A Hero of Our Time (17 page)

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Authors: Mikhail Lermontov

Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary

BOOK: A Hero of Our Time
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Amusing! . . . Yes, I have already surpassed that period in a soul’s life when it seeks only happiness, when the heart feels a necessity to love someone strongly and ardently. Now I only want to be loved, and at that, only by a very few. It seems to me, even, that one constant attachment would be enough for me—a sorry habit of the heart!
One thing has always been strange to me: I have never been a slave to any woman. On the contrary, I have always gained indomitable power over a woman’s will and heart, absolutely without trying to do so. Why is this? Is it because I never prize anything and that they are permanently afraid to let me out of their grasp? Or is it the magnetic influence of a powerful organism? Or have I simply not succeeded in meeting a woman with an obstinate character?
I must admit that I absolutely do not like women of character: it is not their business!
It’s true, I now remember: once, only once, I loved a woman with a firm will, whom I could never conquer . . . We parted as enemies—and yet, maybe, if we had met some five years later, we might have parted differently . . .
Vera is ill, very ill, though she doesn’t admit to it. I am afraid that she has consumption, or that illness which they call
fièvre lente
—this is altogether not a Russian illness, and it has no name in our language.
The thunderstorm caught us in the grotto and kept us there for another half hour. She didn’t make me swear my loyalty, didn’t ask if I had loved any others since we parted . . . She put herself in my hands again with her former lack of concern—and I do not deceive her: she is the one woman in the world whom I would not have the strength to deceive. I know we will soon part again, and perhaps forever: we are following different paths to the grave. But the memory of her will remain inviolable in my soul. I have always repeated this to her, and she believes me, even though she says the opposite.
Finally, we separated. I followed her with my gaze for a long time, until her hat was hidden behind the shrubbery and the cliffs. My heart was tightening painfully, as it had after our first parting. Oh, how I was glad of this feeling! Could it be that youth wishes to return to me with its wholesome storms, or is this only its departing glance, its last gift, as a keepsake . . . ? It is amusing to think that I am still a boy to look at: my face, though pale, is still fresh; my limbs are well-built and lithe; my thick curls wave, my eyes glow, my blood stirs hotly . . .
Returning home, I mounted my horse and galloped into the Steppe. I love galloping through the long grass on a hot-tempered horse, in the face of the winds of the desert. I gulp the fragrant air with greediness and I direct my gaze into the blue distances, trying to make out the cloudy details of various objects, which become clearer and clearer with every minute. Any bitterness that weighs on the heart, any agitation that tortures the thoughts—it is all dispersed within a minute. The soul becomes lighter, and the exhaustion of the body conquers the anxiety of the mind. There isn’t one female gaze that I wouldn’t forget upon looking at leafy mountains, illuminated by the southern sun, or looking at the blue sky, or noticing the sound of a waterfall, falling from crag to crag.
I think that the Cossacks, yawning in their watchtowers, seeing me galloping without need or aim, would long be tortured by such a riddle, or, they would likely take me for a Circassian, given my attire. I have actually been told that on horseback, in Circassian costume, I look more Kabardin than most Kabardins. And when it comes to this noble battle attire, I am a perfect dandy: not one bit of extraneous galloon; an expensive weapon with simple finishings; the fur on my hat isn’t too long, too short; leggings and high boots fitted to utter exactitude; a white
beshmet,
and a dark-brown
cherkeska.
7
I have long studied the mountain riding style: nothing would flatter my vanity more than an acknowledgment of my art in the Caucasian manner of horsemanship. I keep four horses: one for myself, three for friends, to avoid the boredom of roaming about the fields on one’s own. They take my horses with pleasure and never go out together with me. It was already six hours after midday when I realized it was time to dine. My horse was worn out. I went out onto the road that leads from Pyatigorsk to the German colony where the spa community often goes
en pique-nique.
The road goes meandering between shrubs, descending into small gullies where brooks flow under the canopy of the long grasses. The blue masses of the peaks—Beshtau, Zmeinaya, Zheleznaya, and Lisaya
8
—tower above and around like an amphitheater. Having descended into one of the gullies, called
balkas
in the local dialect, I stopped to let my horse drink. At that moment a noisy and shiny cavalcade appeared on the road. There were ladies in light-blue and black riding habits, and cavaliers in outfits made up of a mixture of Circassian and Nizhny Novgorod styles; and Grushnitsky rode at the front with Princess Mary.
Ladies of the spa still believe in the possibility of attacks by Circassians in broad daylight—that’s probably why Grushnitsky hung a saber and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s greatcoat. He was rather amusing-looking in these heroic vestments. A tall bush hid me from them, but through its leaves I could see everything and could guess from the expressions on their faces that their conversation was sentimental in nature. At last they approached the slope; Grushnitsky took the reins of the princess’s horse, and then I heard the end of their conversation.
“And do you want to spend your whole life in the Caucasus?” the princess was saying.
“What is Russia to me!” replied her cavalier. “A country where thousands of people will look at me with contempt since they are richer than I am, when here, here, this thick greatcoat didn’t prevent me from making acquaintance with you . . .”
“Quite the opposite . . .” said the princess, blushing.
Grushnitsky’s face showed pleasure. He continued:
“Here my life flows past noisily, imperceptibly, and quickly, under the gunfire of savages, and if God would send me a bright female gaze every year, a gaze like the one . . .”
At that moment they came up beside me; I struck my horse with my whip and came out of the bush . . .
“Mon dieu, un Circassien!”
9
the princess cried out in horror.
In order to completely disabuse her of this, I replied in French, slightly bowing:
“Ne craignez rien, madame—je ne suis pas plus dangereux que votre cavalier.”
10
She was embarrassed—but by what? By her mistake or by my reply, which may have seemed audacious to her? I would hope that the latter suggestion is correct. Grushnitsky threw me a look of displeasure.
Late that evening, at eleven o’clock that is, I went out for a stroll along the linden alley of the boulevard. The city was sleeping, the lights of fires flashed in a few windows. Craggy crests loomed black on three sides: the ridges of Mount Mashuk, on whose peaks lay a sinister little cloud. The moon smoked in the east. In the distance the snowy mountains sparkled with a silver fringe. The calls of the sentries alternated with noises from the hot springs, which are released at night. From time to time, the ringing clatter of horses scattered along the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nogay wagon,
11
and doleful Tatar song. I sat on a bench and became lost in my thoughts . . . I felt the necessity to give vent to my thoughts in a conversation with a friend . . . but with whom?
“What is Vera doing right now?” I thought . . . I would give dearly to be holding her hand at this moment. Suddenly I hear quick and uneven steps . . . It’s probably Grushnitsky . . . It is!
“Where have you come from?”
“From the Princess Ligovsky,” he said very significantly.
“How Mary sings!”
“Do you know what?” I said to him. “I’ll wager that she doesn’t know you’re a cadet but thinks you were demoted . . .”
“Maybe! What is it to me?” he said absentmindedly.
“Well, I’m just saying . . .”
“And do you know that you made her terribly angry today? She felt it was an outrageous audacity. It took enormous effort but I managed to convince her that you are so well brought up and so well acquainted with society that you couldn’t have had the intention of insulting her. She says that you have an insolent gaze, that you probably have a very high opinion of yourself.”
“She isn’t mistaken . . . and do you not wish to defend her honor?”
“I regret that I do not have this right yet . . .”
“O-ho!” I thought, “he obviously has hopes already . . .”
“But then again, it’s worse for you,” continued Grushnitsky. “Now it will be difficult for you to make their acquaintance— a pity! Theirs is one of the most pleasant households I have ever known . . .”
I smiled inwardly.
“The most pleasant household to me is currently my own,” I said, yawning, and stood up to leave.
“But you must admit that you are contrite?”
“What nonsense! If I so wished, I could be at the princess’s house tomorrow evening . . .”
“We shall see . . .”
“And, in order to please you, I will even flirt with the princess . . .”
“Yes, if she deigns to speak to you . . .”
“I am waiting for the moment when your conversation bores her . . . Farewell!”
“And I am off to wander—I’m not at all able to fall asleep these days . . . Listen, why don’t we go to the restaurant, where we can gamble . . . I need strong sensations today . . .”
“I hope you lose . . .”
I went home.
 
 
May 21
 
Almost a week had passed and I still hadn’t made the acquaintance of the Ligovskys. I am waiting for a suitable occasion. Grushnitsky, like a shadow, follows the young princess everywhere. Their conversations are endless: when will she tire of him? . . . The mother isn’t paying attention to this, because he isn’t an eligible suitor. That is the logic of mothers! I noticed two, three affectionate glances—an end must be put to this.
Yesterday, Vera appeared at the well for the first time . . . Since we met in the grotto, she hasn’t left her house. We lowered our glasses at the same time, and leaning in, she said to me in a whisper:
“Would you not like to meet the Ligovskys? . . . Only there can we see each other . . .”
A reproach! Boring! But I have earned it . . .
Incidentally: tomorrow there is a subscription ball in the hall of the restaurant and I am going to dance the
mazurka
with Princess Mary.
May 22
The hall of the restaurant had been turned into the Club of the Nobility. At nine o’clock everyone arrived. The princess and her daughter were among the last to appear; many ladies looked at her with envy and ill will because Princess Mary was dressed in such good taste. Those who consider themselves local aristocracy hid their envy and attached themselves to her. What is to be done? Where there is a collection of women, there will instantly appear a higher and a lower circle. Grushnitsky stood by the window, in a crowd of people, having pressed his eyes against the glass and now not allowing them to leave his goddess. Walking past, she nodded her head toward him just perceptibly. He beamed like the sun . . . The dances started with a
polonaise;
then they began to play a waltz. Spurs started ringing, coattails lifted and twirled.
I stood behind one fat lady, overshadowed by pink feathers; the splendor of her dress reminded me of the times of farthingales—and the mottled colors of her rough skin, of the happy era of black taffeta beauty spots. The biggest wart on her neck was covered by the clasp of her necklace. She was saying to her cavalier, a dragoon captain:
“This young Princess Ligovsky is a highly intolerable girl! Imagine, she bumped into me and didn’t excuse herself, yes and she even turned and looked at me through her lorgnette . . .
C’est impayable
!
12
. . . And what does she have to be proud of? Someone needs to teach her . . .”
“No sooner said than done,” the obliging captain replied and went off to the other room.
I then walked up to the princess, and invited her to waltz, employing the liberal local customs, which allow one to dance with unfamiliar ladies.
She could barely prevent herself from smiling and hiding her sense of triumph. She succeeded, however, quickly enough in striking a pose of complete indifference, even severity: she carelessly extended a hand to my shoulder, bending her head slightly to the side, and we were off. I haven’t known a more voluptuous and supple waist! Her fresh breath touched my face; occasionally a ringlet, which had come loose from its friends in the whirlwind of the waltz, slipped across my hot cheek . . . I did three circuits. (She waltzes surprisingly well.) She was out of breath, her eyes had grown dim, and her half-opened lips could barely whisper the obligatory:
“Merci Monsieur.”
After a few minutes of silence, I said to her, with a very humble air:
“I have heard, princess, that though completely unacquainted with you, I already have the unhappiness of having earned your disfavor . . . that you found me to be audacious . . . is it true?”

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