The young men,
Grushnitski
amongst them, were having supper at the
large table.
large table.
Lermontov - A Hero of Our Time
.
She does not seem to notice Grushnitski’s absence at all.
“You will be agreeably surprised to-morrow,” I said to her.
“At what? ”
“That is a secret. . . You will find it out yourself, at the ball. ”
I finished up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; there were no other
guests present except Vera and a certain very amusing, little old
gentleman. I was in good spirits, and improvised various extraordinary
stories. Princess Mary sat opposite me and listened to my nonsense with
such deep, strained, and even tender attention that I grew ashamed of
myself. What had become of her vivacity, her coquetry, her caprices, her
haughty mien, her contemptuous smile, her absentminded glance? . . .
Vera noticed everything, and her sickly countenance was a picture of
profound grief. She was sitting in the shadow by the window, buried in a
wide arm-chair. . . I pitied her.
Then I related the whole dramatic story of our acquaintanceship, our
love--concealing it all, of course, under fictitious names.
So vividly did I portray my tenderness, my anxieties, my raptures; in
so favourable a light did I exhibit her actions and her character, that
involuntarily she had to forgive me for my flirtation with Princess
Mary.
She rose, sat down beside us, and brightened up. . . and it was only
at two o’clock in the morning that we remembered that the doctors had
ordered her to go to bed at eleven.
CHAPTER X. 13th June.
HALF an hour before the ball, Grushnitski presented himself to me in
the full splendour of the uniform of the Line infantry. Attached to
his third button was a little bronze chain, on which hung a double
lorgnette. Epaulettes of incredible size were bent backwards and upwards
in the shape of a cupid’s wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he
held cinnamon-coloured kid gloves and a forage-cap, and with his right he
kept every moment twisting his frizzled tuft of hair up into tiny curls.
Complacency and at the same time a certain diffidence were depicted upon
his face. His festal appearance and proud gait would have made me
burst out laughing, if such a proceeding had been in accordance with my
intentions.
He threw his cap and gloves on the table and began to pull down
the skirts of his coat and to put himself to rights before the
looking-glass. An enormous black handkerchief, which was twisted into a
very high stiffener for his cravat, and the bristles of which supported
his chin, stuck out an inch over his collar. It seemed to him to be
rather small, and he drew it up as far as his ears. As a result of
that hard work--the collar of his uniform being very tight and
uncomfortable--he grew red in the face.
“They say you have been courting my princess terribly these last few
days? ” he said, rather carelessly and without looking at me.
“‘Where are we fools to drink tea! ’” [271] I answered, repeating a pet
phrase of one of the cleverest rogues of past times, once celebrated in
song by Pushkin.
“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well? . . . Oh, the cursed Jew! . . . How it
cuts me under the armpits! . . . Have you got any scent? ”
“Good gracious, what more do you want? You are reeking of rose pomade as
it is. ”
“Never mind. Give me some”. . .
He poured half a phial over his cravat, his pocket-handkerchief, his
sleeves.
“You are going to dance? ” he asked.
“I think not. ”
“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka with Princess Mary,
and I scarcely know a single figure”. . .
“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you? ”
“Not yet”. . .
“Mind you are not forestalled”. . .
“Just so, indeed! ” he said, striking his forehead. “Good-bye. . . I will
go and wait for her at the entrance. ”
He seized his forage-cap and ran.
Half an hour later I also set off. The street was dark and deserted.
Around the assembly rooms, or inn--whichever you prefer--people were
thronging. The windows were lighted up, the strains of the regimental
band were borne to me on the evening breeze. I walked slowly; I felt
melancholy.
“Can it be possible,” I thought, “that my sole mission on earth is to
destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and to act, it
seems always to have been my fate to play a part in the ending of other
people’s dramas, as if, but for me, no one could either die or fall
into despair! I have been the indispensable person of the fifth act;
unwillingly I have played the pitiful part of an executioner or a
traitor. What object has fate had in this? . . . Surely, I have not been
appointed by destiny to be an author of middle-class tragedies and family
romances, or to be a collaborator with the purveyor of stories--for the
‘Reader’s Library,’ [272] for example? . . . How can I tell? . . . Are there
not many people who, in beginning life, think to end it like Lord Byron
or Alexander the Great, and, nevertheless, remain Titular Councillors
[273] all their days? ”
Entering the saloon, I concealed myself in a crowd of men, and began to
make my observations.
Grushnitski was standing beside Princess Mary and saying something with
great warmth. She was listening to him absent-mindedly and looking about
her, her fan laid to her lips. Impatience was depicted upon her face,
her eyes were searching all around for somebody. I went softly behind
them in order to listen to their conversation.
“You torture me, Princess! ” Grushnitski was saying. “You have changed
dreadfully since I saw you last”. . .
“You, too, have changed,” she answered, casting a rapid glance at him,
in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.
“I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible!
Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for
ever. ”
“Stop”. . .
“But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often
listened to with condescension--and just recently, too? ”. . .
“Because I do not like repetitions,” she answered, laughing.
“Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken! . . . I thought, fool that I was, that
these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope. . . No,
it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that
contemptible soldier’s cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for
your attention”. . .
“As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you”. . .
At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a
little, and went on rapidly:
“Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur
Grushnitski much better? ”. . .
“I do not agree with you,” I answered: “he is more youthful-looking
still in his uniform. ”
That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he
has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces
of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by
Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself
off.
“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that although he has always
been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be
interesting. . . in the grey cloak? ”. . .
She cast her eyes down and made no reply.
Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and
danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes,
sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third
quadrille she had begun to hate him.
“I did not expect this from you,” he said, coming up to me and taking my
arm.
“What? ”
“You are going to dance the mazurka with her? ” he asked in a solemn
tone. “She admitted it”. . .
“Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it”?
“Of course not. . . I ought to have expected such a thing from that
chit--that flirt. . . I will have my revenge, though! ”
“You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why
accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any
longer? ”. . .
“But why give me hopes? ”
“Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something--that I can
understand! But who ever hopes? ”
“You have won the wager, but not quite,” he said, with a malignant
smile.
The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other
cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me--all
the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her--she will
want to twice as much.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away
without saying a word.
“I shall sleep badly to-night,” she said to me when the mazurka was
over.
“Grushnitski is to blame for that. ”
“Oh, no! ”
And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I
would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.
The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her
carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was
dark and nobody could see.
I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.
The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the
large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been
talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with
me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile
gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of
Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air. . .
I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They
amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one’s guard, to catch every
glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to crush
conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly with one blow
to overthrow the whole immense and laboriously constructed edifice of
cunning and design--that is what I call life.
During supper Grushnitski kept whispering and exchanging winks with the
captain of dragoons.
CHAPTER XI. 14th June.
VERA and her husband left this morning for Kislovodsk. I met their
carriage as I was walking to Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me:
reproach was in her glance.
Who is to blame, then? Why will she not give me an opportunity of
seeing her alone? Love is like fire--if not fed it dies out. Perchance,
jealousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed to do.
I stayed a whole hour at Princess Ligovski’s. Mary has not been out, she
is ill. In the evening she was not on the boulevard. The newly formed
gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact assumed a menacing aspect.
I am glad that Princess Mary is ill; they might be guilty of some
impertinence towards her. Grushnitski goes about with dishevelled locks,
and wears an appearance of despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a
matter of fact; his vanity especially has been injured. But, you see,
there are some people in whom even despair is diverting! . . .
On my way home I noticed that something was lacking. I have not seen
her! She is ill! Surely I have not fallen in love with her in real
earnest? . . . What nonsense!
CHAPTER XII. 15th June.
AT eleven o’clock in the morning--the hour at which Princess Ligovski
is usually perspiring in the Ermolov baths--I walked past her house.
Princess Mary was sitting pensively at the window; on seeing me she
sprang up.
I entered the ante-room, there was nobody there, and, availing myself of
the freedom afforded by the local customs, I made my way, unannounced,
into the drawing-room.
Princess Mary’s charming countenance was shrouded with a dull pallor.
She was standing by the pianoforte, leaning one hand on the back of an
arm-chair; her hand was very faintly trembling. I went up to her softly
and said:
“You are angry with me? ”. . .
She lifted a deep, languid glance upon me and shook her head. Her lips
were about to utter something, but failed; her eyes filled with tears;
she sank into the arm-chair and buried her face in her hands.
“What is the matter with you? ” I said, taking her hand.
“You do not respect me! . . . Oh, leave me! ”. . .
I took a few steps. . . She drew herself up in the chair, her eyes
sparkled.
I stopped still, took hold of the handle of the door, and said:
“Forgive me, Princess. I have acted like a madman. . . It will not happen
another time; I shall see to that. . . But how can you know what has been
taking place hitherto within my soul? That you will never learn, and so
much the better for you. Farewell. ”
As I was going out, I seemed to hear her weeping.
I wandered on foot about the environs of Mount Mashuk till evening,
fatigued myself terribly and, on arriving home, flung myself on my bed,
utterly exhausted.
Werner came to see me.
“Is it true,” he asked, “that you are going to marry Princess Mary? ”
“What? ”
“The whole town is saying so. All my patients are occupied with that
important piece of news; but you know what these patients are: they know
everything. ”
“This is one of Grushnitski’s tricks,” I said to myself.
“To prove the falsity of these rumours, doctor, I may mention, as a
secret, that I am moving to Kislovodsk to-morrow”. . .
“And Princess Mary, too? ”
“No, she remains here another week”. . .
“So you are not going to get married? ”. . .
“Doctor, doctor! Look at me! Am I in the least like a bridegroom, or any
such thing? ”
“I am not saying so. . . But you know there are occasions. . . ” he added,
with a crafty smile--“in which an honourable man is obliged to marry,
and there are mothers who, to say the least, do not prevent such
occasions. . . And so, as a friend, I should advise you to be more
cautious. The air of these parts is very dangerous. How many handsome
young men, worthy of a better fate, have I not seen departing from here
straight to the altar! . . . Would you believe me, they were even going to
find a wife for me! That is to say, one person was--a lady belonging
to this district, who had a very pale daughter. I had the misfortune to
tell her that the latter’s colour would be restored after wedlock, and
then with tears of gratitude she offered me her daughter’s hand and the
whole of her own fortune--fifty souls, [28] I think. But I replied that
I was unfit for such an honour. ”
Werner left, fully convinced that he had put me on my guard.
I gathered from his words that various ugly rumours were already being
spread about the town on the subject of Princess Mary and myself:
Grushnitski shall smart for this!
CHAPTER XIII. 18th June.
I HAVE been in Kislovodsk three days now. Every day I see Vera at the
well and out walking. In the morning, when I awake, I sit by my window
and direct my lorgnette at her balcony. She has already been dressed
long ago, and is waiting for the signal agreed upon. We meet, as though
unexpectedly, in the garden which slopes down from our houses to the
well. The life-giving mountain air has brought back her colour and her
strength. Not for nothing is Narzan called the “Spring of Heroes. ” The
inhabitants aver that the air of Kislovodsk predisposes the heart to
love and that all the romances which have had their beginning at the
foot of Mount Mashuk find their consummation here. And, in very
fact, everything here breathes of solitude; everything has an air of
secrecy--the thick shadows of the linden avenues, bending over the
torrent which falls, noisy and foaming, from flag to flag and cleaves
itself a way between the mountains now becoming clad with verdure--the
mist-filled, silent ravines, with their ramifications straggling away
in all directions--the freshness of the aromatic air, laden with
the fragrance of the tall southern grasses and the white acacia--the
never-ceasing, sweetly-slumberous babble of the cool brooks, which,
meeting at the end of the valley, flow along in friendly emulation, and
finally fling themselves into the Podkumok. On this side, the ravine is
wider and becomes converted into a verdant dell, through which winds
the dusty road. Every time I look at it, I seem to see a carriage coming
along and a rosy little face looking out of the carriage-window. Many
carriages have already driven by--but still there is no sign of that
particular one. The village which lies behind the fortress has become
populous. In the restaurant, built upon a hill a few paces distant from
my lodgings, lights are beginning to flash in the evening through the
double row of poplars; noise and the jingling of glasses resound till
late at night.
In no place are such quantities of Kakhetian wine and mineral waters
drunk as here.
“And many are willing to mix the two,
But that is a thing I never do. ”
Every day Grushnitski and his gang are to be found brawling in the inn,
and he has almost ceased to greet me.
He only arrived yesterday, and has already succeeded in quarrelling with
three old men who were going to take their places in the baths before
him.
Decidedly, his misfortunes are developing a warlike spirit within him.
CHAPTER XIV. 22nd June.
AT last they have arrived. I was sitting by the window when I heard the
clattering of their carriage. My heart throbbed. . . What does it mean?
Can it be that I am in love? . . . I am so stupidly constituted that such a
thing might be expected of me.
I dined at their house. Princess Ligovski looked at me with much
tenderness, and did not leave her daughter’s side. . . a bad sign! On the
other hand, Vera is jealous of me in regard to Princess Mary--however,
I have been striving for that good fortune. What will not a woman do in
order to chagrin her rival? I remember that once a woman loved me
simply because I was in love with another woman. There is nothing more
paradoxical than the female mind; it is difficult to convince a woman of
anything; they have to be led into convincing themselves. The order of
the proofs by which they demolish their prejudices is most original;
to learn their dialectic it is necessary to overthrow in your own mind
every scholastic rule of logic. For example, the usual way:
“This man loves me; but I am married: therefore I must not love him. ”
The woman’s way:
“I must not love him, because I am married; but he loves
me--therefore”. . .
A few dots here, because reason has no more to say. But, generally,
there is something to be said by the tongue, and the eyes, and, after
these, the heart--if there is such a thing.
What if these notes should one day meet a woman’s eye?
“Slander! ” she will exclaim indignantly.
Ever since poets have written and women have read them (for which the
poets should be most deeply grateful) women have been called angels so
many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity of soul, they have
believed the compliment, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have
glorified Nero as a demigod. . .
It would be unreasonable were I to speak of women with such malignity--I
who have loved nothing else in the world--I who have always been ready
to sacrifice for their sake ease, ambition, life itself. . . But, you see,
I am not endeavouring, in a fit of vexation and injured vanity, to pluck
from them the magic veil through which only an accustomed glance can
penetrate. No, all that I say about them is but the result of
“A mind which coldly hath observed,
A heart which bears the stamp of woe. ” [29]
Women ought to wish that all men knew them as well as I because I have
loved them a hundred times better since I have ceased to be afraid of
them and have comprehended their little weaknesses.
By the way: the other day, Werner compared women to the enchanted forest
of which Tasso tells in his “Jerusalem Delivered. ” [30]
“So soon as you approach,” he said, “from all directions terrors, such
as I pray Heaven may preserve us from, will take wing at you: duty,
pride, decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt. . . You must simply go
straight on without looking at them; gradually the monsters disappear,
and, before you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the midst of which
blooms the green myrtle. On the other hand, woe to you if, at the first
steps, your heart trembles and you turn back! ”
CHAPTER XV. 24th June.
THIS evening has been fertile in events. About three versts from
Kislovodsk, in the gorge through which the Podkumok flows, there is
a cliff called the Ring. It is a naturally formed gate, rising upon
a lofty hill, and through it the setting sun throws its last flaming
glance upon the world. A numerous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at
the sunset through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not one of them
was thinking about the sun. I rode beside Princess Mary. On the way
home, we had to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even the
smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because the bottom is a perfect
kaleidoscope: it changes every day owing to the pressure of the current;
where yesterday there was a rock, to-day there is a cavity. I took
Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle and led it into the water, which
came no higher than its knees. We began to move slowly in a slanting
direction against the current. It is a well-known fact that, in crossing
rapid streamlets, you should never look at the water, because, if you
do, your head begins to whirl directly. I forgot to warn Princess Mary
of that.
We had reached the middle and were right in the vortex, when suddenly
she reeled in her saddle.
“I feel ill!
She does not seem to notice Grushnitski’s absence at all.
“You will be agreeably surprised to-morrow,” I said to her.
“At what? ”
“That is a secret. . . You will find it out yourself, at the ball. ”
I finished up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; there were no other
guests present except Vera and a certain very amusing, little old
gentleman. I was in good spirits, and improvised various extraordinary
stories. Princess Mary sat opposite me and listened to my nonsense with
such deep, strained, and even tender attention that I grew ashamed of
myself. What had become of her vivacity, her coquetry, her caprices, her
haughty mien, her contemptuous smile, her absentminded glance? . . .
Vera noticed everything, and her sickly countenance was a picture of
profound grief. She was sitting in the shadow by the window, buried in a
wide arm-chair. . . I pitied her.
Then I related the whole dramatic story of our acquaintanceship, our
love--concealing it all, of course, under fictitious names.
So vividly did I portray my tenderness, my anxieties, my raptures; in
so favourable a light did I exhibit her actions and her character, that
involuntarily she had to forgive me for my flirtation with Princess
Mary.
She rose, sat down beside us, and brightened up. . . and it was only
at two o’clock in the morning that we remembered that the doctors had
ordered her to go to bed at eleven.
CHAPTER X. 13th June.
HALF an hour before the ball, Grushnitski presented himself to me in
the full splendour of the uniform of the Line infantry. Attached to
his third button was a little bronze chain, on which hung a double
lorgnette. Epaulettes of incredible size were bent backwards and upwards
in the shape of a cupid’s wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he
held cinnamon-coloured kid gloves and a forage-cap, and with his right he
kept every moment twisting his frizzled tuft of hair up into tiny curls.
Complacency and at the same time a certain diffidence were depicted upon
his face. His festal appearance and proud gait would have made me
burst out laughing, if such a proceeding had been in accordance with my
intentions.
He threw his cap and gloves on the table and began to pull down
the skirts of his coat and to put himself to rights before the
looking-glass. An enormous black handkerchief, which was twisted into a
very high stiffener for his cravat, and the bristles of which supported
his chin, stuck out an inch over his collar. It seemed to him to be
rather small, and he drew it up as far as his ears. As a result of
that hard work--the collar of his uniform being very tight and
uncomfortable--he grew red in the face.
“They say you have been courting my princess terribly these last few
days? ” he said, rather carelessly and without looking at me.
“‘Where are we fools to drink tea! ’” [271] I answered, repeating a pet
phrase of one of the cleverest rogues of past times, once celebrated in
song by Pushkin.
“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well? . . . Oh, the cursed Jew! . . . How it
cuts me under the armpits! . . . Have you got any scent? ”
“Good gracious, what more do you want? You are reeking of rose pomade as
it is. ”
“Never mind. Give me some”. . .
He poured half a phial over his cravat, his pocket-handkerchief, his
sleeves.
“You are going to dance? ” he asked.
“I think not. ”
“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka with Princess Mary,
and I scarcely know a single figure”. . .
“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with you? ”
“Not yet”. . .
“Mind you are not forestalled”. . .
“Just so, indeed! ” he said, striking his forehead. “Good-bye. . . I will
go and wait for her at the entrance. ”
He seized his forage-cap and ran.
Half an hour later I also set off. The street was dark and deserted.
Around the assembly rooms, or inn--whichever you prefer--people were
thronging. The windows were lighted up, the strains of the regimental
band were borne to me on the evening breeze. I walked slowly; I felt
melancholy.
“Can it be possible,” I thought, “that my sole mission on earth is to
destroy the hopes of others? Ever since I began to live and to act, it
seems always to have been my fate to play a part in the ending of other
people’s dramas, as if, but for me, no one could either die or fall
into despair! I have been the indispensable person of the fifth act;
unwillingly I have played the pitiful part of an executioner or a
traitor. What object has fate had in this? . . . Surely, I have not been
appointed by destiny to be an author of middle-class tragedies and family
romances, or to be a collaborator with the purveyor of stories--for the
‘Reader’s Library,’ [272] for example? . . . How can I tell? . . . Are there
not many people who, in beginning life, think to end it like Lord Byron
or Alexander the Great, and, nevertheless, remain Titular Councillors
[273] all their days? ”
Entering the saloon, I concealed myself in a crowd of men, and began to
make my observations.
Grushnitski was standing beside Princess Mary and saying something with
great warmth. She was listening to him absent-mindedly and looking about
her, her fan laid to her lips. Impatience was depicted upon her face,
her eyes were searching all around for somebody. I went softly behind
them in order to listen to their conversation.
“You torture me, Princess! ” Grushnitski was saying. “You have changed
dreadfully since I saw you last”. . .
“You, too, have changed,” she answered, casting a rapid glance at him,
in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.
“I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible!
Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for
ever. ”
“Stop”. . .
“But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often
listened to with condescension--and just recently, too? ”. . .
“Because I do not like repetitions,” she answered, laughing.
“Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken! . . . I thought, fool that I was, that
these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope. . . No,
it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that
contemptible soldier’s cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for
your attention”. . .
“As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you”. . .
At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a
little, and went on rapidly:
“Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur
Grushnitski much better? ”. . .
“I do not agree with you,” I answered: “he is more youthful-looking
still in his uniform. ”
That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he
has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces
of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by
Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself
off.
“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that although he has always
been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be
interesting. . . in the grey cloak? ”. . .
She cast her eyes down and made no reply.
Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and
danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes,
sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third
quadrille she had begun to hate him.
“I did not expect this from you,” he said, coming up to me and taking my
arm.
“What? ”
“You are going to dance the mazurka with her? ” he asked in a solemn
tone. “She admitted it”. . .
“Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it”?
“Of course not. . . I ought to have expected such a thing from that
chit--that flirt. . . I will have my revenge, though! ”
“You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why
accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any
longer? ”. . .
“But why give me hopes? ”
“Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something--that I can
understand! But who ever hopes? ”
“You have won the wager, but not quite,” he said, with a malignant
smile.
The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other
cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me--all
the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her--she will
want to twice as much.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away
without saying a word.
“I shall sleep badly to-night,” she said to me when the mazurka was
over.
“Grushnitski is to blame for that. ”
“Oh, no! ”
And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I
would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.
The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her
carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was
dark and nobody could see.
I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.
The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the
large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been
talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with
me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile
gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of
Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air. . .
I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They
amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one’s guard, to catch every
glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to crush
conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly with one blow
to overthrow the whole immense and laboriously constructed edifice of
cunning and design--that is what I call life.
During supper Grushnitski kept whispering and exchanging winks with the
captain of dragoons.
CHAPTER XI. 14th June.
VERA and her husband left this morning for Kislovodsk. I met their
carriage as I was walking to Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me:
reproach was in her glance.
Who is to blame, then? Why will she not give me an opportunity of
seeing her alone? Love is like fire--if not fed it dies out. Perchance,
jealousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed to do.
I stayed a whole hour at Princess Ligovski’s. Mary has not been out, she
is ill. In the evening she was not on the boulevard. The newly formed
gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact assumed a menacing aspect.
I am glad that Princess Mary is ill; they might be guilty of some
impertinence towards her. Grushnitski goes about with dishevelled locks,
and wears an appearance of despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a
matter of fact; his vanity especially has been injured. But, you see,
there are some people in whom even despair is diverting! . . .
On my way home I noticed that something was lacking. I have not seen
her! She is ill! Surely I have not fallen in love with her in real
earnest? . . . What nonsense!
CHAPTER XII. 15th June.
AT eleven o’clock in the morning--the hour at which Princess Ligovski
is usually perspiring in the Ermolov baths--I walked past her house.
Princess Mary was sitting pensively at the window; on seeing me she
sprang up.
I entered the ante-room, there was nobody there, and, availing myself of
the freedom afforded by the local customs, I made my way, unannounced,
into the drawing-room.
Princess Mary’s charming countenance was shrouded with a dull pallor.
She was standing by the pianoforte, leaning one hand on the back of an
arm-chair; her hand was very faintly trembling. I went up to her softly
and said:
“You are angry with me? ”. . .
She lifted a deep, languid glance upon me and shook her head. Her lips
were about to utter something, but failed; her eyes filled with tears;
she sank into the arm-chair and buried her face in her hands.
“What is the matter with you? ” I said, taking her hand.
“You do not respect me! . . . Oh, leave me! ”. . .
I took a few steps. . . She drew herself up in the chair, her eyes
sparkled.
I stopped still, took hold of the handle of the door, and said:
“Forgive me, Princess. I have acted like a madman. . . It will not happen
another time; I shall see to that. . . But how can you know what has been
taking place hitherto within my soul? That you will never learn, and so
much the better for you. Farewell. ”
As I was going out, I seemed to hear her weeping.
I wandered on foot about the environs of Mount Mashuk till evening,
fatigued myself terribly and, on arriving home, flung myself on my bed,
utterly exhausted.
Werner came to see me.
“Is it true,” he asked, “that you are going to marry Princess Mary? ”
“What? ”
“The whole town is saying so. All my patients are occupied with that
important piece of news; but you know what these patients are: they know
everything. ”
“This is one of Grushnitski’s tricks,” I said to myself.
“To prove the falsity of these rumours, doctor, I may mention, as a
secret, that I am moving to Kislovodsk to-morrow”. . .
“And Princess Mary, too? ”
“No, she remains here another week”. . .
“So you are not going to get married? ”. . .
“Doctor, doctor! Look at me! Am I in the least like a bridegroom, or any
such thing? ”
“I am not saying so. . . But you know there are occasions. . . ” he added,
with a crafty smile--“in which an honourable man is obliged to marry,
and there are mothers who, to say the least, do not prevent such
occasions. . . And so, as a friend, I should advise you to be more
cautious. The air of these parts is very dangerous. How many handsome
young men, worthy of a better fate, have I not seen departing from here
straight to the altar! . . . Would you believe me, they were even going to
find a wife for me! That is to say, one person was--a lady belonging
to this district, who had a very pale daughter. I had the misfortune to
tell her that the latter’s colour would be restored after wedlock, and
then with tears of gratitude she offered me her daughter’s hand and the
whole of her own fortune--fifty souls, [28] I think. But I replied that
I was unfit for such an honour. ”
Werner left, fully convinced that he had put me on my guard.
I gathered from his words that various ugly rumours were already being
spread about the town on the subject of Princess Mary and myself:
Grushnitski shall smart for this!
CHAPTER XIII. 18th June.
I HAVE been in Kislovodsk three days now. Every day I see Vera at the
well and out walking. In the morning, when I awake, I sit by my window
and direct my lorgnette at her balcony. She has already been dressed
long ago, and is waiting for the signal agreed upon. We meet, as though
unexpectedly, in the garden which slopes down from our houses to the
well. The life-giving mountain air has brought back her colour and her
strength. Not for nothing is Narzan called the “Spring of Heroes. ” The
inhabitants aver that the air of Kislovodsk predisposes the heart to
love and that all the romances which have had their beginning at the
foot of Mount Mashuk find their consummation here. And, in very
fact, everything here breathes of solitude; everything has an air of
secrecy--the thick shadows of the linden avenues, bending over the
torrent which falls, noisy and foaming, from flag to flag and cleaves
itself a way between the mountains now becoming clad with verdure--the
mist-filled, silent ravines, with their ramifications straggling away
in all directions--the freshness of the aromatic air, laden with
the fragrance of the tall southern grasses and the white acacia--the
never-ceasing, sweetly-slumberous babble of the cool brooks, which,
meeting at the end of the valley, flow along in friendly emulation, and
finally fling themselves into the Podkumok. On this side, the ravine is
wider and becomes converted into a verdant dell, through which winds
the dusty road. Every time I look at it, I seem to see a carriage coming
along and a rosy little face looking out of the carriage-window. Many
carriages have already driven by--but still there is no sign of that
particular one. The village which lies behind the fortress has become
populous. In the restaurant, built upon a hill a few paces distant from
my lodgings, lights are beginning to flash in the evening through the
double row of poplars; noise and the jingling of glasses resound till
late at night.
In no place are such quantities of Kakhetian wine and mineral waters
drunk as here.
“And many are willing to mix the two,
But that is a thing I never do. ”
Every day Grushnitski and his gang are to be found brawling in the inn,
and he has almost ceased to greet me.
He only arrived yesterday, and has already succeeded in quarrelling with
three old men who were going to take their places in the baths before
him.
Decidedly, his misfortunes are developing a warlike spirit within him.
CHAPTER XIV. 22nd June.
AT last they have arrived. I was sitting by the window when I heard the
clattering of their carriage. My heart throbbed. . . What does it mean?
Can it be that I am in love? . . . I am so stupidly constituted that such a
thing might be expected of me.
I dined at their house. Princess Ligovski looked at me with much
tenderness, and did not leave her daughter’s side. . . a bad sign! On the
other hand, Vera is jealous of me in regard to Princess Mary--however,
I have been striving for that good fortune. What will not a woman do in
order to chagrin her rival? I remember that once a woman loved me
simply because I was in love with another woman. There is nothing more
paradoxical than the female mind; it is difficult to convince a woman of
anything; they have to be led into convincing themselves. The order of
the proofs by which they demolish their prejudices is most original;
to learn their dialectic it is necessary to overthrow in your own mind
every scholastic rule of logic. For example, the usual way:
“This man loves me; but I am married: therefore I must not love him. ”
The woman’s way:
“I must not love him, because I am married; but he loves
me--therefore”. . .
A few dots here, because reason has no more to say. But, generally,
there is something to be said by the tongue, and the eyes, and, after
these, the heart--if there is such a thing.
What if these notes should one day meet a woman’s eye?
“Slander! ” she will exclaim indignantly.
Ever since poets have written and women have read them (for which the
poets should be most deeply grateful) women have been called angels so
many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity of soul, they have
believed the compliment, forgetting that, for money, the same poets have
glorified Nero as a demigod. . .
It would be unreasonable were I to speak of women with such malignity--I
who have loved nothing else in the world--I who have always been ready
to sacrifice for their sake ease, ambition, life itself. . . But, you see,
I am not endeavouring, in a fit of vexation and injured vanity, to pluck
from them the magic veil through which only an accustomed glance can
penetrate. No, all that I say about them is but the result of
“A mind which coldly hath observed,
A heart which bears the stamp of woe. ” [29]
Women ought to wish that all men knew them as well as I because I have
loved them a hundred times better since I have ceased to be afraid of
them and have comprehended their little weaknesses.
By the way: the other day, Werner compared women to the enchanted forest
of which Tasso tells in his “Jerusalem Delivered. ” [30]
“So soon as you approach,” he said, “from all directions terrors, such
as I pray Heaven may preserve us from, will take wing at you: duty,
pride, decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt. . . You must simply go
straight on without looking at them; gradually the monsters disappear,
and, before you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the midst of which
blooms the green myrtle. On the other hand, woe to you if, at the first
steps, your heart trembles and you turn back! ”
CHAPTER XV. 24th June.
THIS evening has been fertile in events. About three versts from
Kislovodsk, in the gorge through which the Podkumok flows, there is
a cliff called the Ring. It is a naturally formed gate, rising upon
a lofty hill, and through it the setting sun throws its last flaming
glance upon the world. A numerous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at
the sunset through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not one of them
was thinking about the sun. I rode beside Princess Mary. On the way
home, we had to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even the
smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because the bottom is a perfect
kaleidoscope: it changes every day owing to the pressure of the current;
where yesterday there was a rock, to-day there is a cavity. I took
Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle and led it into the water, which
came no higher than its knees. We began to move slowly in a slanting
direction against the current. It is a well-known fact that, in crossing
rapid streamlets, you should never look at the water, because, if you
do, your head begins to whirl directly. I forgot to warn Princess Mary
of that.
We had reached the middle and were right in the vortex, when suddenly
she reeled in her saddle.
“I feel ill!
