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

“Yes,” he said at last, attempting to adopt an indifferent air, though the tears of vexation occasionally glittered on his eyelashes, “of course, we were friends—but, then, what are friends in this day and age? Who am I to him? I am not rich, not a person of rank, yes, and I don’t match him in age… Just look at what a dandy he has made of himself, since he visited Petersburg again… And what a carriage!… How much luggage!… And such a proud lackey!”

These words were enunciated with an ironic smile.

“So tell me,” he continued, addressing himself to me. “What do you think of all this?… What kind of demon is driving him to Persia?… Droll, oh Lord, it’s droll… Yes, I always knew that he was a fickle friend, on whom you couldn’t depend… And, really, it’s a shame, he shall come to a bad end… there’s no escaping it!… I always said that those who forget their old friends are no good!”

At that he turned around, in order to hide his emotion, and went off to pace in the courtyard by his cart, as though he was inspecting the wheels, his eyes filling with tears over and over again.

“Maxim Maximych,” I said, walking up to him, “and what are these papers that Pechorin has left with you?”

“God knows! Notes of some kind…”

“What will you do with them?”

“What? I’ll order cartridges to be made of them.”

“You’d do better to give them to me.” He looked at me with surprise, muttered something through his teeth and started to rummage in a valise. He then pulled out a book of diaries and threw it with contempt onto the ground. Then there was a second, a third and a tenth, all given the same treatment. There was something puerile in his vexation. It incited amusement, but my compassion too…

“That’s the lot,” he said, “I congratulate you on your find…”

“And may I do what I like with them?”

“Publish them in the newspapers if you like. What business is it of mine?!… Who am I to him—some kind of friend, a relative?… True, we lived under one roof for a long while… But there’s many a person I have shared roofs with!”

I grabbed the papers and quickly took them away, fearing that the staff captain might regret it. Soon after that we were told that the Opportunity would set off an hour later. I ordered the horses harnessed. The staff captain came into my room just as I had put on my hat. He, it seemed, was not getting ready for the departure. He had a tense and cold look to him.

“And you, Maxim Maximych, are you not coming?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not?”

“Well, I still haven’t seen the commandant, and I need to hand over some State property…”

“But weren’t you just with him?”

“I was, of course,” he said, stumbling over his words, “he wasn’t at home… and I didn’t wait.”

I understood him. The poor old man, for perhaps the first time since his birth, had abandoned official business for personal necessity—in the parlance of paper-pushing people—and look how he was rewarded!

“It’s a real pity,” I said to him, “a real pity, Maxim Maximych, that we must part sooner than originally planned.”

“What do you need with the likes of an ill-educated old man running behind you! You young folk are fashionable and pompous: it’s all right when you’re here under Circassian bullet-fire… but meet you later, and you’re too ashamed to even hold out your hand to a person like me.”

“I don’t deserve these reproaches, Maxim Maximych.”

“No, I was just talking by the by, as it were; but, anyway, I wish you every happiness and pleasant travels.”

We said our farewells with a certain dryness. The kind Maxim Maximych had turned into a stubborn, quarrelsome staff captain! And why? Because Pechorin, in his distraction or for some other reason, shook his hand when the staff captain would have liked to throw his arms around Pechorin’s neck! It is sad to see a youth lose his best hopes and aspirations, when the pink chiffon in front of him—through which he had seen the matters and feelings of humankind—is pulled aside. However, there is at least the hope that they will exchange their old misgivings for new ones, which are no less temporary yet no less sweet… But what can a man of Maxim Maximych’s years replace them with? The heart will harden without wishing to, and the soul will take cover…

I departed alone.

I learned not long ago that Pechorin had died upon returning from Persia. This news made me very glad: it gave me the right to publish these notes, and I took the opportunity to put my name on someone else’s work. God grant that readers won’t punish me for this innocent forgery.

Now I must give some explanation of the motives that have induced me to deliver to the public the secrets of a heart belonging to a person whom I didn’t know. It would be fine if I had been his friend: everyone understands the treacherous indiscretions of a true friend. But I had only seen him once in my life on the highway. Hence I cannot attempt that inexpressible hatred, which, hiding under the guise of friendship, awaits only the death or misfortune of its beloved object to unleash a torrent of reproach, counsel, mockery and pity on its head.

As I read these notes again, I am convinced by the sincerity of this man who so relentlessly displayed his personal weaknesses and defects for all to see. The story of a man’s soul, even the pettiest of souls, is only slightly less intriguing and edifying than the history of an entire people, especially when it is a product of the observations of a ripe mind about itself, and when it is written without the vain desire to excite sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau’s confessions [1] Rousseau’s confessions: This refers to Les Confessions by Rousseau. have their shortcomings in the fact that he read them to his friends.

So it was only the desire to be of use that made me print excerpts from these diaries, which I came by accidentally. Though I changed all the proper names, those about whom the diaries speak will likely recognize themselves, and perhaps they will find some justification for the behavior of which this man has long been accused—he, who henceforth will partake of nothing in this world of ours. We almost always forgive those we understand.

I have put in this book only that which is related to Pechorin’s sojourn in the Caucasus. In my hands remains another fat book of diaries, where he tells his whole life’s story. At some point, it too will receive the world’s verdict. But presently, I do not dare to assume that responsibility for many important reasons.

Perhaps several readers will want to know my opinion of Pechorin’s character? My reply is the title of this book. “What vicious irony!” they will say. I don’t know.

Taman is the foulest little town of all the seaside towns of Russia. I almost died of hunger there, and even worse, the people there tried to drown me. I arrived late at night by stage-coach. The coach driver halted our tired troika at the gate of the only stone house at the town’s entrance. The sentry, a Black Sea Cossack, having heard the sound of the horses’ bells, issued his usual inquiry with a wild cry of “who goes there?” A sergeant and a corporal came out. I explained to them that I was an officer, and that I was traveling on official business to an active detachment and requested government quarters. The corporal took us through the town. Whenever we approached an izba [1] izba: A traditional Russian log house. it was occupied. It was cold, I hadn’t slept for three nights, I was exhausted and I started to get angry. “Take me somewhere you rascal! Even if it’s to hell, just take me somewhere!” I cried. “There is one last fatera, ” [2] fatera: This word means quarters. responded the corporal, scratching the back of his head, “but your honor won’t like it—it’s unclean!” Having not understood the exact meaning of this last word, I ordered him to march on, and after long wandering through muddy alleys, where I could see only decrepit fences on either side, we drove up to a small peasant house, right on the sea.