Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Hero of Our Time by M. Y. Lermontov (best ereader for pdf .txt) 📖
- Author: M. Y. Lermontov
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“‘Azamat!’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich; ‘to-morrow Karagyoz will be in my hands; if Bela is not here to-night you will never see the horse.’ . .
“‘Very well,’ said Azamat, and galloped to the village.
“In the evening Grigori Aleksandrovich armed himself and rode out of the fortress. How they settled the business I don’t know, but at night they both returned, and the sentry saw that across Azamat’s saddle a woman was lying, bound hand and foot and with her head wrapped in a veil.”
“And the horse?” I asked the staff-captain.
“One minute! One minute! Early next morning Kazbich rode over, driving in half a score of rams for sale. Tethering his horse by the fence, he came in to see me, and I regaled him with tea, for, robber though he was, he was none the less my guest-friend.
“We began to chat about one thing and another… Suddenly I saw Kazbich start, change countenance, and dart to the window; but unfortunately the window looked on to the back courtyard.
“‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked.
“‘My horse! … My horse!’ he cried, all of a tremble.
“As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of hoofs.
“‘It is probably some Cossack who has ridden up.’
“‘No! Urus — yaman, yaman!’[1] he roared, and rushed headlong away like a wild panther. In two bounds he was in the courtyard; at the gate of the fortress the sentry barred the way with his gun; Kazbich jumped over the gun and dashed off at a run along the road… Dust was whirling in the distance — Azamat was galloping away on the mettlesome Karagyoz. Kazbich, as he ran, tore his gun out of its cover and fired. For a moment he remained motionless, until he had assured himself that he had missed. Then he uttered a shrill cry, knocked the gun against a rock, smashed it to splinters, fell to the ground, and burst out sobbing like a child… The people from the fortress gathered round him, but he took no notice of anyone. They stood there talking awhile and then went back. I ordered the money for the rams to be placed beside him. He didn’t touch it, but lay with his face to the ground like a dead man. Would you believe it? He remained lying like that throughout the rest of that day and the following night! It was only on the next morning that he came to the fortress and proceeded to ask that the name of the thief should be told him. The sentry who had observed Azamat untying the horse and galloping away on him did not see any necessity for concealment. At the name of Azamat, Kazbich’s eyes flashed, and he set off to the village where Azamat’s father lived.”
[1] “No! Russian — bad, bad!”
“And what about the father?”
“Ah, that was where the trick came in! Kazbich could not find him; he had gone away somewhere for five or six days; otherwise, how could Azamat have succeeded in carrying off Bela?
“And, when the father returned, there was neither daughter nor son to be found. A wily rogue, Azamat! He understood, you see, that he would lose his life if he was caught. So, from that time, he was never seen again; probably he joined some gang of Abreks and laid down his turbulent life on the other side of the Terek or the Kuban. It would have served him right!” …
“I CONFESS that, for my part, I had trouble enough over the business. So soon as ever I learned that the Circassian girl was with Grigori Aleksandrovich, I put on my epaulettes and sword and went to see him.
“He was lying on the bed in the outer room, with one hand under his head and the other holding a pipe which had gone out. The door leading to the inner room was locked, and there was no key in the lock. I observed all that in a moment… I coughed and rapped my heels against the threshold, but he pretended not to hear.
“‘Ensign!’ I said, as sternly as I could. ‘Do you not see that I have come to you?’
“‘Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych! Won’t you have a pipe?’ he answered, without rising.
“‘Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych. I am the staff-captain.’
“‘It’s all the same! Won’t you have some tea? If you only knew how I am being tortured with anxiety.’
“‘I know all,’ I answered, going up to the bed.
“‘So much the better,’ he said. ‘I am not in a narrative mood.’
“‘Ensign, you have committed an offence for which I may have to answer as well as you.’
“‘Oh, that’ll do. What’s the harm? You know, we’ve gone halves in everything.’
“‘What sort of a joke do you think you are playing? Your sword, please!’ …
“‘Mitka, my sword!’
“‘Mitka brought the sword. My duty discharged, I sat down on the bed, facing Pechorin, and said: ‘Listen here, Grigori Aleksandrovich, you must admit that this is a bad business.’
“‘What is?’
“‘Why, that you have carried off Bela… Ah, it is that beast Azamat! … Come, confess!’ I said.
“‘But, supposing I am fond of her?’ …
“Well, what could I say to that? … I was nonplussed. After a short interval of silence, however, I told him that if Bela’s father were to claim her he would have to give her up.
“‘Not at all!’
“‘But he will get to know that she is here.’
“‘How?’
“Again I was nonplussed.
“‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Pechorin, rising to his feet. ‘You’re a kind-hearted man, you know; but, if we give that savage back his daughter, he will cut her throat or sell her. The deed is done, and the only thing we can do now is not to go out of our way to spoil matters. Leave Bela with me and keep my sword!’
“‘Show her to me, though,’ I said.
“‘She is behind that door. Only I wanted, myself, to see her to-day and wasn’t able to. She sits in the corner, muffled in her veil, and neither speaks nor looks up — timid as a wild chamois! I have hired the wife of our dukhan-keeper: she knows the Tartar language, and will look after Bela and accustom her to the idea that she belongs to me — for she shall belong to no one else!’ he added, banging his fist on the table.
“I assented to that too… What could I do? There are some people with whom you absolutely have to agree.”
“Well?” I asked Maksim Maksimych. “Did he really succeed in making her grow accustomed to him, or did she pine away in captivity from home-sickness?”
“Good gracious! how could she pine away from home-sickness? From the fortress she could see the very same hills as she could from the village — and these savages require nothing more. Besides, Grigori Aleksandrovich used to give her a present of some kind every day. At first she didn’t utter a word, but haughtily thrust away the gifts, which then fell to the lot of the dukhan-keeper’s wife and aroused her eloquence. Ah, presents! What won’t a woman do for a coloured rag! … But that is by the way… For a long time Grigori Aleksandrovich persevered with her, and meanwhile he studied the Tartar language and she began to understand ours. Little by little she grew accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively, askance; but she still pined and crooned her songs in an undertone, so that even I would feel heavy at heart when I heard her from the next room. One scene I shall never forget: I was walking past, and I looked in at the window; Bela was sitting on the stove-couch, her head sunk on her breast, and Grigori Aleksandrovich was standing, facing her.
“‘Listen, my Peri,’ he was saying. ‘Surely you know that you will have to be mine sooner or later — why, then, do you but torture me? Is it that you are in love with some Chechene? If so, I will let you go home at once.’
“She gave a scarcely perceptible start and shook her head.
“‘Or is it,’ he continued, ‘that I am utterly hateful to you?’
“She heaved a sigh.
“‘Or that your faith prohibits you from giving me a little of your love?’
“She turned pale and remained silent.
“‘Believe me, Allah is one and the same for all races; and, if he permits me to love you, why, then, should he prohibit you from requiting me by returning my love?’
“She gazed fixedly into his face, as though struck by that new idea. Distrust and a desire to be convinced were expressed in her eyes. What eyes they were! They sparkled just like two glowing coals.
“‘Listen, my dear, good Bela!’ continued Pechorin. ‘You see how I love you. I am ready to give up everything to make you cheerful once more. I want you to be happy, and, if you are going to be sad again, I shall die. Tell me, you will be more cheerful?’
“She fell into thought, her black eyes still fixed upon him. Then she smiled graciously and nodded her head in token of acquiescence.
“He took her by the hand and tried to induce her to kiss him. She defended herself feebly, and only repeated: ‘Please! Please! You mustn’t, you mustn’t!’
“He went on to insist; she began to tremble and weep.
“‘I am your captive,’ she said, ‘your slave; of course, you can compel me.’
“And then, again — tears.
“Grigori Aleksandrovich struck his forehead with his fist and sprang into the other room. I went in to see him, and found him walking moodily backwards and forwards with folded arms.
“‘Well, old man?’ I said to him.
“‘She is a devil — not a woman!’ he answered. ‘But I give you my word of honour that she shall be mine!’
“I shook my head.
“‘Will you bet with me?’ he said. ‘In a week’s time?’
“‘Very well,’ I answered.
“We shook hands on it and separated.
“The next day he immediately despatched an express messenger to Kizlyar to purchase some things for him. The messenger brought back a quite innumerable quantity of various Persian stuffs.
“‘What think you, Maksim Maksimych?’ he said to me, showing the presents. ‘Will our Asiatic beauty hold out against such a battery as this?’
“‘You don’t know the Circassian women,’ I answered. ‘They are not at all the same as the Georgian or the Transcaucasian Tartar women — not at all! They have their own principles, they are brought up differently.’
“Grigori Aleksandrovich smiled and began to whistle a march to himself.”
“AS things fell out, however,” continued Maksim Maksimych, “I was right, you see. The presents produced only half an effect. She became more gracious more trustful — but that was all. Pechorin accordingly determined upon a last expedient. One morning he ordered his horse to be saddled, dressed himself as a Circassian, armed himself, and went into her room.
“‘Bela,’ he said. ‘You know how I love you. I decided to carry you off, thinking that when you grew to know me you would give me your love. I was mistaken. Farewell! Re-main absolute mistress of all I possess. Return to your father if you like — you are free. I have acted wrongfully towards you, and I must punish myself. Farewell! I am going. Whither? — How should I know? Perchance I shall not have long to court the bullet or the sabre-stroke. Then remember me and forgive.’
“He turned away, and stretched out his hand to her in farewell. She did not take his hand, but remained silent.
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