A Hero of our time / Герой нашего времени. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“‘This is no time to joke. Will you surrender your sword?’

“‘mitka, my sword!’

“Mitka brought the sword. Having thus done my duty, I sat down on the bed and said: ‘Listen here, Grigoriy Aleksandrovich, you’d best admit that it’s wrong.’

“‘What’s wrong?’

“‘That you kidnapped Bela. What a crook that Azamat is! Come now, admit it,’ I said to him.

“‘Why should I? She happens to please me.’

“Now what could I say to that? I didn’t know what to do. Nevertheless after a moment’s silence I told him he would have to give the girl back if her father insisted.

“‘I don’t see why I should!’

“‘But what if he finds out that she is here?’

“‘How will he?’

“Again I was in a blind alley.

“‘Listen, Maksim Maksimich,’ said Pechorin, rising, ‘you’re a good soul – if we give the girl to that barbarian he’ll either kill her or sell her. What has been done cannot be undone, and it won’t do to spoil things by being overzealous. You keep my sword, but leave her with me…’

“‘Supposing you let me see her,’ said I.

“‘She’s behind that door; I myself have been trying in vain to see her. She sits there in a corner all huddled up in her shawl and will neither speak nor look at you; she’s as timid as a gazelle. I hired the innkeeper’s wife who speaks Tatar to look after her and get her accustomed to the idea that she’s mine – for she will never belong to anyone but myself,’ he added, striking the table with his fist.

“I agreed to this too… What would you have had me do? There are some people who always get their own way.”

““What happened in the end?” I asked Maksim Maksimich. “Did he actually win her over or did she pine away in captivity, longing for her native village?”

“Now why should she have longed for her native village? She could see the very same mountains from the fort as she had seen from the village, and that’s all these barbarians want. Moreover, Grigoriy Aleksandrovich gave her some present every day. At first she proudly tossed the gifts aside without a word, whereupon they became the property of the innkeeper’s wife and stimulated her eloquence. Ah, gifts! What wouldn’t a woman do for a little colored cloth! But I’m getting off the subject… Pechorin tried long and hard to win her. In the meantime he learned to speak Tatar and she began to understand our language. Little by little she learned to look at him, at first sideways, but she was always melancholy and I too couldn’t help feeling sad when I heard her from the next room singing her native songs in a low voice. I’ll never forget a scene

I once witnessed while passing the window: Bela was seated on a couch, her head bowed, and Grigoriy Aleksandrovich stood before her. ‘Listen, baby,’ he was saying, ’don’t you realize that sooner or later you must be mine – why then do you torment me so? Or perhaps you love some Chechen? If you do, I’ll let you go home at once.’ She shuddered barely perceptibly and shook her head. ‘Or,’ he went on, ‘am I altogether hateful to you?’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps your faith forbids your loving me?’ She grew pale but did not say a word. ‘Believe me, there is only one Allah for all people, and if he permits me to love you why should he forbid you to return my love?’ She looked him straight in the face as if struck by this new thought: her eyes betrayed suspicion and sought reassurance. And what eyes she had! They shone like two coals.

“‘Listen to me, sweet, kind Bela!’ Pechorin continued. ‘You can see how I love you. I am ready to do anything to cheer you: I want you to be happy, and if you keep on grieving, I will die. Tell me, you will be more cheerful?’ She thought for a moment, her black eyes searching his face, then smiled tenderly and nodded in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him. But she resisted weakly and repeated over and over again: ‘Please, please, no, no.’ He became persistent; she trembled and began to sob. ‘I am your captive, your slave,’ she said, ‘and of course you can force me.’ And again there were tears.

“Pechorin struck his forehead with his fist and ran into the next room. I went in to him: he was gloomily pacing up and down with arms folded. ‘What now, old man?’ I asked him. ‘A she – devil, that’s what she is!’ he replied. ‘But I give you my word that she will be mine!’ I shook my head. ‘But you want to bet?’ he said. ‘Give me a week.’ ‘Done!’ We shook on it and separated.

“The next day he sent off a messenger to Kizlyar to make some purchases, and there was no end to the array of various kinds of Persian

“‘What do you think, Maksim Maksimich,’ he said as he showed me the gifts, ‘will an Asiatic beauty be able to resist a bunch of stuff like this?’ ‘You don’t know these Circassian girls,’ I replied. ‘they’re nothing like Georgian or Transcaucasian Tatar women – nothing like them. they have their own rules of conduct. Different upbringing, you know.’ Grigoriy Aleksandrovich smiled and began whistling a march.

“It turned out that I was right: the gifts did only half the trick; she became more friendly and confiding – but nothing more. So he decided to play his last card. One morning he ordered his horse saddled, dressed in Circassian fashion, armed himself, and went in to her. ‘Bela,’ he said, ‘you know how I love you. I decided to carry you off believing that when you came to know me you would love me too. But I made a mistake. So, farewell, I leave you the mistress of everything I have, and if you want to, you can return to your father – you are free, I have wronged you and must be punished. Farewell, I will ride away: where, I don’t know. Perhaps it will not be long before I am cut down by a bullet or a saber blow; when that happens, remember me and try to forgive me.’ He turned away and extended his hand to her in parting. She didn’t take the hand, nor did she say a word. Standing behind the door I saw her through the crack, and I was sorry for her – such a deathly white had spread over her pretty little face. Hearing no reply, Pechorin took several steps towards the door. He was trembling, and do you know, I quite believe he was capable of actually doing what he threatened. The Lord knows that’s the kind of man he was. But barely had he touched the door when she sprang up, sobbing, and threw her arms around his neck. Believe me, I also wept standing there behind the door, that is, I didn’t exactly weep, but – well, never mind, it was just silliness.’

The captain fell silent.

“I might as well confess,” he said after a while, tugging at his mustache, “I was annoyed because no woman had ever loved me like that.”

“How long did their happiness last?” I asked.

“Well, she admitted that Pechorin had often appeared in her dreams since the day she first saw him and that no other man had ever made such an impression on her. Yes, they were happy!”

“How boring!” I exclaimed involuntarily. Indeed, I was expecting a tragic end and it was a disappointment to see my hopes collapse so suddenly. “Don’t tell me the father didn’t guess she was with you in the fort?”

“I believe he did suspect. A few days later, however, we heard that the old man had been killed. This is how it happened…”

My interest was again aroused.

“I should tell you that Kazbich had the idea that Azamat had stolen the horse with his father’s consent, at least, so I think. So he lay in ambush one day a couple of miles beyond the village when the old man was returning from a futile search for his daughter. The old man had left his cohorts lagging behind and was plunged deep in thought as he rode slowly down the road through the deepening twilight, when Kazbich suddenly sprang catlike from behind a bush, leapt behind him on the horse, cut him down with a blow of his dagger and grabbed the reins. Some of his men saw it all from a hill, but though they set out in pursuit they couldn’t overtake Kazbich.”

“So he compensated himself for the loss of his horse and took revenge as well,” I said in order to draw an opinion out of my companion.

“Of course he was absolutely right according to their rules,” said the captain.

I was struck by the ability of this Russian to reconcile himself to the customs of the peoples among whom he happens to live. I don’t know whether this mental quality is a virtue or a vice, but it does reveal a remarkable flexibility and that sober common sense which forgives evil

Meanwhile we had finished our tea. Outside, the horses had been harnessed long since and were now standing shivering in the snow; the moon, becoming pale in the western sky, was about to immerse itself in the black clouds that trailed like tattered bits of a torn curtain from the mountain peaks in the distance. We stepped out of the hut. Contrary to my companion’s prediction, the weather had cleared and promised a calm morning. The dances of stars, intertwined in a fantastic pattern in the distant heavens, went out one after another as the pale glimmer of the east spread out over the dark lilac sky, gradually casting its glow on the steep mountainsides blanketed by virginal snow. To right and left yawned gloomy, mysterious abysses, and the mist, coiling and twisting like a snake, crawled into them along the cracks and crevices of the cliffs as if in fearful anticipation of the coming day.

There was a great peace in the heavens and on earth as there is in one’s heart at a morning prayer. Only now and then the cool east wind came in gusts, ruffling the hoary manes of the horses. We set out, the five lean nags hauling our carriages with difficulty along the tortuous road up Mount Gud. We walked behind, setting stones under the wheels when the horses could pull no longer; it seemed as if the road must lead straight to heaven, for it rose higher and higher as far as the eye could see and finally was lost in the cloud that had been resting on the mountain summit since the day before, like a vulture awaiting its prey. The snow crunched underfoot; the air grew so rare that it was painful to breathe; I continually felt the blood rushing to my head, yet a feeling of elation coursed through my being and somehow it felt good to be so far above the world – a childish feeling, I admit, but as we drift farther away from the conventions of society and draw closer to nature we become children again whether we wished to or not – the soul is unburdened of whatever it has acquired and it becomes what it once was and what it will surely be again. Anyone who has had occasion, as I have, to roam in the desolate mountains, feasting his eyes upon their fantastic shapes and drinking in the invigorating air of the gorges, will understand my urge to describe, to portray, to paint these magic canvases. Ar least we reached the summit of Mount Gud and paused to look around us; a gray cloud rested on the mountain top and its cold breath held the threat of an imminent blizzard; but the east was so clear and golden that we, that is, the captain and I, promptly forgot about it… Yes, the captain too: for simple hearts feel the beauty and majesty of nature a hundred times more keenly than do we, rapturous tellers of stories spoken or written.

“You are no doubt accustomed to these magnificent scenes,’ I said to him.

“Yes, sir, you can get accustomed even to the whining of bullets, I mean, accustomed to concealing the involuntary acceleration of the heartbeat.”

“On the contrary, I have been told that to some old soldiers it is sweet music.”

“Yes, it is sweet too, if you please – but only because it makes the heart beat faster. Look,” he added, pointing to the east, “what a country!’

Indeed it was a panorama I can hardly hope to see again: below us lay the Koishaur Valley, the Aragva and another river tracing their course across it like two silver threads. A bluish mist crept over it, seeking refuge in the neighboring gorge from the warm rays of the morning. To the right and to the left the mountain ridges, one higher than the other, crisscrossed and stretched out into the distance covered with snow and shrubs. Mountains as far as the eye could see, but no two crags alike – and all these expanses of snow burned with a rosy glow so merry and so vivid that one wanted to stay there for ever. The sun barely showed from behind a dark-blue mountain which only the experienced eye could distinguish from a storm cloud, but above it stretched a crimson belt to which my comrade now drew my attention. “I told you,” he exclaimed, “there’s bad weather ahead. We’ll have to hurry or it may catch us on the Mountain of the Cross. Get going, there!” he shouted to the coachmen.

Chains were passed through the wheels for brakes to prevent them from getting out of control. Leading the horses by their bridles we began the trip down. To the right of us was a cliff, and to the left an abyss so deep that an Ossetian village at the bottom looked like a swallow’s nest. I shuddered at the thought that a dozen times a year some courier rides through the dark night along this road too narrow for two carts to pass, without getting off his jolting carriage. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the other an Ossetian. The Ossetian took the leading horse by the bridle after unhitching the first pair in good time and taking every other possible precaution, but our happy-go-lucky Russian didn’t even bother to get down from the box. When I suggested that he might have shown some concern, if only for my suitcase, which I had no desire to go down into the abyss to recover, he replied: “Don’t worry, sir! With God’s help we’ll get there just as well as they. This is not the first time we’ve done it.” And he was right – true, we might not have got through safely, yet we did. And if all men gave the matter more thought they would realize that life is not worth worrying over too much…

Perhaps you wish to hear the story of Bela to the end? Firstly, however, I am not writing a novel but simply travel notes, and hence I cannot make the captain resume his story sooner than he actually did. So you will have to wait, or, if you wish to do so, skip a few pages; only I do not advise you to, for the crossing of Mount Krestovaya, Mountain of the Cross (or le Mont St Christophe as the learned Gamba calls it) is worthy of your interest. And so we descended from Mount Gud to Chertova Valley. There’s a romantic name for you! Perhaps you already visualize the den of the Evil Spirit among the inaccessible crags – but if you do, you are mistaken: Chertova Valley derives its name from the word cherta[5 - line or boundary] and not chort[6 - devil], for the boundary of Georgia once passed here. The valley was buried under snow drifts which gave the scene a rather strong resemblance to Saratov, Tambov and other spots dear to us in our mother country.

“There’s Krestovaya,” said the captain as we came down to Chertova Valley, pointing to a hill shrouded by snow. On the summit the black outline of a stone cross was visible, and past it ran a barely visible road which was used only when the road along the mountainside was snow bound. Our drivers said that there were no snow slides yet and in order to make it easier for the horses they took us the long way. Around a bend in the road we came upon five Ossetians who offered us their services, and, grabbing hold of the wheels and shouting, they began to help our carriage along. The road was dangerous indeed. To our right masses of snow hung overhead ready, it seemed, to crash down into the gorge with the first blast of wind. Some sections of the narrow road were covered with snow, which here and there gave way underfoot; others had been turned to ice under the action of the sun’s rays and night frosts, so that we made headway with difficulty. The horses kept slipping, and to the left of us yawned a deep fissure with a turbulent stream at the bottom that now slipped our of sight under a crust of ice, now plunged in frothy fury amidst black boulders. It took us all of two hours to go around Mount Cross – two hours to negotiate barely one mile! In the meantime the clouds came lower and it began to hail and snow. The wind bursting into the gorges howled and whistled like the Nightingale Robber, and soon the stone cross was blotted out by the mist which was coming in waves from the east, each wave thicker than the last. Incidentally, there is a queer but generally accepted legend that this cross was raised by Emperor Peter I when he traveled through the Caucasus. Yet, in the first place, Peter was only in Daghestan, and, secondly, an inscription in big letters on the cross said it had been put up on the orders of General Yermolov, in 1824, to be exact. Despite the inscription, the legend had taken such firm root that one is at a loss to know what to believe, all the more so since we are not used to putting our faith in inscriptions.

We had another three miles to go down along the ice-coated rocky ledges and through soft snow before reaching the station at Kobi. The horses were exhausted and we were thoroughly chilled, while the blizzard blew harder and harder much like our native, northern snow storms, except its wild refrain was sadder and more mournful. “You too are an exile,” thought I, “mourning your wide, boundless steppes where there was space to spread out your icy wings, whilst here you are choked and hemmed in like the eagle who beats against the bars of his iron cage.”

Looks bad,” the captain was saying. “Nothing visible but mist and snow. If we don’t take care we’ll find ourselves falling into a gorge or getting stuck in some hole, and the Baidara down there will probably be running too high to cross. That’s Asia for you! The rivers are as unreliable as the people.”

The drivers shouted and swore as they whipped the snorting, balking horses which refused to take another step in spite of the eloquence of the whips. “Your Honor,” one of the drivers finally said, “we can’t reach Kobi today. Had we not better turn to the left while there is still time? Over on that slope there are some huts, I believe. Travelers always stay over there in bad weather.” Then he added, pointing to an Ossetian: “They say they’ll guide us there if you give them some money for vodka.”

“I know it, buddy, I know without you telling me!” said the captain. “These crooks! They always think up something to pick up a tip.”

“All the same you have to admit that we’d be worse off without them,” said I.

“Maybe, maybe,” he muttered, “but I know these guides! They can tell by instinct when to take advantage of you – as if you couldn’t find your way without them.”