A Hero of Our Time, page 5
"The second night came, and we sat at her bedside without closing an eyelid. She was in terrible agony, she moaned, but as soon as the pain subsided a little she tried to assure Pechorin that she was feeling better, urged him to get some sleep, and kissed his hand and clung to it with her own. Just before daybreak the agony of death set in, and she tossed on the bed, tearing off the bandage so that the blood flowed again. When the wound was dressed she calmed down for a moment and asked Pechorin to kiss her. He knelt next to the bed, raised her head from the pillow and pressed his lips against hers, which were now growing chill. She twisted her trembling arms tightly around his neck as if by this kiss she wished to give her soul to him. Yes, it was good that she died! What would have happened to her had Pechorin abandoned her? And that was bound to happen sooner or later...
"The first half of the next day she was quiet, silent and submissive in spite of the way our surgeon tortured her with hot wet pads[62] and other remedies. 'My good man!' I protested. 'You yourself said she would not live, why then all these medicines of yours?' 'Got to do it, just the same, Maksim Maksimich,' he replied, 'so that my conscience will be at peace.' Conscience my eye!
"In the afternoon she was tortured by thirst. We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside than in the room. We placed ice next to her bed, but nothing helped. I knew that this unbearable thirst was a sign that the end was approaching, and I said so to Pechorin. 'Water, water,' she repeated hoarsely, raising herself from the bed.
"He went white as a sheet, picked up a glass, filled it with water, and gave it to her. I buried my face in my hands and began to recite a prayer, I can't remember which. Yes, sir, I had been through a great deal in my time, had seen men die in hospitals and on the battlefield, but it had been nothing like this! Nothing! I must confess that there was something else that made me sad-not once before her death did she remember me, and I think I loved her like a father. Well... May God forgive her! But then who am I that anyone would remember me on their death bed?
"As soon as she had drunk the water she felt better, and some three minutes later she passed away. We pressed a mirror to her lips, but nothing showed on it. I led Pechorin out of the room, and then we walked on the fort wall, pacing back and forth side by side for a long while without uttering a word, our hands behind our backs. It angered me to detect no sign of emotion on his face, for in his place I'd have died of grief. Finally, he sat down on the ground in the shade and began to draw something in the sand with a stick. I began to speak, wishing to console him, more for the sake of good form than anything else, you know, whereupon he looked up and laughed... That laugh sent cold shivers running up and down my spine... I went to order the coffin.
"I confess that it was partly for distraction that I occupied myself with this business. I covered the coffin with a piece of Persian silk I had and ornamented it with some Circassian silver lace Grigoriy Aleksandrovich had bought for her.
"Early the next morning we buried her beyond the fort, next to the spot on the river bank where she had sat that last time. The small grave is now surrounded by white acacia and elder bushes. I wanted to put up a cross, but that was a bit awkward, you know, for after all she was not a Christian...
"What did Pechorin do?' I asked.
"He was sick for a long time and lost weight, the poor guy. But we never spoke about Bela after that. I saw it'd be painful for him, so why should I mention her? Some three months later he was ordered to join the N- regiment, and he went to Georgia. I haven't seen him since. Oh yes, I remember someone telling me recently that he had returned to Russia, though it hadn't been mentioned in the divisional orders. Usually it takes a long time before news reaches us here."
Here, probably to drown his sad memories, he launched upon a long dissertation concerning the disadvantages of hearing year-old news.
I neither interrupted him nor listened.
An hour later it was already possible to continue our journey. The blizzard had died down and the sky cleared up, and we set out. On the road, however, I couldn't help directing the conversation back to Bela and Pechorin.
"Did you ever happen to hear what became of Kazbich?" I asked.
"Kazbich? Really, I don't know. I have heard that the Shapsugs[63] on the right flank of the line have a Kazbich, a daredevil fellow who wears a red beshmet , rides at a trot under our fire and bows with exaggerated politeness whenever a bullet whistles near him, but I doubt whether it's the same man."
Maksim Maksimich and I separated at Kobi, for I took the fast coach and he couldn't keep pace with me because of the heavy baggage. At the time we didn't think we'd ever meet again, yet we did, and if you wish, I'll tell you about it, but that is a story in itself... You must admit, however, that Maksim Maksimich is a man you can respect. If you do admit it, I'll be amply rewarded for my story, overlong though it may have been.
II. Maksim Maksimich
"After parting with Maksim Maksimich, I made good time through the Terek and Daryal gorges and had breakfast at Kazbek and tea at Lars, driving into Vladikavkaz by supper time. I won't bore you with descriptions of mountains, exclamations that mean nothing and canvases that convey nothing, especially to those who have never been in these places, nor with statistical observations which, I'm certain, no one would bother to read.
I stayed at an inn where all travelers stay and where, incidentally, there is no one to serve you a roast pheasant or a plate of cabbage soup, for the three veterans in charge are either so stupid or so drunk that there is nothing to be got from them.
I was told that I would have to stay there for another three days, because the "occasional" [okaziya , or detail] from Yekaterinograd[64] hadn't come in yet, and therefore couldn't set out on the return trip. What an occasion! But a bad pun is no consolation to a Russian and in order to while away the time I decided to write down Maksim Maksimich's story about Bela, quite unaware that it would turn out to be the first link in a long chain of tales[9]. So you see how an occurrence insignificant in itself may have serious consequences... But perhaps you don't know what an "occasional" is? It's an escort of half a company of infantry and a gun detailed to protect the caravans[65] crossing Kabarda from Vladikavkaz to Yekarerinograd.
The first day was very boring, but early the next morning a carriage drove into the yard. It was Maksim Maksimich! We greeted each other like old friends. I offered him the use of my room. He didn't stand on ceremony. He even clapped me on the shoulder, and his mouth twisted into what passed for a smile. An odd man!
Maksim Maksimich was well versed in the culinary arts and turned out a wonderful roast pheasant with an excellent pickled cucumber sauce. I must admit that without him I would've had only a cold snack. A bottle of Kakherian wine helped us overlook the modesty of the meal, which consisted of only one course. Afterwards we lit our pipes and settled down for a smoke, I near the window and he next to the stove where a fire was going, for the day was chilly and raw. We sat in silence-what was there to say?... He'd already told me all that was interesting about himself, and I had nothing to tell him. I looked out of the window. A long string of low houses, sprawling along the bank of the Terek, which here spreads wider and wider, was visible through the trees, while in the distance was the blue serrated wall of the mountains with Kazbek in its white cardinal's hat peeping over it. Mentally I was bidding them goodbye. I felt sorry to leave them...
We sat that way for a long time. The sun was setting behind the frigid peaks and a milky mist was spreading through the valleys when we heard the tinkling of bells and the shouting of drivers outside. Several carts with grimy Armenians drove into the courtyard, followed by an empty carriage whose lightness, comfort and elegance gave it a distinctly foreign air. Behind walked a man with a huge mustache wearing a braided jacket. He was rather well dressed for a manservant, but the way he knocked the ashes from his pipe and shouted at the coachman left no doubt as to his position. He was obviously the pampered servant of an indolent gentleman-something of a Russian Figaro[66]. "tell me, my good man," I called to him from the window, "is it the 'occasional'?" He looked at me rather insolently, straightened his neckerchief and turned away. An Armenian who'd been walking beside him smiled and replied for him that it was indeed the "occasional" and that it would set out on the return trip the next morning. "Thank God!" said Maksim Maksimich who had just come to the window. "A fine carriage!" he added. "Probably some official on his way to conduct a hearing in Tiflis. You can see he doesn't know our hills. No, my dear fellow, they're not for the likes of you. Even an English carriage wouldn't stand the jolting! I wonder who it is-let's find out..." We went into the hallway, at the far end of which a door was open into a side room. The valet and the driver were lugging in suitcases.
"Listen, friend," the captain asked the valet, "whose is that fine carriage, eh? A splendid carriage indeed!" The valet muttered something inaudible without turning and went on unstrapping a case. This was too much for Maksim Maksimich, who tapped the insolent fellow on the shoulder and said: "I'm talking to you, my man..."
"Whose carriage? My master's."
"And who is your master?"
"Pechorin."
"What did you say? Pechorin? Good God! Did he ever serve in the Caucasus?" Maksim Maksimich exclaimed, pulling at my sleeve. His eyes lit up with joy.
"I believe so... but I haven't been with him long."
"Well, well, there you are! Grigoriy Aleksandrovich is his name, isn't it? Your master and I used to know each other well," he added, with a friendly slap on the valet's shoulder that nearly made him lose his balance.
"Excuse me, sir, you are in my way," said the latter, frowning.
"What of it, man! Don't you know I'm an old friend of your master's, we lived together, too. Now, where can I find him?"
The servant announced that Pechorin had stayed behind to dine and spend the night with Colonel N-.
"He won't be here tonight?" said Maksim Maksimich. "Or perhaps you, my good man, will have some reason to see him? If you do, tell him Maksim Maksimich is here-you just tell him that and he'll know... I'll tip you eighty kopecks…"
The valet put on a superior air on hearing this modest offer, but nevertheless promised Maksim Maksimich to run his errand.
"He'll come at once, I'm sure!" Maksim Maksimich told me triumphantly. "I'll go out to the gates to meet him. Pity I don't know N-."
Maksim Maksimich sat down on a bench outside the gate and I went into my room. I must admit that I too awaited the appearance of this Pechorin with some eagerness, for though the captain's story had not given me too favorable a picture of the man, some of his traits nevertheless struck me as quite remarkable. In an hour one of the veterans brought in a steaming samovar and a teapot. "Maksim Maksimich, will you have some tea?" I called to him from the window.
"Thank you, I really don't care for any."
"You'd better have some. It's late already and getting chilly."
"No, thank you …"
"Well, as you wish!" I said and sat down to tea alone. In ten minutes or so the old man came in. "I suppose you are right," he said. "Better have some tea... You see, I was waiting. His man has been gone a long time-looks as if something has detained him."
He hastily gulped down a cup of tea, refused a second, and went back to the gate, obviously upset. It was clear that the old man was hurt by Pechorin's unconcern, all the more so since he had spoken to me so recently about their friendship, and only an hour before had been certain that Pechorin would come running as soon as he heard his name.
It was late and dark when I again opened the window and called to remind Maksim Maksimich that it was time to go to bed. He muttered something in reply and I urged him again to come in, but he didn't answer.
Leaving a candle on the bench, I lay down on the couch, wrapped myself in my overcoat and was soon asleep. I would have slept peacefully all night had not Maksim Maksimich awakened me when he came in very late. He threw his pipe on the table, began pacing up and down the room, then fussed with the stove. Finally he lay down, coughing, spitting, and tossing about for a long time.
"Bedbugs bothering you?" I asked.
"Yes, bedbugs," he replied with a heavy sigh.
I woke up early next morning, but Maksim Maksimich had already got up. I found him sitting on the bench at the gate. "I've got to see the commandant," he said, "so if Pechorin comes will you please send for me?"
I promised to do so. He ran off as if his legs had regained the strength and agility of youth.
It was a fresh, fine morning. Golden clouds piled up on the mountains in a phantom range of summits. In front of the gates was a broad square, and beyond it the market place was seething with people, for it was Sunday. Bare-footed Ossetian boys, birchbark[67] baskets laden with honeycombs strapped to their backs, crowded around me, but I drove them away for I was too preoccupied to give them much thought. The good captain's anxiety was beginning to claim me too.
Ten minutes had not passed when the man for whom we had been waiting appeared at the far end of the square. With him was Colonel N-, who left him at the inn and turned back towards the fort. I immediately sent one of the veterans for Maksim Maksimich.
Pechorin was met by his valet who reported that the horses would be harnessed in a moment, handed him a box of cigars, and, having received a few instructions, went off to carry them out. His master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice and sat down on a bench on the other side of the gate. Now I would like to draw you his portrait.
He was of medium height. His erect, lithe figure and broad shoulders suggested a strong physique equal to all the hardships of the road and variations of climate, unweakened by either the dissolute life of the capital or emotional storms. His dusty velvet coat was open except for the last two buttons, revealing an expanse of dazzlingly white shirt that betrayed the habits of a gentleman. His soiled gloves seemed to have been made for his small, aristocratic hands, and when he pulled off a glove, I was amazed at the slenderness of his white fingers. His walk was careless and indolent, but I noticed he didn't swing his arms-a sure sign of a certain reticence of character. But these are my personal opinions based on my own observations, and I can't compel you to accept them blindly. When he sank down on the bench his straight frame sagged as if he hadn't a bone in his back. His whole posture now betrayed some nervous weakness. He sat as the thirty-year-old coquette[68] in balzac's book might sit in a cushioned easy chair after an exhausting ball. At first glance I wouldn't have thought him more[28] than twenty-three years old, though later I was ready to admit he looked thirty. There was something childlike in his smile. His skin was as delicate as a woman's, and his naturally curly fair hair made a pleasing frame for his pale, noble brow on which only careful scrutiny could disclose a fine network of wrinkles that probably were a good deal more in evidence at times of anger or spiritual anxiety. In spite of his light hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black-as much a sign of pedigree in a man as a black mane and tail are in a white horse. To complete the portrait, I will say that he had a slightly turned-up nose and that his teeth were dazzlingly white and his eyes hazel-but about his eyes I must say a few more words.
Firstly, they didn't laugh when he did. Have you ever had opportunity to observe this peculiarity in some people? It's a sign either of evil nature or of deep constant sadness. They shone with a phosphorescent glow, if one may so put it, under half-closed eyelids. It was no reflection of spiritual warmth or fertile imagination. It was the flash of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance was brief but piercing and oppressive, it had the disturbing effect of an indiscreet question, and might have seemed audacious had it not been so calmly casual. Perhaps all these observations came to my mind only because I happened to know some details about his life, and another person might've obtained an entirely different impression, but since you won't learn about him from anyone else, you'll have to be satisfied with this portrayal. I must say in conclusion that, on the whole, he was handsome indeed and had one of those unusual faces that are particularly pleasing to society ladies.
The horses were harnessed, the bell attached to the shaft bow tinkled, and the valet had already reported twice to Pechorin that the carriage was waiting. But still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimich. Luckily Pechorin was deep in thought. He stared at the blue jagged ridge of the Caucasus, apparently in no hurry to be on his way. I crossed over to him. "If you would care to wait a while," I said, "you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend…"
"Ah, that's right!" he replied quickly. "I was told about him yesterday. But where is he?" I looked out over the square and saw Maksim Maksimich running towards us for all he was worth... In a few minutes he had reached us. He could barely catch his breath, beads of perspiration rolled down his face, damp strands of gray hair that had escaped from under his cap stuck to his forehead, and his knees shook. He was about to throw his arms around Pechorin's neck, but the latter extended his hand rather coldly, though his smile was pleasant enough. For a moment the captain was taken aback, then he eagerly gripped the hand with both of his. He was still unable to speak.
"This is a pleasure, dear Maksim Maksimich. How are you?" said Pechorin.
"And thou?…And you?…" faltered the old man, tears welling up in his eyes. "It's a long time... a very long time... But where are you off to?"
"On my way to Persia... and then farther…"
"Not immediately, I hope? Won't you stay awhile, my dear man? We haven't seen each other for so long..."
"I must go, Maksim Maksimich," was the reply.
"My God, what's the hurry? I have so much to tell you and so many questions to ask... How are things, anyway? Retired, eh? What have you been doing?"
"I've been bored stiff," replied Pechorin, smiling.
"Remember our life in the fort? Wonderful hunting country, wasn't it? How you loved to hunt! Remember Bela?"
Pechorin turned white a little and turned away.
