No More Learning

. . 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? . . . But when will you return? ” Maksim
Maksimych cried after him.

By this time the carriage was a long way off, but Pechorin made a sign
with his hand which might be interpreted as meaning:

“It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there is no reason, either,
why I should! ”

The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the wheels along the flinty
road had long ceased to be audible, but the poor old man still remained
standing in the same place, deep in thought.

“Yes,” he said at length, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference,
although from time to time a tear of vexation glistened on his
eyelashes. “Of course we were friends--well, but what are friends
nowadays? . . . What could I be to him? I’m not rich; I’ve no rank; and,
moreover, I’m not at all his match in years! --See what a dandy he
has become since he has been staying in Petersburg again! . . . What
a carriage! . . . What a quantity of luggage! . . . And such a haughty
manservant too! ”. . .

These words were pronounced with an ironical smile.

“Tell me,” he continued, turning to me, “what do you think of it?
Come, what the devil is he off to Persia for now? . . . Good Lord, it is
ridiculous--ridiculous! . . . But I always knew that he was a fickle man,
and one you could never rely on! . . . But, indeed, it is a pity that he
should come to a bad end. . . yet it can’t be otherwise! . . . I always did
say that there is no good to be got out of a man who forgets his old
friends! ”. . .

Hereupon he turned away in order to hide his agitation and proceeded to
walk about the courtyard, around his cart, pretending to be examining
the wheels, whilst his eyes kept filling with tears every moment.

“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, going up to him, “what papers are these that
Pechorin left you? ”

“Goodness knows! Notes of some sort”. . .

“What will you do with them? ”

“What? I’ll have cartridges made of them. ”

“Hand them over to me instead. ”

He looked at me in surprise, growled something through his teeth, and
began to rummage in his portmanteau. Out he drew a writing-book and
threw it contemptuously on the ground; then a second--a third--a tenth
shared the same fate. There was something childish in his vexation, and
it struck me as ridiculous and pitiable. . .

“Here they are,” he said. “I congratulate you on your find! ”. . .

“And I may do anything I like with them? ”

“Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you like. What is it to me? Am
I a friend or relation of his? It is true that for a long time we lived
under one roof. . . but aren’t there plenty of people with whom I have
lived? ”. . .

I seized the papers and lost no time in carrying them away, fearing that
the staff-captain might repent his action. Soon somebody came to tell
us that the “Adventure” would set off in an hour’s time. I ordered the
horses to be put to.

I had already put my cap on when the staff-captain entered the room.
Apparently he had not got ready for departure. His manner was somewhat
cold and constrained.

“You are not going, then, Maksim Maksimych? ”

“No, sir! ”

“But why not? ”

“Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, and I have to deliver some
Government things. ”

“But you did go, you know. ”

“I did, of course,” he stammered, “but he was not at home. . . and I did
not wait. ”

I understood. For the first time in his life, probably, the poor old man
had, to speak by the book, thrown aside official business ‘for the sake
of his personal requirements’. . . and how he had been rewarded!

“I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very sorry indeed,” I said, “that we
must part sooner than necessary. ”

“What should we rough old men be thinking of to run after you? You young
men are fashionable and proud: under the Circassian bullets you are
friendly enough with us. . . but when you meet us afterwards you are
ashamed even to give us your hand! ”

“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych. ”

“Well, but you know I’m quite right. However, I wish you all good luck
and a pleasant journey. ”

We took a rather cold farewell of each other. The kind-hearted Maksim
Maksimych had become the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And why?
Because Pechorin, through absent-mindedness or from some other cause,
had extended his hand to him when Maksim Maksimych was going to throw
himself on his neck! Sad it is to see when a young man loses his best
hopes and dreams, when from before his eyes is withdrawn the rose-hued
veil through which he has looked upon the deeds and feelings of mankind;
although there is the hope that the old illusions will be replaced by
new ones, none the less evanescent, but, on the other hand, none the
less sweet. But wherewith can they be replaced when one is at the age
of Maksim Maksimych? Do what you will, the heart hardens and the soul
shrinks in upon itself.

I departed--alone.




FOREWORD TO BOOKS III, IV, AND V


CONCERNING PECHORIN’S DIARY

I LEARNED not long ago that Pechorin had died on his way back from
Persia. The news afforded me great delight; it gave me the right to
print these notes; and I have taken advantage of the opportunity of
putting my name at the head of another person’s productions. Heaven
grant that my readers may not punish me for such an innocent deception!

I must now give some explanation of the reasons which have induced me to
betray to the public the inmost secrets of a man whom I never knew. If I
had even been his friend, well and good: the artful indiscretion of the
true friend is intelligible to everybody; but I only saw Pechorin
once in my life--on the high-road--and, consequently, I cannot cherish
towards him that inexplicable hatred, which, hiding its face under the
mask of friendship, awaits but the death or misfortune of the beloved
object to burst over its head in a storm of reproaches, admonitions,
scoffs and regrets.

On reading over these notes, I have become convinced of the sincerity
of the man who has so unsparingly exposed to view his own weaknesses and
vices. The history of a man’s soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly
less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people;
especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature
mind upon itself, and has been written without any egoistical desire of
arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau’s Confessions has precisely
this defect--he read it to his friends.

And, so, it is nothing but the desire to be useful that has constrained
me to print fragments of this diary which fell into my hands by chance.
Although I have altered all the proper names, those who are mentioned
in it will probably recognise themselves, and, it may be, will find some
justification for actions for which they have hitherto blamed a man who
has ceased henceforth to have anything in common with this world. We
almost always excuse that which we understand.
I have inserted in this book only those portions of the diary which
refer to Pechorin’s sojourn in the Caucasus. There still remains in
my hands a thick writing-book in which he tells the story of his whole
life. Some time or other that, too, will present itself before the
tribunal of the world, but, for many and weighty reasons, I do not
venture to take such a responsibility upon myself now.

Possibly some readers would like to know my own opinion of Pechorin’s
character. My answer is: the title of this book. “But that is malicious
irony! ” they will say. . . I know not.





BOOK III THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY




TAMAN

TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was
all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being
drowned.

I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired
troika [21] at the gate of the only stone-built house that stood at the
entrance to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing
the jingle of the bell, cried out, sleepily, in his barbarous voice,
“Who goes there? ” An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough [22]
came out. I explained that I was an officer bound for the active-service
detachment on Government business, and I proceeded to demand official
quarters. The headborough conducted us round the town. Whatever hut we
drove up to we found to be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not
slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I began to lose my temper.

“Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel! ” I cried; “to the devil
himself, so long as there’s a place to put up at! ”

“There is one other lodging,” answered the headborough, scratching his
head. “Only you won’t like it, sir. It is uncanny! ”

Failing to grasp the exact signification of the last phrase, I ordered
him to go on, and, after a lengthy peregrination through muddy byways,
at the sides of which I could see nothing but old fences, we drove up to
a small cabin, right on the shore of the sea.

The full moon was shining on the little reed-thatched roof and the white
walls of my new dwelling. In the courtyard, which was surrounded by a
wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miserable hovel, smaller and
older than the first and all askew. The shore descended precipitously
to the sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, with incessant
murmur, plashed the dark-blue waves. The moon gazed softly upon the
watery element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able by its light
to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their
black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the
pale line of the horizon.

“There are vessels in the harbour,” I said to myself. “To-morrow I will
set out for Gelenjik. ”

I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, a Cossack of the
frontier army. Ordering him to take down the portmanteau and dismiss
the driver, I began to call the master of the house. No answer! I
knocked--all was silent within! . . . What could it mean? At length a boy
of about fourteen crept out from the hall.

“Where is the master? ”

“There isn’t one. ”

“What! No master? ”

“None! ”

“And the mistress? ”

“She has gone off to the village. ”

“Who will open the door for me, then? ” I said, giving it a kick.

The door opened of its own accord, and a breath of moisture-laden air
was wafted from the hut. I struck a lucifer match and held it to the
boy’s face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally blind, obviously so
from birth. He stood stock-still before me, and I began to examine his
features.

I confess that I have a violent prejudice against all blind, one-eyed,
deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have
observed that there is always a certain strange connection between a
man’s exterior and his soul; as, if when the body loses a limb, the soul
also loses some power of feeling.

And so I began to examine the blind boy’s face. But what could be read
upon a face from which the eyes are missing? . . . For a long time I gazed
at him with involuntary compassion, when suddenly a scarcely perceptible
smile flitted over his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most
unpleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a suspicion that the
blind boy was not so blind as he appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured
to convince myself that it was impossible to counterfeit cataracts; and
besides, what reason could there be for doing such a thing? But I could
not help my suspicions. I am easily swayed by prejudice. . .

“You are the master’s son? ” I asked at length.

“No. ”

“Who are you, then? ”

“An orphan--a poor boy. ”

“Has the mistress any children? ”

“No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar. ”

“What sort of a Tartar? ”

“The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch. ”

I entered the hut. Its whole furniture consisted of two benches and a
table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. There was not
a single ikon to be seen on the wall--a bad sign! The sea-wind burst
in through the broken window-pane. I drew a wax candle-end from my
portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and gun
I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the table. I spread my felt
cloak out on one bench, and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes
the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep--the image of the
boy with the white eyes kept hovering before me in the dark.

About an hour passed thus. The moon shone in at the window and its rays
played along the earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow flitted
across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. I
raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. Again somebody
ran by it and disappeared--goodness knows where! It seemed impossible
for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that
was the only thing that could have happened. I rose, threw on my tunic,
girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut.
The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by the fence, and he passed
by me with a sure but cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under
his arm. He turned towards the harbour and began to descend a steep and
narrow path.

“On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see,” I said to
myself, following him just close enough to keep him in sight.

Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had risen
upon the sea. The lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand
was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the shore there glimmered
the foam of the waves, which every moment threatened to submerge it.
Descending with difficulty, I stole along the steep declivity, and all
at once I saw the blind boy come to a standstill and then turn down to
the right. He walked so close to the water’s edge that it seemed as if
the waves would straightway seize him and carry him off. But, judging by
the confidence with which he stepped from rock to rock and avoided the
water-channels, this was evidently not the first time that he had made
that journey. Finally he stopped, as though listening for something,
squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel beside him.
Concealing myself behind a projecting rock on the shore, I kept watch
on his movements. After a few minutes a white figure made its appearance
from the opposite direction. It came up to the blind boy and sat down
beside him. At times the wind wafted their conversation to me.

“Well? ” said a woman’s voice. “The storm is violent; Yanko will not be
here. ”

“Yanko is not afraid of the storm! ” the other replied.

“The mist is thickening,” rejoined the woman’s voice, sadness in its
tone.

“In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships,” was the
answer.

“And if he is drowned? ”

“Well, what then? On Sunday you won’t have a new ribbon to go to church
in. ”

An interval of silence followed. One thing, however, struck me--in
talking to me the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now
he was expressing himself in pure Russian.

“You see, I am right! ” the blind boy went on, clapping his hands. “Yanko
is not afraid of sea, nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just listen!
That is not the water plashing, you can’t deceive me--it is his long
oars. ”

The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance.

“You are raving! ” she said. “I cannot see anything. ”

I confess that, much as I tried to make out in the distance something
resembling a boat, my efforts were unsuccessful. About ten minutes
passed thus, when a black speck appeared between the mountains of the
waves! At one time it grew larger, at another smaller. Slowly rising
upon the crests of the waves and swiftly descending from them, the boat
drew near to the shore.

“He must be a brave sailor,” I thought, “to have determined to cross
the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a
weighty reason for doing so. ”

Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at
the poor boat. It dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging
oars--like wings--it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of
the foam. “Ah! ” I thought, “it will be dashed against the shore with all
its force and broken to pieces! ” But it turned aside adroitly and leaped
unharmed into a little creek. Out of it stepped a man of medium height,
wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three set to
work to drag something out of the boat. The cargo was so large that, to
this day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat did not sink.

Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set off along the shore, and
I soon lost sight of them. I had to return home; but I confess I was
rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found it hard to
await the morning.

My Cossack was very much astonished when, on waking up, he saw me fully
dressed. I did not, however, tell him the reason. For some time I stood
at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue sky all studded with wisps
of cloud, and at the distant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a
lilac-coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the summit of which the
white tower of the lighthouse was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the
fortress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the Commandant at what
hour I should depart for Gelenjik.

But the Commandant, alas! could not give me any definite information.
The vessels lying in the harbour were all either guard-ships or
merchant-vessels which had not yet even begun to take in lading.

“Maybe in about three or four days’ time a mail-boat will come in,” said
the Commandant, “and then we shall see. ”

I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a
frightened countenance.

“Things are looking bad, sir! ” he said.

“Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away! ”

Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said
in a whisper:

“It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer from the Black Sea
to-day--he’s an acquaintance of mine--he was in my detachment last year.
When I told him where we were staying, he said, ‘That place is uncanny,
old fellow; they’re wicked people there! ’. . . And, indeed, what sort of
a blind boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch water and to buy
bread at the bazaar. It is evident they have become accustomed to that
sort of thing here. ”

“Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in
an appearance? ”

“During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived. ”

“What daughter? She has no daughter! ”

“Goodness knows who it can be if it isn’t her daughter; but the old
woman is sitting over there in the hut now. ”

I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning in the stove, and they
were cooking a dinner which struck me as being a rather luxurious one
for poor people. To all my questions the old woman replied that she was
deaf and could not hear me. There was nothing to be got out of her. I
turned to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the stove, putting
twigs into the fire.

“Now, then, you little blind devil,” I said, taking him by the ear.
“Tell me, where were you roaming with the bundle last night, eh? ”

The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing.

“Where did I go? I did not go anywhere. . . With the bundle? . . . What
bundle? ”

This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter:

“Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you
touching him for? What has he done to you? ”

I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved to find the key to the
riddle.

I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting down on a rock by the
fence, gazed into the distance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated
by the storm of the previous night, and its monotonous roar, like the
murmur of a town over which slumber is beginning to creep, recalled
bygone years to my mind, and transported my thoughts northward to our
cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I became oblivious of my
surroundings.

About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. Suddenly something
resembling a song struck upon my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a
woman’s, young and fresh--but, where was it coming from? .