Mikhail Lermontov - A Hero of Our Time

Grushnitsky hit the table with his fist and began to pace up and down the room.

I shook with laughter inwardly and even smiled a couple of times, but luckily he didn't notice. He's clearly in love, for he has become more credulous than ever: he even wears a new niello-silver ring of local workmanship, which struck me as suspicious. On closer inspection what do you think I saw? The name Mary engraved in small letters on the inside and next to it the date when she picked up that famous glass. I said nothing of my discovery. I don't want to extract any confessions from him; I want him to make me his confidant by his own choice-and that's when I am going to enjoy myself...

Today I got up late, and by the time I reached the spring no one was there. It was getting hot. White fluffy clouds raced across the sky, away from the snow-capped mountains and promising a thunderstorm. Mashuk's summit was smoking like an extinguished torch, and around it gray pieces of clouds, stopped in their flight and seemingly caught in the mountain brambles, writhed and crawled like serpents. The atmosphere was charged with electricity. I took the vine-flanked avenue leading to the grotto-I felt depressed. I was thinking of the young woman with the mole on her cheek, whom the doctor had mentioned. What was she doing here? And was it she? And why'd I think it was she? Why was I so certain about it? Are there so few women with moles on their cheeks? Thinking all this over, I reached the grotto. A woman sat on a stone bench in the cool shade of its roof. She was wearing a straw hat. A black shawl was wrapped round her shoulders, and her head was lowered so that the hat concealed her face. I was about to turn back, so as not to disturb her meditations, when she looked up at me.

"Vera!" I cried out involuntarily.

She jumped and turned pale. "I knew you were here," she said. I sat down next to her and took her hands. A long-forgotten tremor shot through my veins at the sound of that sweet voice. Her deep, tranquil eyes looked straight into mine. In them I could read distress and something like a reproach.

"We have not seen each other for so long," said I.

"Yes, and we both have changed a great deal."

"You mean, you do not love me any more?"

"I am married!" she said.

"Again? Some years ago there was the same reason, but in spite of that..."

She snatched her hand away and her cheeks flamed.

"Perhaps you are in love with your second husband?"

She made no reply and turned away.

"Or maybe he is very jealous?"

Silence.

"Well, he must be a fine, handsome young fellow, very rich, I suppose, and you are afraid that …" I looked at her and was startled. Her face expressed dire distress, and tears glistened in her eyes.

"Tell me," she whispered at last, "does it give you so much pleasure to torment me? I ought to hate you. Ever since we have known each other, you have brought me nothing but pain..." Her voice shook, and she leaned towards me, resting her head on my chest.

"Perhaps," I thought, "that is why you loved me, for joy is forgotten, but sorrow never..."

I pressed her close to me and we remained that way for a long time. Then our lips met and merged in a burning, rapturous kiss. Her hands were ice-cold, her head feverishly hot. There began one of those conversations that make no sense on paper, that cannot be repeated or even remembered, for the significance of words is substituted and enriched by that of sounds, just as in Italian opera.

She is resolved that I should not meet her husband, who is the lame old man I caught a glimpse of on the boulevard. She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich and suffers from rheumatism. I didn't allow myself a single disparaging remark about him, for she respects him like a father-and will deceive him as a husband... A strange thing, the human heart, and a woman's heart in particular!

Vera's husband, Semyon Vasilyevich G-v, is a distant relative of Princess Ligovskaya. They are next-door neighbors, and Vera is often at the princess's. I promised her that I would meet the Ligovskoys and pay court to the young princess so as to divert attention from Vera. This doesn't interfere with my plans at all and I'll have a good time...

A good time! Yes, I've already passed that period of spiritual life when people seek happiness alone and when the heart feels the need to love someone passionately. Now I only want to be loved, and then only by the very few. As a matter of fact, I believe one constant attachment would be enough for me-a sentimental fashion only to be pitied!

It has always struck me as odd that I had never become the slave of the woman I loved. On the contrary, I've always acquired an invincible sway over their will and heart, without any effort on my part. Why is that? Was it because I've never particularly treasured anything and they've been afraid to let me slip out of their hands for a moment? Or was it the magnetic appeal of a strong personality? Or simply because I've never met a woman with enough strength of character?

I must admit that I don't care for women with a mind of their own-it doesn't suit them!

Though I recall now that once, but only once, I loved a woman with a strong will, whom I never could conquer... We separated enemies, yet had I met her five years later the parting might have been quite different...

Vera is ill, very ill, although she won't admit it; I am afraid she has consumption or the disease they call fiиvre lente -not a Russian ailment at all and hence it has no name in our language.

The thunderstorm overtook us in the grotto and kept us there another half an hour. She didn't make me promise to be faithful to her, nor did she ask me whether I had loved others since we separated... She trusted me again as wholeheartedly as before. And I won't deceive her-she is the only woman in the world I would not have the heart to deceive. I know that we'll part again soon, perhaps forever. We'll both go our different ways to the grave, but I'll always cherish her memory. I've always told her so and she believes me, though she says she doesn't.

At length we separated, and I stood there following her with my eyes until her hat disappeared behind the bushes and rocks. My heart contracted painfully, just as when we separated the first time. Oh, how I was glad to experience this feeling! Was it youth with its beneficent tempests reasserting itself, or merely its farewell glance, a parting gift-a souvenir? Yet it's absurd-to think, I still look like a boy. Though my face is pale, it is still fresh, my limbs are supple and graceful, my hair thick and curly, eyes flashing, and the blood courses swiftly through my veins...

On coming home, I got up on my horse and galloped into the steppe, for I love riding a spirited horse through the tall grass, with the desert wind in my face, greedily drinking in the fragrant air and looking into the blue distance to see hazy outlines of objects that grow more distinct every moment. Whatever sorrow weighs down the heart or anxiety plagues the mind, it is all immediately dispersed, and a peace settles over the soul as physical fatigue prevails over mental unrest. There are no feminine eyes I would not forget when gazing on the mountains covered with curly shrubs, bathed in the southern sunshine, contemplating the blue sky, or listening to the roar of the torrent falling from crag to crag.

I would imagine the Cossack sentinels standing drowsily in their watchtowers must have been greatly puzzled on seeing me galloping along without aim or purpose, for they most likely took me for a Circassian on account of my costume. As a matter of fact I had been told that mounted and wearing Circassian costume I look more like a Kabardian than many Kabardians. And indeed, as far as this noble battle dress is concerned I am a perfect dandy: not an extra piece of braiding, costly weapons with the simplest finish, the fur on my cap neither too long nor too short, leggings and soft-leather boots fitting perfectly, white beshmet and dark-brown Circassian coat [93] cherkeska , i.e., from the Cherkes. . i practiced long the mountain people's way of sitting a horse-nothing so flatters my vanity as praise for my ability to ride a horse as the Caucasians do. I keep four horses, one for myself and three for my friends, so as to avoid the boredom of riding out alone through the fields, but though they are pleased to have my horses to ride they never ride with me. It was already six o'clock in the afternoon when I remembered that it was time for dinner-moreover, my horse was exhausted. I rode out on to the road leading from Pyatigorsk to the German colony where the spa society frequently goes en piquenique . The road winds its way through the scrub land, dipping into shallow gullies where noisy creeks flow in the shadow of the tall grasses. All around is the towering blue amphitheater of Beshtau, Zmeinaya, Zheleznaya and Lysaya mountains. I had stopped in one of these gullies [ balki [94] balki , Turkic, like the Spanish barranco . ] to water my horse when a noisy and glittering cavalcade appeared down the road. There were ladies in black and sky-blue riding clothes and gentlemen in a costume that was a mixture of Circassian and Nizhni-Novgorodan style [95] another reference to Chatsky, see below. . Grushnitsky and Princess Mary rode in front.