A Hero of Our Time
Page 23
CHAPTER VIII. 11th June.
I OFTEN ask myself why I am so obstinately endeavouring to win the loveof a young girl whom I do not wish to deceive, and whom I will nevermarry. Why this woman-like coquetry? Vera loves me more than PrincessMary ever will. Had I regarded the latter as an invincible beauty, Ishould perhaps have been allured by the difficulty of the undertaking...
However, there is no such difficulty in this case! Consequently, mypresent feeling is not that restless craving for love which torments usin the early days of our youth, flinging us from one woman toanother until we find one who cannot endure us. And then begins ourconstancy--that sincere, unending passion which may be expressedmathematically by a line falling from a point into space--the secret ofthat endlessness lying only in the impossibility of attaining the aim,that is to say, the end.
From what motive, then, am I taking all this trouble?--Envy ofGrushnitski? Poor fellow!
He is quite undeserving of it. Or, is it the result of that ugly, butinvincible, feeling which causes us to destroy the sweet illusions ofour neighbour in order to have the petty satisfaction of saying to him,when, in despair, he asks what he is to believe:
"My friend, the same thing happened to me, and you see, nevertheless,that I dine, sup, and sleep very peacefully, and I shall, I hope, knowhow to die without tears and lamentations."
There is, in sooth, a boundless enjoyment in the possession of a young,scarce-budded soul! It is like a floweret which exhales its best perfumeat the kiss of the first ray of the sun. You should pluck the flower atthat moment, and, breathing its fragrance to the full, cast it upon theroad: perchance someone will pick it up! I feel within me that insatiatehunger which devours everything it meets upon the way; I look uponthe sufferings and joys of others only from the point of view of theirrelation to myself, regarding them as the nutriment which sustains myspiritual forces. I myself am no longer capable of committing folliesunder the influence of passion; with me, ambition has been repressed bycircumstances, but it has emerged in another form, because ambition isnothing more nor less than a thirst for power, and my chief pleasure isto make everything that surrounds me subject to my will. To arouse thefeeling of love, devotion and awe towards oneself--is not that the firstsign, and the greatest triumph, of power? To be the cause of sufferingand joy to another--without in the least possessing any definite rightto be so--is not that the sweetest food for our pride? And what ishappiness?--Satisfied pride. Were I to consider myself the best, themost powerful man in the world, I should be happy; were all to love me,I should find within me inexhaustible springs of love. Evil begetsevil; the first suffering gives us the conception of the satisfactionof torturing another. The idea of evil cannot enter the mind withoutarousing a desire to put it actually into practice. "Ideas are organicentities," someone has said. The very fact of their birth endows themwith form, and that form is action. He in whose brain the most ideasare born accomplishes the most. From that cause a genius, chained to anofficial desk, must die or go mad, just as it often happens that a manof powerful constitution, and at the same time of sedentary life andsimple habits, dies of an apoplectic stroke.
Passions are naught but ideas in their first development; they are anattribute of the youth of the heart, and foolish is he who thinks thathe will be agitated by them all his life. Many quiet rivers begin theircourse as noisy waterfalls, and there is not a single stream which willleap or foam throughout its way to the sea. That quietness, however, isfrequently the sign of great, though latent, strength. The fulness anddepth of feelings and thoughts do not admit of frenzied outbursts. Insuffering and in enjoyment the soul renders itself a strict account ofall it experiences and convinces itself that such things must be. Itknows that, but for storms, the constant heat of the sun would dry itup! It imbues itself with its own life--pets and punishes itself like afavourite child. It is only in that highest state of self-knowledge thata man can appreciate the divine justice.
On reading over this page, I observe that I have made a wide digressionfrom my subject... But what matter?... You see, it is for myself that Iam writing this diary, and, consequently anything that I jot down in itwill in time be a valuable reminiscence for me.
. . . . .
Grushnitski has called to see me to-day. He flung himself upon my neck;he has been promoted to be an officer. We drank champagne. Doctor Wernercame in after him.
"I do not congratulate you," he said to Grushnitski.
"Why not?"
"Because the soldier's cloak suits you very well, and you must confessthat an infantry uniform, made by one of the local tailors, will not addanything of interest to you... Do you not see? Hitherto, you have beenan exception, but now you will come under the general rule."
"Talk away, doctor, talk away! You will not prevent me from rejoicing.He does not know," added Grushnitski in a whisper to me, "how many hopesthese epaulettes have lent me... Oh!... Epaulettes, epaulettes! Yourlittle stars are guiding stars! No! I am perfectly happy now!"
"Are you coming with us on our walk to the hollow?" I asked him.
"I? Not on any account will I show myself to Princess Mary until myuniform is finished."
"Would you like me to inform her of your happiness?"
"No, please, not a word... I want to give her a surprise"...
"Tell me, though, how are you getting on with her?"
He became embarrassed, and fell into thought; he would gladly havebragged and told lies, but his conscience would not let him; and, at thesame time, he was ashamed to confess the truth.
"What do you think? Does she love you?"...
"Love me? Good gracious, Pechorin, what ideas you do have!... How couldshe possibly love me so soon?... And a well-bred woman, even if she isin love, will never say so"...
"Very well! And, I suppose, in your opinion, a well-bred man should alsokeep silence in regard to his passion?"...
"Ah, my dear fellow! There are ways of doing everything; often thingsmay remain unspoken, but yet may be guessed"...
"That is true... But the love which we read in the eyes does not pledgea woman to anything, whilst words... Have a care, Grushnitski, she isbefooling you!"
"She?" he answered, raising his eyes heavenward and smilingcomplacently. "I am sorry for you, Pechorin!"...
He took his departure.
In the evening, a numerous company set off to walk to the hollow.
In the opinion of the learned of Pyatigorsk, the hollow in question isnothing more nor less than an extinct crater. It is situated on aslope of Mount Mashuk, at the distance of a verst from the town, and isapproached by a narrow path between brushwood and rocks. In climbing upthe hill, I gave Princess Mary my arm, and she did not leave it duringthe whole excursion.
Our conversation commenced with slander; I proceeded to pass inreview our present and absent acquaintances; at first I exposed theirridiculous, and then their bad, sides. My choler rose. I began in jest,and ended in genuine malice. At first she was amused, but afterwardsfrightened.
"You are a dangerous man!" she said. "I would rather perish in thewoods under the knife of an assassin than under your tongue... In allearnestness I beg of you: when it comes into your mind to speak evil ofme, take a knife instead and cut my throat. I think you would not findthat a very difficult matter."
"Am I like an assassin, then?"...
"You are worse"...
I fell into thought for a moment; then, assuming a deeply moved air, Isaid:
"Yes, such has been my lot from very childhood! All have read upon mycountenance the marks of bad qualities, which were not existent; butthey were assumed to exist--and they were born. I was modest--I wasaccused of slyness: I grew secretive. I profoundly felt both good andevil--no one caressed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive. I wasgloomy--other children merry and talkative; I felt myself higher thanthey--I was rated lower: I grew envious. I was prepared to love thewhole world--no one understood me: I learned to hate. My colourlessyouth flowed by in conflict with m
yself and the world; fearing ridicule,I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there theydied. I spoke the truth--I was not believed: I began to deceive. Havingacquired a thorough knowledge of the world and the springs of society, Igrew skilled in the science of life; and I saw how others without skillwere happy, enjoying gratuitously the advantages which I so unweariedlysought. Then despair was born within my breast--not that despair whichis cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but the cold, powerless despairconcealed beneath the mask of amiability and a good-natured smile. Ibecame a moral cripple. One half of my soul ceased to exist; it driedup, evaporated, died, and I cut it off and cast it from me. The otherhalf moved and lived--at the service of all; but it remained unobserved,because no one knew that the half which had perished had ever existed.But, now, the memory of it has been awakened within me by you, and Ihave read you its epitaph. To many, epitaphs in general seem ridiculous,but to me they do not; especially when I remember what reposes beneaththem. I will not, however, ask you to share my opinion. If this outburstseems absurd to you, I pray you, laugh! I forewarn you that yourlaughter will not cause me the least chagrin."
At that moment I met her eyes: tears were welling in them. Her arm, asit leaned upon mine, was trembling; her cheeks were aflame; she pitiedme! Sympathy--a feeling to which all women yield so easily, had dug itstalons into her inexperienced heart. During the whole excursion she waspreoccupied, and did not flirt with anyone--and that is a great sign!
We arrived at the hollow; the ladies left their cavaliers, but she didnot let go my arm. The witticisms of the local dandies failed to makeher laugh; the steepness of the declivity beside which she was standingcaused her no alarm, although the other ladies uttered shrill cries andshut their eyes.
On the way back, I did not renew our melancholy conversation, but to myidle questions and jests she gave short and absent-minded answers.
"Have you ever been in love?" I asked her at length.
She looked at me intently, shook her head and again fell into a reverie.It was evident that she was wishing to say something, but did not knowhow to begin. Her breast heaved... And, indeed, that was but natural!A muslin sleeve is a weak protection, and an electric spark was runningfrom my arm to hers. Almost all passions have their beginning in thatway, and frequently we are very much deceived in thinking that a womanloves us for our moral and physical merits; of course, these prepare andpredispose the heart for the reception of the holy flame, but for allthat it is the first touch that decides the matter.
"I have been very amiable to-day, have I not?" Princess Mary said to me,with a forced smile, when we had returned from the walk.
We separated.
She is dissatisfied with herself. She accuses herself of coldness... Oh,that is the first, the chief triumph!
To-morrow, she will be feeling a desire to recompense me. I know thewhole proceeding by heart already--that is what is so tiresome!