A Hero of Our Time by M. Y. Lermontov (best ereader for pdf .txt) 📖

“Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with her!”

“It was like this: in spite of Pechorin’s prohibition, she went out of the fortress and down to the river. It was a very hot day, you know, and she sat on a rock and dipped her feet in the water. Up crept Kazbich, pounced upon her, silenced her, and dragged her into the bushes. Then he sprang on his horse and made off. In the meantime she succeeded in crying out, the sentries took the alarm, fired, but wide of the mark; and thereupon we arrived on the scene.”

“But what did Kazbich want to carry her off for?”

“Good gracious! Why, everyone knows these Circassians are a race of thieves; they can’t keep their hands off anything that is left lying about! They may not want a thing, but they will steal it, for all that. Still, you mustn’t be too hard on them. And, besides, he had been in love with her for a long time.”

“And Bela died?”

“Yes, she died, but she suffered for a long time, and we were fairly knocked up with her, I can tell you. About ten o’clock in the evening she came to herself. We were sitting by her bed. As soon as ever she opened her eyes she began to call Pechorin.

“‘I am here beside you, my janechka’ (that is, ‘my darling’), he answered, taking her by the hand.

“‘I shall die,’ she said.

“We began to comfort her, telling her that the doctor had promised infallibly to cure her. She shook her little head and turned to the wall — she did not want to die! …

“At night she became delirious, her head burned, at times a feverish paroxysm convulsed her whole body. She talked incoherently about her father, her brother; she yearned for the mountains, for her home… Then she spoke of Pechorin also, called him various fond names, or reproached him for having ceased to love his janechka.

He listened to her in silence, his head sunk in his hands; but yet, during the whole time, I did not notice a single tear-drop on his lashes. I do not know whether he was actually unable to weep or was mastering himself; but for my part I have never seen anything more pitiful.

“Towards morning the delirium passed off. For an hour or so she lay motionless, pale, and so weak that it was hardly possible to observe that she was breathing. After that she grew better and began to talk: only about what, think you? Such thoughts come only to the dying! … She lamented that she was not a Christian, that in the other world her soul would never meet the soul of Grigori Aleksandrovich, and that in Paradise another woman would be his companion. The thought occurred to me to baptize her before her death. I told her my idea; she looked at me undecidedly, and for a long time was unable to utter a word. Finally she answered that she would die in the faith in which she had been born. A whole day passed thus. What a change that day made in her! Her pale cheeks fell in, her eyes grew ever so large, her lips burned. She felt a consuming heat within her, as though a red-hot blade was piercing her breast.

“The second night came on. We did not close our eyes or leave the bedside. She suffered terribly, and groaned; and directly the pain began to abate she endeavoured to assure Grigori Aleksandrovich that she felt better, tried to persuade him to go to bed, kissed his hand and would not let it out of hers. Before the morning she began to feel the death agony and to toss about. She knocked the bandage off, and the blood flowed afresh. When the wound was bound up again she grew quiet for a moment and begged Pechorin to kiss her. He fell on his knees beside the bed, raised her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to hers — which were growing cold. She threw her trembling arms closely round his neck, as if with that kiss she wished to yield up her soul to him. — No, she did well to die! Why, what would have become of her if Grigori Aleksandrovich had abandoned her? And that is what would have happened, sooner or later.

“During half the following day she was calm, silent and docile, however much the doctor tortured her with his fomentations and mixtures.

“‘Good heavens!’ I said to him, ‘you know you said yourself that she was certain to die, so what is the good of all these preparations of yours?’

“‘Even so, it is better to do all this,’ he replied, ‘so that I may have an easy conscience.’

“A pretty conscience, forsooth!

“After midday Bela began to suffer from thirst. We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside than in the room; we placed ice round the bed — all to no purpose. I knew that that intolerable thirst was a sign of the approaching end, and I told Pechorin so.

“‘Water, water!’ she said in a hoarse voice, raising herself up from the bed.

“Pechorin turned pale as a sheet, seized a glass, filled it, and gave it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and began to say a prayer — I can’t remember what… Yes, my friend, many a time have I seen people die in hospitals or on the field of battle, but this was something altogether different! Still, this one thing grieves me, I must confess: she died without even once calling me to mind. Yet I loved her, I should think, like a father! … Well, God forgive her! … And, to tell the truth, what am I that she should have remembered me when she was dying? …

“As soon as she had drunk the water, she grew easier — but in about three minutes she breathed her last! We put a looking-glass to her lips — it was undimmed!

“I led Pechorin from the room, and we went on to the fortress rampart. For a long time we walked side by side, to and fro, speaking not a word and with our hands clasped behind our backs. His face expressed nothing out of the common — and that vexed me. Had I been in his place, I should have died of grief. At length he sat down on the ground in the shade and began to draw something in the sand with his stick. More for form’s sake than anything, you know, I tried to console him and began to talk. He raised his head and burst into a laugh! At that laugh a cold shudder ran through me… I went away to order a coffin.

“I confess it was partly to distract my thoughts that I busied myself in that way. I possessed a little piece of Circassian stuff, and I covered the coffin with it, and decked it with some Circassian silver lace which Grigori Aleksandrovich had bought for Bela herself.

“Early next morning we buried her behind the fortress, by the river, beside the spot where she had sat for the last time. Around her little grave white acacia shrubs and elder-trees have now grown up. I should have liked to erect a cross, but that would not have done, you know — after all, she was not a Christian.”

“And what of Pechorin?” I asked.

“Pechorin was ill for a long time, and grew thin, poor fellow; but we never spoke of Bela from that time forth. I saw that it would be dis-agreeable to him, so what would have been the use? About three months later he was appointed to the E–- Regiment, and departed for Georgia. We have never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, somebody told me not long ago that he had returned to Russia — but it was not in the general orders for the corps. Besides, to the like of us news is late in coming.”

Hereupon — probably to drown sad memories — he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of learning news a year late.

I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen.

In an hour’s time a chance of proceeding on our journey presented itself. The snowstorm subsided, the sky became clear, and we set off. On the way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on Bela and Pechorin.

“You have not heard what became of Kazbich?” I asked.

“Kazbich? In truth, I don’t know. I have heard that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there is a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who rides about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our bullets, and bows politely whenever one hums near him — but it can scarcely be the same person!” …

In Kobi, Maksim Maksimych and I parted company. I posted on, and he, on account of his heavy luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no expectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, and, if you like, I will tell you how — it is quite a history… You must acknowledge, though, that Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all respect… If you admit that, I shall be fully rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy story.