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

“He listened to her without saying anything, his head lowered into his hands. But I never once noticed a tear on his lashes. Indeed, he either couldn’t cry or he was containing himself—I don’t know. Personally, I have never laid eyes on anything more pitiable.

“The delirium lifted toward morning. For an hour, she lay there motionless and pale, with such feebleness that it was barely possible to see her breathing. Then she seemed better, and she started talking—but what do you think she was on about?… This kind of thing only occurs to the dying! She had started lamenting the fact that she wasn’t a Christian, and that in the other world, her soul wouldn’t meet Pechorin’s, and that some other woman would become his companion in heaven. I had an idea to christen her before she died and I suggested it to her. She looked at me with indecision and couldn’t utter anything for a long while. Eventually, she responded saying she would die of the same faith with which she was born. A whole day passed in this way. How she changed over the course of that day! Her pale cheeks sank, her eyes grew larger and larger, her lips burned. She felt an inner heat, as though there was a piece of burning-hot iron in her breast.

“The next night fell; we didn’t close our eyes, didn’t leave her bedside. She was suffering terribly, moaning, and when the pain subsided, she would try to convince Grigory Alexandrovich that she was better, persuading him to get some sleep, she kissed his hand, she wouldn’t release it from her own. Before morning she began to feel the anguish of death, she started to toss around, dislodged her bandage, and she bled again. When they dressed the wound, she was calm for a minute and started asking Pechorin if he would kiss her. He got onto his knees by the bed, lifted her head a little from the pillow, and pressed his lips to her ever-colder lips. She threw her shaking arms tightly around his neck as though with this kiss she wanted to convey her soul to him… But she did well to die! What would have become of her if Grigory Alexandrovich had abandoned her? It would have happened sooner or later…

“The first half of the next day she was quiet, un-talking and obedient, as the doctor tortured her with poultices and mixtures.

“‘For pity’s sake!’ I said to him. ‘You said yourself that she would die for certain, so why all these medical preparations? ’

“‘It’s still better than nothing, Maxim Maximych,’ he responded, ‘for the sake of a peaceful conscience.’ A peaceful conscience!

“After midday, she started to be tormented by thirst. We opened the window, but it was hotter in the courtyard than in her room. We put pieces of ice by her bed but nothing was helping. I knew that this was an unbearable thirst—a sign of the approaching end—and told this to Pechorin. ‘Water! Water!’ she said with a hoarse voice, rising up slightly in her bed.

“He became as white as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured water into it and gave it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and started to recite a prayer, I don’t remember which… Yes, my dear sir, I have often seen people dying in hospitals and on battlefields—but it didn’t compare—didn’t compare!… And what’s more, I should confess, that there’s something that particularly saddens me: she didn’t once think of me before her death. And, it seems, I loved her like a father… God forgive her!… But, in actuality, it must be said: who am I that she should remember me before her death?

“As soon as she had taken a drink of water, she felt a certain ease, and after three minutes she perished. We put a mirror up to her lips—it was clear!… I led Pechorin straight out of the room, and we went to the fortress ramparts. For a long time we walked back and forth along the ramparts side by side, without saying a word, our hands clasped behind our backs. His face expressed nothing in particular and I became vexed. In his place I would have died of grief. Eventually, he sat on the ground, in the shade, and started scratching something in the sand with a stick. I wanted to comfort him, and started to say something, mostly out of a sense of decency, you know. And he raised his head and burst out laughing… a chill ran along my skin with that laughter… I went off to order the coffin.

“I admit that I was occupying myself with this task partly in order to distract myself. I had a piece of thermalam, [34] thermalam: Fabric used for lining, usually linen or cotton. with which I lined her coffin, and I decorated it with the Circassian silver galloon, which Grigory Alexandrovich had bought for her earlier anyway.

“The next day, in the early morning, we buried her behind the fortress, by the stream, near the place where last she had sat. White acacia and elders have now spread around her grave. I wanted to mount a cross, but, you know, it wouldn’t be right: after all, she wasn’t a Christian…”

“And what happened to Pechorin?” I asked.

“Pechorin was unwell for a long while, he wasted away, poor fellow, but we never spoke of Bela again. I saw that it would have been unpleasant for him—so why mention it? About three months later he was appointed to the E——regiment and he left for Georgia. We haven’t seen each other since then… Yes, I seem to remember someone telling me not long ago that he had returned to Russia, but it wasn’t in corps orders. But then, news is always late in arriving to the likes of us.”

Then he launched into a long dissertation about how unpleasant it is to receive news a year after the fact—probably in an effort to dampen his sad memories.

I didn’t interrupt him, but I didn’t listen either.

After an hour, an opportunity to continue our journey arose. The blizzard had abated, the sky had cleared, and we set off. On the road, I couldn’t help but start a conversation about Bela and Pechorin again.

“Did you ever hear what happened to Kazbich?” I asked.

“To Kazbich? I really don’t know… I heard that there is some Kazbich in the right flank of the Shapsugs, a daring fellow, who rides around at a slow pace under our fire, and very courteously takes a bow when a bullet buzzes near him—but it’s unlikely that it’s the same man!”

In Kobi I parted ways with Maxim Maximych. I went on, traveling post, and he was unable to follow me since his load was heavy. We didn’t have a hope of ever meeting again, but nonetheless we did. And if you like, I’ll tell you about it—but that’s another story… Won’t you agree, however, that Maxim Maximych is a man worthy of respect?… If you agree, then I will have been rewarded for my story, overlong though it may have been.

Having parted ways with Maxim Maximych, I galloped quickly through the Terek Gorge and the Daryal, stopped for dinner at Kazbek, had tea at Lars, and made it to Vladikavkaz for supper. I will spare you from descriptions of the mountains, from exclamations that express nothing, from pictures that depict nothing—especially for those of you who have not been there—and from those statistical notes that nobody can bear to read.

I stopped at the inn where travelers always stop but where, nonetheless, there is no one of whom to request a roast pheasant or some cabbage soup, for the three veteran soldiers in charge of it are so stupid or so drunk that no sense can be got out of them.

I was informed that I would have to endure another three days here since the Opportunity from Ekaterinograd hadn’t yet arrived, and hence could not set off back again. What opportunity!… But a bad pun isn’t much comfort to a Russian man, and for amusement’s sake, I struck on the idea of writing down Maxim Maximych’s tale about Bela, not imagining that this would be the first link in a long chain of stories. How insignificant happenings sometimes have cruel consequences!… Perhaps you don’t know what the Opportunity is? It is a convoy, consisting of a half company of infantry and a cannon, which escorts transports through the Kabarde, from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd.