No More Learning

At that laugh a cold shudder ran
through me. . . I went away to order a coffin.

“I confess it was partly to distract my thoughts that I busied myself in
that way. I possessed a little piece of Circassian stuff, and I covered
the coffin with it, and decked it with some Circassian silver lace which
Grigori Aleksandrovich had bought for Bela herself.

“Early next morning we buried her behind the fortress, by the river,
beside the spot where she had sat for the last time. Around her little
grave white acacia shrubs and elder-trees have now grown up. I
should have liked to erect a cross, but that would not have done, you
know--after all, she was not a Christian. ”

“And what of Pechorin? ” I asked.

“Pechorin was ill for a long time, and grew thin, poor fellow; but
we never spoke of Bela from that time forth. I saw that it would be
disagreeable to him, so what would have been the use? About three months
later he was appointed to the E----Regiment, and departed for Georgia.
We have never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, somebody told
me not long ago that he had returned to Russia--but it was not in the
general orders for the corps. Besides, to the like of us news is late in
coming. ”

Hereupon--probably to drown sad memories--he launched forth into a
lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.

I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.

In an hour’s time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented
itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On
the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin.

“You have not heard what became of Kazbich? ” I asked.

“Kazbich? In truth, I don’t know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs,
on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who
rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and
bows politely whenever one hums near him--but it can scarcely be the
same person! ”. . .

In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he,
on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no
expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like,
I will tell you how--it is quite a history. . . You must acknowledge,
though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect. . . If
you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy
story.





BOOK II MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH

AFTER parting with Maksim Maksimych, I galloped briskly through the
gorges of the Terek and Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in
Lars, and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I spare you a
description of the mountains, as well as exclamations which convey no
meaning, and word-paintings which convey no image--especially to
those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also omit statistical
observations, which I am quite sure nobody would read.

I put up at the inn which is frequented by all who travel in those
parts, and where, by the way, there is no one you can order to roast
your pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the three veterans
who have charge of the inn are either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is
impossible to knock any sense at all out of them.

I was informed that I should have to stay there three days longer,
because the “Adventure” had not yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and
consequently could not start on the return journey. What a misadventure!
[18]. . . But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian, and, for the sake
of something to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to write down
the story about Bela, which I had heard from Maksim Maksimych--never
imagining that it would be the first link in a long chain of novels: you
see how an insignificant event has sometimes dire results! . . . Perhaps,
however, you do not know what the “Adventure” is? It is a
convoy--composed of half a company of infantry, with a cannon--which
escorts baggage-trains through Kabardia from Vladikavkaz to
Ekaterinograd.

The first day I found the time hang on my hands dreadfully. Early next
morning a vehicle drove into the courtyard. . . Aha! Maksim Maksimych! . . .
We met like a couple of old friends. I offered to share my own room with
him, and he accepted my hospitality without standing upon ceremony; he
even clapped me on the shoulder and puckered up his mouth by way of a
smile--a queer fellow, that! . . .

Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in the culinary art. He roasted
the pheasant astonishingly well and basted it successfully with cucumber
sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, but for him, I should have had
to remain on a dry-food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us to
forget the modest number of dishes--of which there was one, all told.
Then we lit our pipes, took our chairs, and sat down--I by the window,
and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted because the day
was damp and cold. We remained silent. What had we to talk about? He had
already told me all that was of interest about himself and I had nothing
to relate. I looked out of the window. Here and there, behind the trees,
I caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses straggling along the
bank of the Terek, which flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream;
farther off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the mountains, behind
which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in his highpriest’s hat of white. I took
a mental farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them. . .

Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold
summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys,
when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a
travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few
vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of
the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light
movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind
of foreign stamp. Behind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was
wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant.
From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and
shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was
obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master--something in the
nature of a Russian Figaro.

“Tell me, my good man,” I called to him out of the window. “What is
it? --Has the ‘Adventure’ arrived, eh? ”

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straightened his cravat, and turned
away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for
him that the “Adventure” had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the
return journey the following morning.

“Thank heavens! ” said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at
that moment. “What a wonderful carriage! ” he added; “probably it belongs
to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can
see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend,
you’re not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would
shake even an English carriage to bits! --But who could it be? Let us go
and find out. ”

We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open
door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging
portmanteaux into the room.

“I say, my man! ” the staff-captain asked him: “Whose is that marvellous
carriage? --Eh? --A beautiful carriage! ”

Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he
undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.

“I am speaking to you, my friend! ” he said, touching the uncivil fellow
on the shoulder.

“Whose carriage? --My master’s. ”

“And who is your master? ”

“Pechorin--”

“What did you say? What? Pechorin? --Great Heavens! . . . Did he not serve
in the Caucasus? ” exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve.
His eyes were sparkling with joy.

“Yes, he served there, I think--but I have not been with him long. ”

“Well! Just so! . . . Just so! . . . Grigori Aleksandrovich? . . . that is his
name, of course? Your master and I were friends,” he added, giving the
manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause
him to stagger.

“Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me,” said the latter, frowning.

“What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, don’t you know, your master and
I were bosom friends, and lived together? . . . But where has he put up? ”

The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed to take supper and pass
the night at Colonel N----‘s.

“But won’t he be looking in here in the evening? ” said Maksim Maksimych.
“Or, you, my man, won’t you be going over to him for something? . . . If
you do, tell him that Maksim Maksimych is here; just say that--he’ll
know! --I’ll give you half a ruble for a tip! ”

The manservant made a scornful face on hearing such a modest promise,
but he assured Maksim Maksimych that he would execute his commission.

“He’ll be sure to come running up directly! ” said Maksim Maksimych, with
an air of triumph. “I will go outside the gate and wait for him! Ah,
it’s a pity I am not acquainted with Colonel N----! ”

Maksim Maksimych sat down on a little bench outside the gate, and I
went to my room. I confess that I also was awaiting this Pechorin’s
appearance with a certain amount of impatience--although, from the
staff-captain’s story, I had formed a by no means favourable idea of
him. Still, certain traits in his character struck me as remarkable. In
an hour’s time one of the old soldiers brought a steaming samovar and a
teapot.

“Won’t you have some tea, Maksim Maksimych? ” I called out of the window.

“Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow. ”

“Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and cold! ”

“No, thank you”. . .

“Well, just as you like! ”

I began my tea alone. About ten minutes afterwards my old captain came
in.

“You are right, you know; it would be better to have a drop of tea--but
I was waiting for Pechorin. His man has been gone a long time now, but
evidently something has detained him. ”

The staff-captain hurriedly sipped a cup of tea, refused a second,
and went off again outside the gate--not without a certain amount of
disquietude. It was obvious that the old man was mortified by Pechorin’s
neglect, the more so because a short time previously he had been telling
me of their friendship, and up to an hour ago had been convinced that
Pechorin would come running up immediately on hearing his name.

It was already late and dark when I opened the window again and began to
call Maksim Maksimych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered
something through his teeth. I repeated my invitation--he made no
answer.

I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping myself up in my cloak,
I lay down on the couch and soon fell into slumber; and I would have
slept on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych awakened me as he came into
the room. It was then very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began
to walk up and down the room, and to rattle about at the stove. At last
he lay down, but for a long time he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing
about.

“The bugs are biting you, are they not? ” I asked.

“Yes, that is it,” he answered, with a heavy sigh.

I woke early the next morning, but Maksim Maksimych had anticipated me.
I found him sitting on the little bench at the gate.

“I have to go to the Commandant,” he said, “so, if Pechorin comes,
please send for me. ”. . .

I gave my promise.
He ran off as if his limbs had regained their
youthful strength and suppleness.

The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden clouds had massed themselves on
the mountaintops like a new range of aerial mountains. Before the gate
a wide square spread out; behind it the bazaar was seething with people,
the day being Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying wallets of
honeycomb on their shoulders, were hovering around me. I cursed them;
I had other things to think of--I was beginning to share the worthy
staff-captain’s uneasiness.

Before ten minutes had passed the man we were awaiting appeared at the
end of the square. He was walking with Colonel N. , who accompanied him
as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and then turned back to the
fortress. I immediately despatched one of the old soldiers for Maksim
Maksimych.

Pechorin’s manservant went out to meet him and informed him that they
were going to put to at once; he handed him a box of cigars, received
a few orders, and went off about his business. His master lit a cigar,
yawned once or twice, and sat down on the bench on the other side of the
gate. I must now draw his portrait for you.

He was of medium height. His shapely, slim figure and broad shoulders
gave evidence of a strong constitution, capable of enduring all the
hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates, and of resisting with
success both the demoralising effects of life in the Capital and the
tempests of the soul. His velvet overcoat, which was covered with dust,
was fastened by the two lower buttons only, and exposed to view linen of
dazzling whiteness, which proved that he had the habits of a gentleman.
His gloves, soiled by travel, seemed as though made expressly for
his small, aristocratic hand, and when he took one glove off I was
astonished at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless
and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms--a sure sign
of a certain secretiveness of character. These remarks, however, are the
result of my own observations, and I have not the least desire to make
you blindly believe in them. When he was in the act of seating himself
on the bench his upright figure bent as if there was not a single bone
in his back. The attitude of his whole body was expressive of a
certain nervous weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one of Balzac’s
thirty-year-old coquettes resting in her downy arm-chair after a
fatiguing ball. From my first glance at his face I should not have
supposed his age to be more than twenty-three, though afterwards I should
have put it down as thirty. His smile had something of a child-like
quality. His skin possessed a kind of feminine delicacy. His fair hair,
naturally curly, most picturesquely outlined his pale and noble brow, on
which it was only after lengthy observation that traces could be noticed
of wrinkles, intersecting each other: probably they showed up more
distinctly in moments of anger or mental disturbance. Notwithstanding
the light colour of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows were black--a
sign of breeding in a man, just as a black mane and a black tail in a
white horse. To complete the portrait, I will add that he had a slightly
turned-up nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness, and brown eyes--I must say
a few words more about his eyes.

In the first place, they never laughed when he laughed. Have you not
happened, yourself, to notice the same peculiarity in certain people? . . .
It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep and constant
grief. From behind his half-lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind
of phosphorescent gleam--if I may so express myself--which was not the
reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to
that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance--brief, but piercing
and heavy--left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and
might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil.

It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had
known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance
would have produced an entirely different impression upon another; but,
as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have
to rest content, nolens volens, with the description I have given.
In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very
good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance
which are particularly pleasing to women.

The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the
shaft-bow; [19] and the manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with
the announcement that everything was ready, but still there was no sign
of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he
gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was apparently by
no means in a hurry for the road.

I went up to him.

“If you care to wait a little longer,” I said, “you will have the
pleasure of meeting an old friend. ”

“Oh, exactly! ” he answered quickly. “They told me so yesterday. Where is
he, though? ”

I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim
Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside
us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large
drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his
cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking. . . He was about
to throw himself on Pechorin’s neck, but the latter, rather coldly,
though with a smile of welcome, stretched out his hand to him. For
a moment the staff-captain was petrified, but then eagerly seized
Pechorin’s hand in both his own. He was still unable to speak.

“How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you? ”
said Pechorin.

“And. . . thou. . . you? ” [20] murmured the old man, with tears in his
eyes. “What an age it is since I have seen you! . . . But where are you off
to? ”. . .

“I am going to Persia--and farther. ”. . .

“But surely not immediately? . . . Wait a little, my dear fellow! . . . Surely
we are not going to part at once? . . . What a long time it is since we
have seen each other! ”. . .

“It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych,” was the reply.

“Good heavens, good heavens! But where are you going to in such a hurry?
There was so much I should have liked to tell you! So much to question
you about! . . . Well, what of yourself? Have you retired? . . . What? . . . How
have you been getting along? ”

“Getting bored! ” answered Pechorin, smiling.

“You remember the life we led in the fortress? A splendid country for
hunting! You were awfully fond of shooting, you know! . . . And Bela? ”. . .

Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and averted his head.

“Yes, I remember! ” he said, almost immediately forcing a yawn.

Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay with him for a couple of hours
or so longer.

“We will have a splendid dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants; and
the Kakhetian wine is excellent here. . . not what it is in Georgia, of
course, but still of the best sort. . . We will have a talk. . . You will
tell me about your life in Petersburg. . . Eh? ”. . .

“In truth, there’s nothing for me to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych. . .
However, good-bye, it is time for me to be off. . . I am in a hurry. . .
I thank you for not having forgotten me,” he added, taking him by the
hand.

The old man knit his brows. He was grieved and angry, although he tried
to hide his feelings.

“Forget! ” he growled. “I have not forgotten anything. . . Well, God be
with you! . . . It is not like this that I thought we should meet. ”

“Come! That will do, that will do! ” said Pechorin, giving him a friendly
embrace. “Is it possible that I am not the same as I used to be? . . . What
can we do? Everyone must go his own way. . . Are we ever going to meet
again? --God only knows! ”

While saying this he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the
coachman was already gathering up the reins.

“Wait, wait! ” cried Maksim Maksimych suddenly, holding on to the
carriage door. “I was nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were
left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich. . . I drag them about everywhere I
go. . . I thought I should find you in Georgia, but this is where it has
pleased Heaven that we should meet. What’s to be done with them? ”. . .

“Whatever you like! ” answered Pechorin. “Good-bye. ”. . .

“So you are off to Persia? .