CHAPTER IX
"'LISTEN, Maksim Maksimych,' said Pechorin. 'Mine is an unfortunatedisposition; whether it is the result of my upbringing or whether itis innate--I know not. I only know this, that if I am the cause ofunhappiness in others I myself am no less unhappy. Of course, that is apoor consolation to them--only the fact remains that such is the case.In my early youth, from the moment I ceased to be under the guardianshipof my relations, I began madly to enjoy all the pleasures which moneycould buy--and, of course, such pleasures became irksome to me. Then Ilaunched out into the world of fashion--and that, too, soon palled uponme. I fell in love with fashionable beauties and was loved by them, butmy imagination and egoism alone were aroused; my heart remained empty...I began to read, to study--but sciences also became utterly wearisome tome. I saw that neither fame nor happiness depends on them in theleast, because the happiest people are the uneducated, and fame is goodfortune, to attain which you have only to be smart. Then I grew bored...Soon afterwards I was transferred to the Caucasus; and that wasthe happiest time of my life. I hoped that under the bullets of theChechenes boredom could not exist--a vain hope! In a month I grew soaccustomed to the buzzing of the bullets and to the proximity of deaththat, to tell the truth, I paid more attention to the gnats--and Ibecame more bored than ever, because I had lost what was almost my lasthope. When I saw Bela in my own house; when, for the first time, I heldher on my knee and kissed her black locks, I, fool that I was, thoughtthat she was an angel sent to me by sympathetic fate... Again I wasmistaken; the love of a savage is little better than that of your ladyof quality, the barbaric ignorance and simplicity of the one weary youas much as the coquetry of the other. I am not saying that I do not loveher still; I am grateful to her for a few fairly sweet moments; I wouldgive my life for her--only I am bored with her... Whether I am a fool ora villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also most deserving ofpity--perhaps more than she. My soul has been spoiled by the world,my imagination is unquiet, my heart insatiate. To me everything is oflittle moment. I become as easily accustomed to grief as to joy, and mylife grows emptier day by day. One expedient only is left to me--travel.
"'As soon as I can, I shall set off--but not to Europe. Heaven forfend!I shall go to America, to Arabia, to India--perchance I shall diesomewhere on the way. At any rate, I am convinced that, thanks to stormsand bad roads, that last consolation will not quickly be exhausted!'
"For a long time he went on speaking thus, and his words have remainedstamped upon my memory, because it was the first time that I had heardsuch things from a man of five-and-twenty--and Heaven grant it maybe the last. Isn't it astonishing? Tell me, please," continued thestaff-captain, appealing to me. "You used to live in the Capital, Ithink, and that not so very long ago. Is it possible that the young menthere are all like that?"
I replied that there were a good many people who used the same sortof language, that, probably, there might even be some who spoke in allsincerity; that disillusionment, moreover, like all other vogues, havinghad its beginning in the higher strata of society, had descended to thelower, where it was being worn threadbare, and that, now, those who werereally and truly bored strove to conceal their misfortune as if it werea vice. The staff-captain did not understand these subtleties, shook hishead, and smiled slyly.
"Anyhow, I suppose it was the French who introduced the fashion?"
"No, the English."
"Aha, there you are!" he answered. "They always have been arrantdrunkards, you know!"
Involuntarily I recalled to mind a certain lady, living in Moscow, whoused to maintain that Byron was nothing more nor less than a drunkard.However, the staff-captain's observation was more excusable; in order toabstain from strong drink, he naturally endeavoured to convince himselfthat all the misfortunes in the world are the result of drunkenness.
A Hero of Our Time Page 9