A Hero of Our Time

by Mikhail Iurevich Lermontov

  CHAPTER I. 11th May.

  YESTERDAY I arrived at Pyatigorsk. I have engaged lodgings at theextreme end of the town, the highest part, at the foot of Mount Mashuk:during a storm the clouds will descend on to the roof of my dwelling.

  This morning at five o'clock, when I opened my window, the room wasfilled with the fragrance of the flowers growing in the modest littlefront-garden. Branches of bloom-laden bird-cherry trees peep in at mywindow, and now and again the breeze bestrews my writing-table withtheir white petals. The view which meets my gaze on three sides iswonderful: westward towers five-peaked Beshtau, blue as "the last cloudof a dispersed storm," [25] and northward rises Mashuk, like a shaggyPersian cap, shutting in the whole of that quarter of the horizon.Eastward the outlook is more cheery: down below are displayed thevaried hues of the brand-new, spotlessly clean, little town, with itsmurmuring, health-giving springs and its babbling, many-tongued throng.Yonder, further away, the mountains tower up in an amphitheatre, everbluer and mistier; and, at the edge of the horizon, stretches thesilver chain of snow-clad summits, beginning with Kazbek and ending withtwo-peaked Elbruz... Blithe is life in such a land! A feeling akin torapture is diffused through all my veins. The air is pure and fresh,like the kiss of a child; the sun is bright, the sky is blue--what morecould one possibly wish for? What need, in such a place as this, ofpassions, desires, regrets?

  However, it is time to be stirring. I will go to the Elizaveta spring--Iam told that the whole society of the watering-place assembles there inthe morning.

  *****

  Descending into the middle of the town, I walked along the boulevard,on which I met a few melancholy groups slowly ascending the mountain.These, for the most part, were the families of landed-gentry from thesteppes--as could be guessed at once from the threadbare, old-fashionedfrock-coats of the husbands and the exquisite attire of the wivesand daughters. Evidently they already had all the young men of thewatering-place at their fingers' ends, because they looked at me witha tender curiosity. The Petersburg cut of my coat misled them; butthey soon recognised the military epaulettes, and turned away withindignation.

  The wives of the local authorities--the hostesses, so to speak, of thewaters--were more graciously inclined. They carry lorgnettes, and theypay less attention to a uniform--they have grown accustomed in theCaucasus to meeting a fervid heart beneath a numbered button and acultured intellect beneath a white forage-cap. These ladies are verycharming, and long continue to be charming. Each year their adorersare exchanged for new ones, and in that very fact, it may be, lies thesecret of their unwearying amiability.

  Ascending by the narrow path to the Elizaveta spring, I overtook a crowdof officials and military men, who, as I subsequently learned, compose aclass apart amongst those who place their hopes in the medicinal waters.They drink--but not water--take but few walks, indulge in only mildflirtations, gamble, and complain of boredom.

  They are dandies. In letting their wicker-sheathed tumblers down intothe well of sulphurous water they assume academical poses. The officialswear bright blue cravats; the military men have ruffs sticking out abovetheir collars. They affect a profound contempt for provincial ladies,and sigh for the aristocratic drawing-rooms of the capitals--to whichthey are not admitted.

  Here is the well at last!... Upon the small square adjoining it a littlehouse with a red roof over the bath is erected, and somewhat further onthere is a gallery in which the people walk when it rains. Some woundedofficers were sitting--pale and melancholy--on a bench, with theircrutches drawn up. A few ladies, their tumbler of water finished, werewalking with rapid steps to and fro about the square. There were two orthree pretty faces amongst them. Beneath the avenues of the vines withwhich the slope of Mashuk is covered, occasional glimpses could becaught of the gay-coloured hat of a lover of solitude for two--forbeside that hat I always noticed either a military forage-cap or theugly round hat of a civilian. Upon the steep cliff, where the pavilioncalled "The Aeolian Harp" is erected, figured the lovers of scenery,directing their telescopes upon Elbruz. Amongst them were a couple oftutors, with their pupils who had come to be cured of scrofula.

  Out of breath, I came to a standstill at the edge of the mountain, and,leaning against the corner of a little house, I began to examine thepicturesque surroundings, when suddenly I heard behind me a familiarvoice.

  "Pechorin! Have you been here long?"

  I turned round. Grushnitski! We embraced. I had made his acquaintancein the active service detachment. He had been wounded in the foot by abullet and had come to the waters a week or so before me.

  Grushnitski is a cadet; he has only been a year in the service. Froma kind of foppery peculiar to himself, he wears the thick cloak of acommon soldier. He has also the soldier's cross of St. George. He iswell built, swarthy and black-haired. To look at him, you might say hewas a man of twenty-five, although he is scarcely twenty-one. He tosseshis head when he speaks, and keeps continually twirling his moustachewith his left hand, his right hand being occupied with the crutch onwhich he leans. He speaks rapidly and affectedly; he is one of thosepeople who have a high-sounding phrase ready for every occasion inlife, who remain untouched by simple beauty, and who drape themselvesmajestically in extraordinary sentiments, exalted passions andexceptional sufferings. To produce an effect is their delight; they havean almost insensate fondness for romantic provincial ladies. Whenold age approaches they become either peaceful landed-gentry ordrunkards--sometimes both. Frequently they have many good qualities,but they have not a grain of poetry in their composition. Grushnitski'spassion was declamation. He would deluge you with words so soon as theconversation went beyond the sphere of ordinary ideas. I have never beenable to dispute with him. He neither answers your questions nor listensto you. So soon as you stop, he begins a lengthy tirade, which hasthe appearance of being in some sort connected with what you have beensaying, but which is, in fact, only a continuation of his own harangue.

  He is witty enough; his epigrams are frequently amusing, but nevermalicious, nor to the point. He slays nobody with a single word; he hasno knowledge of men and of their foibles, because all his life he hasbeen interested in nobody but himself. His aim is to make himself thehero of a novel. He has so often endeavoured to convince others that heis a being created not for this world and doomed to certain mysterioussufferings, that he has almost convinced himself that such he is inreality. Hence the pride with which he wears his thick soldier's cloak.I have seen through him, and he dislikes me for that reason, althoughto outward appearance we are on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitskiis looked upon as a man of distinguished courage. I have seen him inaction. He waves his sabre, shouts, and hurls himself forward with hiseyes shut. That is not what I should call Russian courage!...

  I reciprocate Grushnitski's dislike. I feel that some time or other weshall come into collision upon a narrow road, and that one of us willfare badly.

  His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of his romanticfanaticism. I am convinced that on the eve of his departure from hispaternal village he said with an air of gloom to some pretty neighbourthat he was going away, not so much for the simple purpose of servingin the army as of seeking death, because... and hereupon, I am sure,he covered his eyes with his hand and continued thus, "No, you--orthou--must not know! Your pure soul would shudder! And what would be thegood? What am I to you? Could you understand me?"... and so on.

  He has himself told me that the motive which induced him to enter theK----regiment must remain an everlasting secret between him and Heaven.

  However, in moments when he casts aside the tragic mantle, Grushnitskiis charming and entertaining enough. I am always interested to see himwith women--it is then that he puts forth his finest efforts, I think!

  We met like a couple of old friends. I began to question him aboutthe personages of note and as to the sort of life which was led at thewaters.

  "It is a rather prosaic life," he said, with a sigh. "Those who drinkthe waters in the morning are inert--like all i
nvalids, and those whodrink the wines in the evening are unendurable--like all healthy people!There are ladies who entertain, but there is no great amusement to beobtained from them. They play whist, they dress badly and speak Frenchdreadfully! The only Moscow people here this year are Princess Ligovskiand her daughter--but I am not acquainted with them. My soldier's cloakis like a seal of renunciation. The sympathy which it arouses is aspainful as charity."

  At that moment two ladies walked past us in the direction of the well;one elderly, the other youthful and slender. I could not obtain a goodview of their faces on account of their hats, but they were dressed inaccordance with the strict rules of the best taste--nothing superfluous.The second lady was wearing a high-necked dress of pearl-grey, and alight silk kerchief was wound round her supple neck. Puce-coloured bootsclasped her slim little ankle so charmingly, that even those uninitiatedinto the mysteries of beauty would infallibly have sighed, if only fromwonder. There was something maidenly in her easy, but aristocratic gait,something eluding definition yet intelligible to the glance. As shewalked past us an indefinable perfume, like that which sometimesbreathes from the note of a charming woman, was wafted from her.

  "Look!" said Grushnitski, "there is Princess Ligovski with her daughterMary, as she calls her after the English manner. They have been hereonly three days."

  "You already know her name, though?"

  "Yes, I heard it by chance," he answered, with a blush. "I confess I donot desire to make their acquaintance. These haughty aristocrats lookupon us army men just as they would upon savages. What care they ifthere is an intellect beneath a numbered forage-cap, and a heart beneatha thick cloak?"

  "Poor cloak!" I said, with a laugh. "But who is the gentleman who isjust going up to them and handing them a tumbler so officiously?"

  "Oh, that is Raevich, the Moscow dandy. He is a gambler; you can seeas much at once from that immense gold chain coiling across hisskyblue waistcoat. And what a thick cane he has! Just like RobinsonCrusoe's--and so is his beard too, and his hair is done like apeasant's."

  "You are embittered against the whole human race?"

  "And I have cause to be"...

  "Oh, really?"

  At that moment the ladies left the well and came up to where we were.Grushnitski succeeded in assuming a dramatic pose with the aid of hiscrutch, and in a loud tone of voice answered me in French:

  "Mon cher, je hais les hommes pour ne pas les mepriser, car autrement lavie serait une farce trop degoutante."

  The pretty Princess Mary turned round and favoured the orator with along and curious glance. Her expression was quite indefinite, but it wasnot contemptuous, a fact on which I inwardly congratulated Grushnitskifrom my heart.

  "She is an extremely pretty girl," I said. "She has such velveteyes--yes, velvet is the word. I should advise you to appropriate theexpression when speaking of her eyes. The lower and upper lashes areso long that the sunbeams are not reflected in her pupils. I love thoseeyes without a glitter, they are so soft that they appear to caress you.However, her eyes seem to be her only good feature... Tell me, are herteeth white? That is most important! It is a pity that she did not smileat that high-sounding phrase of yours."

  "You are speaking of a pretty woman just as you might of an Englishhorse," said Grushnitski indignantly.

  "Mon cher," I answered, trying to mimic his tone, "je meprise lesfemmes, pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un melodrametrop ridicule."

  I turned and left him. For half an hour or so I walked about the avenuesof the vines, the limestone cliffs and the bushes hanging between them.The day grew hot, and I hurried homewards. Passing the sulphur spring,I stopped at the covered gallery in order to regain my breath under itsshade, and by so doing I was afforded the opportunity of witnessing arather interesting scene. This is the position in which the dramatispersonae were disposed: Princess Ligovski and the Moscow dandy weresitting on a bench in the covered gallery--apparently engaged in seriousconversation. Princess Mary, who had doubtless by this time finished herlast tumbler, was walking pensively to and fro by the well. Grushnitskiwas standing by the well itself; there was nobody else on the square.

  I went up closer and concealed myself behind a corner of the gallery.At that moment Grushnitski let his tumbler fall on the sand and madestrenuous efforts to stoop in order to pick it up; but his injured footprevented him. Poor fellow! How he tried all kinds of artifices, as heleaned on his crutch, and all in vain! His expressive countenance was,in fact, a picture of suffering.

  Princess Mary saw the whole scene better than I.

  Lighter than a bird she sprang towards him, stooped, picked up thetumbler, and handed it to him with a gesture full of ineffable charm.Then she blushed furiously, glanced round at the gallery, and, havingassured herself that her mother apparently had not seen anything,immediately regained her composure. By the time Grushnitski had openedhis mouth to thank her she was a long way off. A moment after, she cameout of the gallery with her mother and the dandy, but, in passing byGrushnitski, she assumed a most decorous and serious air. She did noteven turn round, she did not even observe the passionate gaze which hekept fixed upon her for a long time until she had descended the mountainand was hidden behind the lime trees of the boulevard... Presently Icaught glimpses of her hat as she walked along the street. She hurriedthrough the gate of one of the best houses in Pyatigorsk; her motherwalked behind her and bowed adieu to Raevich at the gate.

  It was only then that the poor, passionate cadet noticed my presence.

  "Did you see?" he said, pressing my hand vigorously. "She is an angel,simply an angel!"

  "Why?" I inquired, with an air of the purest simplicity.

  "Did you not see, then?"

  "No. I saw her picking up your tumbler. If there had been an attendantthere he would have done the same thing--and quicker too, in the hopeof receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to understand that shepitied you; you made such a terrible grimace when you walked on thewounded foot."

  "And can it be that seeing her, as you did, at that moment when her soulwas shining in her eyes, you were not in the least affected?"

  "No."

  I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I have an innate passionfor contradiction--my whole life has been nothing but a series ofmelancholy and vain contradictions of heart or reason. The presence ofan enthusiast chills me with a twelfth-night cold, and I believethat constant association with a person of a flaccid and phlegmatictemperament would have turned me into an impassioned visionary. Iconfess, too, that an unpleasant but familiar sensation was coursinglightly through my heart at that moment. It was--envy. I say "envy"boldly, because I am accustomed to acknowledge everything to myself.It would be hard to find a young man who, if his idle fancy had beenattracted by a pretty woman and he had suddenly found her openlysingling out before his eyes another man equally unknown to her--itwould be hard, I say, to find such a young man (living, of course, inthe great world and accustomed to indulge his self-love) who would nothave been unpleasantly taken aback in such a case.

  In silence Grushnitski and I descended the mountain and walked alongthe boulevard, past the windows of the house where our beauty had hiddenherself. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitski, plucking me by thearm, cast upon her one of those gloomily tender glances which have solittle effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, and observedthat she smiled at his glance and that my insolent lorgnette madeher downright angry. And how, indeed, should a Caucasian military manpresume to direct his eyeglass at a princess from Moscow?...