a hero of our time by mikhail lermontov

8/8/2019 A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov

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Part Two

(The end of Pechorins Journal)

II

Princess Mary

11 May

Yesterday I arrived in Pyatigorsk. I have engaged lodgings at theextreme end of the town, the highest part, at the foot of MountMashuk: during a storm the clouds will descend on to the roof ofmy dwelling. This morning at ve oclock, when I opened my window, my

room was lled with the fragrance of the owers growing in the modestfront-garden. Branches of bloom-laden bird-cherry trees peep in at my

window, and now and again the breeze bestrews my desk with their white

petals. The view which meets my gaze on three sides is wonderful: west-ward towers ve-peaked Beshtau, blue as the last cloud of a dispersed

storm, and northward rises Mashuk, like a shaggy Persian cap, shutting

in the whole of that quarter of the horizon. Eastward the outlook is more

cheery: down below are displayed the varied hues of the brand-new, cleanlittle town, with its murmuring, health-giving springs and its babbling,

many-tongued throng. Yonder, further away, the mountains tower up in

an amphitheatre, ever bluer and mistier; and, at the edge of the horizon,

stretches the silver chain of snow-clad summits, beginning with Kazbek

and ending with two-peaked Elbruz... Blithe is life in such a land! A feeling

akin to rapture is diffused through all my veins. The air is pure and fresh,

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like the kiss of a child; the sun is bright, the sky is bluewhat more could

one possibly wish for? What need, here, of passions, desires, regrets?..

However, it is time. I will go to the Elizabeth spring: I am told that the

whole society of the watering-place assembles there in the 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 landowners from the

steppesas could be guessed at once from the threadbare, old-fashioned

frock-coats of the husbands and the exquisite attire of the wives and

daughters. Evidently they already had all the young men of the watering-

place at their ngers ends, because they looked at me with a tender

curiosity. The Petersburg cut of my coat misled them; but they soonrecognised the military epaulettes, and turned away with indignation.

The wives of the local authoritiesthe hostesses, so to speak, of the

waterswere more graciously inclined. They carry lorgnettes, and they

pay less attention to a uniformthey have grown accustomed in the

Caucasus to meeting a fervid heart beneath a numbered button and

a cultured intellect beneath a white forage-cap. These ladies are very

charming, and long continue to be charming! Each year their adorers areexchanged for new ones, and in that very fact, it may be, lies the secret

of their unwearying amiability. Ascending by the narrow path to the

Elizabeth spring, I overtook a crowd of civilians and military men, who,

as I subsequently learned, compose a class apart amongst those who place

their hopes in the medicinal waters. They drinkbut not watertake

but few walks, indulge in only mild irtations, gamble, and complain of

boredom. They are dandies. In letting their wicker-sheathed tumblersdown into the well of sulphurous water they assume academical poses.

The civilians wear bright blue cravats; the military men have ruffs sticking

out above their collars. They affect a profound contempt for provincialhouses, and sigh for the aristocratic salons of the capitalsto which they

are not admitted.

Here is the well at last... Upon the small square adjoining it a litt le house

with a red roof over the bath is erected, and somewhat further on there isa gallery in which the people walk when it rains. Some wounded ofcers

were sittingpale and melancholyon a bench, with their crutches drawn

up. A few ladies were walking with rapid steps to and fro about the square,

waiting for the waters to take effect. There were two or three pretty faces

amongst them. Beneath the avenues of the vines with which the slope

of Mashuk is covered, occasional glimpses could be caught of the gay-

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Princess Mary

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coloured hat of a lover of solitude for twofor beside that hat I always

noticed either a military forage-cap or the ugly round hat. Upon the steep

cliff, where the pavilion called The Aeolian Harp is erected, gured the

lovers of scenery, directing their telescopes upon Elbruz. Amongst them

were a couple of tutors, with their pupils who had come to be cured of

scrofula.

Out of breath, I stopped at the edge of the mountain, and, leaningagainst the corner of the l ittle house, I began to examine the surroundings,

when suddenly I heard behind me a familiar voice.

Pechorin! Have you been here long?

I turned round. Grushnitsky! We embraced. I had made his acquaintance

in the active service detachment. He had been wounded in the leg by a

bullet and had left for the waters a week or so before me.Grushnitsky is a cadet; he has only been a year in the service. From

a kind of peculiar foppery, he wears a thick soldiers coat. He has the

soldiers cross of St. George. He is well built, swarthy and black-haired.

To look at him, you might say he was a man of twenty-ve, although he is

scarcely twenty-one. He tosses his head back when he speaks, and keeps

continually twirling his moustache with his left hand, his right hand

being occupied with the crutch on which he leans. He speaks rapidly andaffectedly; he is one of those people who have a high-sounding phrase

ready for every occasion in life, who remain untouched by simple beauty,

and who drape themselves majestically in extraordinary sentiments,

exalted passions and exceptional sufferings. To produce an effect is their

delight; romantic provincial ladies nd them madly attractive. When old

age approaches they become either peaceful landowners or drunkards

sometimes both. Frequently they have many good qualities, but they havenot a grain of poetry in their composition. Grushnitskys passion was

declamation. He would deluge you with words as soon as the conversation

went beyond the sphere of ordinary ideas. I have never been able todispute with him. He doesnt answer your objections, he doesnt listen

to you. As soon as you stop, he begins a lengthy tirade, which has the

appearance of being in some sort connected with what you have said, but

which is, in fact, only a continuation of his own speech.He is witty enough; his epigrams are frequently amusing, but never

malicious, nor to the point. He will never slay anyone with a single word;

he has no knowledge of people and of their foibles, because all his life he

has been interested in nobody but himself. His aim is to make himself

the hero of a novel. He has so often endeavoured to convince others that

he is a being created not for this world and doomed to certain mysterious

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Princess Mary

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sufferings, that he has almost convinced himself of it. Hence the pride

with which he wears his thick soldiers coat. I have seen through him,

and he dislikes me for that reason, although to outward appearance we

are on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitsky is looked upon as a man of

distinguished courage. I have seen him in action. He waves his sabre,

shouts, and hurls himself forward with his eyes shut. That is not exactly

Russian courage!...I dont like him either. I feel that some time or other we shall come into

collision upon a narrow road, and that one of us will fare badly.

His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of his romantic fanaticism. I

am convinced that on the eve of his departure from his paternal village he

said with an air of gloom to some pretty neighbour that he was going away,

not so much for the simple purpose of serving in the army as of seekingdeath, because... and hereupon, I am sure, he covered his eyes with his

hand and continued thus, No, youor thoumust not know this! Your

pure soul would shudder! And what would be the good? 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 the K.

regiment would remain an everlasting secret between him and Heaven.

However, in moments when he casts aside the tragic mantle, Grush-nitsky is charming and entertaining enough. I am curious to see him with

womenit is then that he puts forth his nest efforts, I think!

We met like a couple of old friends. I began to question him about the

personages of note and as to the sort of life which was led at the waters.

It is a rather prosaic life we lead here, he said, with a sigh. Those who

drink the waters in the morning are inertlike all invalids, and those who

drink the wines in the evening are unendurablelike all healthy people.There is some female society, but there is no great comfort to be obtained

from it. They play whist, they dress badly and speak French dreadfully.

The only Moscow people here this year are Princess Ligovskaya and herdaughterbut I am not acquainted with them. My soldiers coat is like

a seal of renunciation. The sympathy which it arouses is as painful 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 good

view of their faces on account of their hats, but they were dressed in

accordance with the strict rules of the best tastenothing superuous!

The second lady was wearing a high-necked dress of pearl-grey, and a

light silk kerchief was wound round her supple neck. Puce-coloured boots

clasped her slim little ankle so charmingly, that even those uninitiated

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Princess Mary

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into the mysteries of beauty would infallibly have sighed, if only from

wonder. There was something maidenly in her easy, but aristocratic gait,

something eluding denition yet intelligible to the glance. As she walked

past us an indenable perfume, like that which sometimes breathes from

the note of a charming woman, was wafted from her.

Look! said Grushnitsky, there is Princess Ligovskaya with her

daughter Mary, as she calls her af ter the English manner. They have beenhere only three days.

You already know her name, though?

Yes, I heard it by chance, he answered, with a blush. I confess I do not

desire to make their acquaintance. These haughty aristocrats look upon

us army men as savages. What care they if there is an intellect beneath a

numbered forage-cap, and a heart beneath a thick coat?Poor coat! I said, with a laugh. But who is the gentleman who is just

going up to them and handing them a tumbler so ofciously?

Oh, that is Raevich, the Moscow dandy! He is a gambler; you can see

it at once from that immense golden chain coiling across his sky-blue

waistcoat. And what a thick cane he has - just like Robinson Crusoes; and

so is his beard too, and his hair is done like a peasants.

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.

Grushnitsky succeeded in assuming a dramatic pose with the aid of his

crutch, and in a loud tone of voice answered me in French:

Mon cher, je has les hommes pour ne pas les mpriser car autrement

la vie serait une farce trop dgotante.The pretty young princess turned round and favoured the orator with

a long curious glance. The expression of this glance was quite indenite,

but it was not contemptuous, a fact on which I inwardly congratulatedGrushnitsky from my heart.

This Princess Mary is extremely pretty, I said to him. She has such

velvet eyesyes, velvet is the word. I should advise you to appropriate the

expression when speaking of her eyes. The lower and upper lashes are solong that the sunbeams are not reected in her pupils. I love those eyes

without a glitter, they are so soft that they appear to caress you... However,

this seems to be the only good thing about her face... Tell me, are her teeth

white? That is most important! It is a pity that she did not smile at that

high-sounding phrase of yours.

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My dear, I hate people in order not to despise them, bec ause otherwis e life would be

too disgusting a farce. (French).


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Princess Mary

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You are speaking of a pretty woman just as you might of an English

horse, said Grushnitsky indignantly.

Mon cher, I answered, trying to mimic his tone, je mprise les femmes

pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un mlodrame trop

ridicule.

I turned and left him. For half an hour or so I walked about the avenues

of the vines, the limestone cliffs and the bushes hanging between them.The day grew hot, and I hurried home. Passing the sulphur spring, I

stopped at the covered gallery in order to regain my breath under its shade,

and this gave me the opportunity to witness a rather curious scene. This is

the position in which the dramatis personae were disposed: the princess

and the Moscow dandy were sitting on a bench in the covered gallery

apparently engaged in serious conversation. The young princess, who hadprobably nished her last tumbler, was walking pensively to and fro by the

well. Grushnitsky was standing by the well itself; there was nobody else on

the square.

I went up closer and hid behind a corner of the gallery. At that moment

Grushnitsky let his tumbler fall on the sand and made strenuous efforts to

stoop down in order to pick it up; but his injured leg prevented him. Poorfellow! How he tried all kinds of artices, as he leaned on his crutch, andall 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 down, picked up the tumbler, and handed it

to him with a gesture full of ineffable charm. Then she blushed furiously,

glanced round at the gallery, and, having assured herself that her mother

apparently had not seen anything, immediately regained her composure.

By the time Grushnitsky had opened his mouth to thank her she was a longway off. A moment after, she came out of the gallery with her mother and

the dandy, but, in passing by Grushnitsky, she assumed a most decorous

and serious air. She did not even turn round, she did not even notice thepassionate gaze which he kept xed upon her for a long time until she

had descended the mountain and was hidden behind the lime trees of

the boulevard... Presently I caught glimpses of her hat as she crossed the

street. She hurried through the gate of one of the best houses in Pyatigorsk;the princess walked in after her and bowed adieu to Raevich at the gate.

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

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

angel!

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

Did you not see, then?

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mprise les femmes pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un

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My dear, I despise women in order not to love them, because otherwise life would betoo ridiculous a melodrama. (French).


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Princess Mary

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I did: she picked up your tumbler. If there had been an attendant there

he would have done the same thingand quicker too, in the hope of

receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to understand that she pitied

you; you made such a terrible grimace when you walked on your wounded

leg...

And can it be that seeing her, as you did, at that moment when her soul

was shining in her face, you were not in the least affected?No.

I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I have an innate passion for

contradiction; my whole life has been nothing but a series of melancholy

and vain contradictions to heart or reason. The presence of an enthusiast

chills me with a twelfth-night cold, and I believe that constant association

with a person of a accid and phlegmatic temperament would have turnedme into an impassioned visionary. I confess, too, that an unpleasant but

familiar sensation was coursing lightly through my heart at that moment.

This sensation was envy. I say envy boldly, because I am accustomed

to acknowledge everything to myself. It would be hard to nd a young

man who, upon meeting a pretty woman who has attracted his idle fancy

and suddenly has openly singled out before his eyes another man equallyunknown to herit would be hard, I say, to nd such a young man (living,of course, in the great world and accustomed to indulge his self-love) who

would not have been unpleasantly taken aback by this.

In silence Grushnitsky and I descended the mountain and walked along

the boulevard, past the windows of the house where our beauty had hidden

herself. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitsky, plucking me by the

arm, cast upon her one of those gloomily tender glances which have so

little effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, and observedthat she smiled at his glance and that my insolent lorgnette made her

downright angry. And how, indeed, does a Caucasian military man dare to

direct his eyeglass at a young princess from Moscow?...

13 May

This morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he

is Russian. What is there surprising in that? I have known a man named

Ivanov, who was German.

Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all

medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he is a

genuine poeta poet always in deeds and often in words, although he has

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a hero of our time by mikhail lermontov

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