perhaps,” I reflected, “it is for that very reason that you have loved
me; joys are forgotten, but sorrows never”. . .

I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we remained for a long
time. At length our lips drew closer and became blent in a fervent,
intoxicating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her head was burning.

And hereupon we embarked upon one of those conversations which, on
paper, have no sense, which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible
even to retain in memory. The meaning of the sounds replaces and
completes the meaning of the words, as in Italian opera.

She is decidedly averse to my making the acquaintance of her husband,
the lame old man of whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard.
She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich, and suffers from
attacks of rheumatism. I did not allow myself even a single scoff at
his expense. She respects him as a father, and will deceive him as a
husband. . . A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman’s
heart in particular.

Vera’s husband, Semyon Vasilevich G----v, is a distant relation of
Princess Ligovski. He lives next door to her. Vera frequently visits
the Princess. I have given her my promise to make the Ligovskis’
acquaintance, and to pay court to Princess Mary in order to distract
attention from Vera. In such way, my plans have been not a little
deranged, but it will be amusing for me. . .

Amusing! . . . Yes, I have already passed that period of spiritual
life when happiness alone is sought, when the heart feels the urgent
necessity of violently and passionately loving somebody. Now my only
wish is to be loved, and that by very few. I even think that I would be
content with one constant attachment. A wretched habit of the heart! . . .

One thing has always struck me as strange. I have never made myself the
slave of the woman I have loved. On the contrary, I have always acquired
an invincible power over her will and heart, without in the least
endeavouring to do so. Why is this? Is it because I never esteem
anything highly, and she has been continually afraid to let me out of
her hands? Or is it the magnetic influence of a powerful organism? Or is
it, simply, that I have never succeeded in meeting a woman of stubborn
character?

I must confess that, in fact, I do not love women who possess strength
of character. What business have they with such a thing?

Indeed, I remember now. Once and once only did I love a woman who had
a firm will which I was never able to vanquish. . . We parted as
enemies--and then, perhaps, if I had met her five years later we would
have parted otherwise. . .

Vera is ill, very ill, although she does not admit it. I fear she has
consumption, or that disease which is called “fievre lente”--a quite
unRussian disease, and one for which there is no name in our language.

The storm overtook us while in the grotto and detained us half an hour
longer. Vera did not make me swear fidelity, or ask whether I had loved
others since we had parted. . . She trusted in me anew with all her former
unconcern, and I will not deceive her: she is the only woman in the
world whom it would never be within my power to deceive. I know that we
shall soon have to part again, and perchance for ever. We will both go
by different ways to the grave, but her memory will remain inviolable
within my soul. I have always repeated this to her, and she believes me,
although she says she does not.

At length we separated. For a long time I followed her with my eyes,
until her hat was hidden behind the shrubs and rocks. My heart was
painfully contracted, just as after our first parting. Oh, how I
rejoiced in that emotion! Can it be that youth is about to come back to
me, with its salutary tempests, or is this only the farewell glance, the
last gift--in memory of itself? . . . And to think that, in appearance,
I am still a boy! My face, though pale, is still fresh; my limbs are
supple and slender; my hair is thick and curly, my eyes sparkle, my
blood boils. . .

Returning home, I mounted on horseback and galloped to the steppe. I
love to gallop on a fiery horse through the tall grass, in the face of
the desert wind; greedily I gulp down the fragrant air and fix my gaze
upon the blue distance, endeavouring to seize the misty outlines of
objects which every minute grow clearer and clearer. Whatever griefs
oppress my heart, whatever disquietudes torture my thoughts--all are
dispersed in a moment; my soul becomes at ease; the fatigue of the body
vanquishes the disturbance of the mind. There is not a woman’s glance
which I would not forget at the sight of the tufted mountains, illumined
by the southern sun; at the sight of the dark-blue sky, or in hearkening
to the roar of the torrent as it falls from cliff to cliff.

I believe that the Cossacks, yawning on their watch-towers, when they
saw me galloping thus needlessly and aimlessly, were long tormented
by that enigma, because from my dress, I am sure, they took me to be a
Circassian. I have, in fact, been told that when riding on horseback, in
my Circassian costume, I resemble a Kabardian more than many a Kabardian
himself. And, indeed, so far as regards that noble, warlike garb, I am
a perfect dandy. I have not a single piece of gold lace too much; my
weapon is costly, but simply wrought; the fur on my cap is neither too
long nor too short; my leggings and shoes are matched with all possible
accuracy; my tunic is white; my Circassian jacket, dark-brown. I have
long studied the mountaineer seat on horseback, and in no way is it
possible to flatter my vanity so much as by acknowledging my skill in
horsemanship in the Cossack mode. I keep four horses--one for myself and
three for my friends, so that I may not be bored by having to roam about
the fields all alone; they take my horses with pleasure, and never ride
with me.

It was already six o’clock in the evening, when I remembered that it was
time to dine. My horse was jaded. I rode out on to the road leading
from Pyatigorsk to the German colony, to which the society of the
watering-place frequently rides en piquenique. The road meanders between
bushes and descends into little ravines, through which flow noisy brooks
beneath the shade of tall grasses. All around, in an amphitheatre,
rise the blue masses of Mount Beshtau and the Zmeiny, Zhelezny and Lysy
Mountains. [26] Descending into one of those ravines, I halted to water
my horse. At that moment a noisy and glittering cavalcade made its
appearance upon the road--the ladies in black and dark-blue riding
habits, the cavaliers in costumes which formed a medley of the
Circassian and Nizhegorodian. [27] In front rode Grushnitski with
Princess Mary.

The ladies at the watering-place still believe in attacks by Circassians
in broad daylight; for that reason, doubtless, Grushnitski had slung
a sabre and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s cloak. He looked
ridiculous enough in that heroic attire.

I was concealed from their sight by a tall bush, but I was able to see
everything through the leaves, and to guess from the expression of their
faces that the conversation was of a sentimental turn. At length
they approached the slope; Grushnitski took hold of the bridle of the
Princess’s horse, and then I heard the conclusion of their conversation:

“And you wish to remain all your life in the Caucasus? ” said Princess
Mary.

“What is Russia to me? ” answered her cavalier. “A country in which
thousands of people, because they are richer than I, will look upon me
with contempt, whilst here--here this thick cloak has not prevented my
acquaintance with you”. . .

“On the contrary”. . . said Princess Mary, blushing.

Grushnitski’s face was a picture of delight. He continued:

“Here, my life will flow along noisily, unobserved, and rapidly, under
the bullets of the savages, and if Heaven were every year to send me a
single bright glance from a woman’s eyes--like that which--”

At that moment they came up to where I was. I struck my horse with the
whip and rode out from behind the bush. . .

“Mon Dieu, un circassien! ”. . . exclaimed Princess Mary in terror.

In order completely to undeceive her, I replied in French, with a slight
bow:

“Ne craignez rien, madame, je ne suis pas plus dangereux que votre
cavalier”. . .

She grew embarrassed--but at what? At her own mistake, or because my
answer struck her as insolent? I should like the latter hypothesis to be
correct. Grushnitski cast a discontented glance at me.

Late in the evening, that is to say, about eleven o’clock, I went for a
walk in the lilac avenue of the boulevard. The town was sleeping; lights
were gleaming in only a few windows. On three sides loomed the black
ridges of the cliffs, the spurs of Mount Mashuk, upon the summit of
which an ominous cloud was lying. The moon was rising in the east; in
the distance, the snow-clad mountains glistened like a fringe of silver.
The calls of the sentries mingled at intervals with the roar of the hot
springs let flow for the night. At times the loud clattering of a horse
rang out along the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nagai wagon
and the plaintive burden of a Tartar song.

I sat down upon a bench and fell into a reverie. . . I felt the necessity
of pouring forth my thoughts in friendly conversation. . . But with
whom? . . .

“What is Vera doing now? ” I wondered.

I would have given much to press her hand at that moment.