Михаил Лермонтов - A Hero of Our Time [New Translation]

“One morning I go in to see him when I see before my eyes: Bela sitting on the bed in a black silk beshmet, the poor pale thing was so sad that I took fright.

“‘But where’s Pechorin?’ I asked.

“‘Hunting.’

“‘Did he leave today?’ She was silent, as if it was hard for her to get it out.

“‘No, yesterday,’ she finally said, heavily exhaling.

“‘Has something happened with him?’

“‘I spent the whole day yesterday thinking and thinking,’ she replied through tears, ‘and came up with various misfortunes: it occurred to me that he had either been injured by a vicious wild boar, or that a Chechen had dragged him off into the hills… But now, it just seems to me that he doesn’t love me.’

“‘Really, my dear, you couldn’t have thought up anything worse!’

“She started to cry and then, proudly raised her head, wiped away her tears, and continued:

“‘If he doesn’t love me, then who is preventing him from sending me home? I am not forcing him. But if it continues this way, then I’ll go off myself: I am not his slave—I am the daughter of a prince!’

“I started to try to assure her.

“‘Listen Bela, he can’t sit here forever as if he were sewn to your skirts. He is a young man, and loves to chase wild things—he goes off, but he’ll come back. And if you’re going to pine, then he’ll soon tire of it.’

“‘True, true!’ she replied. “I’ll be cheerful.’

“And with a loud laugh, she took up her tambourine, started to sing, dance, and bounce around me. Only this didn’t last long, and again she fell down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

“What was I to do with her? I have never interacted much with women, you know. I was thinking and thinking about what might comfort her and couldn’t think of a thing. We were both silent for a time… A very unpleasant situation!

“Finally I said to her: ‘Why don’t we go for a walk along the ramparts? The weather is glorious!’ This was September. And really, the day was marvelous, bright and it wasn’t hot. All the mountains were visible, as if laid out on a platter. We went and walked along the fortress ramparts, back and forth, in silence. Finally she sat on some grass, and I sat next to her. But really, it’s funny to look back and think about how I ran around after her, like some sort of nanny.

“Our fortress stood at a high point, and the view from the ramparts was excellent. On one side, there was a wide glade, pitted with several gullies, finishing at a forest that stretched to the peak of the mountain. Here and there, auls were sending up smoke, herds were ranging. A rivulet ran on the other side, flanked by the thick shrubbery, which covered the stony ridges connecting to the central chain of the Caucasus. We sat on the corner of a bastion, so we could see everything on either side. And then I saw: someone emerging from the forest on a gray horse, getting closer and closer, and finally stopping on the other side of the stream, about a hundred sazhens [33] sazhen: An obsolete Russian measurement equal to seven feet. from us, and twirling his horse, like a madman. What an extraordinary thing!

“‘Look there, Bela,’ I said, ‘you have young eyes, who is this dzhigit —and who is he here to entertain?’

“She looked over and cried out, ‘It’s Kazbich!’

“‘Ach, that scamp! What—has he come to laugh at us?’ I’m peering down and she’s right, it’s Kazbich: that’s his swarthy snout, ragged and dirty, as always.

“‘That’s my father’s horse,’ said Bela, grabbing my hand. She was shaking like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Aha!’ I thought, ‘that roguish blood hasn’t quieted down in you either, my darling!’

“‘Come over here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Train your rifle, and help this clever man off his horse—and you’ll get a silver ruble for it!’

“‘Yes, Your Honor. But he isn’t standing still!’

“‘Make him move!’ I said, laughing…

“‘Hello there, kind sir!’ shouted the sentry, waving at him. ‘Slow down, why are you twirling like a spinning top?’

“Kazbich actually stopped and started to listen attentively—he probably thought that someone was initiating negotiations with him—not at all!

“My grenadier took aim… Batz!… Missed. As soon as the gunpowder flared at the barrel, Kazbich nudged his horse and it leapt to the side. He came up a little in his stirrups and cried something in his own language, threatening us with his whip—and that was the last we saw of him.

“‘Shame on you!’ I said to the sentry.

“‘Your Honor! He’s gone off to die,’ he replied. ‘Those damned people don’t die instantly.’

“A quarter of an hour later, Pechorin returned from hunting. Bela threw herself around his neck, without complaint, without any reproach for his long absence…

“But even I was getting angry with him. ‘For pity’s sake,’ I said, ‘just here, a moment ago, Kazbich was by the stream and we fired at him. It’s been a while since you’ve come across him, hasn’t it? These mountain-dwelling people are vindictive. Do you think he has guessed that you had a part in helping Azamat? I’ll wager that he recognized Bela just now. And I know that about a year ago, he liked her tremendously—he told me so himself—and if he had figured out how to collect a decent amount of bride-money, then he’d probably have sought a marriage with her…’

“Pechorin then fell to thinking. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘we must be more careful… Bela, from today you must not walk on the fortress ramparts.’

“In the evening, I had a long, elucidating discussion with him. I was vexed that he had so changed toward the poor girl. Apart from the fact that he would spend half the day hunting, his treatment of her had turned cold, he rarely caressed her, and she had noticeably started to wither, her little face was drawn, and her big eyes had lost their luster.

“Sometimes you would ask her:

“‘Why such a big sigh Bela? Are you sad?’

“‘No!’

“‘Is there something you would like?’

“‘No!’

“‘Do you miss your kin?’

“‘I don’t have kin.’

“Sometimes you would get nothing more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of her for whole days.

“So I told him as much.

“‘Listen, Maxim Maximych,’ he replied. ‘I have an unfortunate character—whether it is how I was brought up, or whether God created me this way, I don’t know. I only know that if I am the cause of unhappiness in others, then I am no less unhappy myself. In my early youth, from the moment I left the care of my parents, I began furiously enjoying all the many pleasures you can obtain for money, and then, it seems, these pleasures became loathsome to me. Then I set forth into the wide world, and soon I’d had enough of society too. I fell in love with society beauties and was loved by them too—but their love only inflamed my imagination and pride, leaving my heart empty… I started to read, to study—but academics also bored me. I realized that neither glory nor happiness depends on them, because the happiest people are the ignorant. Glory comes from good fortune, and to attain it, you must merely be cunning. And then everything became tedious… Soon after, they transferred me to the Caucasus: this was the happiest time of my life. I hoped that boredom didn’t exist under Chechen bullets, but it was in vain—within a month I was so used to their whirring and to the nearness of death, that really, I paid more attention to the mosquitoes. And I was more bored than before, because I had lost what was nearly my last hope. When I saw Bela in my home, when for the first time I held her on my knees, I kissed her black curls, like a fool, I thought that she was an angel, sent to me by compassionate Fate… I was again mistaken. The love of a savage girl is not much better than the love of a noblewoman. The ignorance and simple-heartedness of the one becomes as tiresome as the coquettishness of the other. If you like, I still love her, I am grateful to her for several sufficiently sweet minutes. I would give my life for her, only I am bored in her company… Whether I’m a fool or a scoundrel, I don’t know. But one thing is sure—that I am as worthy of pity, maybe even more so, as she is. The soul inside me is corrupted by the world, my imagination is restless, my heart is insatiable. Nothing is ever enough. I have become as used to sorrow as I am to delight, and my life becomes more empty from one day to the next. There is only one remedy left for me: travel. As soon as I can, I will set off—only not to Europe, God forbid! I’ll go to America, to Arabia, to India—maybe I’ll perish somewhere along the way! At least, I am certain, that this final solace will not be exhausted too quickly, with the help of storms and bad roads.’