"Hero of Our Time" V. G.

Belinsky
The distinguishing characteristic of our literature lies in the sharp opposition of its manifestations. Take any European literature and you will see there are no leaps from the greatest creations to the most banal ones in any of them: the greatest and the most banal creations are connected by a multitude of stages in descending or ascending order, depending on which end you look from. Alongside an ingenious artistic creation you will see a multitude of creations belonging to strong artistic talents, and after them an endless column of superior, noteworthy, decent, etc. belletristic works, so that you come to the products of ordinary mediocrity not suddenly, but gradually and imperceptibly.* The most mediocre works of foreign belles lettres bear the stamp of more or less culture, knowledge of society or, at least, the literacy of the authors. And for this reason, all European literatures are so prolific and rich that they do not leave the reader without a reserve of intellectual titillation for an instant. Even French literature, poor and paltry in artistic creations, is hardly worse off than others in belletristic works, thanks to which it maintains its exclusive dominion over the European reading public. In opposition to this, our young literature may justifiably pride itself in a significant number of artistic creations and is beggarly poor in good belletristic works, which, naturally, should far exceed the prior in quantity. In the age of Katherine our literature had Derzhavin and none who Belinsky viewed literature as comprised of three distinct components: First, poesy (poesija, translated here as "poetry"), which is the creative literature and is similar to German Dichtung. Second, belles lettres (belletristika), which was supposed by Belinsky to convey to the masses the ideal values of poesy. Third, journalism (dzhurnalistika), which included book reviews that attained a lesser degree of poesy. 1
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even approximated him. The now half-forgotten Fonvinzin and the forgotten Khemnitser and Bogdanovich were the only noteworthy practitioners of belles lettres of this time. Krylov, Zhukovsky and Batyushkov were the poetic leading lights of Alexander I's age, and Kapnist, Karamzin (speaking of him not as an historian), Dmitriev, Ozerov and a few others propagated belles lettres of that time in a brilliant fashion. From the 20's to the 30's of this century our literature came alive: Zhukovsky and Krylov had yet by far to end their poetic reigns when Pushkin appeared, the first great Russian national poet, an artist in every sense. And he was escorted and surrounded by a crowd of more or less noteworthy talents, the indubitable merits of whom are hindered only by the misfortune of being Pushkin's contemporaries. But then, the Pushkin era was unusually (in comparison with the preceding and subsequent eras) rich with brilliant belletristic talents, a few of which rose to poetry in their own works, and although some already are not read, they enjoyed much public attention in their own time and intensely occupied the public with their works, mostly small ones placed in journals and almanacs. The beginning of the fourth decade was marked by a novelistic and dramatic movement and big, unrealized hopes: "Jurij Miloslavskij" provided big hopes, "Torkvato Tasso" also provided big hopes*... and many provided big hopes, but they have now turned out to be completely hopeless... But, in this period of hopes and hopelessness shines a clear star of great creative talent. We speak of Gogol', who, unfortunately, has printed nothing since Pushkin's death, and whose last work the Russian public read in "The Contemporary"** in 1836, although rumors of

"Jurij Miloslavskij, or the Russians in the year 1612" [Jurij Miloslavskij, ili Russkie v 1612 godu] (M. N. Zagoskin's historical novel, 1829); "Torkvato Tasso" (N. V. Kukol'nik's dramatic fantasy, 1833)
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"The Contemporary" [Sovremennik] was a literary journal started and, for a while, 2

his new works have still not quieted... 1830 was a fatal year for our literature: journals were shut down one after another,*** the almanacs bored the public and were shut down, and in 1834 "Library for Reading" ["Bilioteka dlja Chteniia"] collected in itself the labors of almost all famous and unknown poets and critics, as if intentionally in order to show the limitedness of their activity and the poverty of Russian literature... But we shall speak of all this soon in a special article. ** This time we shall directly state our main thesis that the distinguishing characteristic of Russian literature is the sudden flashes of strong and even great artistic talents and, with a few exceptions, the reader's eternal saying: "There are many books, but nothing to read". Mr. Lermontov's talent belongs to the number of such strong artistic talents that have unexpectedly appeared in the midst of the emptiness surrounding them. edited by A. S. Pushkin; it is perhaps the most well known literary journal of the period and was published under different editors on and off throughout the 19th century. In 1830, the journals "Slavjanin" ["The Slav"], "Russkij zritel'" ["The Russian Observer"], "Vestnik Evropy" ["The Herald of Europe"], "Atenej"[] and "Moskovskij vestnik" ["The Moscow Herald"] ceased to exist; "Otetchestvennye zapiski" ["Notes of the Fatherland"] and "Galateja" were temporarily shut down. In 1832 I. V. Kireevskij's "Evropeets" ["The European"] was banned; in 1834, Polevoj's "Moskovskij telegraf" ["The Moscow Telgraph"]; in 1836, Nadezhdin's "Telescop" ["Telescope"] and "Molva" ["The Rumor"] were also banned. Refers, evidently, to the article "Russian Literature in the year 1840" ["Russkaja Literatura v 1840 godu"], Belinsky PSS, T. 4, No. 78.
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In "Library for Reading" for 1834, a very few of Pushkin's and Zhukovsky's poems were printed. Russian poetry subsequently found its champion in "The Contemporary", where, besides the poetry of the publisher himself, the poetry of Zhukovsky and a few others frequently appeared***, and where Pushkin's "The Captain's Daughter" ["Kapitanskaia Dochka", 1836], Gogol''s "The Nose" ["Nos", 1836], "The Carriage" ["Koljaska", 1836] and "A Business Man's Morning" ["Utro delovogo cheloveka", 1836], a scene from Gogol''s comedy, were placed, not to mention a few remarkable belletristic works and critical articles. Although this half-journal, half-almanac was published by Pushkin for only a year, the posthumous works of its founder were printed in it for a long time and "The Contemporary" long afterward was the single sanctuary of Russian poetry* concealed from periodical publications with the start of "Library for Reading". In 1835 a small book of Kol'tsov's poetry came out. He has since constantly published his lyrical works in various periodicals.** Kol'tsov attracted universal attention, but more because of his poet-self-made-man and poet-prasol*** quality than the merit and essence of In "The Contemporary" (1836) besides Pushkin's and Zhukovsky's poetry, poems from D. Davydov, A. Kol'tsov, F. Tjutchev and others were printed. After Pushkin's death, in 1837-1839, in the "The Contemporary's" poetry section, together with Zhukovsky, Kol'tsov, F. Glinkaja, such versifiers as Ajbulat, P. Obodovskij, I. Bek, M Mezhakov and others were printed, which testified to the indubitable faltering of the journal. A. V. Kol'tsov printed his poems in "The Rumor", "The Telescope", "Moscow Observer", "The Contemporary" A prasol is a butcher and vendor of meats. Kol'tsov was born to one of the prasol families of the Voronezh Region where they were the most common type of merchants. 4
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his creative process. He is to this day not understood, not appreciated as a poet outside his personal circumstances, and only a few have come to realize all the depth, breadth and bountiful power of his talent and see in him not an ephemeral, although noteworthy, phenomenon of periodical literature, but a true priest of high art. Almost at the same time as the publication of Kol'tsov's first poems, Mr. Benediktov also appeared with his poems. But his muse did far more to produce public talk and exclamations than to enrich our literature. Benediktov's poems are a noteworthy, interesting, and also deeply instructive appearance in that they negatively elucidate the mystery of art and at the very same time attest to the truth that any external talent that blinds eyes with the external side of art and emerges not from inspiration, but from an easily inflamed nature, exits the arena as quietly and unnoticeably as it once noisily and brightly appeared on it****. Thanks to a strange coincidence (as a consequence of which Krasov's poems fell into "Library for Reading" and appeared there with the name of Mr. Bernet), Mr. Krasov, who until that time printed his works only in Moscow publications, received general acknowledgement.* Indeed, his lyrical works often distinguish themselves with a fiery, albeit shallow feeling, and

"The Poems of Vladimir Benediktov" ["Stikhotvorenija Vladimira Benediktova"] came out in 1835. Belinsky was the first critic to come out against Benediktov and to show that the latter had "... a unceasing lack of self-control of his thoughts, verse, and language itself, which exposes an absence of feeling, imagination, and consequently, poetry." Belinsky maintained a disregard for Benediktov's poetry throughout his literary career. Belinsky's articles played a decisive role in the onset of a universal cooling toward Benediktov's poetry, which had enjoyed great success in the thirties. On Feb. 25, 1839, Belinsky wrote I. I. Panaev: "Imagine -- what a tragedy: a student of the Mezhevyi Institute, a certain M., stole a notebook of Krasov's poems from me and it's fallen into Senkovskij's hands, who is treating it as his property. Would it be possible to allude to this in "The Literary Supplement"?" Three of Krasov's poems were printed in "Library for Reading" (1839) "with the name of Mr. Bernet": "Elegy", "A Dream" ["Son"] and "A Song" ["Pes'nja"]. 5
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sometimes even with artistic form. After Mr. Krasov, the poems under the mark "t"** deserve attention. They are distinguished by a scorned, suffering and diseased feeling, by a kind of monolithic originality, by frequently fortunate twists on the constantly prevailing theme of repentance and reconciliation, and sometimes even by charming poetic symbols. Those familiar with the condition of spirit which is expressed in these poems will never pass them up without soulful sympathy; those in the very same condition of spirit naturally exaggerate the poems' merits; people either unfamiliar with such suffering or too normal in spirit may not give them due consideration: such is the influence and such is the lot of poets in whose creations the universal is overshadowed by their individuality. In any case, t's poems are noteworthy appearances of the literature contemporary to them, and their historical significance is subject to no doubt.*

"Theta" was the psuedonym of Ivan Petrovich Kljushnikov, a university comrade of Belinsky and a member of the Stankevich circle. Kljushnikov's works were printed in "The Moscow Observer", "Notes of the Fatherland" and "The Contemporary". Later, in a letter to V. P. Botkin on April 4, 1843, Belinsky gave a negative evaluation of Kljushnikov's work: "..?........."
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Perhaps it will seem strange that we have not mentioned Mr. Kukol'nik, such a prolific poet and one so exalted by "Library for Reading".** We fully acknowledge his merits, which are not subject to any doubt, but about which there is nothing new to say. Poetic passages do not redeem the meaninglessness of an entire creation, just as two or three fortunate monologues do comprise a drama. Let a drama consisting of three thousand verses have up to thirty or, if you like, fifty good lyrical verses, and it will still not be less boring and tiresome because of this if it has neither action, characters, nor truth. That someone has written a great number of dramas still does not constitute merit or deservedness, especially if all the dramas are alike as two drops of water. About talent, not a word. But the degree of talent -- there is a question! If a talent does not have enough strength to draw even with its objectives and undertakings, it produces only a sterile flower when you await fruit from it. So that we are not suspected of bias, I suppose we will again mention Mr. Bernet, in many of whose poems sometimes flash bright sparks of poetry; but not one of them, large or small, represented anything complete or perfect. Moreover, Bernet's talent goes from the top down, and his last poems are consequently weaker than the first. As such, people are already ceasing to speak of the first ones.*** Perhaps we missed a few more versifiers with a glimmer of talent; but is it worth stopping over perennial plants that are so

Senkovskij, for example, in connection with the appearance of Kukol'nik's drama "Torkvato Tasso", wrote: "For me there are no models in literature: everything is a model that is excellent, and I exclaim just as loudly "Great Kukol'nik!" before his vision of Tasso and the demise of Lucretia as I exclaim "Great Byron!" before many passages of Byron's work ("Biblioteka dlja chteniia" 1834, t. 1, otd. V, str. 37). E. Bernet (the psuedonym of A. K. Zhukovskij) worked, starting in 1837, for the journals "Library for Reading", "Literary Supplement to the Russian Invalid", "The Contemporary", "Son of the Fatherland". A volume of his poems came out in 1837; the poemy "Count Mets" ["Graf Mets"] in 1837 and "Elena" in 1838. 7
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common, so ordinary and only bloom for one instant? Is it worth pausing over them, since they are at least flowers and not dry grass? No,

Lest the morrow hinder it, Let us, therefore, live to-day.**

"Spjashchij v grobe, mirno spi Zhizn'ju polzyjusja, zhivushchii!" A quotation from Schiller's ballad "Feast of Victory" ["Torzhestvo pobeditelej"] in Zhukovsky's translation. The English employed above is from J. G. Fischer's 1883 translation of Schiller's works (Philadelphia).

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And for this reason we turn to the living. But of these only Kol'tsov promises a life which does not fear death, for his poetry is not contemporarily important but is, regardless, a noteworthy appearance. None of those who appeared together with him and after him can be placed on a level with him, and he long stood at a spacious distance from all others when suddenly a new bright luminary rose on the horizon of our poetry and immediately turned out to be a star of the first magnitude. We are talking about Lermontov, who appeared as an unknown in 1838's "Literary Supplement to the Russian Invalid" ["Literaturnoe dobavlenie k Russkomu Invalidu"] with the poema [A story in verse, sometimes epical in nature] "A Song About Tsar Ivan Vasilevich, his Young Bodyguard and the Valiant Merchant Kalashnikov" ["Pesnja pro Tsarja Ivana Vasilevicha, molodogo oprichnika i udalogo kuptsa Kalashnikova"]*, and since 1839 constantly continues to appear in "Notes of the Fatherland" ["Otetchestvennye zapiski"]. His poema, despite its great artistic merit, complete originality and extraordinariness, did not attract particular attention of all the public and was noted by only a few, but each of his small works aroused general and intense enthusiasm.** Everyone saw something completely new and original in them; everyone was struck by the power of inspiration, the depth and intensity of feeling, the elegance of fancy, the vivaciousness and the sharply palpable presence of thought in artistic

Belinsky, evidently, was not aware that Lermontov's first appearance in print was in 1830, when his poem "Spring" ["Vesna"] was placed in the journal "Atenej" (ch. IV) and signed with the letter "L.". In 1835, the poema "Khadzhi Abrek" was printed in "Library for Reading" (t. XI), and "Borodino" was published in "The Contemporary". In a review of Bernet's poem "Elena" (1838), Belinsky wrote in connection with the appearance of "A Song About the Merchant Kalashnikov": "We do not know the name of this song's author.., but if this is the first attempt of a young poet, then we are not afraid of falling into false predictions in saying that our literature is cultivating a strong and distinctive talent."
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form. Leaving comparison aside for now, we shall presently note only that, with all his depth of thought, energy of expression and diversity of content (in which he hardly need fear competition), the form of Kol'tsov's poems, despite their artistic quality, is always the same, always singularly artless. Kol'tsov is not just a folk poet. No, he is above that, for if his songs are comprehensible to any plebeian, his meditations are inaccessible to anyone; but at the same time, he cannot be called a national poet, for his powerful talent cannot exit the vicious circle of folk ingenuousness. This is an ingenious plebeian, in whose soul arise questions peculiar only to people developed by science and education, and who poses these deep questions in the form of folk poetry. Consequently, he is not translatable into any language and is understood only at home and only by his compatriots. "A Song About Tsar Ivan Vasileyich, His Young Bodyguard and the Valiant Merchant Kalashnikov" demonstrates that Lermontov is capable of rendering the phenomena of immediate Russian life in a folk-poetic form peculiar to him alone, while others of his works penetrated with Russian soul exhibit that global form peculiar to poetry that has crossed the line from natural to artistic, and which, not ceasing to be national, is accessible in any age and any country.*

-[Belinsky's note] Since Lermontov's poems will soon come to light in a special book, we shall speak of them in more detail at another time in a special article.

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When two poems in the first two volumes of "Notes of the Fatherland", 1839,** aroused so much public interest in Lermontov and secured him the name of a poet with big hopes, Lermontov suddenly appeared with the story "Bela", written in prose***. This surprised everyone all the more pleasantly because it revealed still more the strength of the young talent and demonstrated his diversity and versatility. In the story Lermontov turns up as the same kind of creator as in his poems. From the first, one was able to note that this story came not from a desire to interest the public exclusively with its favorite type of literature, not from a blind urge to do that which everyone does, but from the same spring from which his poems came -- from a deep, creative nature, foreign to any inducement but inspiration. Lyrical poetry and the story of contemporary life have come together in one talent. Such a unification of such apparently contrary types of poetry is not a rarity in our time. Schiller and Goethe were lyric poets, novelists and playwrights, although the lyrical element always remained predominant and prevalent. "Faust" itself is a lyrical work in dramatic form. The poetry of our time is mainly the novel and the drama, but lyricism remains a common element of poetry anyway because it is a

In the first two volumes of "Notes of the Fatherland" (1839) two of Lermontov's poems were printed -- "Meditation" ["Duma"] and "Poet" ["Poet"]. Belinsky wrote about the first of them that same year in a review of Russian journals that it was "Mr. Lermontov's energetic, powerful in form, albeit a bit starry-eyed in content, poem". He talked about "Poet" as a work that was "noteworthy by virtue of its many sublime verses and just as starry-eted in content". The story "Bela" was printed in "Notes of the Fatherland" ["Otetchestvenye zapiski" 1839, t. II, No. 3, otd. III, str. 167-212]. Belinsky joyfully welcomed this work in the article "Russian Journals" ["Russkie zhurnali"]: ""Bela" is a story from Mr. Lermontov, a young poet with an extraordinary talent. Here for the first time Mr. Lermontov gives an attempt at prose -and this attempt is equal to his high poetic giftedness... The reading of Mr. Lermontov's marvelous story can be useful in many ways, among them as an antidote to the reading of Mr. Marlinsky's stories." 11
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universal element of the human soul. Nearly every poet begins with lyricism just as every people begins with it. Walter Scott himself crossed to the novel from lyrical epic poems. Only the literature of the North American states began not with lyricism, but with Cooper's novel, and this phenomenon is as strange as the country in which it occurred.* It may be this is because North American literature is a continuation of British literature. Our literature also presents a completely exceptional case: we are all at once experiencing all the aspects of European life which developed subsequently over a period of time in the West. Only until Pushkin was our poetry mainly lyrical. Pushkin was limited for a short time to lyricism and soon switched to the poema, and from that to drama. As a full representative of the spirit of his times, he also made an attempt at the novel: in "The Contemporary" in 1837 six chapters (with the beginning of the seventh) from his unfinished novel "Peter the Great's Negro" ["Arap Petra Velikogo"], the fourth chapter of which was in "Northern Flowers" ["Severnie tsveti"] in 1829. Pushkin began writing stories only in the last years of his unfinished life. But it is evident that his real forte was lyricism, the story in verse (poema) and the drama, for his prose efforts are by far not the equal of his poetic ones. His best story, "The Captain's Daughter", with all its enormous merits cannot compare in any way with his poemas and dramas. It is no more than a superior belletristic work with poetic and even artistic details.* His other stories, especially "The Tales of Belkin"

Belinsky judged the morals of hypocritical, mercenary America severely. On August 16, 1837 he wrote M. A. Bakunin: "While living in Pjatigorsk, I read a lot of novels and among them a few of Cooper's, from which I fully understood the poetry of the North American states: my blood, stagnant and thickened with slime and cobwebs, but still not cooled, boiled with indignation at this vilely virtuous and honest society of mercenaries..." For the entire duration of his career, Belinsky undervalued Pushkin's prose. But he reacted to "The Blackamoor of Peter the Great" with delight: "What simplicity and at the same time profundity, what a brush, what colors! Yes, if Pushkin had finished this novel, Russian 12
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["Povesti pokojnogo Ivana Petrovicha Belkina", 1831] belong exclusively to the belletristic arena. It may be that this is the reason that the novel, begun so long ago, was not finished. Lermontov is equally proficient in prose and poetry, and we are certain that with much development of his artistic career he will proceed directly to drama.** Our proposition is not arbitrary: it is based as much on the fullness of dramatic movement noted in Lermontov's stories as on the spirit of the present age, which is especially propitious for the unification of all forms of poetry in one person. The latter circumstance is very important, for the art of any people also has its own historical development in consequence of which the character and career of a poet are defined. It may be that Pushkin too would have been as great a novelist as lyricist and playwright if he came around later and had a forerunner similar to himself.

"Bela" was at the same time a separate and finished story and just an excerpt from a large

literature could have congratulated itself on a truly artistic novel." As regards "The Captain's Daughter" Belinsky later characterized it in the eleventh article of "The Works of Aleksandr Pushkin" ["Sochineniia Aleksandra Pushkina"] as "something akin to "Onegin" in prose." Belinsky was unaware of the dramas Lermontov began in the thirties: "The Spaniards" ["Ispantsi", 1830], "Menschen und Leidenschaften", 1830, "A Strange Man" ["Strannyj chelovek", 1831], and also the later plays "Masquerade" ["Maskarad", 1835] and "Two Brothers" ["Dva brata", 1836] since they were not published during the poet's lifetime. Belinsky later became acquainted with "Masquerade", which was published in 1842.
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composition, like "Fatalist" and "Taman", which were subsequently printed in "Notes of the Fatherland". They now appear together with "Maksim Maksimych", "Introduction to Pechorin's Journal" and "Princess Mary" under one title -- "A Hero of Our Time". This common name is not the author's caprice; in the same way, it should not be concluded from the title that the stories contained in these two books are the narratives of a certain man, to whom the author tied the role of narrator. In all the stories there is one theme and this theme is expressed in one character who is the hero of all the narratives. In "Bela" he is some kind of mysterious character. The heroine of this story is all before you, but the hero -- it is as if he is seen under an assumed name so that he will not be recognized. Because of his behavior in "Bela", you involuntarily make suppositions about some other story, alluring, mysterious and gloomy. And then the author immediately unveils it to you during the meeting with Maksim Maksimych, who told him the story about Bela. But your curiosity is not satiated, but only more agitated, and the story of Bela remains for you all the more mysterious. At last, Pechorin's journal is in the author's hands. In the introduction to the journal the author alludes to the theme of the novel, but it is an allusion which only further arouses your impatience to get acquainted with the hero of the novel. The hero of the novel appears in the highly poetic narrative "Taman'" as an autobiographer, but the mystery only grows more alluring from this and there is still no solution. Finally, you come to "Princess Mary" and the fog dissipates, the mystery is solved and the primary idea of the novel momentarily dominating your entire being, sticks with you and haunts you like a bitter feeling. Finally you read "The Fatalist", and, although Pechorin is not the hero but only the narrator of an occurrence to which was witness, and although you do not find one new feature in it which would have completed the portrait for you, you understand him still more (strange thing!), think

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about him more and your feeling grows still more gloomy and melancholy... This fullness of the impression in which all the diverse feelings that disturbed you while reading the novel almagamate into a single common feeling in which all the characters, (each so interesting in of itself, so fully formed) come to center on one character, comprise with it one group, the focus of which is one character, look upon him with you, some with love, some with hatred -- what is the reason for this fullness of impression? It is the unity of the idea expressed in the novel, from which came this harmonious correspondence of the parts to the whole, this strictly balanced delineation of roles for all characters, and finally the perfection, fullness and zamknutost'* of the whole.

The essence of any artistic work consists of the organic process of its emergence from the possibility of existence into the reality of existence. An idea crops up in the artist's soul like an invisible grain, and from this blessed and fertile ground unfurls and develops into a definite form, into symbols full of beauty and life, and finally becomes an entirely particular, whole and zamknutyi world in of itself, in which all parts are equal to the whole and each part, existing in of itself and by itself, comprising in of itself a zamknutyi symbol, simultaneously exists for the whole as an integral component and enables the impression of the whole. In precisely the same way, a live person also represents a particular and zamknutyi world in of itself: his body is comprised of innumerable organs, which represent the marvelous unity, completeness and particularity of a living organism, and all the organs form a single organism, a single indivisible

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being: the individual. Just as in any creation of nature, from its lowest forms (the mineral), to its highest (man), there is nothing either lacking or superfluous and every organ and every fiber not even visible to the naked eye is integral and in place, so also in works of art there must be nothing unfinished, lacking or superficial. Every line and every image must be both integral and in place. In nature there are creations that are imperfect and monstrous as a consequence of incomplete organization; if they live despite this, it means the abnormally formed organs do not constitute vital organs or that their abnormality is of no importance to the whole organism. So too in artistic creations there may be shortcomings, the reason for which does not lie in the entirely correct progression of the process of their creation, that is in the lesser or greater inculcation of the artist's personal will and judgement, or in the fact that he insufficiently carried out the theme of the creation in his soul and did not allow it be fully formulated into definite and perfected symbols. And such works do not lose their artistic essence and value through such shortcomings. But, as in works of nature, an excessively incorrect development of organs produces monsters that die immediately after birth, so in the sphere of art there are also works that do not survive the moment of their birth. Such and such works of art may be both repeatable and adaptable to the case and the circumstances, and of such and such works it is said that they have both beauty and shortcomings. But truly artistic works have not beauty nor shortcomings: one for whom the whole is accessible sees beauty alone. Only a shortsighted aesthetic sense and a taste which disenables the embracing of an artistic creation's whole and which becomes lost in its parts may see in it both beauty and shortcomings, ascribing to the work its own limitation. Everything that is not in reality is an encapsulation of a universal spirit of life into a particular instance. Every organization is testament to the presence of spirit: where there is

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organization, there is life; and where there is life, there is a soul. And for this reason, just as every work of nature from the mineral and the blade of grass to man is an encapsulation of a universal spirit of life into a particular life, so any creation of art is an encapsulation of a universal world idea into a particular symbol, zamknutyi [The adjectival form of zamknutost'] in of itself. Organization is the essence of the process whereby everything living and not manmade comes about, and consequently all works of nature and art. And for the very same reason, both types of works are so complete, so full, perfect, and, in a word, zamknutyi in of themselves.

"But what is "zamknutost'"?" they shall ask us at last. We reply: this is a thing as simple as it is wise, and to satisfactorily answer this question is as easy as it is difficult. What is spirit? What is truth? What is life? How often such questions are put forth and how often answers to them are given! All human life is nothing other than similar questions which strive for solution. And for what? Has the mystery been solved and the word found for many? Why is that? Well, because all questions are both posed and decided with the word, and the word is either an idea or an empty sound: the word is an idea for he who, in his very nature, inside himself, in the mysterious sanctuary of the spirit, carries the capability of solving such questions (the capability called foresight, premonition, internal contemplation, internal clairvoyance of truth, inborn ideas, etc.), and, having heard it, he absorbs the meaning contained in this word. The reason for such comprehension lies in the relationship, or, better put, in the identity of the individual who experiences with that which is experienced. However, this very identity also demands much

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development: otherwise comprehension dims and the questions remain unanswered. But for he who does not have this identity with the subjects of his experience, the word is an empty sound: his ear will hear the word, but his reason will remain deaf to it. This is why the questions we are speaking of are as simple as they are wise, and why it is as easy as it is difficult to answer them. However, we are attempting to lead the readers to the idea of that which we call in nature and art zamknutost'. Look at a blossoming plant: you see that it has its own definite form, which distinguishes it not only from beings in other kingdoms of nature, but even from plants of a different kind and type: its leaflets are distributed so symmetrically, so proportionally, each of them so carefully, with such solicitude, with such endless perfection defined and adorned to the smallest details... How elegantly marvelous its flower is, how many little ribs and hues it has, and what soft and bright pollen... And, finally, what a ravishing fragrance!.. But is that everything? Oh, no! This is only the exterior, an expression of the interior: these miraculous colors came from inside the plant, this charming aroma is its syrupy respiration... Inside its stem is a whole new world: there is an independent laboratory of life, the power of life flows and the invisible ether of the soul trickles along the finest vessels, divinely defined... Where lies the beginning and the impetus of this phenomenon? In the plant itself: it already existed when it was not yet a plant but only a seed. The root, stem, beautiful leaflets and magnificent aromatic color were already contained in this seed! Do you see that in this flower is everything the plant needs: life and a source of life, being and impetus for being, vegetation and all the implements, organs and vessels of vegetation; but where here might one make out a beginning and an end to all this? You see that this plant is perfect and has nothing either insufficient or superfluous and that it is living and individual; but where is the spring of its life and its individuality's point of departure?

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Where? They are zamknutyi in it, and consequently it is an entirely whole, perfect, and, in a word, zamknutyi in itself organic being. But a plant is connected to the ground in which it initially developed and from which it receives the sustenance that gives the plant materials for the development and support of its existence. Consider an animal: it is endowed with the ability to move at will and it sustains itself: it is both a plant that grows from and on the soil, and the soil from and on which it grows. Looking at it from outside, we see a being, exposing its organism, we see the source of being -- the bones are connected with dry fibers, the joints are spread with a lymph which is produced in special irons, the muscles are laced with nerves... But you still have not seen everything here: take a microscope that magnifies a million times and you shall be overcome with reverential amazement at this infinity of organization. You shall see that a thousand lifetimes is insufficient time just to enumerate the finest threads full of the essential forces of nature, -- and every thread, every fiber is necessary for the whole and cannot be excluded or substituted without the distortion of the entire form; there is no empty space between the smallest organs where an atom invisible to the naked eye might settle; all of the interior is so closely and unbrokenly fused that one locks in itself the other, and the whole is a zamknutyi in itself being... Man in this regard represents an incomparably higher and most striking spectacle: united and amalgamated with all nature and with the secret of the life of nature, he sees in everything outside himself the laws of his own reason realized, and the great everything found in man its own organ, separated from it so that it might look upon and be aware of itself. The universal and the indistinct became in man the particular and the distinct, so that through this particularity and distinctness he may return anew to his universality, having recognized it. The law of encapsulation and zamknutost' in a particular manifestation of the universal is a primary

19

law of life!.. And in art it is revealed with the same sovereignty as in nature: in the apprehension of secret of the law of encapsulation lies the solution to the mystery of art. The creative idea, having fallen into the artist's soul, is organized into a full, whole, perfect, particular and zamknutyi in itself artistic work. Turn all your attention to the word "organized": only the organic develops from itself, only that which develops from itself can appear whole and particular with parts that are proportionally and vividly joined and subjugated to universality. This is why, for example, a Walter Scott novel, which is filled with a multitude of characters not a bit similar to one another, and which presents such a chain of diverse occurrences, confrontations and events, strikes you with only a universal impression and imbues your contemplation with something singular instead of confusing and distracting you with a kaleidoscopic multitude of characters and events. For the very same reason, every character in the book exists for you in of itself; you see it before your eyes large as life in all of its characteristic particularity, and you shall never forget it, but if you do, then, rereading the novel anew, even after twenty years, you will immediately see that a character is familiar to you, that you have already seen him before somewhere. But the whole of the novel -- its color, its individual peculiarity, its something for the expression of which there is no word -- is still more memorable to you, though naturally not every word in particular: the characters of all the novels and their contents have already slipped from your memory, but completely divergent understandings will never cease to be associated for you with the words "The Bride of Lamermoor", "Ivanhoe", "Scottish Puritans"* and others...The individual universality of each novel will remain with you as in a fog like some kind of unclear vision, like a chord that
*

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suddenly sounds on high, or like a fragrance momentarily carried past... Everything we have stated is easily applied to Mr. Lermontov's novel. For this we must follow the main theme's development through the contents of the novel, which are already well known to the readers. The novel begins with a description of the author's passage from Tiflis through the Kajsharskij valley. Not exhausting us with boring details, he acquaints us with the setting. His descriptions are as brief as they are abrupt, but the main thing is that they are piled on as if in passing. While his carriage was being pulled by six oxen and a few Ossetians into the mountains, he noticed that behind his carriage another was being pulled by four oxen and the owner was walking behind it, smoking a little pipe. This was an officer, about fifty, with a swarthy face and a prematurely gray moustache that did not correspond to his firm step and vigorous appearance. The author approached him and bowed; he silently answered his bow, exhaling an enormous puff of smoke. "It seems we're fellow travellers." He bowed again silently. "You, I take it, are going to Stavropol?" "Exactly... With government property." "Tell me, please, why is it that four oxen are pulling your heavy carriage with no problem and six head can hardly move my empty one with the aid of these Ossetians?" He grinned slyly and glanced at me significantly. "You, I take it, haven't been in the Caucasus long?" "A year," I replied.

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He grinned a second time. "Well -- why?" "Oh, it's like that! Terrible rogues these Asiatics! You think they're helping with their shouting? But the devil knows what they're shouting? The oxen understand, though. Hitch up twenty, even, and when they shout in that language of theirs, the oxen still won't budge... Terrible swindlers! But what can you do to them? They love to fleece travellers... Spoiled the robbers! You'll see, they'll take money off you for vodka [Money for vodka: a tip] yet. But I know them, they won't take me in!" "And have you been stationed here long?" "Yes, I was stationed here back under Aleksei Petrovich [Ermolov]," he said with a certain loftiness, "When he took over the Border Command, I was a second lieutenant," he added, "and got two ranks under him for action against the mountain tribes." "And now you are?.." "Now I'm attached to the third battalion of the line. And you, may I ask?" I told him.

In this way an acquaintance was instigated with one of the novel's most interesting characters, Maksim Maksimych, this type of the old Caucasian service man hardened by dangers, hardships and battle, whose face is as tanned and stern as his manners are simple and coarse, but who has a miraculous soul and a heart of gold. This is a purely Russian type, who, along with the artistic merit of the work, recalls the most original characters of a Walter Scott or Cooper novel, but who, due to his newness, originality and purely Russian spirit, resembles not

22

one of them. The poet's art in reality should consist of developing the problem: how the does a character given by nature develop in the circumstances into which fate hath placed it. Maksim Maksimych received from nature a human soul and human heart, but this soul and this heart were cast in a special form that speaks to you of many years of heavy and difficult service, bloody battles, a reclusive and monotonous life in inaccessible mountain fortresses where there are no human faces but those of subordinate soldiers and the Circassians stopping in for trade. All of this is displayed in him not with crude phrases such as "the devil take you" and not in endlessly repeated military exclamations such as "a thousand bombs", not in drinking bouts and not in the smoking of tobacco, but in a view of things cultivated by a skill and manner of living, and in this manner of action and expression which must be the result of his view of things and his practices. Maksim Maksimych's intellectual outlook is very organic; but the reason for this organic quality lies not in his nature, but his development. For him, "to live" means "to serve", and to serve in the Caucasus; "the Asiatics" are his natural enemies: he knows from experience that they are all big cheats and that even their courage is a desperate warrior's bravado underlain with the hope of robbery; he does not allow them to cheat him, and it is deathly aggravating to him if they cheat a greenhorn and even take him for vodka money. And this is not at all because he is stingy, -- oh, no! -- he is only poor, not stingy and, it seems, has no concept of the value of money, but he cannot look on indifferently as the cheats, "the Asiatics", cheat honest people. That is almost all he sees in life, or at least what he talks about most often. But do not rush your conclusions about his character; get acquainted with him a bit better and you shall see what a warm, noble, even tender heart beats in the iron breast of this apparently hardened man; you shall see how he understands with some kind of instinct everything human and is hotly

23

concerned with it; how, despite his personal experience, he thirsts for love and sympathy -- and you will love with all your heart the simple, kind, coarse in manners and laconic in words, Maksim Maksimych. The experienced staff captain was not mistaken: the Ossetians beset the inexperienced officer and loudly demanded vodka money. But Maksim Maksimych threateningly descended upon them and forced them to run off. "Really such a people," he said, "can't say bread in Russian, but they learned 'Officer, give for vodka!'... Even the Tatars are better by me: at least they're not drinkers..." At last our travellers reached the station and went into a saklja [a small Caucasian domicile], the front portion of which was full of cows and sheep, and the back portion full of people sitting by a fire laid on the ground. The smoke pushed by the wind back through the opening in the ceiling lay over the floor. Our wayfarers lit pipes, taking in the welcoming hiss of the tea pot. "A wretched people!" I said to the staff captain, indicating our dirty hosts, who silently stared at us in some kind of stupor. "A very stupid people!" he replied. "Can you believe it -- can't do anything, not capable of any education! At least our Kabardins and Chechens, despite their being rogues and vagabonds, are hotheaded daredevils -- but these don't go in for weapons: you won't see a decent dagger on one of them. Truly Ossetians!" "And were you in Chechnya long?" "Yes, I was stationed there about ten years with my company in a fortress by

24

Kamennyj Brod [Rocky Ford]... Know it?" "Heard tell of it." "Yes sir, we got sick of those cutthroats. Lately, thank God, they're quieter, but it used to be you walk out past the rampart a hundred paces and there's a shaggy devil somewhere sitting spying: hardly gaped and there you go -- either a lariat around the neck or a bullet in the back of the head. But great fellows!.." "You've surely had many adventures?" I said, prompted by curiosity. "How could I not have! I had..." Whereupon he began to pull at his left mustache, hung his head and grew pensive.* And there Maksim Maksimych is all before you with his view of things and his original mode of expression! You have yet seen so little of him and have become acquainted with him so little, and already there is before you not an apparition needed, like it or not, by the author to serve as a link or to turn the wheel of the story, but a typical face, an original character, a living person! This is how true artists realize their ideals: two or three strokes and before you stands such a characteristic figure, alive and lifelike, which you shall never forget... "Here he began to scratch his left moustache and fell into thought". How much is said in these few, simple words, what a sharp stroke of Maksim Maksimych's physiognomy they produce, how much they promise, how strongly they inflame the reader's curiosity!.. Taking the glass of tea offered him, Maksim Maksimych took a sip and said, as it of himself, "Still are!" [Da, byvaet!]. But we still must speak in the words of the author himself:

25

This exclamation gave me big hopes. I know these old Caucasian veterans love to talk, to tell tales; they so rarely get a chance to: the man might be stationed for five years in some out of the way place with a company and the entire five years no one says "Hello" to him (since the sergeant says, "Good day, sir."). And there was plenty to chat about: all around a savage* people, every day danger, extraordinary things happen; and one has to regret that we record so little. "Would you like some rum in it?" I said to my interlocutor, "I have white from Tiflis; it's cold out now." "No, thank you very much, I don't drink." "How's that?" "I just don't. I swore it off. When I was still a second lieutenant we all got a little high one time and that night there was an alarm; so we came out lit up on the front, and did we ever catch it when Aleksei Petrovich found out: Lord help me, he was mad! Nearly gave us a court-martial. And, indeed, here, you go a whole year and don't see anyone, and vodka on top of that -- you're a lost man!" Hearing this, I nearly lost hope. "Take the Circassians," he went on, "as soon as they get drunk on bouza at a wedding or at funerals, the knife-play starts. I once hardly got away, and from the house of neutral prince at that." "How did that happen?"

26

That is the beginning of the poetic narrative "Bela". Maksim Maksimych told it in his own way, in his own language; but it not only lost nothing from this, but gained immeasurably. The kind Maksim Maksimych, himself unaware, became such a poet that his every word and expression contains an endless world of poetry. We do not know what to be more surprised at: at the fact that the poet, having forced Maksim Maksimych to be only a witness to the story he tells, so closely fused his personality with this event as if Maksim Maksimych were himself its hero, or at the fact that he was able to look with the eyes of Maksim Maksimych so poetically and deeply on the event and to tell of this event in language that is simple, coarse, but always picturesque, always touching and wonderful even in its very comic quality. While Maksim Maksimych was stationed in the fortress beyond the Terek [river], an officer ordered to his fortress suddenly reported to him. "He was called... Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin, a grand fellow he was, I assure you; just a bit strange. He might, for instance, go hunting in the rain and cold all day. Everyone else gets chilled through and tired, but it's nothing to him. Another time he sits in his room: a gust of wind and he's insisting that he caught cold. The shutter bangs and he starts and grows pale*, yet in my presence has gone after a wild boar one on one. There were times you couldn't get a word out of him for hours on end, but sometimes he would start telling stories that would make you split your sides with laughter... Yes, he had big eccentricities, and must have been a rich man: he had so many different expensive trinkets!.."
*

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"And did he live with you for long?" I again asked. "About a year. But it was a memorable year for me indeed; he caused me troubles, though that's not what I remember him for! There are, after all, men who at birth are set to have many different unusual things happen to them!" "Unusual things?" I exclaimed with a look of curiosity, warming up his tea. "Well, I'll tell you." Not far from the fortress lived a friendly [mirnoj] prince whose son, a fifteen year old boy, had fallen into the habit of coming to the fortress. Pechorin and Maksim Maksimych loved and indulged him. This was the prototype of a Circassian without exaggeration or distortion. A cutthroat, adroit at everything, in Maksim Maksimych's words: he could doff his cap at a full gallop, shot a gun masterfully and had a terrible weakness for money. If they teased him, his eyes filled with blood and his hand reached for a dagger. "Hey, Azamat," Maksim Maksimych would say, "It's not for you to take heads off: jaman [bad] it will be for your melon!". Once the old prince came to the fortress and invited Maksim Maksimych and Pechorin to his daughter's wedding. When they arrived at the aul [a Caucasian village], the women hiding from them did not seem like beauties to Pechorin. "'Hold on,' I said laughing (Maksim Maksimych said) 'I had something else in mind.'" From this passage in Maksim Maksimych's story one may receive a most accurate understanding of the morals and customs of the wild Circassians, even though he does not digress for their description. The younger of the host's daughters, a wonderful girl of sixteen, approached Pechorin as an honored guest and sang to him... "how shall I say?.. Akin to a compliment."

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"And do you remember what it was she sang?" "Yes, I believe it was like this: 'Svelte,' it went, 'are our young dzhigits [horsemenraiders] and the caftans on them are trimmed with silver, but the young Russian officer is svelter than they and the galloons on him are gold. He is like a poplar among them; only he is not to grow and blossom in our garden.'" Pechorin stood, touched his hand to his forehead and heart, and Maksim Maksimych translated his reply to her, for he knew their language well. "What do you think of her?" he hissed to Pechorin. "Delightful! And what's her name?" "Bela." "And she sure was beautiful," said Maksim Maksimych, "tall, slender, black eyes like on a mountain chamois, they looked into your soul so." Pechorin, in deep thought, did not take his eyes off her, but he was not the only one staring. Among the guests the Circassian Kazbich. He was friendly and hostile [zloj], depending on the circumstances; there were many suspicions of him though he had never been caught in any kind of caper. But we consider it necessary to fully portray this personage in Maksim Maksimych's words. It was rumoured that he liked to roam beyond the Kuban [river] with abreks [bands of guerilla raiders], and, truth be told, his mug was a brigand's: he was small, wiry and had wide shoulders... And nimble, nimble as a devil he was! Beshmet [a kind of Caucasian tunic] always tattered and patched but weapons in silver. And his horse was famed though the whole Kabarda -- and, certainly, it's impossible to think of anything better than that horse. It was not for nothing that all the raiders envied him his horse and more than once they tried to steal it, only with no luck. It's as if I'm looking now at this horse: black as pitch, taut string legs, and eyes no worse than Bela's. And what strength! You could

29

gallop him for thirty miles. And well broken -- runs after his master like a dog, even knew his voice! It used to be that he never even hitched it. Such a bandit's horse!.." Kazbich was gloomier than usual this evening, and Maksim Maksimych, noticing that he had donned chain mail under his beshmet, figured that it was not for nothing. As it grew stuffy in the saklja, Maksim Maksimych went out for some fresh air and thought to check on the horses while he was outside. Here, behind a fence, he eavesdropped on a conversation: Azamat was praising Kazbich's horse, which he had long coveted and Kazbich, incited by this, told of its merits and the services it provided him, saving him from certain death more than once. This passage in the story fully acquaints the reader with the Circassians as a tribe and the characters of Azamat and Kazbich, these two distinct stereotypes of the Circassian people, are portrayed with a powerful artistic brush. "If I had a herd of a thousand mares, I would give it all for your Karagez," said Azamat. "Eh, keep it," Kazbich replied indifferently. Azamat flatters him, promises to steal his father's best rifle or a sword which you just put in your hand and it will stick into a body or through mail... In his words breathes the burning, torturous passion of the savage and natural born warrior for whom there is nothing in world dearer than a gun or horse and for whom a desire is slow torture over a small fire, and for satisfaction of a desire his own life and lives of his father, mother and brothers are nothing. He said that since he saw Karagez the first time, spinning and bucking under Kazbich, his nostrils flaring and his hooves spraying stones, that since then something incomprehensible had taken place in his soul, everything had grown wearisome to him... One might think he were speaking of love or jealousy, feelings, the effects of which are frightful in civilized people, and all the more frightful in savages. "I looked at my father's best racers with scorn," said Azamat, "I was ashamed to show myself on them, a

30

longing seized me; and, longing, I would spend entire days on a crag and every minute your raven racer came into my thoughts with his slender stride and sleek spine straight as an arrow; he looked me in the eyes with his lively eyes as if he wanted to mutter a word. I'll die, Kazbich, if you don't sell him to me." Having said this in a trembling voice, he began to cry. So it seemed at least to Maksim Maksimych, who knew Azamat as a very stubborn little boy from whom one could not beat tears with anything, even when he was younger. But in reply to Azamat's tears, something akin to laughter was audible. "Listen!" Azamat said in a firm voice, "see, I'm prepared to do anything. Do you want me to steal my sister for you? How she dances! and sings! and sews with gold -- a miracle! No Turkish podishah [ruler] ever had such a wife... surely Bela is worth your racer?.." Kazbich was silent for a long time and, finally, instead of an answer struck up an ancient song in a hushed voice in which the entire philosophy of the Circassian is expressed: _______________________________G___________________________________________ Azamat was trying to persuade him, crying and flattering him in vain. "'Get out of here, you crazy little boy! Where do you get the idea you can ride my steed?! He'll throw you in the first three steps and you'll bust open your head on the rocks!' 'Me!' Azamat cried in a fury, and the iron of a child's dagger rang against mail." Kazbich shoved him away so that he fell and hit his head on a waddling fence. "There will be a ruckus!" thought Maksim Maksimych, reined up the horses and led them out into the back yard. Meanwhile, Azamat ran into the saklja in a torn beshmet saying that Kazbich had tried to cut him. There was an uproar and shots rang out, but Kazbich had already rounded on his steed in the middle of the street and slipped away. "I'll never forgive myself one thing: the devil made me tell Grigorii Aleksandrovich

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everything I heard sitting behind the fence when we arrived to the fortress; he laughed -such a clever one! -- and started thinking something." "But what of it? Tell me, please." "Well, there's already nothing to be done, I started telling, I should continue." Azamat came to the fortress four days later. Pechorin began to praise Kazbich's horse to him. The little Tatar's eyes began to glimmer, but it was as if Pechorin did not notice. Maksim Maksimych brings up other things, but Pechorin keeps turning the conversation back to the horse. This lasted for about three weeks; Azamat visibly paled and withered. In short: Pechorin offered him another man's steed for his sister; Azamat lapsed into thought: not pity for his sister, but the thought of his father's vengeance troubled him. But Pechorin stung his pride by calling him a baby (a name which very much offends all children!), and Karagez -- such a marvelous horse!.. And so Kazbich comes to the fortress and asks if they need rams and honey: Maksim Maksimych told him to bring it the next day. "Azamat!" said Pechorin, "Tomorrow Karagez will be in my hands; if Bela is not here by nightfall, you won't be seeing the steed." "Fine!" said Azamat, and galloped to the aul. And that very evening Pechorin returned to the fortress with Azamat, across whose saddle (as the sentry saw) lay a woman with bound hands and feet and her head covered with a veil. The next day Kazbich appeared at the fortress with his goods. Maksim Maksimych treated him to tea because, he said, although he is a warrior, "he was still my kunak [cf. Durylin] anyway." Suddenly Kazbich looked through the window, shuddered, paled and ran out with the cry "My horse! Horse!" He leapt past the gun with which the sentry tried to block his way. Azamat galloped in the distance. Kazbich seized his gun from its case, shot, and, ascertaining that he had missed, began to scream, broke his gun to bits on a rock, fell

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on the ground and began bawling like a baby. He lay like this until late that night and the whole night did not touch the money for the rams, which Maksim Maksimych had ordered put beside him. The next day, having found out from the sentry that the abductor was Azamat, he flashed his eyes and set off to search him out. Bela's father was not at home at this time, and he returned to find neither daughter nor son... As soon as Maksim Maksimych found out that Pechorin had the Circassian girl, he donned epaulets and a sword and went to him. Here follows a scene so marvelous that we cannot resist retelling it from the mouth of Maksim Maksimych himself: "He lay on the bed in the front room, one arm laid under the back of his head and holding a pipe that had gone out in the other; the door into the next room was locked and the key wasn't in the lock. I noticed all this immediately... I began to cough and tap the threshold with my heels, but he pretended no to hear. 'Ensign!' I said as sternly as possible, 'don't you see I've come to see you?' 'Akh, hello Maksim Maksimych! Would you like a pipe?' he answered without getting up. 'Excuse me! I'm not Maksim Maksimych: I'm the staff captain.' 'All the same. Would you like some tea? If only you knew what a worry is tormenting me!' 'I know everything,' I answered walking up to the bed. 'All the better: I'm in no mood to explain.' 'Ensign, you have committed an act for which I, too, might have to answer...' 'Come now! What's the problem? We've long shared everything.'

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'What's with the jokes! Your sword please!' 'Mitka, my sword!' Mitka brought the sword. Having done my duty, I sat down next to him on the bed and said, 'Listen, Grigorii Aleksandrovich, admit that it's no good.' 'What's no good?' 'Why, taking Bela... that damn Azamat!.. Well, admit it,' I said to him. 'And what if I like her?' Well, what would you have me answer to that? I was dumbfounded. But, after some silence, I told him that if the father came to demand it, it would be necessary to return her. 'Not at all necessary!' 'But he'll find out she's here!' 'But how will he find out?' I was again dumbfounded. 'Listen, Maksim Maksimych,' Pechorin said getting up, 'You're a kind man, aren't you? Now if we give that savage back his daughter, he'll either cut her up or sell her. The deed is done, let's not go out of our way to make matters worse: leave her with me and keep my sword...' 'Well, show her to me,' I said. 'She's behind that door; only I've tried in vain to see her myself lately: she sits in the corner wrapped up in a blanket, she won't speak and won't look: timid as a wild gazelle. I've hired our innkeeper's wife: she knows Tatar and will look after her and get her used to the idea that she's mine, because she won't belong to anyone but me,' he added, hitting the 34

table with his fist. I agreed to this too... What would you have me do! There are people you just have to agree with without fail. There is nothing more difficult and unpleasant than setting forth the contents of an artistic work. The objective of this account is not to display the best passages: no matter how good a passage in the composition is, it is good only in relation to the whole. Consequently, an exposition of content must have the goal of following the theme through the entire work in order to show how well it is realized by the poet. But how to do this? One cannot rewrite the entire composition; but how to select passages from a superb whole and omit others so that the excerpts do not exceed their obligatory limits? And then, how to connect the excerpted passages with the prose story they come from, leaving shades, colors, life and soul in the book while holding to the dead skeleton alone. Presently, we particularly sense all the weightiness and infeasibility of the duty we have taken upon ourselves. Even before this passage we have been lost in a multitude of marvelous particulars, but now, as the most important part of the story begins, we would like so much to excerpt word for word all the author's story, in which every word is so infinitely significant, so deeply portentous and breathes with such poetic life and shines with such a wealth of color; but for now, we are compelled foremost to retell in our own words, sticking as much as possible to the expressions of the original and excerpting passages. Bela looked coldly upon the presents that Pechorin brought her every day and proudly shoved them away. For a long time he courted her unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, he was learning Tatar and she began to understand Russian. She even began to peek at him now and then, but always from under her brow, sidelong, and was still gloomy and hummed her songs, "so that," Maksim Maksimych said, "I at times also grew sad when I listened to her from the next room."

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Trying to persuade her to love him, Pechorin asked her if she did not love some Chechen and added that if that were the case, he would let her go home right now. She winced barely perceptibly and shook her head... "Or do you completely hate me?" She started. "Or is it that your faith forbids you to love me?" She paled and was silent. Then he said that Allah was the same for all tribes and that if Allah allowed him to love her, then why would he forbid her to love him? This argument seemed to conquer her and the desire to be convinced expressed itself in her eyes. "If you're going to be sad," he said to her, "I'll die. Tell me, will you be happier?" She lapsed into thought not taking her black eyes off him, then grinned and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and began to try to talk her into kissing him; she defended herself weakly and simply repeated: "Pliz, pliz, no, no!"* What a graceful and, at the same time, true to nature stroke of character! Nature does not contradict itself anywhere, and depth of feeling, dignity and the grace of immediacy in a wild Circassian girl sometimes strike one just as in a cultured, high class woman. There are mannerisms so graceful and words so fragrant that one of them is sufficient to portray an entire person, to evince externally all that is hidden inside him or her. Is it not so: hearing this sweet and ingenuous "Pliz, pliz, no - no!", you see before you charming, black-eyed Bela, the half-savage daughter of wild canyons, and you are enchantingly struck by this harmony in her, this particularity of femininity which constitutes the whole joy and charm of woman?.. He began to insist, she began to shudder and weep. "I am you captive, your slave," she said, "of course you can make me." And again tears. "A devil, not a woman!" he told Maksim Maksimych, "but I give you my good word that she will be mine..."
*

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Once he went to her dressed as a Circassian and armed. He told her that he was guilty before her, that he was leaving her the mistress of everything he owned, giving her freedom and he himself would chase the setting sun, perhaps come under a bullet... "He turned and stretched out his hand to her in farewell. She did not take his hand and was silent. But, standing behind the door, I could examine her face: and I felt sorry for her, such a deathly palor covered that dear face! Getting no answer, Pechorin made a few steps toward the door; he trembled, and -- should I tell you? -- I think he was prepared to really undertake what he was talking about, bluffing. God knows that's the kind of man he was! He had hardly touched the door when she leapt up, began to bawl and threw herself on his neck. Can you believe it? I also started crying standing behind the door, that is, you know, not that I started crying, but just, stupid!.." The staff captain grew quiet. "Yes, I confess," he said later, pulling at his mustache, "I was vexed that no woman ever loved me so much." The fortunate Pechorin soon found out that Bela had loved him from first sight. Yes, this was one of those deep female natures that can love a man immediately upon seeing him, but do not declare their love immediately and do not give themselves soon, but once having given themselves, already cannot belong any more to another man or even to themselves... The poet does not say a word to this effect, but he is a poet for this very reason: saying nothing, he makes known everything... They were happy, but do not envy them reader: who dares to hope for durable happiness in this life?.. The moment is yours, so seize it, not putting hope in the future... Your bliss did

37

not last long, poor, dear Bela! Soon Pechorin and Maksim Maksimych found out that Bela's father was killed by Kazbich, who suspected him in Karagez's abduction. They long hid this from Bela while she had yet to get used to her new circumstances. When they told her, she wept for two days and then forgot. Everything went well for four months. Pechorin loved Bela so much that he forgot the hunt for her and did not go out beyond the fortress wall. But suddenly he came to lapse into thought and pace the room with his hands on his back. Once, not telling anyone, he set off on a hunt and disappeared for the entire morning, and again, and ever more often. "Not good," thought Maksim Maksimych, "it's sure: a black cat has run between them!" One morning he dropped in on them and saw Bela so pale and so sad that he was frightened. He began to comfort her. Imparting her fears and misgivings, she said to him, "'Well lately it certainly seems like he doesn't love me.' 'My dear, you really couldn't have thought up anything worse!' She began to cry, then raised her head with pride, wiped away the tears and continued: 'If he doesn't love me, then what's keeping him from sending me home? I can't make him. But if this keeps up, then I'll leave myself: I'm not his slave; I'm a prince's daughter!..'" Consoling her, Maksim Maksimych noted that if she was going to be melancholy, then she would bore Pechorin sooner. "'You're right, you're right,' she answered, 'I'll be happy!' And with a laugh she grabbed her buben [a kind of tambourine], began to sing, dance and jump around me; but

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this too was shortlived, she fell on the bed and covered her face with her hands. What was I to do with her? I, you know, never was much good with women: I thought and thought how to console her, and didn't think of anything; we were both quiet a little while... quite an unpleasant situation!" Walking out with her for a stroll, Maksim Maksimych saw a Circassian suddenly ride out of the forest and, about two hundred yards from them, begin to turn about like a madman. Bela recognized him as Kazbich... Finally Maksim Maksimych had a talk with Pechorin regarding his cooling toward Bela, and here is what kind of answer he got from him:

"'Listen, Maksim Maksimych, I have an unfortunate character: whether my upbringing made me thus or God created me so, I don't know; I only know that if I'm the cause of others' unhappiness, I'm no less unhappy myself. Naturally, this is small comfort to them, but the point is that this is a fact. In my early youth, from the minute I left the supervision of my family, I came to revel madly in all the pleasures one can find for money, and, naturally, these pleasures became repulsive to me. Then I ventured out into the grande monde and I was soon also fed up with society; I was in love with society belles, and was loved, but their love only agitated my imagination and pride while my heart remained empty... I began to read, to study -- and also got fed up with the sciences; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depended on them a bit, because the happiest people are ignoramuses and fame is luck: in order to obtain it, one has only to be agile. Then I began to be bored... Soon after, they transferred me to the Caucasus: this was the happiest time 39

of my life. I was hoping that boredom couldn't survive under Chechen bullets -- and in vain: in a month I was so used to their buzzing and to the nearness of death that, really, I paid more attention to the mosquitoes and I became more bored than before because I had lost my last hope. When I saw Bela in my home, when for the first time holding her on my lap I kissed her black curls, I -- fool that I was -- thought she was an angel sent me by a sympathetic fate... I had again errored: a savage's love is little better than the love of an aristocratic lady; one gets just as fed up with the ignorance and naivete of one as with the coquetry of the other. I suppose I still love her, I am grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes -- only her company is boring to me... Am I a fool or a scoundrel, I don't know; but it's true that I'm also very deserving of pity, perhaps more than she: my soul has been ruined by the world, my imagination is restless, my heart insatiable; everything I get is not enough: I become accustomed just as easily to sorrow as to revelry, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have one way left: travel. As soon as it's possible I'll set out -- only not for Europe, Lord help me! I'll go to America, to Arabia, to India, perhaps I'll die somewhere along the way! At the least, I'm certain this last consolation will not soon be exhausted with the aid of storms and bad roads.' He talked on like this for a long time, and his words were carved into my memory because for the first time I was hearing such things from a twenty-five year old man and God grant for the last time... What a strange thing! Tell me, please," continued the staff captain, turning to me, "It seems you've spent time in the capital, and not long ago: Are all the youth there like that?" I replied that there are a lot of people that say the same thing; that there are probably some who are telling the truth; that, however, disillusionment, like all fashions 40

beginning from the highest levels of society, had descended to the lowest levels, which were wearing it thin, and that nowadays those who really are the most bored try to hide this misfortune like a vice. The staff captain did not understand these subtleties; he shook his head and grinned slyly: "And it was the French, was it, that introduced the fashion of being bored?" "No, the English." "Aha! There you are!.." he replied, "Well, they've always been inveterate drunks!" And so Pechorin cooled toward poor Bela, who loved him yet more. He himself knows not the cause of his cooling, although he makes efforts to find it. Yes, there is nothing more difficult than to find the language of one's own feelings, to know oneself! And the author's explanations are as unsatisfactory for us as they are for Maksim Maksimych, to whom he imparted them. Perhaps here too there is the same cause for both the author and for us: there is nothing more difficult than to know and understand ourselves!.. But nevertheless, we proffer a verdict on this phenomenon of the human heart, which is as common as it is sad, and which is particularly common in contemporary society. Among the reasons for Pechorin's quick cooling

towards Bela, was it not his reason that, for the unconscious, purely physical, but deep, emotions of the Circassian girl, Pechorin was a full fulfillment far surpassing her most impertinent requirements, while Pechorin's soul could not find fulfillment in the physical love of a halfsavage being? Besides which, revel is far from constituting all of love's requirements, and what could love give Pechorin other than revel? What could he have talked with her about? What remained undiscovered in her for him? A judicious basis is needed for love as oil is needed for the maintenance of a fire; love is a harmonious confluence of two kindred natures into a feeling

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of the infinite. There was intensity in Bela's love, but there couldn't have been infinity: to sit with her beloved tete-a-tete, to fawn upon him, to accept his endearments, to foresee and apprehend his desires, to be overcome with his kisses, to die in his embrace -- that is all Bela's soul required: in such a life even eternity would have seemed an instant to her. But such a life could enthrall Pechorin for no more than four months, and one still should be surprised at how intense his love for Bela must have been for it to have been that lasting. The strong need of love is often taken for love itself when an object is present towards which it might strive; obstacles turn it into passion, but obliterate fulfillment. Bela's love was a glass filled with a sweet drink to Pechorin, which he drank in one gulp, not leaving a drop in it; but his soul demanded not a glass, but an ocean from which he might sip every minute without depleting it... Once Pechorin set off on a boar hunt with Maksim Maksimych. From early morning until about ten o'clock they searched in vain. Maksim Maksimych tried to persuade the other to return, there was nothing here. Regardless of the heat and exhaustion, he did not want to return without bagging the boar. "That's the kind of man he was: whatever he thinks of, give it to him. It's plain that he was a spoiled little child."* But they rode up to the fortress after noon with nothing. Suddenly, a shot: they both glanced at one another and galloped headlong toward the shot. The soldiers were gathered into a group on the wall and pointed at a field. And there a horseman flies headlong and holds something white over his saddle. This was Kazbich abducting the incautious Bela, who went beyond the fortress to the river. Pechorin managed to wound his steed in the leg. Kazbich raised his hand over Bela, Maksim Maksimych shot and, it seems, wounded him in the shoulder. The smoke cleared and on the ground lay the wounded
*

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horse and next to it Bela, but Kazbich clambered like a cat up a cliff and was soon hidden from sight. They went to Bela. She was wounded and blood trickled from the wound... "And Bela died?" "She died; but she suffered a long time and we suffered along with her a good bit. Around ten o'clock at night she came to; we were sitting by the bed; as soon as she opened her eyes she began calling for Pechorin. 'I'm here next to you my janechka,' (that is, as we would say, my darling) he replied taking her hand 'I'm going to die!' she said. We began trying to quiet her, said that the doctor had promised to cure her without fail; she shook her head and turned to the wall: she didn't want to die!.. That night she became delirious; her head was burning, a shudder of fever sometimes ran over her whole body; she spoke incoherent speeches about her father and brother: she wanted to go home to the mountains... Then she also talked about Pechorin, giving him various pet names, or scolding him for having stopped loving his janechka. He listened to her silently, his head in his hands; but I didn't notice one tear on his eyelashes the whole time; whether he really couldn't cry or was controlling himself, I don't know; as for me, I'd never seen anything more sad. Toward morning when the delirium passed she began to lament that she was not a Christian and that in the other world her soul would not meet with Pechorin's soul and that another woman would be his girlfriend in paradise... Maksim Maksimych offered to baptize her; she was silent for a long time in indecision and finally answered that she would die in the faith into which she was born. The day passed: suffering changed her marvelous face horribly. When the pain subsided and she stopped moaning, she would try to persuade Pechorin to go to sleep,

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kissed his hand... Before morning she began to feel the restlessness before death, began to toss, dislodged the bandage, and the blood flowed anew. When we re-bandaged the wound, she calmed down for a minute and began to ask Pechorin to kiss her. He sank to his knees next to the bed, raised her head from the pillow and pressed his lips to hers, which were growing cold; she encircled his neck strongly with trembling arms as if she wanted to give over her soul to him in this kiss... No, she did well to die! Well, what would've become of her if Grigorii Aleksandrovich abandoned her? And that would've happened sooner or later...* Before dying she began to cry in a hoarse voice, "Water! Water!". He grew white as a sheet, grabbed a glass, filled it and gave it to her. I covered my eyes with my hands and began to recite a prayer, I don't remember which... Yes sir, I've seen a lot of people die in field hospitals and on the battlefield, but it wasn't anything like this, not anything... And another thing, I admit, saddened me: she didn't once remember me on her deathbed, and yet it seems I loved her like a father... Well, may God forgive her!.. And in truth, who am I that anyone should remember me on their deathbed?.. As soon as she drank down the water, she felt better, but passed on after about three minutes. We held a mirror to her lips -- nothing!.. I led Pechorin out of the room and we walked up on to the rampart; for a long time we paced back and forth, side by side, not saying a word, our hands behind our backs; his face expressed nothing in particular

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and I became vexed. In his place I would have died of grief. Finally, he sat on the ground and started tracing something in the sand with a stick. I wanted to console him and mostly for propriety's sake, you know, began to speak; he raised his head and began to laugh... A chill ran over my skin at this laughter. I went to order a coffin. ...................................................................................................................................................... Early the next morning we buried her behind the fortress by the rampart, where she had sat for the last time; around her grave bushes of white acacia and elder have spread. I wanted to put up a cross, but, you know, it was awkward: after all she wasn't a Christian... "And what happened to Pechorin?" I asked. "Pechorin was unwell for a long while, shriveled, poor devil; but we never talked about Bela afterwards: I saw that it would be unpleasant for him, so what for? Three months later they assigned him to the E. regiment. We've not met since then... Yes, now that I think of it, someone told me not long ago that he returned to Russia, but there was nothing about it in the divisional orders. But then news is late in reaching the likes of us." Here he sank into a long dissertation about how unpleasant it is to receive news a year later -- probably trying to drown sad memories.

We beg pardon both from the author and from those of our readers who will read our article before the novel for the great number of excerpts : the allure of the first reading and the intensity and joy of the first impression will be forever lost to them. But then, there is hardly

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anyone who has not read "Bela"; it was printed in "Notes of the Fatherland"* last year, and the novel itself already long ago came to light. As regards those who will read our article after the novel, nothing will be detracted from as a result; on the contrary, if only we have done our business well, they will feel anew the already experienced delight, and still with much intensity. In any case, we had no opportunity to avoid these excerpts. We would like the personae of the characters to be visible in our presentation of the novel's content and the interior liveliness of the story to be preserved as well as its color; and this would have been impossible had we shown only the skeleton of the contents or its abstract theme. And what is the content of the novel anyhow? A Russian officer abducted a Circassian girl, loved her intensely at first, but soon cooled toward her; then a Circassian would have taken her away, but, seeing himself nearly caught, abandoned her having inflicted a wound from which she died: and that is all. Aside from the fact that there is very little here, there is also nothing poetic, special or entertaining, and it is ordinary to the point of banality and well worn. But what is there of the extraordinary or the poetic, for example, in the content of Shakespeare's "Othello"? The moor kills his passionately beloved wife out of jealousy which a clever villain aroused in him by design: is this really not also worn and ordinary to the point of banality? Were not a thousand stories, novels and dramas written, the essence of which is that a husband or lover kills his innocent wife or lover out of jealousy? But from all these thousand, the world knows "Othello" alone and is awed by it alone. This means the essence is not in external form and not in the series of events, but in the artist's intent in the images and casting of colors which occurred to him well before he takes to the pen -- in a word, the creative concept. An artistic creation must be fully prepared in the artist's soul
*

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before he takes to the pen: to write it is for him already a secondary labor. He must first see before him all the characters, from the interactions of which his drama or story will take shape. He does not deliberate, calculate or lose himself in considerations: everything comes for him of its own accord, and comes as it should. An event unfolds from an idea like a plant from a seed. For this very reason the readers see in his characters living figures and not apparitions, take joy in their joys, suffer their sufferings, discuss, think about and argue among themselves about their meaning and their fate as if the affair concerned people really existing and familiar to them. One cannot do this having first merely invented an abstract content, that is, some kind of complication and denouement, and only later inventing characters and voluntarily or involuntarily forcing them to play roles that conform to the composed objective. That is why presenting contents is so laborious for a critic and it is impossible for him to get by without excerpts: one should do it briefly and make the explicated work speak for itself. "Bela" leaves a deep impression: you are melancholy, but your melancholy is not heavy, but light and sweet; you fly in a dream to the grave of marvelous Bela, but this grave is not terrible: the sun shines on it and it is washed by a swift stream, the burbling of which, together with the rustle of the wind in the leaves of the elder and the white acacia, speaks to you of something mysterious and infinite, and above it in the bright heights flies some kind of marvelous vision, with pale cheeks, with an expression of reproach and forgiveness in its black eyes, with a melancholy smile... The Circassian girl's death does not trouble you with a cheerless and weighty feeling, for she appeared not as a terrible skeleton by authorial arbitrariness, but, in consequence of a rational imperative which you foresaw already, she appears as an angel of reconciliation. The dissonance resolves into a harmonious chord, and you

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repeat with tenderness the simple and touching words of kind Maksim Maksimych, "No, she did well to die! Well, what would have become of her if Grigorii Aleksandrovich had abandoned her? And that would've happened sooner or later!" And what infinite artistry the figure of the captivating Circassian girl is portrayed with! She speaks and acts so little, but you see her alive before your eyes in all the definition of a living being, you read her heart and penetrate all its nuances... And Maksim Maksimych, that kind simpleton who does not suspect how deep and rich his nature is and how lofty and novel he is? He, a coarse soldier, loves Bela like a marvelous child, loves her like a dear daughter. And for what? -- ask him and he replies: "Not that I loved her, but just -- Oh, it's stupid!" It is not irritating to him that no woman loved him as Bela loved Pechorin; he is sad that she did not remember him on her deathbed, even though he himself is aware that this is not an entirely just expectation... Shall we pause on these strokes so full of infinity? No, they speak for themselves; and those for whom they are mute are not worthy of wasting time and words on. Simple beauty, which is the one true beauty, is not comprehensible to everyone: most people's eyes are so coarse that they are affected only by flashiness, intricacy and red paint brightly and thickly smeared on... The characters Azamat and Kazbich are the kind of types that will be equally understandable to an Englishman, a German or a Frenchman as they are understandable to a Russian. Here is what is called drawing figures in full size with their national physiognomy and in national costume!..

Notice also the naturalness of the story, so freely developing without any leaps, so fluidly

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flowing by means of its own strength without the author's help. An officer returning from Tiflis to Russia meets in the mountains with another officer; the loneliness of the road gives one the right to start a conversation with the other and, in this way, naturally leads to them to acquaintance. One offers tea with rum -- the other refuses, saying he vowed to give up drinking because of a single incident. It is very natural that, sitting in a smoky and vile saklja, the travellers start up a conversation about the inhabitants of the saklja. The elder officer who had spent many years in the Caucasus, naturally very eagerly began to speak on this subject. The young officer's question "I bet you've had a lot of adventures?" is as natural as the elder's reply, "How could I not have! there were a lot..." But this is not importunity for a tale, but still only, as it should be, a weak hope of hearing a tale: the author does not drive the circumstances like horses, but allows them to develop on their own. He offers Maksim Maksimych tea with rum: he refuses the rum saying he had vowed to drink no more. The young officer's question, "Why?" also can be considered no more of a leap than a person's response when he is called. Maksim Maksimych's reply, in which he speaks of the event that made him forswear drinking wine is expected even by the reader himself. This event is pure Caucasus: the officers were feasting when an alert was suddenly sounded. But Maksim Maksimych's conclusion that sometimes you live a year with no alerts, "and on top of that vodka -- a man would be done for," takes away any hope of a tale; when suddenly he turns to the Circassians, who when drunk on bouza start fighting so, and, very naturally, recollects one incident. He is even inclined to tell about it, but it is as if he does not want to impose with stories. The young officer, whose curiosity was long ago already intensely aroused, but who is capable of moderating it with propriety, asks with feigned indifference, "What happened?" And here the story has begun. Its point of departure is the

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passionate desire of Circassian boy to own a spirited steed, -- and you remember that marvelous scene from the drama between Azamat and Kazbich. Pechorin is a resolute man who thirsts for alerts and blizzards, prepared to risk everything for the fulfillment even of his own whim -- and here something far larger than a whim is involved. And so, everything came out of the characters' natures, according to the laws of strictest inevitability, and not according to authorial arbitrariness. But the story was still a simple anecdote and new acquaintances were already descending into debates about it, when suddenly Maksim Maksimych, whose recollection came to life and whose need to relate it to another was aroused, as if speaking to himself, added, "I'll never forgive myself one thing: the devil made me tell Grigorii Aleksandrovich everything I heard sitting behind the fence when we got to the fortress; he laughed -- such a clever one! -- and began to think something." What could be more natural and simpler than all this? Such naturalness and simplicity can never be a matter of calculation and judgement: they are the fruit of inspiration. Thus ends the story of Bela, but the novel has still only begun and we have read only the introduction, which, however, in itself and taken separately, is an artistic work, although it comprises only a part of the whole. But let us proceed. In Vladikavkaz the author again met Maksim Maksimych. While they were eating dinner, a dashing carriage pulled into the yard behind which a servant was walking. Irregardless of the man's rudeness, "the spoiled servant of a lazy lord", Maksim Maksimych found out from him that the carriage belongs to Pechorin. "What're you saying? What're you saying? Pechorin?.. Akh, my God!.. and he didn't serve in the Caucasus did he?" Joy shined in Maksim Maksimych's eyes. "I think he did, but I haven't been with them long," replied the servant. "Well! Well!.. Grigorii Aleksandrovich, that's his

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name? Me and your lord were pals," added Maksim Maksimych, striking the lackey on the shoulder such that he made him stagger... "Excuse me sir; you are keeping me," he said scowling. "You've odd manners, buddy!.. Don't you know? -- Me and you lord were bosom friends, lived together... And where is he?" The servant informed him that Pechorin stayed to sup and spend the night at Colonel N's. "And will he come round here this evening?" asked Maksim Maksimych. "Or you, good fellow, wouldn't happen to be going over there for something?.. When you go, tell him Maksim Maksimych is here; tell him like that... He'll know... I'll give you eighty kopecks for vodka..." The lackey made a scornful face, hearing such a modest offer, but assured Maksim Maksimych he would carry out his errand. "'He'll come running now!' Maksim Maksimych said to me with a victorious look, 'I'll go out the gates to wait... Ekh, too bad I don't know N.!'". And so, Maksim Maksimych waits beyond the gates. He refused a cup of tea, and, hurriedly drinking one upon second invitation, again ran out the gates. The keenest unrest was noticeable in him, and it was obvious that Pechorin's indifference grieved him. His new acquaintance, opening the window, called him to sleep: he muttered something, and answered nothing to the second invitation. He entered the room late at night, threw his pipe on the table, began to pace, stir the fire, and finally laid down, but for a long while was coughing, spitting and tossing and tuning... "Are the bugs getting you?" asked his new friend. "Yes, bugs..." he replied, sighing heavily. The next day he sat outside the gates. "I need to go to the commandant," he said, "so, please, if Pechorin comes, send for me." But he had barely left when the object of his unease appeared. Our author looked at him with curiosity, and the result of his attentive observation

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was a detailed portrait, to which we shall return when we talk about Pechorin, but presently we shall occupy ourselves exclusively with Maksim Maksimych. We should say that when Pechorin arrived the lackey informed him that they would harness the horses now. Here we are again obliged to resort to a long excerpt. The horses were already harnessed; now and then a bell tinkled under the shaftbow, and the lackey had already come up to Pechorin twice with a report that everything was ready, but Maksim Maksimych had still not appeared. Fortunately Pechorin was still lost in thought looking at the blue teeth of the Caucasus, and, it seems, was not at all hurrying on his way. I walked up to him: "If you want to wait a little more," I said, "you'll have the pleasure of seeing an old comrade..." "Akh, that's right!" he answered quickly. "They told me yesterday, -- but where is he?" I turned to the square and saw Maksim Maksimych running as fast as he could... In a few moments he was standing next to us; he could hardly breathe; wet shags of gray hair had escaped from under his hat and were glued to his forehead; his knees shook... he was about to throw himself on Pechorin's neck, but the latter rather coldly, albeit with a friendly smile, stretched out his hand. The staff captain was dumbfounded for a moment, but then greedily grabbed the hand with both hands: he still couldn't speak. "How glad I am to see you, dear Maksim Maksimych! Well, how are you?" said Pechorin. "And thou?..* and you?.." the old man mumbled with tears in his eyes... "All these years... all these days... but where are you headed?.."
*

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"I'm going to Persia -- and beyond..." "Surely not right now?.. But wait, my dearest friend!.. We aren't parting right now?.. It's been so long since we've seen each other..." "It's time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych." was the reply. "Good Lord, good Lord! What's the rush?.. I had so much to tell you... so much to ask... Well, how's things? retired?.. How's that?.. What've you been doing?" "I've been bored!" replied Pechorin smiling... "Remember our days at the fortress?.. Fine country for hunters*!.. You were quite the passionate hunter... And Bela!" Pechorin paled a little and turned away... "Yes, I remember!" he said, almost immediately feigning a yawn. Maksim Maksimych began to implore him to stay with him for a couple hours more. "We'll have a fine dinner," he was saying, "I have two pheasants; and the Kahetian wine here is wonderful... understandably not like in Georgia, but first-rate... We'll talk... You'll tell me about your life in Petersburg... Eh?" "Really I have nothing to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych. But farewell, it's time... I'm in a hurry... Thanks for not forgetting..." he added taking his hand. The old man knit his brow... He was saddened and angry, although he tried to conceal it. "Forget!" he muttered, "I haven't forgotten anything... Well, the heck with you!.. I didn't think to meet up with you like this..." "Well, come now, come now!" said Pechorin embracing him as a friend. "Am I
*

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really not the the same?.. What can I do?.. Every man has his path... Will we manage to meet again, God knows!.." Saying this, he already sat in the carriage and the coachman had already begun gathering up the reins. "Wait! Wait!" Maksim Maksimych suddenly started yelling, grabbing for the carriage doors. "I nearly forgot altogether... Your papers were left with me, Grigoriy Aleksandrovich... I lug them around with me... thought I might find you in Georgia -- but here's where God would have us see each other... What should I do with them?.." "Whatever you want!" replied Pechorin. "Farewell..." "So you're going to Persia?.. and when are you coming back?" yelled Maksim Maksimych after him. The carriage was already far off, but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might be interpreted as the following: Probably won't! Besides, there's no reason to!.. For a long time already neither the bell's ring nor the clatter of the wheels on the flinty road were audible, and the poor old man still stood in the same spot in deep thought. Enough! We will not excerpt the long and disconnected monologue the grieved old man spoke trying to assume an indifferent look, although a tear of vexation from time to time sparkled on his eyelashes. Enough: Maksim Maksimych as such is already all before you... Had you found him, made his acquaintance and lived twenty years with him in one fortress you would not have come to know him better. But already we shall see him no more, and he is so interesting, so marvelous that it is sad to part with him so soon, and so we glance at him once more, already the last time... "Maksim Maksimych," I said, going up to him, "what are those papers Pechorin

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left with you?" "God knows! Some sort of notes." "And what are you going to do with them?" "What? I'll order them made into cartridges." "Better give them to me." He looked at me with surprise, muttered something through his teeth, and began to rummage in a suitcase; then he pulled out one notebook and threw it on the ground in contempt; then a second, a third and a tenth notebook received similar treatment: there was something childish in his vexation; I became both amused and sad. "That's all of them," he said, "congratulations on your find..." "And I can do anything I want to with them?" "Print them in the papers if you want. What do I care?.. What, am I really some friend of his, or a relative?.. True, we lived under the same roof for a long time... But haven't I lived with plenty of people?.." Quickly grabbing up and carrying the papers away from danger, so that Maksim Maksimych would not repent, our author prepared for the road; he had already donned his cap when the staff-captain entered... But no, as you wish! and we must bid farewell to Maksim Maksimych as is proper, which is to say, not before hearing out his last word... What to do? There are people with whom, once acquainted, one would not part forever... "And you, Maksim Maksimych, aren't you coming?" "No, sir." "How's that?" 55

"Well I haven't seen the commandant yet and I have to hand over some government property..." "But didn't you go see him?" "I did go, of course," he said faltering, "but he wasn't home... and I didn't wait." I understood him: the poor old man had, perhaps for the first time in his life, abandoned official business for a private necessity, speaking in bureaucratic language -and how was he rewarded! "I'm very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, that we have to part sooner than need be." "How can we uncultured old men keep up with you? You are fashionable, haughty young men: it might be all right here under Circassian fire... but meet you later and you're ashamed to even extend your hand to your brother." "I don't deserve these reproaches, Maksim Maksimych." "Well, I, you know, am just talking by the by; however, I wish you all happiness and a fun trip." After this, they parted dryly enough; but you, dear reader, is it not true, did not part so dryly with this old infant, so kind, so dear, so human and inexperienced in all that came about beyond the tight horizon of his understandings and experience? Is it not true that you so grew used to him, so loved him, that by now you will never forget him, and if you meet under a coarse exterior, under a shell of hard-heartedness from a difficult and meager life, a warm heart and under a simple, vulgar speech a warmth of soul, then you would probably say, "Is this Maksim Maksimych?..". And God grant that you meet more Maksim Maksimyches on the path of your life!..

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And so we have perused two parts of the novel -- "Bela" and "Maksim Maksimych". Each of them possesses its own particularity and zamknutost' , which is why each leaves in the reader's soul a full, perfect and deep impression. We saw the heroes of one and the other story in the most solemn positions of their lives and we know them intimately. The first is a story; the second a character sketch, and each is equally full and satisfactory for the poet was able in each to exhaust all its essence and in typological strokes bring out all the interior hidden in it as potential. What is the problem that in the second there is not novelistic content, that it represents not a life, but an excerpt from a man's life? But if the whole man is in this excerpt, then what more is there? The poet wanted to depict a character and managed this excellently: his Maksim Maksimych may be used not as a proper, but as a common noun on a par with Onegins, Lenskys, Zaretskys, Ivan Ivanovichs, Nikifor Ivanovichs*, Afanasii Ivanovichs, Chatskys, Famusovs and others. We met him in "Bela" and already will see him no more. But in both these stories we saw one other character, with whom, however, we are unfamiliar. This mysterious character is not the hero of these stories, but without him there would not have been these stories: he is the hero of a novel that these two stories are only parts of. Now it is time for us to become acquainted with him and this time not through the medium of other characters as before (none of them understands him, as we have seen) and at the same time not through the poet, who alone is responsible for him but washes his hands of him, and through the poet himself: we prepare to read his diary. The poet wrote only the introduction to Pechorin's diary from his own name. This introduction comprises a sort of chapter of the novel, as its most essential part, but, irregardless, we shall return to it later when we will talk about Pechorin's
*

Belinsky's misprint or mistake: Gogol''s Ivan Nikiforich. 57

character and presently start directly with "The Diary". Its first section is called "Taman'" and, similarly to the first two, is a separate story. Although it represents an episode from the life of the novel's hero, the hero remains for us a mysterious character as before. The content of this episode is the following: Pechorin put up in Taman' in a foul hut on the shore of the sea in which he found only a blind boy about fourteen and then a mysterious girl. An incident reveals to him that these people are smugglers. He chases the girl and jokingly threatens her that he will inform on them. The evening of that day she comes to him like a siren, captivates him with a declaration of her love and sets a night meeting with him on the bank of the sea. He of course shows up, but since the strangeness and some kind of mystery in all the girl's words and actions long ago aroused suspicion in him, he came with a pistol at hand. The mysterious girl invited him to board a boat. He would have hesitated, but it was already too late to retreat. The boat began to race along, but the girl wound around his neck and something heavy fell in the water... He grabbed for his pistol, but it was already gone... Then a frightful struggle ensued between them: at last the man vanquished her. By means of a fragment of an oar he somehow reached the shore and in the moonlight saw the mysterious undine who, saved from death, was shaking water from herself. After a while she withdrew with Yanko, plainly her lover and one of the main figures of smuggling: since a bystander had found out their secret, it was dangerous for them to remain in this place any more. The blind boy also disappeared, having stolen Pechorin's trunk, a sword with a silver hilt and a Dagestan dagger. We decided not to do excerpts from this story because it decidedly would not allow for this: it is like some kind of lyrical poem, the whole delight of which is destroyed by one verse

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overlooked or altered by a hand not the poet's. It is all in the form. If one were to excerpt it, one would have to excerpt it all word for word. A retelling of it gives the same understanding as a story, even an enthusiastic one, about the beauty of a woman whom you yourself have never seen. This story is distinguished by some kind of special coloring: irregardless of the prosaic reality of its contents, everything in it is mysterious and the characters are some sort of fantastical shadows glimpsed fleetingly in the evening gloom by the light of dusk or the moon. The girl is particularly charming: this is some wild, flashing beauty, seductive as a siren, uncatchable as an undine, frightful as a rusalka*, quick as a lovely shadow or wave, lithe as a reed. One cannot love her nor can one hate her, but one may only love and hate her simultaneously. How miraculously beautiful she is when, on top of her roof with her hair down, shielding her eyes with her palm, she persistently stares into the distance, and here she laughs and talks with herself, and there strikes up this bold song full of liberty and courage: Over the free franchise of the green sea good ships keep going, white-sailed.

Among those good ships is my own small boat, a boat unrigged, Rusalkas are the Russian equivalent of the undine and the mermaid: a drowned maiden who, undead, has communed with nature and represents a dangerous, yet alluring and sometimes erotic threat to men. 59
*

two-oared.

Let a storm run riot: the old ships will lift their wings and scatter over the sea.

To the sea I shall bow very low: "You, bad sea, do not touch my small boat.

My small boat carries costly things; it is guided through the dark night by a bold daredevil."

As regards the novel's hero, he is the same mysterious character here as in the first stories. You see a man with a strong will, courageous, not paling at any danger, throwing himself into storms and alerts in order to fill the bottomless emptiness of his soul, even if only with experience, lacking any goal. At last there is "Princess Mary". The introduction has been read, and now the novel 60

begins. This story is more diverse and rich in content than all the others, but it is far inferior to them in the artistry of form. Its characters are either sketches or silhouettes and really only one is a portrait. But that which comprises its shortcoming is also its merit, and vice-versa. A detailed examination shall explain our point. We begin from the seventh [p. 83 in Nabokov] page. Pechorin is in Pjatigorsk, at the Elizavetinskii Springs, meets with an acquaintance, the junker* Grushnitsky. In artistic execution, this character is equal to Maksim Maksimych: similarly to him, this is a type, a representative of an entire category of people, a common noun. Grushnitsky is an idealistic young man, who flaunts his idealism like an inveterate dandy flaunts fashionable dress and "lions" flaunt asinine stupidity. He wears a soldier's greatcoat of thick wool; he has a soldier's Cross of St. George. He would very much like to be taken not for a junker, but for an officer demoted to the ranks: he finds this very effective and interesting. In general "to produce effect" is his passion. He speaks in mannered cliches. In a word, this is one of those men who particularly captivate sensitive, novelistic and romantic provincial young noblewomen; one of those men, who, in the marvelous expression of the journal's author, "are not touched by the simply sublime and who affect extraordinary feelings, ennobled passions and exceptional sufferings." "In their soul," he adds, "are often many good qualities, but not a penny's worth of poetry." But here is the journal's author's best and fullest characterization: "Toward old age they become either humble landowners or drunks -- sometimes both." We add to this sketch only that they frightfully love the compositions of Marlinsky, and as soon as conversation about subjects A junker was a Russian officers' corps cadet not yet promoted out of the ranks. Grushnitsky wears his "private's greatcoat" to mark him as an enlisted man until he receives his commission. 61
*

somewhat unpedestrian begins, they try to speak in phrases from his stories. Now you are completely familiar with Grushnitsky. He is not at all overfond of Pechorin because Pechorin has understood him. Pechorin likewise does not like Grushnitsky and senses that they will conflict at some time and that it will be bad for one of them. They met as acquaintances and a conversation started. Grushnitsky fell upon the society that had gathered this year for the waters. "The previous year," he said, "only the Princess Ligovksaya with her daughter came from Moscow; but I'm not acquainted with them; my solder's greatcoat is like a stamp of exile. The pity it arouses is painful like alms." Two ladies at this time walked past them to the well, and Grushnitsky said that it was Princess Ligovskaya with her daughter Princess Mary. He is not acquainted with them because "this proud aristocracy cares not if there is a mind under a numbered service cap and heart under a thick greatcoat!" He attracted the Princess's attention with a strident phrase in French. Pechorin said to him, "This Princess Mary is very pretty. She has such velvety eyes -- namely, velvety; I advise you to adopt this expression when speaking of her eyes; -- the lower and upper eyelashes are so long that the sun's rays don't reflect in her pupils. I love those eyes -- they have no glimmer: they are so soft it is as if the carress you... Anyway, it seems there is only good in her face... So, are her teeth white? That's very important! Pity she didn't smile at your splendid phrase!" "You talk about a beautiful woman like an English horse," said Grushnitsky with indignation. They parted. Returning past this place, Pechorin, unseen, was witness to the following scene. Grushnitsky was wounded or wanted to seem wounded, so he limped on one leg. Having dropped a glass on the sand, he tried in vain to pick it up. The Princess flew to him lighter than a

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bird and, picking up the glass, gave it to him with a movement of the body filled with inexpressible delight. From this came a whole line of funny scenes that end badly for Grushnitsky. He idealizes and Pechorin toys with him. He wants to show him that in the Princess's act he sees no reason for Grushnitsky's joy or even just for his pleasure. Pechorin ascribes this to his passion for contrariness, saying that the presence of an enthusiast seizes him with bitter [kreshchenskij] coldness, and frequent dealings with a phlegmatic can make him a passionate daydreamer. A wrongful accusation! Such a sense of contrariness is understandable in any man with a profound soul. Childish and, what is more, false idealism insults the sensibilities to such a degree that it is agreeable to assure oneself that you have no feeling. Indeed, it is better to be completely devoid of feeling than to have this kind of feeling. On the contrary, the complete absence of life in a man arouses in us an involuntary desire to convince ourselves that we are not like him and there is much life in us, and confers some kind of enthusiasm to us. We point to this characteristic of false self-accusation in Pechorin's character as evidence of his contradiction of himself in consequence of his lack of understanding of himself, the reasons for which we shall explain below. Presently a new character comes out on the stage -- the medic Werner. In a belletristic sense, this is a superb character, but in an artistic sense, pale enough. We see more what the poet wanted to do with him than what he actually did. We regret that the limitations of an article do not allow us to excerpt Pechorin's conversation with Werner. Werner provides him information about those who come to the waters, but most importantly about the Ligovskys. "What did the elder Princess Ligovskaya tell you about me?" Pechorin asked. "Are you very certain that you're thinking of the elder... and not

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the younger?" "Completely convinced." "Why?" "Because the younger was asking about Grushnitsky." "You have a great gift of understanding," Werner replied. He subsequently reported that the younger princess thinks Grushnitsky was demoted to the ranks because of a duel. "I hope you left her this pleasant delusion?" "Naturally." "The stage is set!" Pechorin shouted in delight, "We'll bustle for a denouement to this comedy: fate obviously is concerned that I'll be bored." Werner further informed Pechorin that the princess's mother knows him from having come across him in Petersburg where his story made quite a splash. Speaking of it, the princess wove her own tales into the society tittle-tattle, and the daughter listened attentively. Pechorin, in Werner's words, became the hero of a novel in the new taste in her imagination. Werner volunteers to present him to the princess's mother. Pechorin replies that heroes are not introduced and that they do not otherwise become acquainted than by saving their beloved from certain death. An intention peeks through in his jokes. We soon find out about it: it begins from having nothing to do and ends in... but about that later. Werner said of the princess that she loves to discuss feelings, passions and so forth. Then, he replies to Pechorin's inquiry whether he saw anyone at their place that he saw a woman, blonde with a consumptive look to her face and a black birthmark on her right cheek. These features plainly upset Pechorin, and he was obliged to admit that he had loved this woman at one time. He then asked Werner not to speak to her about him, and, if she inquires, to speak badly of him. "As you please," answered Werner, shrugging his shoulders, and left. Left in solitude, Pechorin thinks about the forthcoming meeting, which worries him. It is clear that his indifference and irony are more society habits than elements of character. "There is not another man in the world," he says, "over whom the past has cultivated such a power as over

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me. Any recollection of past sorrow or joy strikes painfully at my soul and draws from it the same old chords... I'm stupidly made! I forget nothing -- nothing!"

In the evening he went to the boulevard. Meeting two acquaintances, he began to tell them something funny. They were chuckling so loudly that curiosity drew over a few of those surrounding the princess to his side. He, as he himself says, continued to entertain the crowd until sunset. The princess walked past him a few times with her mother and her glance, attempting to express indifference, expressed only vexation. From this moment their open war began: they mocked one another to the face and behind the back with gibes and cruel insinuations. The upper hand was always Pechorin's for he led the war with the necessary presence of mind and without any quick temper. His indifference angered the Princess and, to her vexation, made him nore interesting in her eyes. Grushnitsky kept watch of her like a beast, and barely had Pechorin predicted his quick acquaintance with the Ligovskys when Grushnitsky actually did find occassion to strike up conversation with the princess's mother and pay some sort of compliment to the princess. Following this he began to plague Pechorin -- why will he not acquaint himself with this house, the best at the springs? Pechorin assures the idealistic buffoon that the princess loves him: Grushnitsky grows embarassed, says, "What nonsense!" and smiles conceitedly. "Pechorin my friend, I don't congratulate you; you are not in her good graces... And that's truly a pity! because Mary is very charming!..." "Yes, she's not bad!" said Pechorin pompously, "only watch out Grushnitsky!" Here he began to give him advice and make predictions with the studied look of an officiando. The thrust of the predictions was that the princess is one of those women who love to be kept entertained; that if she should be bored

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with Grushnitsky two minutes in a row he is perished; that, having flirted her fill with him, she will marry some monster out of obedience to mama, but afterwards will come to assure herself that she is an unfortunate, that she loved only one man (that is, Grushnitsky), but that heaven did not want to unite her with him because there was a private's greatcoat on him, even though beneath this thick, grey greatcoat beat a passionate and noble heart... Grushnitsky struck the table with his fist and began to pace back and forth around the room. Pechorin: "I chuckled inside and even grinned twice, but he fortunately did not notice. It is obvious that he is in love, because he is yet more gullible than before*. A silver ring with black enamel has even appeared on him, local work... I began to examine it, and what did I find?.. The name Mary was engraved in small letters on the interior side, and next to it the date of that day when she picked up the famous glass. I kept my discovery to myself; I do not want to compel his declarations; I want him to take me into his confidence -- then I shall revel!" The next day, strolling along a vineyard avenue and thinking about the woman with the birthmark, he ran into her in a grotto. But here we must give an idea of their relations with an excerpt. "Vera!" I cried involuntarily. She started and grew pale. "I knew you were here," she said. I sat down by her and took her hand. A long-forgotten thrill ran through my* veins at the sound of that dear voice: she looked into my eyes with deep and calm eyes -- they expressed distrust and something akin to a reproach.
* *

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"We haven't seen each other in a long time," I said. "A long time, and we've both changed in many ways." "So that means you don't love me?.." "I'm married!.." she said. "Again? a few years ago, that reason also existed, and yet..." She snatched her hand from mine, and her cheeks flamed. "Could it be that you love your second husband?.." She did not answer and turned away. "Or is he very jealous?" Silence. "Well? He is young, handsome, and, in particular, he's no doubt rich, and you're afraid..." -- I glanced at her and was frightened: her face expressed deep despair, in her eyes sparkled tears. "Tell me," she whispered at last, "is it a lot of fun for you to torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we've known one another you've given me nothing but sufferings..." Her voice trembled, she leaned toward me and laid her head on my chest. "Perhaps," I thought, "that's exactly why you loved me: joys are forgotten, but never sorrows!.." I embraced her warmly and we remained that way for a long time. At last our lips neared and merged in a hot, rapturous kiss; her hands were cold as ice, her head burned. Then between us started one of those conversations which have no point on paper, which cannot be repeated and cannot even be remembered: the meaning of sounds replaces and 67

enhances the meaning of words, like in Italian opera. Vera did not at all want Pechorin to meet her husband; but since he was a distant relative of the elder Princess Ligovskaya and since Vera therefore was often at her house, she took Pechorin's word that he would become acquainted with the old princess. Since Pechorin's "Journal" is his autobiography, it is impossible to give an understanding of him without resorting to excerpts, and one cannot excerpt without rewriting a large part of the story. As such, we are compelled to overlook a multitude of details and follow only the development of the action. Once while riding in Circassian dress between Pjatigorsk and Zheleznovodsk, Pechorin descended into a ravine covered with brush to water his horse. Suddenly he sees a cavalcade nearing. Grushnitsky rode in front with Princess Mary. He was comical enough in his grey private's greatcoat, over which he wore a sword and a brace of pistols. The reason for such armament is so that (says Pechorin) the ladies at the springs would still believe in the possibility of a Circassian attack. "And you want to remain the rest of your life in the Caucasus?" the princess was saying. "What is Russia to me?" answered her cavalier, "a country where thousands of people will look on me with contempt because they are richer than I, whereas here -- here this thick greatcoat hasn't hindered my acquaintance with you..." "On the contrary..." said the princess, blushing. Grushnitsky's face expressed pleasure. He went on: "Here my life will flow by noisily, unnoticeably and quickly under the savages' fire and if God would send me every year one feminine glance, one similar to

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that one..." At this point they drew even with me; I hit my horse with my riding crop and rode out from behind a bush... "Mon dieu, un circassien! [My God, a Circassian]" cried the princess in horror. In order to dissuade her completely, I answered her, bowing slightly, "Ne craignez rien, madame, - je suis pas plus dangereux que votre cavalier. [There's nothing to fear, madame, - I am no more dangerous than your cavalier.]" The princess was confused by this reply. That evening Pechorin met up with Grushnitsky on the boulevard. "Where are you coming from?" "From Princess Ligovskaya's," he said very importantly. "How Mary can sing!" "You know what?" I said to him, "I bet she doesn't even know you're a junker; she thinks you've been demoted to the ranks." "Perhaps! What do I care?" he said absentmindedly. "Oh, I'm just telling you..." "You know you angered her terribly today? She found it an unheard-of insolence. I had a lot of trouble convincing her that* you couldn't have had any intention of offending her; she says that you have an impudent gaze, that you, no doubt, are of the highest opinion of yourself." "She is not mistaken... Perhaps you would like to stand up for her?" "I regret that I do not yet have that right..."
*

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"Oho!" I thought, "he plainly already has hopes..." "Well, so much the worse for you," continued Grushnitsky, "Now it will be difficult for you to make their acquaintance; and that's a pity! It's one of the nicest houses I know of..." I grinned internally. "The nicest house for me now is my own," I said yawning, and stood up to leave. "But first confess, you repent?" "What nonsense! If I choose I shall be at the old princess's house tomorrow evening..." "We'll see..." "And even, to oblige you, I'll start to chase after the young princess..." "Yes, if she will want to talk to you..." "I shall just wait for the moment when your conversation bores her..." "And I shall go roaming: I could never fall asleep now... Listen, let's better go to the restaurant, there's gambling there... tonight I need intense sensations..." "I hope you lose." I went home. At the ball in the restaurant, Pechorin heard one fat lady, whom the princess had bumped into, reproving her pride and expressing the wish that she be taught a lesson, and one servile Captain of the Dragoons, the fat lady's cavalier, telling her, "That should present no problem." Pechorin asked the princess to waltz and the princess was barely able to press a smile of victory to her lips. Having made a few rounds with her, he struck up a conversation with her in the tone 70

of a penitent criminal. Laughter and whispering interrupted this conversation. Pechorin turned: a few steps from him stood a group of men and, amidst them, the Captain of the Dragoons rubbed his hands with pleasure. Suddenly out into the middle comes a drunken figure with a moustache and a red mug. He approaches the princess with uncertain steps and, laying his hand on her back and fixing the embarassed girl with cloudy grey eyes, says to her in a cracked falsetto, "Permitay... Oh, hang it all -- look here, I want to dance the mazurka with you..." The princess's mother was not near; the princess's position was awful, she was ready to fall into utter despair. Pechorin walked up to the drunken gentleman and asked him to move off, saying the the princess had already given him her word that she would dance the mazurka with him. It stands to reason that the formal acquaintance of Pechorin with the Ligovskys was a consequence of this event. For the duration of the mazurka Pechorin spoke with the princess and found that she joked very charmingly, that her conversation was witty without pretenses at wit, lively and free; her comments were sometimes profound. With a tangled phrase, he gave her to know that he had long been fond of her. She turned her head and blushed slightly. "You're a strange man!" she said presently, raising upon me her velvety eyes and laughing in a constrained way. "I didn't want to make your acquaintance," I continued, "because you were surrounded by too dense a crowd of admirers, and I was afraid of disappearing in it completely." "You fears were unfounded! They are all most boring..." "All? Surely not all?"

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She looked at me intently, as if trying to recall something, then blushed slightly again, and at last resolutely pronounced: "all!" "Even my friend Grushnitsky?" "But is he your friend?" she said, revealing some doubt. "Yes." "He, of course, does not enter into the category of boring people..." "But into the category of unfortunates," I said, laughing. "Of course! And you think it funny? I wish you could be in his place..." "What? I myself was once a junker and indeed it was the best time of my life!" "But is he really a junker?.." she said quickly, and then added, "I thought that..." "What did you think?" "Nothing!.. Who is that lady?" This conversation was the program of a continuous intrigue in which Pechorin played the role of the seducer from nothing to do; the princess thrashed like a bird in a net set by an expert hand, and Grushnitsky, as before, continued his buffoon's role. The more boring and unbearable he became to the princess, the braver his hopes became. Vera worried and suffered noticing Pechorin's new relations with Mary; but at the slightest reproach or gibe she had to desist, bowing to the overwhelming power which he so tyrannically wielded over her. But what is Pechorin doing? Had he really come to love the princess? -- No. Perhaps he wants to seduce her? -- No. Maybe marry her? -- No. Here is what he himself says about this: I often ask myself, why do I stubbornly try to gain the love of a little maiden whom I do not want to seduce, and whom I'll never marry? Why this feminine coquetry? Vera

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loves me more than Princess Mary will ever love anyone: if she had seemed to me to be an unconquerable belle, then perhaps I might have been fascinated by the difficulty of the enterprise..."

Why do I take such pains? Because I envy Grushnitsky? Poor devil! He doesn't deserve it at all. Or is it the outcome of that nasty but unconquerable feeling which forces us to destroy the sweet delusions of a fellow man, in order to have the petty satisfaction of saying to him, when he asks in despair what he should believe in: "My friend, the same thing happened to me! And still, you see, I dine, I sup, I sleep in perfect peace, and hope to be able to die without cries and tears." Then he continues, and here his character is particularly revealed. And then again, there is boundless delight in the possession of a young, barely unfolded soul! It's like a flower whose best fragrance emanates to meet the first ray of the sun; it should be plucked that minute and after inhaling one's fill of it, one should abandon it on the road: perchance, someone will pick it up! I feel in myself this insatiable greed which swallows everything in my path; I look upon the sufferings and joy of others only in relation to myself, as the food sustaining the strengths of my soul. I myself am no longer capable of frenzy under the influence of passion; my ambition has been suppressed by circumstances, but it has manifested itself in a different form, for ambition is nothing other than a greed for power and my primary pleasure -- to subjugate to my will everything that surrounds me, and to excite toward me a feeling of love, devotion and fear -- is that not the main sign and greatest triumph of power? To be for somebody the cause of sufferings and 73

joy, not having any positive right to it -- is this not the sweetest nourishment for our pride? And what is happiness? Satiated pride. If I considered myself better and more powerful than anyone in the world, I would be happy; if everyone loved me, I would find in myself infinite springs of love. Evil begets evil; the first pang gives an idea of the pleasure of tormenting another; the idea of evil cannot enter a man's head without his wanting to apply it to reality; ideas are organic creations. Someone said their very birth endows them with a form, and this form is action; he, in whose head more ideas have been born, acts more than others; that is why a genius chained to an office desk must die or go mad, exactly as a powerfully built man, whose life is sedentary and whose behavior is virtuous, dies from an apoplectic fit. So those are the reasons poor Mary must pay so dearly!.. What a frightful man this Pechorin is! Because his restless soul demands action, his activity seeks food and his heart is greedy for the advantages of life -- for this the poor girl must suffer! "Egoist, monster, scoundrel, an immoral man!" the strict moralists perhaps will start to scream in unison. It is your right, gentlemen; but what are you bustling for? What are you angry for? Indeed, it seems to us that you are out of your place, that you have sat down to a table not set for you... Do not approach this man too closely, do not fall upon him with such rash courage: he will glance at you, grin, and you shall be judged, and on your embarassed face all shall read your verdict. You anathematize him not for vices -- there are more of them in you, and in you they are blacker and more shameful -- but for the daring freedom, for the atrabilious frankness with which he speaks of them. You allow a man to do anything he pleases, to be anything he wants, you eagerly forgive him insanity, lowliness and depravity, but you demand moral maxims from him

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regarding how a man should think and act and how he in reality does not think and act like trade duty... And your inquisitor's auto-da-fe is ready for anyone who has the noble habit of looking reality in the eye without dropping his own eyes, of calling things by their real names and showing himself to others not in evening dress, not in full-dress uniform, but in a dressing gown, in his room, in a solitary discussion with himself, in a tallying of the books with his conscience... And you are right: show yourself before people just once in your shameful neglige, in your soiled nightcaps, in your tattered dressing gowns, and people will turn away from you with disgust, and society will expel you. But this man has nothing to fear: there is the mysterious awareness in him that he is not who he seems even to himself, and that he exists only in the present. Yes, there is in this man an intensity of spirit and a power of will that you have not; in his very vices flashes something great like lightning in black clouds, and he is marvelous even in those moments when human feeling rises against him... His is a different intention, a different path than yours. His passions are storms that cleanse the sphere of spirit; his delusions, no matter how horrible they are, are the sharp illnesses in a young body that fortify it for a long and healthy life. These are deliriums and fevers and not the gout, rheumatism and hemorrhoids from which you, poor dears, so groundlessly suffer... Let him slander the eternal laws of reason, placing the loftiest happiness in rich vanity; let him slander human nature, seeing in it only egoism; let him slander himself, taking aspects of his spirit for his total development and mixing up youth with manhood... Let him!.. There will come to pass a solemn moment, and contradiction shall be permitted, the struggle shall end and the scattered sounds of the soul shall flow together into one harmonious chord!.. Even now he betrays himself and contradicts himself, destroying with one page all the preceding: so deep is his nature, so inborn is his

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rationality, so strong is his instinct for truth! Listen to what he says immediately after the passage which, probably, so troubles the moralists: Passions are nothing other than ideas in their first stage of development: they are an attribute of youth of heart; and he is a fool who thinks he will be graced* by them all his life: many calm rivers begin with noisy waterfalls, but not one hurtles and foams all the way to the sea. But that calm is often a sign of great, albeit concealed, strength; plentitude and depth of feelings does not permit frantic surgings: the soul, suffering and reveling, gives itself a strict account of everything and becomes convinced that it must be so; it knows that without storms the constant blaze of the sun will wither it; it becomes penetrated with its own life, it coddles and punishes itself like a beloved child. Only in this supreme state of selfknowledge can a man evaluate divine justice.* We add that, while a man has not yet reached this lofty condition of self-awareness (if he is meant to reach it), he must suffer because others and make others suffer, rise up and fall, fall and rise up, to go from delusion to delusion and from truth to truth. All these forfeitures are obligatory manuevers in the sphere of awareness: in order to reach a place, one often must go the long way around, make a long detour, and turn back from the road. The kingdom of truth is the Promised Land and the path to it the Arabian Desert. But, you say, why must others perish from such passions and mistakes? But do we really not perish sometimes as much from our own as from those of others? He who emerged from the crucible of upbringing pure and shined like gold has a nature that is a precious metal. He who burned up or was not refined has a nature that
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is wood or iron. And if many noble natures are perishing as victims of happenstance, religion gives the solution to this question. One thing is clear and positive to us: without storms there is no fertility, and nature languishes; without passions and contadictions, there is no life, no poetry. Provided only that in these passions and contradictions there were reason and humanity, their results would lead a man to his goal; but judgement is not ours: each man's verdict is in his dealings and their consequences! We must demand reality as it is from art, for, no matter what it is, this reality, it tells us more, teaches us more than all the fabrications and homilies of the moralists...

But, perhaps the philosophers will say, why draw a picture of disgraceful passions instead of enflaming the imagination with a depiction of gentle sensations of nature and love, and touching the heart and preaching to the mind? That is an old tune, gentlemen, as old as "Shall I go out to the river, look at the quick..."!..* The literature of the eighteenth century was mostly moral and rational. It had no other stories like Contes Maraux and Contes Philosophiques.** But these moral and philosophical books corrected no one, and the century was all the same mostly immoral and depraved. And this contadiction is very understandable. The laws of morality are in the nature of a man, in his sense, and for this reason do not contradict his doings; but he who senses and acts in accordance with his sense says little. Reason does not compose or invent the laws of morality, but is only aware of them, accepting them from the sense as givens, as facts. And because of this, sense and reason are not opposed and not hostile
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to one another, but related, or to put it better, indentical elements of the human spirit. But when a person is either denied a moral sense or it is ruined by poor upbringing or a disorderly life, then his reason composes its own laws of morality. We are saying reason and not mind, for the mind is the self-conscious sense which provides sense with a subject and substance for thought whereas reason, lacking real substance, by necessity resorts to arbitrary structures. This is the downfall of morals and this is the reason for the contradictions between the words and actions of literary moralists. Reality is nothing to them: they pay no attention to what is and push only what and how it should be. These erroneous philosophical bases gave birth to false art long before the eighteenth century, art which depicted some kind of imaginary reality and created some kind of imaginary people. Indeed, are the settings of Cornell's and Racine's tragedies the earth and not the air, their characters people and not marionettes? Do these tsars, heroes, confidants and messengers belong to a particular age or country? Has anyone since the creation of the world spoken a language similar to theirs?.. The eighteenth century bore this rational art to the limits of awkwardness: it made efforts to make art reality inside out and made from it a dream which still finds its knights of Mancha in a few kind old men of our time. {{Togda dumali byt' poetami.... p. 238}} Our age abhors this hypocrisy. It speaks loudly of its sins, but does not take pride in them; it bares its bloody wounds and does not hide them under the beggar's rags of pretence. It has understood that consciousness of its sinfulness is the first step toward salvation. It knows that real suffering is better than imaginary happiness. For it, utility and morality are in truth alone, and truth is only in the real, that is, in that which is. Because of this, the art of our age is the reproduction of rational reality. The mission of our art is not to present events in a story,

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novel or drama in concordance with a preformed objective, but to develop them in concordance with laws of rational necessity. And, as such, no matter what the content of a poetic work, its impression on the reader's soul will be beneficial and, consequently, the moral objective is achieved by means of itself. They tell us that it is immoral to depict vice as unpunished and victorious. We are against this and will not argue. But in reality, vice is victorious only in an external form: it carries within itself its own punishment and with a proud smile only suppresses internal torment. The newest art is exactly like that: it shows that a person is to be judged by his doings; as a necessity, it allows into itself dissonances produced in the harmony of the moral spirit, but in order to show how harmony emerges from dissonance anew -- either because the detuned string is tuned anew, or because it breaks in consequence of its wilful discord. This is a global law of life and, consequently, also of art. It is a different matter if a poet wanted to show that the results of good and evil are identical for people; that would be immoral. But it would already not be a work of art -- and since extremes attract one another, so it, together with moralistic works, will comprise a general category of non-poetic works written with a definite objective. Further, we shall prove from the very composition being explicated that it belongs not to one or the other and is at root deeply moral. But it is time for us to turn to it. Grushnitsky came and threw himself on my neck -- he had been promoted to an officer. We drank some champagne. Dr. Werner came in after him. "I don't congratulate you," he said to Grushnitsky. "Why?" "Because the soldier's coat very much suits you, and you must admit that an army infantry officer's uniform made here at the springs will provide you nothing of interest... You see, you were until now an exception, bu now you'll fall under the general rule."

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"Talk on, talk on, Doctor! You can't keep me from being delighted. He doesn't know," Grushnitsky added in my ear, "how much hope these epaulets have given me... O, epaulets, epaulets! Your little stars are guiding stars... No! I am now completely happy." On the Mashuka slope a verst from Pjatigorsk there is a canyon. One day a fete and a sort of outdoor ball was appointed. Pechorin asked Grushnitsky whether he were going to the canyon and he answered that he would not appear before the princess for anything in the world any sooner than his dress uniform would be ready, and asked him not to inform her of his promotion. "By the way, tell me, how are things going with her?" He became confused and grew pensive: he wanted to boast, to lie -- but he was ashamed to, and at the same time was embarassed to admit the truth. "What do you think, does she love you?" "Love me? Come on, Pechorin, what notions you have!.. How could she so quickly?.. Even if she did love someone, a decent woman wouldn't say so..." "Fine! And probably, in your opinion, a decent man also should be silent about his passion?" "Ekh, brother! There is a way to do everything; much is not spoken, but guessed..." "That's true... Only the love which we read in the eyes doesn't bind a woman to anything, whereas words... Watch out, Grushnitsky, she's fooling you..." "She?.." he answered, raising his eyes to the sky and smiling complacently, "I pity you, Pechorin!" The numerous company set out in the evening for the canyon. Climbing the mountain, 80

Pechorin gave the princess his arm and she did not relinquish it for the duration of the entire stroll. Their conversation started with backbiting. Pechorin's ire was rising and, having started with jesting, he ended with genuine cruelty. At first this amused the princess, then frightened her. She told him that she would rather fall prey to a murderer's knife than his tongue. He grew pensive for a moment, and then, taking upon himself a deeply touched look, began to complain of his lot, which, in his words, was so pitiful from his very childhood. Everyone read in my face the signs of bad qualities which were not there; but they were assumed -- and they came to be. I was modest -- they accused me of craftiness: I became secretive. I sensed good and evil deeply; noone caressed me, everyone offended me: I became rancorous; I was gloomy -- other children were merry and talkative; I felt myself superior to them -- but was considered inferior: I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world -- none understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth flowed past in a struggle with myself and with the world. Fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings in the depths of heart: they died there. I spoke the truth -- I was not believed: I began to deceive. When I came to know well the Grande Monde and the machinations of society, I became expert* in the science of life, and saw others were happy without skill, enjoying for nothing all those advantages which I so indefatigably pursued. And then in my breast despair was born -- not the despair which is cured with the muzzle of a pistol -but a cold, powerless despair concealed under amiability and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it had dried up, it had evaporated, died, I cut it out and threw it away while the other half stirred and lived, at the
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service of anyone, and nobody noticed this because nobody knew about the existence of it perished half; but now you have aroused its memory in me, and I have read you its epitaph. To many people, all epitaphs, in general, seem ridiculous, but not to me, expecially when I recall what lies beneath them. However, I do not ask you to share my opinion: if my outburst seems ridiculous to you -- please, laugh -- I warn you that it will not grieve me a bit.

Was Pechorin saying this in earnest, or was he pretending? -- It is difficult to decide definitively: it seems that here were both one and the other. People eternally engaged in struggle with the external world and with themselves are always dissatisfied, always grieved and bilious. Affliction is the permanent form of their being and no matter what catches their eye, everything serves them as content for this form. It is not enough that they remember well their true sufferings, but they are indefatigable in the invention of non-existent ones as well. Think to comfort them -- and they become angry; show them the reasons of their woefulness in their real world -- and they will be insulted. Help them to reprove themselves, accuse them of unprecedented insults to life, search out non-existent shortcomings and vices in their character -and you will flatter them and win their favor. If you come upon a person insufficiently deep and strong, be careful: you might either insult his pride such that you will arouse hatred toward yourself, or kill in him any self-confidence and revive despair -- and then the bitter and tortuously tiresome role of consoler and confidante to one and the same complaints lies at hand for you. If this is a deep and strong man, do not be afraid to venture too far in attacks on him and on life: he has a loophole out of this trap: "I'm bad, but really -- everyone is." And you know

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that, according to the expression, even death is not frightening if you have company -- and no matter how bad they are, if the best of people are no better than you, your pride is saved. And that is why such people are so indefatigable in self-accusation: it becomes a habit for them. Deceiving others, they first and foremost deceive themselves. It is all the same to them whether the reason for their complaints is real or fallacious, and their bilious woefulness is equally sincere and unfeigned. Moreover: beginning with conscious lies and beginning with jokes, they continue and finish sincerely. They themselves know not when they are lying and when they are speaking the truth or when their words are the wailing of the soul and when they are cliches. This happens to them by means of, simultaneously, an illness of the soul, insanity and coquetry. In all of Pechorin's escapade, you note that his pride suffers. Whence was born his despair? -Do you not see: he came to know the world and the springs of society well, became an expert in the science of life and saw that others were happy without skill, enjoying for free the advantages he was so tirelessly pursuing. "What petty pride!" you exclaim. But do not be hasty with your verdict: he is slandering himself; believe me, he would not have taken for free that happiness he envied these others and which he achieved. But this made things no easier for the princess: she took everything at face value. Pechorin was not mistaken when he said there are two men in him: at the same time one bitterly complained of nothing, the other observed him and the princess, and here is what he noticed about the latter: At that moment, I met her eyes: tears danced in them; her arm, leaning on mine, trembled, her cheeks flamed; she was sorry for me! -- Compassion, a feeling to which all women so easily submit, had sunk its claws into her inexperienced heart. During the whole stroll she was distracted, did not coquet with anyone -- and that is a great sign!

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Poor Mary! How systematically, with what calculated precision the evil spirit leads her along the path to ruin! Coming up on the gap, all the ladies left their cavaliers, but she did not quit Pechorin's hand; the jokes of the local dandies did not bother her; the steepness of the precipice by which she was standing did not frighten her whilst the other ladies squeaked and covered their eyes. On the way back she was distracted, melancholy. "Have you loved?" Pechorin asked her. She stared at him intently, shook her head and again grew pensive... It seemed she wanted to say something but did not know where to start; her breast heaved. "I was very amiable today, was I not?" she said when they parted with a forced smile. Pechorin answered not her, but himself, "She is dissatisfied with herself, she accuses herself of coldness... Oh, this is the first, most important victory! Tomorrow she will want to make it up to me. I know it all by heart -- that's what's boring!" -- Poor Mary!.. Meanwhile, Vera was tortured by envy and tortured Pechorin with it. He gave her his word that he would go to Kislovodsk and rent himself and apartment next to the house in which she and her husband would occupy the top half; and the elder Princess Ligovskaya with her daughter, the princess, who planned to go after another week, would occupy the downstairs. Pechorin spent that evening at the Ligovskys' and was happy to note the successes of feeling in the princess. Vera saw all of this and suffered. To calm her, he recounted aloud the story of their love, covering everything, naturally, with invented names. "I," he says, "depicted my tenderness, my worries, delights so vividly; I set her actions and character in such an advantageous light that she was involuntarily obliged to forgive me my coquettery with the princess." The next day there was a ball in the restaurant. A half hour before the ball, Grushnitsky

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came to Pechorin in the full splendor of an army officer's dress uniform. "They say you have been chasing after my princess horribly these days?" he said rather offhandedly and not looking at Pechorin. "It's not for us, oafs, to drink tea!"[A Russian folk saying] answered the other. Then Grushnitsky asked him for cologne, disregarding Pechorin's observation that the scent of rose pomade already carried from him; he poured a half bottle on his tie, in his handkerchief and on his sleeves and concluded with the misgiving that he would have to begin the mazurka with the princess knowing almost none of the figures. To Pechorin's question "And did you ask her to dance the mazurka?", he replied that he had not and hurried to await her by the entry. Naturally, at the ball poor Grushnitsky played, thanks to Pechorin, a very funny role. The princess listened very distactedly to him and answered his tragi-comic advances with mockery. "No," he said, "it would have been better for me to remain in that despicable private's greatcoat, to which, perhaps, I am obliged for your attentions...". "Really, the greatcoat did suit your face much better," replied the princess, and, noticing the approaching Pechorin, turned to him with a question about his opinion of the subject. "I'm not agreed with you," answered Pechorin, "in the officer's dress uniform he is yet more young looking." This cruel mockery of the age of a boy who would like people to read on his face the traces of intense passions enraged Grushnitsky: he stamped his foot and walked away. All the remainder of the evening he shadowed the princess: he either danced with her, or vis-a-vis, sighed and plagued her with supplications and reproaches. After the third quadrille, she already hated him. "I didn't expect this of you," he said, coming up to me and taking me by the arm. "What?" "You're dancing the mazurka with her?" he asked in a solemn voice. "She

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confessed to me..." "Well, what of it? Is it a secret?" "Naturally... I should have expected this from a little girl... from a coquette... I'll get revenge!" "Blame your soldier's coat or your epaulets, but why accuse her? How is she to blame for the fact that you no longer appeal to her?.." "Why give me hopes?" "Why did you hope?" Pechorin had achieved his objective: Grushnitsky walked away from him with something akin to a threat. This made him happy and was amusing to him, but what kind of happiness is it to enrage a nice jolly good fellow, and, to do this, to play a premeditated role and act according to a premeditated plan? Here is what he himself thought about this on the way to the ball: I walked slowly; I was sad... "Can it really be," I thought, "that my only purpose is to ruin other people's hopes? Since I have lived and acted, fate has somehow always brought me into the denouement of others' dramas, as if nobody could die or come to despair without me! I have been the indispensable character of the fifth act; involuntarily, I play the* role of the executioner or the traitor. What kind of goal did fate have in this?.. Am I intended by it to be an author of bourgeois tragedies and family novels or to be the collaborator of a purveyor of stories, for instance, for "Library for Reading"?.. How should one know?.. Are there not many people who, in the beginning of life, think to finish it as Aleksander the Great or Lord Byron, and meanwhile remain titular counselors for
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their whole life?.. We purposefully excerpted this passage as one of the most characteristic strokes of Pechorin's duality. There really are two men in him: the first acts, the second watches the first's actions and debates about them or, better put, condemns them, because they really do merit condemnation. The reasons for this splitting, this argument with himself, are very deep, and in them lies the contradiction between the depth of nature and the patheticness of actions of one and the same man. We will get to these reasons below, but for now we will note only that Pechorin, acting mistakenly, condemns himself yet more mistakenly. He looks upon himself as a fully developed and defined man: is it any wonder that his view of this man is generally gloomy, bilious and false?.. It is as if he does not know there is a time in a man's life when it is vexing to him that a fool is stupid, a scoundrel lowly, that the masses are vulgar, that for every one hundred people you meet hardly one decent person... It is as if he does not know that there are those inflamed and intense souls who, in this epoch of family life, find an inexplicable delight in the awareness of their superiority, take vengeance on a mediocre man for his insignificance, and implicate themselves into his calculations and affairs in order to hinder him by foiling them... But still more, it is as if he does not know that another epoch of life comes for these souls that is the result of the first, when they either look upon everything indifferently, not sympathizing with good, not being offended by evil, or they assure themselves that in life evil is as necessary as good, that in the army of human society there must always be more regulars than officers, that stupidity must be stupid because it is stupidity and baseness base because it is baseness, and they leave them to go their own way if they do not see evil in them, or do not see a possibility to hinder it, and repeat to themselves, sometimes with a happy smile, sometimes with a sad one: "I

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vse to blago, vse dobro!.."* Alas, how dearly understanding of the simplest truths costs!.. Pechorin still does not know this namely because he thinks he knows everything. Having amused himself with Grushnitsky, he amused himself with the princess, although in a completely different way. Two times I squeezed her hand... The second time she snatched it away not saying a word. "I'll sleep badly tonight," she said when the mazurka ended. "It's Grushnitsky's fault." "O, no!" And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself I would kiss her hand that evening without fail. People began to leave. Seating the princess in her carriage, I quickly pressed her little hand to my lips. It was dark, and nobody could see it. I returned to the hall very satisfied with myself. From this point the story turned sharply and from comical crossed to tragic. Pechorin has hitherto been sowing and the time has come for him to reap what he has sowed. We think that it is in this that the true morality of a poetic work must be contained and not in base maxims. Grushnitsky finally understood that he had been played the fool, but instead of seeing the real reason for his disgrace, he saw it in Pechorin. He was joined by the Captain of the Dragoons and all the others whom Pechorin's superiority insulted, and a hostile party assembled against Pechorin; but he was not frightened, but was joyful at this, seeing new food for his idle activity...

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"Very happy; I love enemies, although not in the Christian way. They amuse me, stir up my blood. To always be on guard, to catch every glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intention, to pretend to be deceived and suddenly, with one stroke to topple the whole enormous and much labored upon edifice of their tricks and designs -- that's what I call life!" "A mistaken appelation!" you exclaim, and we are agreed with you; but intensity will always remain intensity and will always be full of poetry, will always carry you away and awe you, even if it acts as a wooden sword instead of a steel one... There are people in whose hands a simple stick is more dangerous that a sword in the hands of other: Pechorin is one such person... The next day Vera left with her husband for Kislovodsk. Pechorin blames her for being the cause of her complaints about him: she refuses him a private meeting. "Perhaps," he says, "jealousy will accomplish what my requests could not." In the evening he stopped by the Ligovskys' and did not see the princess -- she was ill. Returning home he noticed that something was missing for him. "I did not see her! She is ill! I haven't really fallen in love?.. What nonsense!.." Do you see: how alluring this game of allure is, how easy it is, alluring others, to be allured oneself!.. No matter how Pechorin tries to present himself as a cold seducer without any goal, but from nothing to do, his coldness is all the same very suspect to us. Naturally this is still not love, but it is difficult, after all, to explicate and delineate one's sensations: any man's own heart is the most winding, the darkest labyrinth... The next day he found her alone. She was pale and pensive. "Are you angry at me?" She started weeping and covered her face with her hands. "What's the matter?" "You don't respect me!.." she replied. He said something akin to an apology and vainglorious riddle regarding his character to her -- and left; but, leaving, heard her weeping. Poor girl! The arrow

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went so deeply into her heart that the affair cannot end well... The same day he found out from Werner that rumors were afoot that he would marry the princess... Finally the action is transported to Kislovodsk. Once a numerous cavalcade set out to see the ring (a cliff in the shape of a gate) about three versts from Kislovodsk. When, on the return trip, they crossed the Podkumok, the princess's head began to spin from looking at the water. "I'm not well!" she said in a weak voice. Pechorin encircled her lissome figure with an arm, her cheek nearly touched his, she smelled aflame... "What are you doing with me? My God!.." she said; but he paid no attention to her words -- and his lips brushed her cheek... Having ridden out onto the bank, everyone descended at a trot, but the princess held back her horse, and again they rode behind everyone. After a long silence, foreseen by Pechorin, she finally said in a voice in which there were tears: "Either you despise me or love me very much! Perhaps you want to laugh at me , to trouble my soul, and then leave me... That would be so base, so low, that the supposition alone... O, no! Isn't it true," she added in a voice of tender trust, "isn't it true that there is nothing in me that would preclude respect? Your insolent act... I must, I must forgive you, because I allowed it... Answer, speak; I want to hear your voice!.." In the last words there was such feminine impatience that I grinned involuntarily; fortunately, it was starting to get dim... I did not answer anything. "You're silent?" she went on. "Perhaps you want me to be the first to say that I love you?" I was silent. "Do you want that?" she went on, quickly turning to me... In the determination of

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her gaze and voice was something horrible. "What for?" I replied, shrugging my shoulders. She whipped her horse and set off full speed down the narrow, dangerous road; this happened so fast that I hardly managed to catch up to her, and when I did, she had already joined the rest of the party. All the way home she talked and laughed incessantly; there was something feverish in her movements; not once did she glance at me. Everyone noticed this unusual gaiety. And the old princess was happy inside watching her daughter; but her daughter was just having a nervous breakdown: she will spend a sleepless night and will cry. This thought gives me boundless delight: there are moments when I understand the Vampire!.. And I still am reputed to be a jolly good fellow and try to earn that appelation!* What is this entire scene? We understand it only as testimony to the degree of bitterness and immorality to which a man may be led by an eternal contradiction with himself, an eternally insatiable greed for true life and true bliss; but its last stroke we decidedly do not understand... It seems to us an exagerration, an intentional epithet on himself, a dubious and forced stroke; in a word, it seems to us that here Pechorin fell in with Grushnitsky, although more frightful than funny... And, if we are not mistaken in our conclusion, this is very understandable: the state of contradiction with one's self necessarily conditions more or less dubiousness and forcedness in attitudes... Returning home by way of a suburb, Pechorin heard from one house discordant talk and

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loud yells. He climbed off the horse and began to eavesdrop. They were talking about him. The Captain of the Dragoons was yelling that he ought to be taught a lesson, that these Petersburg fledglings give airs until you punch them in the nose, that Pechorin thinks that he alone has ever lived in the world because he always wore clean gloves and polished boots, and that he must be a coward. Grushnitsky upheld the authenticity of the latter proposition, having thought up some kind of incident in which it were as if Pechorin played a role before Grushnitsky not terribly advantageous to his honor. The honorable company sets fire to Grushnitsky: the princess's name is brought up. However, the Captain of the Dragoons wants only to toy with Pechorin, forcing him to expose his cowardice. He proposes to Grushnitsky that he call him out to duel and leaves it to himself to place them at six paces and not put bullets into the pistols. I awaited with a shiver Grushnitsky's answer; cold fury passessed me at the thought that, were it not for chance, I might have become the laughingstock of these fools. If Grushnitsky had not agreed, I would have thrown myself on his neck.* But after some silence, he stood from his place, stretched out his hand to the captain and said very pompously: "Fine, I'm agreed." In the morning Pechorin met the princess by the well. This meeting was the frightful denouement of an empty and insignificant drama which preceded another drama no less empty and insignificant in essence, but with a still more frightful denouement. "Are you ill?" she said, staring at me intently. "I didn't sleep the night."

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"Neither did I... I accused you... perhaps, wrongly? -- But explain yourself, I can forgive you everything." "Everything?" "Everything... only tell me the truth... and hurry... You see, I've thought a lot trying to explain, to justify your behavior: perhpas you're afraid of obstacles on the part of my family... that's nothing: when they find out (her voice trembled), I'll persuade them. Or is it your financial situation... but, you know, I can sacrifice everything for the man I love... Oh, answer quick... have pity: you don't despise me, do you?" She grabbed my arm. The old princess was walking in front of us with Vera's husband, and did not see anything; but we could have been seen by strolling patients, of all curious people the most curious gossipers, and I quickly freed my arm from her passionate grasp. "I'll tell you the whole truth," I replied to the princess, "I won't justify myself nor explain my actions: I don't love you.* Her lips paled slightly. "Leave me," she said barely audibly. I shrugged my shoulders, turned and left.

This time Pechorin is more condescending to us: he has raised up the secretive veil with

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which he shrouded his satanic greatness, and very simply, although in beautiful prose, explained the reason for this scene, as if wishing to justify his actions in it. He says that no matter how passionately he loves a woman, as soon as she gives him to feel that he is obliged to marry her -farewell, love!.. This fear of losing a freedom that is repellent and not needed for anything he ascribes to the prediction of an old woman who, when he was still a baby, told his fortune to his mother and foretold his death from an evil wife... No, this is all wrong!.. Pechorin did not love the princess: he would be insulting himself if he called love this slight feeling aroused by his own coquettry and pride. Also: marriage is the reality of love. Only a fully ripened soul can truly love, and, in such a case, love finds its highest reward in marriage and at the splendour of consummation does not wither, but, more inflamed, emanates its aromatic color, as if in the rays of the sun... Any feeling is real in relation to itself as an expression of a momentary state of the spirit: even the first love of a lad barely awakened to the life of the soul possesses its own poetry and its own truth; but, being real in its essence, it is completely transparent in its form and in comparison to the love of a grown man is the same as a baby boy's first incoherent babblings in comparison with a man's rational speech. This is more a need for love than love itself, and for this reason it turns to the first subject able to strike the young fancy with a true or imaginary resemblance to its ideal, and is extinguished as quickly as it flares up. Such love may be repeated many times in a man's life; it either hates marriage and turns it away as an idea that profanes its idealism, or imagines it to be the loftiest bliss and strives toward it only until it appears before this love with its strictly testing and distrustfully harsh gaze: then poor love drops its eyes before marriage like a child caught unawares in a prank by a strict governess... Yes, marriage is ruin for such love, and that is why there are so many unhappy marriages for love...

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Only a real feeling does not fear its realization, is not shaken in its faith; only reality bravely looks reality in the eye not dropping its eyes... And could Pechorin, this man so deep and powerful, really have considered his feelings for the princess real and then wonder that her hint about marriage eliminated his feeling as easily as the sight of a willow switch eliminates a child's horseplay?.. No! From all this only one thing is plain: that Pechorin was too early in considering himself as having drank the cup of life to the dregs, when he had yet to even blow properly on its fizzing foam... We repeat: he still does not know himself, and if one should not always believe him when he justifies himself, one should believe him still less when he accuses himself or ascribes to himself various inhuman qualities and vices. But should he be blamed for this? Blame him, if in your eyes a youth is guilty of being young and an old man of being old! There are people for whom the need for love comprises their torture until they are satisfied -- and there are people who live a long time and die unsatisfied, for only the needs are real, and satisfaction depends on an event which may or may not come to pass. And so, when such people dash everywhere seeking satisfaction and do not find it, their despair gives rise to epithets on the eternal laws of rational reality. But they are correct in their own eyes, although they are not correct before reality. May one blame them for unhappiness? May one blame them for falling upon everything that agitates the soul with apparitions of bliss? Not everyone is born with that apathetic discretion, the source of which is a rotten and dead nature... A magician came to Kislovodsk. Naturally, at the springs one cannot disregard any kind of entertainment, and everyone hastened to the first performance. The Princess Ligovskaya herself, irregardless of her daughter being ill, took a ticket. Pechorin received a note from Vera in which she appointed a liaison with him at nine o'clock in the evening, informing him that her

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husband had gone to Pjatigorsk until the following morning and that she had given out tickets to her own and the Ligovskys' servants. Having made an appearance at the performance and noted Vera's and the princess's lackeys and maids in the back rows, he set out for the liaison. It was dark in the courtyard. Suddenly it seemed to Pechorin that someone was following him. Out of caution he walked around the house as if strolling. Walking past the princess's window, he again heard steps behind him and a man wrapped in a greatcoat ran past him. Pechorin rushed to a dark stairway, a door was thrown open and a small hand grabbed his hand... Around two in the morning Pechorin descended from a window, from the upper to the lower balcony, by means of two shawls tied together. A light burned in the princess's window, and something drew him to the window. Thanks to a not completely drawn curtain, here is what he saw: Mary was sitting on her bed with her hands folded on her lap; her thick hair was gathered under a night cap fringed with lace; a large crimson kerchief covered her white little shoulders and her little feet were in variegated Persian slippers. She sat motionless, he head sunk onto her breast; before her, on a little table, a book was open, but her eyes, motionless and full of ineffable sadness, it seemed, for the hundredth time ran across the same page, while her thoughts were far away... How much these few and simple lines say! What a lengthy and tortuous tale of insulted female dignity, insulted female love, harbored sufferings and coldly burning despair they tell... Poor Mary!.. At that moment someone moved behind a bush; Pechorin leapt from the balcony to the ground and an invisible hand grabbed him by the shoulder. "Aha!" said a rough voice, "Caught

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you!.. visit young princesses at night will you!.." "Hold him tighter!" yelled another voice and Pechorin recognized Grushnitsky and the Captain of the Dragoons. He knocked down the latter with a strong blow to the head and threw himself into the bushes. "Thieves! A spy!" the pursuers shouted; a gunshot went off and the smoking wadding fell almost at Pechorin's feet. After a minute he was already at home and lay undressed in his bed. Hardly had his servant managed to lock the door when the Captain of the Dragoons and Grushnitsky began to knock, screaming, "Pechorin! Are you sleeping? Are you here?". "I'm sleeping," he answered them angrily. "Get up... thieves... Circassians..." "I've got a sniffle, I'm afraid I'll catch cold." They left. Meanwhile an alarm was sounded. A cossack came down from the fortress. Everything began bustling; they started searching for the Circassians, and the next day everyone was convinced of the Circassians' night attack. The next morning he met Vera's husband by the well and went with him to breakfast in the restaurant. The kind old man told him about his wife's fright the previous night. "It would have to happen while I was away!" he said. They settled to eat breakfast by the door leading into the corner room, where there were about ten young men among whom was also Grushnitsky. And so, fate again presented Pechorin an instance to eavesdrop on Grushnitsky. This latter, for mystery, was revealing to the company that the reason for the night alarm was not the Circassians, but one man, whose name he must hide and who was at the princess's. "What princess?" he concluded, "Well, I'll own up, the Moscow ladies! After this, what can one believe? We tried to seize him; but he broke loose and, like a rabbit, dashed into the bushes; then I shot at him." Noticing that no one believed him, he began to support with his good word the truth of what he had said and finally even announced his readiness to name the accused.

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"Tell us, tell us who he is!" resounded from all sides. "Pechorin." replied Grushnitsky. At that moment he raised his eyes -- I was standing in the door opposite him; he blushed terribly. I walked up to him and said slowly and distinctly: "I very much regret that I entered after you already gave your good word in support of the vilest slander. My presence would have saved you from extra baseness. Grushnitsky jumped up from his place and was about to flare up. Pechorin naturally began to demand that he withdraw his words. Grushnitsky stood in front of him, dropping his eyes, in intense agitation; but the struggle of conscience with pride was short-lived, all the more so because the Captain of the Dragoons was elbowing him: not raising his eyes to Pechorin, he again insisted on the truth of his accusation. Pechorin led the captain away and negotiated with him. On the porch of the restaurant Vera's husband grabbed him by the arm with a feeling resembling joy, was calling him a most noble man and Grushnitsky a commoner, and was announcing his happiness that he did not have a daughter... Poor man!.. From there Pechorin went to Werner, told him everything and asked him to be his second. After an hour Werner came to him already having negotiated with the Captain of the Dragoons. "There is definitely a plot against you," he told him. While Werner was taking off his galoshes in the entryway, he was witness to a heated argument between the captain and Grushnitsky, from which he understood that Grushnitsky would not agree to fool Pechorin, but demanded, as the offended party, a decisive duel. Werner's negotiations with the captain decided that the place of the duel would be a remote canyon about five versts from Kislovodsk and to

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shoot the next day at four in the morning at six paces, and that the man killed would be on account of the Circassians. Then Werner reported his suspicion that the captain intended to put a bullet only in Grushnitsky's pistol, and asked Pechorin whether they ought to show that they had guessed, to which the latter determinedly did not consent, saying that he would ruin their plans even without that. In the evening a lackey came with an invitation from the elder princess, but he excused himself as ill. He did not sleep all night, thought after thought ran through his head. From threats to Grushnitsky, whom he considered his true victim, he crossed to a thought about the transitoriness of the luck which had hitherto invariably served him. "Well, what of it?" he thought, "If I'm to die, the I'm to die! The loss to the world wouldn't be big; and I myself am already properly bored. I am like a man yawning at a ball who does not go home only because his carriage is still not there. But the carriage is ready... Farewell!.." Then he turns to his whole life and the question of his life's purpose comes into his head. "What have I lived for? For what purpose was I born? But one probably existed, and I probably had a high calling because I feel incomprehensible strengths in my soul... But I have not guessed this calling, I was carried away by the lures of passions empty and ignoble; from their crucible I emerged hard and cold as iron, but lost forever the dust of noble ambitions -- the best color of life!.." This little discussion with himself of a man who is preparing to be either killed or a killer the next day is instructive... Thought involuntarily turns to itself, and through the haze of prejudices and purposeful sophisms shines a ray of terrible truth... But the decision is made, the step taken, and there is no turning back: society itself, which looks upon bloody dealings as

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immorality, society itself, contradicting itself, forbids this return with its mocking and scornful glance, with its finger immovably stopped on the victim... The affair's bloody denouement provides it a means to be a homily for others, to pronounce a verdict upon one's fellow man and to give him a lot of late advice; backing down deprives society of an interesting anecdote and a marvelous chance at entertainment at someone else's expense. What is one to do here? Naturally, to go ahead, and (so that the probing into himself and into the essence of the affair is not absent bravery) to close eyes to the truth and to grab onto the first sophism that presents itself, the falseness of which is evident even to him... Pechorin did just that; he decided it is not worth the work to live, and he is correct before himself or at least not guilty before the strict judges of other people's actions, who themselves do not participate in life, but look upon the living like an audience looks at actors, sometimes applauding, sometimes hissing... Irregardless of the mysterious agitation torturing Pechorin, he not only had the strength to make himself take up Walter Scott's novel "Scottish Puritans", but also to get carried away with the magical fantasy. When it grew light, he looked in the mirror: a lackluster palor covered his face, which kept the traces of a torturous night of sleeplessness; but his eyes, although encircled with brown shadow, gleamed proudly and imperturbably. "I," he says, "remained satisfied with myself." Bathing in Narzan [a kind of mineral water] made him completely fresh and vigorous. Returning from bathing he found Werner at his place. They mounted the horses and left. Here follows in passing a brief description of the beautiful Caucasian morning full of poetry. "I remember," Pechorin says, "this time more than ever before, I loved nature; how curiously I looked into every dewdrop trembling on a wide grape leaf and reflecting millions of

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rainbow rays! How greedily my gaze tried to penetrate the hazy distance! There the road gew narrower and the cliffs bluer and more awesome, and finally they seemed to meld into an impenetrable wall." "Have you written your will?" suddenly asked Werner. "No." "And if you are killed?" "The heirs will turn up on their own." "Surely you have some friends you would want to send a last farewell?" I shook my head. "Surely there is a woman* to whom you would want to leave something in remembrance?" "Do you want me, doctor," I answered him, "to open my soul to you?.. You see: I've already lived out those years when people die pronouncing the name of their beloved and will a lock of pomaded or unpomaded hair to a friend. Thinking of a near and possible death, I think of myself alone; others don't even do that. The friends who, tomorrow, will forget me, or, worse, saddle with God knows what kind of tales; the women, who, embracing another man, will laugh at me so as to not arouse his jealousy toward a dead man -- to hell with them! Out of life's storm I carried only a few ideas, and not one feeling. For a long time now I have lived not by my heart, but my head. I weigh and select my own passions with strict curiosity, but without participation. There are two men in me: one lives in the full sense of the word, the other cogitates and judges him; the first, perhaps,
*

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in an hour, will bid you and the world farewell forever, and the other... the other?..

This declaration reveals all of Pechorin. There are no cliches in it, and every word is sincere. Pechorin articulated all of himself unconsciously but truthfully. This man is not an ardent youth who chases after impressions and gives up all of himself to the first of them [impressions] until it is obliterated or the soul requires a new one. No, he has fully lived through the young age, that period of a novelistic view of life: he already does not dream of dying for his beloved pronouncing her name and willing a lock of hair to a friend, does not take words for action, or a burst of feeling, although sublime and noble, for the real state of a man's soul. He has gone through a lot, loved a lot, and knows from experience how short lived all feelings and all attachments are; he has thought much about life, and knows from experience how unreliable all conclusions and presumptions are for those who look directly and bravely at truth, do not console or deceive themselves with convictions in which they themselves do not even believe... His spirit is ripe for new feelings and new thoughts, his heart demands a new attachment: reality -- that is the essence and character of all this novelty. He is ready for it; but fate has not yet given him new experiences, and, despising the old ones, he judges life according to them anyway. Whence this faithlessness in the reality of feeling and thought, this cooling toward a life which he sometimes sees as an optical illusion, sometimes as the senseless flashing of

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