Bela read the summary. "Hero of our time" M.Yu

Part one

Bela

I rode on the messenger from Tiflis. All the luggage of my cart consisted of one small suitcase, which was half full of travel notes about Georgia. Most of them, fortunately for you, are lost, and the suitcase with the rest of the things, fortunately for me, remained intact.

The sun was already beginning to hide behind the snowy ridge when I drove into the Koishaur valley. The Ossetian cab driver tirelessly drove the horses in order to have time to climb the Koishaur mountain before nightfall, and sang songs at the top of his voice. What a glorious place this valley is! On all sides the mountains are impregnable, reddish rocks, hung with green ivy and topped with piles of plane trees, yellow cliffs, streaked with gullies, and there, high, high, a golden fringe of snow, and below the Aragva, embracing with another nameless river, noisily escaping from a black gorge full of mist , stretches with a silver thread and sparkles like a snake with its scales.

Having approached the foot of the Koishaur mountain, we stopped near the dukhan. There was a noisy crowd of about two dozen Georgians and highlanders; nearby camel caravan stopped for the night. I had to hire bulls to pull my cart up that accursed mountain, because it was already autumn and icy, and this mountain is about two versts long.

Nothing to do, I hired six bulls and several Ossetians. One of them put my suitcase on his shoulders, others began to help the bulls with almost one cry.

Behind my cart, four bulls dragged another as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that it was overlaid to the top. This circumstance surprised me. Her master followed her, smoking from a small Kabardian pipe, trimmed in silver. He was wearing an officer's frock coat without an epaulette and a shaggy Circassian hat. He seemed about fifty; his swarthy complexion showed that he had long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and his prematurely gray mustache did not correspond to his firm gait and cheerful appearance. I went up to him and bowed: he silently returned my bow and let out a huge puff of smoke.

We are fellow travelers, it seems?

He silently bowed again.

Are you sure you're going to Stavropol?

So, sir, for sure ... with government things.

Tell me, please, why are four bulls dragging your heavy cart jokingly, and my empty, six cattle are barely moving with the help of these Ossetians?

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

You, right, recently in the Caucasus?

A year, I replied.

He smiled a second time.

Yes, yes! Terrible beasts, these Asians! Do you think they help that they scream? And the devil will understand what they are shouting? The bulls understand them; harness at least twenty, so if they shout in their own way, the bulls will not move from their place ... Terrible rogues! And what can you take from them? .. They love to tear money from those passing by ... They spoiled the scammers! You will see, they will still charge you for vodka. I already know them, they won't fool me!

How long have you been serving here?

Yes, I already served here under Alexei Petrovich 1, - he answered, drawing himself up. “When he came to the Line, I was a lieutenant,” he added, “and under him I received two ranks for deeds against the highlanders.

And now you?..

Now I count in the third linear battalion. And you, dare I ask?

I told him.

The conversation ended with this and we continued to walk silently beside each other. We found snow on top of the mountain. The sun set, and night followed day without interval, as is the custom in the south; but thanks to the ebb of the snow we could easily make out the road, which was still uphill, although not so steeply. I ordered to put my suitcase in the cart, to replace the bulls with horses, and for the last time looked back at the valley; but a thick fog, which surged in waves from the gorges, completely covered it, not a single sound reached our ears from there. Ossetians noisily surrounded me and demanded for vodka; but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they fled in an instant.

After all, such a people! - he said, - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian, but he learned: “Officer, give me some vodka!” Tatars are better for me: at least those who don’t drink ...

There was still a mile to go to the station. It was quiet all around, so quiet that you could follow its flight by the buzz of a mosquito. To the left a deep gorge blackened; behind him and in front of us, the dark blue peaks of the mountains, pitted with wrinkles, covered with layers of snow, were drawn in the pale sky, which still retained the last reflection of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and strangely, it seemed to me that it was much higher than we have in the north. Bare, black stones stuck out on both sides of the road; here and there bushes peeped out from under the snow, but not a single dry leaf stirred, and it was merry to hear, in the midst of this dead sleep of nature, the snorting of a tired postal troika and the uneven jingling of a Russian bell.

Tomorrow will be nice weather! - I said. The captain did not answer a word and pointed to me with his finger at a high mountain that rose directly in front of us.

What is it? I asked.

Good mountain.

Well, so what?

See how it smokes.

And in fact, Good Mountain smoked; light streams of clouds crawled along its sides, and on top lay a black cloud, so black that it seemed like a spot in the dark sky.

Already we could distinguish the post station, the roofs of the shacks surrounding it. and in front of us, welcoming lights flickered, when a damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge hummed and a fine rain began to fall. I had hardly put on my cloak when the snow began to fall. I looked with reverence at the staff captain ...

We will have to spend the night here, - he said with annoyance, - in such a snowstorm you will not move through the mountains. What? Were there any landslides on Krestovaya? he asked the driver.

There was not, sir, - answered the Ossetian cab driver, - but there are many, many.

In the absence of a room for those passing through the station, we were given an overnight stay in a smoky hut. I invited my companion to drink a glass of tea together, because I had a cast-iron teapot with me - my only consolation in traveling around the Caucasus.

The saklya was stuck with one side to the rock; three slippery, wet steps led up to her door. I groped my way in and stumbled upon a cow (the stable of these people replaces the lackey). I didn’t know where to go: sheep bleating here, a dog grumbling there. Luckily, a dim light shone off to the side and helped me find another opening like a door. Here a rather entertaining picture opened up: a wide hut, with which the roof rested on two sooty pillars, was full of people. In the middle a light crackled, spread out on the ground, and the smoke, pushed back by the wind from a hole in the roof, spread around in such a thick veil that I could not look around for a long time; two old women, many children and one thin Georgian, all in rags, were sitting by the fire. There was nothing to do, we took shelter by the fire, lit our pipes, and soon the kettle hissed affably.

Pitiful people! - I said to the staff captain, pointing to our dirty hosts, who silently looked at us in some kind of stupefaction.

Stupid people! he answered. - Would you believe it? they can't do anything, they're incapable of any education! At least our Kabardians or Chechens, although they are robbers, naked, are desperate heads, and these have no desire for weapons either: you will not see a decent dagger on any of them. Truly Ossetians!

How long have you been in Chechnya?

Yes, for ten years I stood there in the fortress with a company, at Kamenny Ford, - you know?

Here, father, we are tired of these thugs; now, thank God, more peacefully; and it happened, you’d go a hundred steps behind the rampart, somewhere the shaggy devil was already sitting and watching: he gaped a little, and that’s it - either a lasso around his neck, or a bullet in the back of his head. And well done!..

And, tea, have you had many adventures? I said, spurred on by curiosity.

How not to be! used to...

Here he began to pluck his left mustache, hung his head and became thoughtful. I fearfully wanted to draw some little story out of him - a desire inherent in all traveling and recording people. Meanwhile the tea was ripe; I took two camping glasses out of my suitcase, poured one out and put one in front of him. He took a sip and said as if to himself: "Yes, it happened!" This exclamation gave me great hope. I know old Caucasians love to talk, to tell; they so rarely succeed: another five years stands somewhere in the outback with a company, and for five whole years no one will say "hello" to him (because the sergeant major says "I wish you good health"). And there would be something to chat about: the people around are wild, curious; every day there is danger, there are wonderful cases, and here you will inevitably regret that we record so little.

Would you like some more rum? - I said to my interlocutor, - I have a white man from Tiflis; it's cold now.

No, thank you, I don't drink.

What's wrong?

Yes so. I gave myself a spell. When I was still a lieutenant, once, you know, we played among ourselves, and at night there was an alarm; so we went out in front of the frunt tipsy, and we got it, as Alexei Petrovich found out: God forbid, how angry he was! almost got sued. It is for sure: another time you live for a whole year, you don’t see anyone, but how can there still be vodka - a lost person!

Hearing this, I almost lost hope.

Why, at least the Circassians, - he continued, - as soon as they get drunk booze at a wedding or at a funeral, the felling went on. Once I took my legs by force, and I was also visiting the Mirnov prince.

How did it happen?

Here (he filled his pipe, took a puff and began to tell), if you please, I was then standing in the fortress behind the Terek with a company - this will soon be five years old. Once, in the fall, a transport with provisions arrived; there was an officer in the transport, a young man of about twenty-five. He came to me in full uniform and announced that he was ordered to stay with me in the fortress. He was so thin, white, his uniform was so brand new that I immediately guessed that he had recently been in the Caucasus with us. "Are you right," I asked him, "are you transferred here from Russia?" - "Exactly so, Mr. staff captain," - he answered. I took him by the hand and said: “I am very glad, very glad. what is this full uniform for? always come to me in a cap. He was given an apartment, and he settled in the fortress.

And what was his name? I asked Maksim Maksimych.

His name was... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice fellow, I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold all day hunting; everyone will get cold, tired - but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, the wind smells, he assures that he has caught a cold; the shutter will knock, he will shudder and turn pale; and with me he went to the boar one on one; it used to be that you couldn’t get a word for whole hours, but sometimes, as soon as he starts talking, you’ll tear your tummies with laughter ... Yes, sir, he was strange with big people, and he must be a rich man: how many different expensive little things he had !. .

How long did he live with you? I asked again.

Yes, for a year. Well, yes, but this year is memorable to me; he made trouble for me, don’t be remembered by that! After all, there are, really, such people whose family is written that various unusual things should happen to them!

Extraordinary? I exclaimed with an air of curiosity, pouring tea for him.

And here I will tell you. About six versts from the fortress lived a peaceful prince. His son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of going to us: every day, it happened, now for one, then for another; and certainly, we spoiled him with Grigory Alexandrovich. And what a thug he was, nimble for whatever you want: whether to raise his hat at full gallop, whether to shoot from a gun. One thing was not good about him: he was terribly greedy for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised to give him a chervonets if he steals the best goat from his father's flock for him; and what do you think? the next night he dragged him by the horns. And it happened that we would take it into our head to tease him, so his eyes would become bloodshot and poured, and now for the dagger. “Hey, Azamat, don’t blow your head off,” I told him, yaman 2 will be your head!"

Once the old prince himself comes to invite us to the wedding: he gave his eldest daughter in marriage, and we were kunak with him: so you can’t refuse, you know, even though he is a Tatar. Let's go. In the village, many dogs greeted us with loud barking. Women, seeing us, hid; those whom we could see in person were far from beauties. "I had a much better opinion of the Circassians," Grigory Aleksandrovich told me. "Wait!" I replied smiling. I had mine on my mind.

A multitude of people had already gathered in the prince's shrine. The Asians, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone they meet and cross to a wedding. We were received with all honors and taken to the kunatskaya. However, I did not forget to notice where our horses were put, you know, for an unforeseen event.

How do they celebrate their wedding? I asked the staff captain.

Yes, usually. First, the mullah will read something from the Koran to them; then they give young people and all their relatives, eat, drink buza; then the trick-or-treating begins, and always one ruffian, greasy, on a nasty lame horse, breaks down, clownishes, makes honest company laugh; then, when it gets dark, in the kunatska begins, in our opinion, the ball. The poor old man is strumming on a three-stringed ... I forgot how they call it, well, like our balalaika. Girls and young guys stand in two lines one against the other, clap their hands and sing. Here one girl and one man come out in the middle and begin to sing verses to each other in a singsong voice, whatever, and the rest pick up in chorus. Pechorin and I were sitting in a place of honor, and then the owner's younger daughter, a girl of about sixteen, came up to him and sang to him ... how should I say? .. like a compliment.

And what did she sing, don't you remember?

Yes, it seems like this: “Slender, they say, are our young horsemen, and the caftans are lined with silver, and the young Russian officer is slimmer than them, and the galloons on him are golden. He is like a poplar between them; just don’t grow, don’t bloom in our garden." Pechorin got up, bowed to her, putting his hand to his forehead and heart, and asked me to answer her, I know their language well and translated his answer.

When she left us, then I whispered to Grigory Alexandrovich: "Well, what is it like?" - "Lovely!" - he answered. - And what is her name?" “Her name is Beloyu,” I answered.

And sure enough, she was pretty: tall, thin, her eyes black, like those of a mountain chamois, looked into our souls. Pechorin did not take his eyes off her in thought, and she often looked at him from under her brows. Only Pechorin was not alone in admiring the pretty princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes, motionless, fiery, looked at her. I began to peer and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He, you know, was not that peaceful, not that peaceful. There were many suspicions of him, although he was not seen in any pranks. He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheap, but he never bargained: whatever he asks, come on, even slaughter, he won’t give in. They said about him that he likes to go to the Kuban with abreks, and, to tell the truth, his face was the most robber-like: small, dry, broad-shouldered ... And he was dexterous, dexterous, like a devil! The beshmet is always torn, in patches, and the weapon is in silver. And his horse was famous in the whole Kabarda - and for sure, it is impossible to invent anything better than this horse. No wonder all the riders envied him and tried to steal it more than once, but failed. How now I look at this horse: black as pitch, legs - strings, and eyes no worse than Bela's; what a power! jump at least fifty miles; and already left - like a dog running after the owner, the voice even knew him! Sometimes he never ties her up. What a rogue horse!

That evening Kazbich was gloomier than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing chain mail under his beshmet. “It’s not for nothing that he is wearing this chain mail,” I thought, “he must be plotting something.”

It became stuffy in the sakla, and I went out into the air to freshen up. Night was already falling on the mountains, and fog began to wander through the gorges.

I took it into my head to turn under the shed where our horses stood, to see if they had food, and besides, caution never interferes: I had a glorious horse, and more than one Kabardian looked at her touchingly, saying: “Yakshi te, check yakshi!" 3

I make my way along the fence and suddenly I hear voices; I immediately recognized one voice: it was the rake Azamat, the son of our master; the other spoke less frequently and more quietly. “What are they talking about here?” I thought, “isn’t it about my horse?” So I sat down by the fence and began to listen, trying not to miss a single word. Sometimes the noise of songs and the sound of voices, flying out of the sakli, drowned out the conversation that was curious for me.

Nice horse you have! - said Azamat, - if I were the owner of the house and had a herd of three hundred mares, I would give half for your horse, Kazbich!

"Ah! Kazbich!" - I thought and remembered chain mail.

Yes, - answered Kazbich after some silence, - you will not find such a person in the whole Kabarda. Once - it was beyond the Terek - I went with abreks to beat off Russian herds; we were not lucky, and we scattered in all directions. Four Cossacks rushed after me; I already heard the cries of giaurs behind me, and in front of me was a dense forest. I lay down on the saddle, entrusted myself to Allah, and for the first time in my life insulted the horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird he dived between the branches; sharp thorns tore my clothes, dry branches of elm beat me in the face. My horse jumped over the stumps, tore the bushes with his chest. It would have been better for me to leave him at the edge of the forest and hide on foot in the forest, but it was a pity to part with him, and the prophet rewarded me. Several bullets screeched over my head; I could already hear how the dismounted Cossacks were running in the footsteps... Suddenly there was a deep pothole in front of me; my horse became thoughtful - and jumped. His hind hooves broke off the opposite bank, and he hung on his front legs; I dropped the reins and flew into the ravine; this saved my horse: he jumped out. The Cossacks saw all this, only not one of them came down to look for me: they probably thought that I had killed myself, and I heard how they rushed to catch my horse. My heart bled; I crawled along the thick grass along the ravine, - I look: the forest is over, several Cossacks leave it for a clearing, and now my Karagyoz jumps right to them; everyone rushed after him with a cry; for a long, long time they chased after him, especially once or twice he almost threw a lasso around his neck; I trembled, lowered my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I raise them - and I see: my Karagyoz flies, waving his tail, free as the wind, and giaurs far one after another stretch across the steppe on exhausted horses. Wallach! this is the truth, the real truth! Until late at night I sat in my ravine. Suddenly, what do you think, Azamat? in the darkness I hear a horse running along the bank of the ravine, snorting, neighing and beating its hooves on the ground; I recognized the voice of my Karagez; it was him, my comrade! .. Since then, we have not been separated.

And one could hear how he patted his horse's smooth neck with his hand, giving him various tender names.

If I had a herd of a thousand mares, - said Azamat, - then I would give you everything for your Karagez.

Yok 4, I don’t want to, ”Kazbich replied indifferently.

Listen, Kazbich, - Azamat said, caressing him, - you are a kind person, you are a brave horseman, and my father is afraid of the Russians and does not let me into the mountains; give me your horse, and I will do whatever you want, steal for you from your father his best rifle or saber, whatever you want - and his saber is a real gourd: put it with a blade to your hand, it will dig into your body; and chain mail - such as yours, nothing.

Kazbich was silent.

The first time I saw your horse, - Azamat continued, when he was spinning and jumping under you, flaring his nostrils, and flints flew in sprays from under his hooves, something incomprehensible became in my soul, and since then everything has been I was disgusted: I looked at the best horses of my father with contempt, I was ashamed to appear on them, and melancholy took possession of me; and, yearning, I sat on the cliff for whole days, and every minute your crow steed appeared to my thoughts with its slender tread, with its smooth, straight, like an arrow, ridge; he looked into my eyes with his lively eyes, as if he wanted to utter a word. I'll die, Kazbich, if you don't sell it to me! Azamat said in a trembling voice.

I heard that he was crying: but I must tell you that Azamat was a stubborn boy, and nothing happened to knock out his tears, even when he was younger.

Something like laughter was heard in response to his tears.

Listen! - Azamat said in a firm voice, - you see, I decide on everything. Do you want me to steal my sister for you? How she dances! how he sings! and embroiders with gold - a miracle! The Turkish padishah did not have such a wife ... If you want, wait for me tomorrow night there in the gorge where the stream runs: I will go with her past to the neighboring village - and she is yours. Isn't Bela worth your horse?

For a long, long time Kazbich was silent; finally, instead of answering, he sang the old song in an undertone: 5

We have many beauties in the villages,

The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.

It is sweet to love them, an enviable share;

But valiant will is more fun.

Gold will buy four wives,

The dashing horse has no price:

He will not lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,

He will not change, he will not deceive.

In vain Azamat begged him to agree, and wept, and flattered him, and swore; Finally Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:

Go away you crazy boy! Where do you ride my horse? In the first three steps he will throw you off and you will smash the back of your head on the rocks.

Me? - shouted Azamat in a rage, and the iron of the children's dagger rang against the chain mail. A strong hand pushed him away, and he hit the wattle fence so that the wattle fence staggered. "There will be fun!" - I thought, rushed to the stable, bridle our horses and led them to the backyard. Two minutes later there was a terrible uproar in the sakla. Here's what happened: Azamat ran in there in a torn beshmet, saying that Kazbich wanted to kill him. Everyone jumped out, grabbed their guns - and the fun began! Scream, noise, shots; only Kazbich was already on horseback and circling among the crowd along the street like a demon, waving his saber.

It’s a bad thing to have a hangover at someone else’s feast,” I said to Grigory Alexandrovich, catching him by the hand, “wouldn’t it be better for us to get out as soon as possible?

Wait, how will it end.

Yes, it’s true, it will end badly; everything is like this with these Asians: the booze was pulled, and the massacre began! We got on horseback and rode home.

What about Kazbich? I asked the staff captain impatiently.

What are these people doing! - he answered, finishing his glass of tea, - after all, he slipped away!

And not hurt? I asked.

And God knows! Live, robbers! I have seen others in action, for example: after all, they are all punctured like a sieve with bayonets, but still they are waving their saber. - The captain, after some silence, continued, stamping his foot on the ground:

I will never forgive myself for one thing: the devil pulled me, when I arrived at the fortress, to retell to Grigory Alexandrovich everything that I heard while sitting behind the fence; he laughed, - so cunning! - and he thought of something.

What is it? Tell me, please.

Well, there's nothing to do! began to talk, so it is necessary to continue.

Four days later, Azamat arrives at the fortress. As usual, he went to Grigory Alexandrovich, who always fed him delicacies. I've been here. The conversation turned to horses, and Pechorin began to praise Kazbich's horse: she is so frisky, beautiful, like a chamois - well, just, according to him, there is no such thing in the whole world.

The eyes of the Tatar girl flashed, but Pechorin did not seem to notice; I’ll talk about something else, and, you see, he will immediately turn the conversation onto Kazbich’s horse. This story continued every time Azamat came. About three weeks later I began to notice that Azamat was turning pale and withering, as happens from love in novels, sir. What a wonder?..

You see, I learned the whole thing later: Grigory Alexandrovich teased him so much that even into the water. Once he tells him:

I see, Azamat, that you really liked this horse; instead of seeing her as your back of the head! Well, tell me, what would you give to the one who would give it to you? ..

Anything he wants, - answered Azamat.

In that case, I will get it for you, only with the condition... Swear that you will fulfill it...

I swear... You swear too!

Well! I swear you will own a horse; only for him you must give me your sister Bela: Karagoz will be your bride price. Hope the trade is good for you.

Azamat was silent.

Do not want? As you want! I thought you were a man, and you are still a child: it is too early for you to ride...

Azamat flared up.

And my father? - he said.

Doesn't he ever leave?

Truth...

I agree?..

I agree, - whispered Azamat, pale as death. - When?

The first time Kazbich comes here; he promised to drive a dozen sheep: the rest is my business. Look, Azamat!

So they managed this business ... to tell the truth, it’s not a good deal! Later I told this to Pechorin, but only he answered me that a wild Circassian woman should be happy having such a nice husband as he, because, in their opinion, he is still her husband, and that Kazbich is a robber who needs was to punish. Judge for yourself, what could I answer against this? .. But at that time I did not know anything about their conspiracy. Once Kazbich arrived and asked if he needed rams and honey; I told him to bring it the next day.

Azamat! - said Grigory Alexandrovich, - tomorrow Karagyoz is in my hands; if Bela isn't here tonight, you won't see the horse...

Well! - said Azamat and galloped to the village. In the evening, Grigory Alexandrovich armed himself and left the fortress: I don’t know how they managed this matter - only at night they both returned, and the sentry saw that a woman was lying across Azamat’s saddle, her hands and feet were tied, and her head was wrapped in a veil.

What about the horse? I asked the staff captain.

Now. The next day Kazbich arrived early in the morning and brought a dozen rams for sale. Having tied his horse at the fence, he entered me; I regaled him with tea, because although he was a robber, he was still my kunak. 6

We began to chat about this and that: suddenly, I see, Kazbich shuddered, his face changed - and towards the window; but the window, unfortunately, faced the backyard.

What happened to you? I asked.

My horse! .. horse! .. - he said, trembling all over.

Precisely, I heard the clatter of hooves: "That's right, some Cossack has arrived ..."

Not! Urus yaman, yaman! - he roared and rushed out like a wild leopard. In two leaps he was already in the yard; at the gates of the fortress, a sentry blocked his way with a gun; he jumped over the gun and rushed to run along the road ... Dust curled in the distance - Azamat rode on the dashing Karagez; on the run, Kazbich pulled out a gun from the case and fired, he remained motionless for a minute, until he was convinced that he had missed; then he squealed, hit the gun against a stone, smashed it to smithereens, fell to the ground and sobbed like a child ... Here the people from the fortress gathered around him - he did not notice anyone; stood, talked and went back; I ordered money for the rams to be put next to him - he did not touch them, he lay face down, as if dead. Believe me, he lay like that until late at night and all night? .. Only the next morning he came to the fortress and began to ask to be named the kidnapper. The sentry, who saw how Azamat unleashed his horse and galloped away on it, did not consider it necessary to hide. At this name, Kazbich's eyes sparkled, and he went to the village where Azamat's father lived.

What about father?

Yes, that’s the thing, that Kazbich didn’t find him: he was leaving somewhere for six days, otherwise would Azamat have been able to take his sister away?

And when the father returned, there was neither daughter nor son. Such a sly one: after all, he realized that he would not be blown off his head if he got caught. So since then he disappeared: it’s true, he stuck to some gang of abreks, and he laid down his violent head beyond the Terek or beyond the Kuban: that’s where the road is! ..

I confess, and on my lot decently got. As soon as I found out that Grigory Alexandrovich had a Circassian, I put on epaulettes, a sword and went to him.

He was lying in the first room on a bed, with one hand under the back of his head, and with the other holding an extinguished pipe; the door to the second room was locked, and there was no key in the lock. I noticed all this at once ... I began to cough and tap with my heels on the threshold - only he pretended not to hear.

Sir Lieutenant! I said as sternly as possible. - Can't you see that I've come to you?

Oh, hello, Maxim Maksimych! Would you like a phone? he replied without getting up.

Sorry! I am not Maxim Maksimych: I am a staff captain.

Doesn't matter. Would you like some tea? If only you knew what an anxiety torments me!

I know everything,” I answered, going up to the bed.

So much the better: I'm not in the mood to tell.

Mr. Ensign, you have committed a misdemeanor for which I can be held accountable...

And completeness! what's the trouble? After all, we have long been all in half.

What jokes? Please have your sword!

Mitka, sword! ..

Mitka brought a sword. Having done my duty, I sat down on his bed and said:

Listen, Grigory Alexandrovich, admit that it's not good.

What's not good?

Yes, the fact that you took Bela away ... That beast Azamat to me! .. Well, admit it, - I told him.

When do I like it?

Well, what do you want to answer to this? .. I was at a dead end. However, after some silence, I told him that if the father began to demand it, then it would be necessary to give it back.

Not at all!

Does he know she's here?

How will he know?

I got stuck again.

Listen, Maksim Maksimych! - said Pechorin, rising, - after all, you are a kind person, - and if we give our daughter to this savage, he will slaughter her or sell her. The deed is done, it is not only necessary to spoil it with a desire; leave her with me, and with you my sword...

Show it to me, I said.

She is behind this door; only I myself wanted to see her today in vain; sits in a corner, wrapped in a veil, does not speak or look: shy, like a wild chamois. I hired our dukhan woman: she knows Tatar, will go after her and accustom her to the idea that she is mine, because she will belong to no one but me, ”he added, banging his fist on the table. I agreed to this too... What do you want me to do? There are people with whom you must definitely agree.

And what? - I asked Maxim Maksimych, - did he really accustom her to him, or did she wither away in captivity, from longing for her homeland?

For mercy, why is it from homesickness. The same mountains were visible from the fortress as from the aul, and these savages need nothing more. And besides, Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something every day: for the first days she silently proudly pushed away the gifts that then went to the clerk and aroused her eloquence. Ah, gifts! what a woman won't do for a colored rag!... Well, that's aside... Grigory Alexandrovich fought with her for a long time; meanwhile, he studied in Tatar, and she began to understand ours. Little by little she learned to look at him, at first frowningly, askance, and she was sad all the time, humming her songs in an undertone, so that sometimes I felt sad when I listened to her from the next room. I will never forget one scene, I walked by and looked out the window; Bela sat on the couch, hanging her head on her chest, and Grigory Alexandrovich stood in front of her.

Listen, my peri, - he said, - you know that sooner or later you must be mine - why are you only torturing me? Do you love any Chechen? If so, then I'll let you go home now. She gave a slight start and shook her head. "Or," he went on, "do you absolutely hate me?" She sighed. - Or your faith forbids to love me? She turned pale and remained silent. - Believe me. Allah is the same for all tribes, and if he allows me to love you, why will he forbid you to reciprocate? She looked fixedly into his face, as if struck by this new thought; her eyes showed incredulity and a desire to make sure. What eyes! they sparkled like two coals. - Listen, dear, kind Bela! - Pechorin continued, - you see how much I love you; I am ready to give everything to cheer you up: I want you to be happy; and if you are sad again, then I will die. Tell me, will you have more fun?

She became thoughtful, never taking her black eyes off him, then smiled kindly and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him; she weakly defended herself and only repeated: “Please, please, don’t, don’t.” He began to insist; she trembled, wept.

I am your prisoner, she said, your slave; of course you can force me, - and again tears.

Grigory Aleksandrovich hit his forehead with his fist and ran out into another room. I went to him; he walked gloomily to and fro with folded arms.

What, father? I told him.

Devil, not a woman! - he answered, - only I give you my word of honor that she will be mine ...

I shook my head.

Want to bet? - he said, - in a week!

Please!

We shook hands and parted ways.

The next day he immediately sent a courier to Kizlyar for various purchases; many different Persian materials were brought in, all of which cannot be counted.

What do you think, Maxim Maksimych! - he said to me, showing the gifts, - can an Asian beauty stand against such a battery?

You don't know Circassian women, - I answered, - this is not at all like Georgians or Transcaucasian Tatars, not at all. They have their own rules: they are brought up differently. - Grigory Alexandrovich smiled and began to whistle the march.

But it turned out that I was right: the gifts worked only half; she became more affectionate, more trusting - and nothing more; so he decided on the last resort. One morning he ordered a horse to be saddled, dressed in Circassian fashion, armed himself and went in to her. “Bela!” he said, “you know how I love you. I decided to take you away, thinking that when you get to know me, you will fall in love; I was mistaken: goodbye! remain the complete mistress of everything that I have; if you want, come back to your father, "you are free. I am guilty before you and must punish myself; goodbye, I'm going - where? why do I know? Maybe I won't be chasing a bullet or a blow from a checker for long; then remember me and forgive me." He turned away and extended his hand to her in farewell. She did not take her hand, she was silent. Only standing outside the door could I see her face through the gap: and I felt sorry - such a deadly pallor covered that pretty face! Hearing no answer, Pechorin took a few steps towards the door; he was trembling - and did you tell? I think he was in a position to actually do what he said jokingly. Such was the man, God knows! As soon as he touched the door, she jumped up, sobbed and threw herself on his neck. Would you believe? I, standing outside the door, also began to cry, that is, you know, not really crying, but so - stupidity! ..

The captain was silent.

Yes, I confess, - he said later, tugging at his mustache, - I was annoyed that no woman had ever loved me so much.

And how long was their happiness? I asked.

Yes, she admitted to us that from the day she saw Pechorin, he often dreamed of her in a dream and that no man had ever made such an impression on her. Yes, they were happy!

How boring! I exclaimed involuntarily. In fact, I was expecting a tragic denouement, and suddenly deceive my hopes so unexpectedly!

I mean, he seemed to suspect. A few days later we learned that the old man had been killed. Here's how it happened...

My attention has awakened again.

I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that Azamat, with the consent of his father, stole his horse from him, at least I believe so. So once he waited by the road for about three versts beyond the aul; the old man was returning from a futile search for his daughter; bridle him behind, - it was at dusk, - he rode thoughtfully at a pace, when suddenly Kazbich, like a cat, dived from behind a bush, jumped on his horse behind him, knocked him to the ground with a dagger, grabbed the reins - and was like that; some bridles saw all this from a hillock; they rushed to catch up, but did not catch up.

He rewarded himself for the loss of his horse and avenged himself,” I said, in order to arouse the opinion of my interlocutor.

Of course, in their language, - said the staff captain, - he was absolutely right.

I was involuntarily struck by the ability of a Russian person to apply himself to the customs of those peoples among whom he happens to live; I don’t know whether this property of the mind is worthy of blame or praise, only it proves its incredible flexibility and the presence of this clear common sense, which forgives evil wherever it sees its necessity or the impossibility of its destruction.

Meanwhile tea was drunk; long-harnessed horses chilled in the snow; the moon grew pale in the west and was ready to plunge into its black clouds, hanging on the distant peaks like shreds of a torn curtain; we left the hut. Contrary to my companion's prediction, the weather cleared up and promised us a quiet morning; dances of stars intertwined in wonderful patterns in the distant sky and faded one after another as the pale reflection of the east spread over the dark purple vault, gradually illuminating the steep slopes of the mountains covered with virgin snows. Dark, mysterious abysses loomed right and left, and the mists, swirling and wriggling like snakes, slithered down there along the wrinkles of neighboring rocks, as if sensing and frightened of the approach of day.

Everything was quiet in heaven and on earth, as in the heart of a person at the moment of morning prayer; only occasionally a cool wind from the east came up, lifting the horses' manes, covered with hoarfrost. We set off; with difficulty, five thin nags dragged our wagons along the winding road to Good Mountain; we walked behind, placing stones under the wheels when the horses were exhausted; it seemed that the road led to heaven, because, as far as eyes could see, it kept rising and finally disappeared in a cloud that had been resting on the top of Mount Gud-mountain since evening, like a kite waiting for prey; the snow crunched under our feet; the air became so thin that it hurt to breathe; the blood constantly rushed to my head, but with all that, some kind of gratifying feeling spread through all my veins, and I was somehow merry that I was so high above the world: a childish feeling, I don’t argue, but, moving away from the conditions of society and approaching to nature, we unwittingly become children; everything acquired falls away from the soul, and it becomes again such as it once was, and, surely, will someday be again. Anyone who happened, like me, to wander through the desert mountains, and for a long, long time peer into their bizarre images, and eagerly swallow the life-giving air spilled in their gorges, he, of course, will understand my desire to convey, tell, draw these magical pictures. Finally, we climbed the Gud-mountain, stopped and looked around: a gray cloud hung on it, and its cold breath threatened a close storm; but in the east everything was so clear and golden that we, that is, I and the staff captain, completely forgot about him ... Yes, and the staff captain: in the hearts of simple people, the feeling of beauty and grandeur of nature is stronger, more alive a hundred times, than in us, enthusiastic storytellers in words and on paper.

You, I think, are accustomed to these magnificent paintings? I told him.

Yes, sir, and one can get used to the whistle of a bullet, that is, one can get used to hiding the involuntary beating of the heart.

On the contrary, I heard that for some old warriors this music is even pleasant.

Of course, if you like, it is pleasant; only because the heart is beating faster. Look,” he added, pointing to the east, “what a land!

And indeed, it is unlikely that I will be able to see such a panorama anywhere else: below us lay the Koyshaur valley, crossed by the Aragva and another river, like two silver threads; a bluish mist slid over it, escaping into the neighboring gorges from the warm rays of the morning; to the right and to the left the crests of the mountains, one higher than the other, intersected, stretched, covered with snow and bushes; in the distance the same mountains, but at least two rocks, similar to one another, - and all these snows burned with a ruddy sheen so cheerfully, so brightly, that it seems one could live here forever; the sun barely peeked out from behind a dark blue mountain, which only the accustomed eye could distinguish from a thundercloud; but there was a bloody streak above the sun, to which my comrade paid particular attention. "I told you," he exclaimed, "that there will be weather today; we must hurry, otherwise, perhaps, she will find us on Krestovaya. Move on!" he shouted to the coachmen.

They put chains up to the wheels instead of brakes so that they would not roll, took the horses by the bridle and began to descend; to the right there was a cliff, to the left there was such an abyss that the whole village of Ossetians living at the bottom of it seemed like a swallow's nest; I shuddered, thinking that often here, in the dead of night, along this road, where two wagons cannot pass, some courier passes ten times a year without getting out of his shaky carriage. One of our cab drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the other was an Ossetian: the Ossetian led the native by the bridle with all possible precautions, having unharnessed the carry-aways in advance - and our careless Russian did not even get off the irradiation! When I remarked to him that he could have worried in favor of at least my suitcase, for which I did not at all want to climb into this abyss, he answered me: “And, master! - and he was right: we definitely could not have reached it, but nevertheless we arrived, and if all people reasoned more, they would be convinced that life is not worth taking care of so much ...

But maybe you want to know the end of Bela's story? Firstly, I am not writing a story, but travel notes; consequently, I cannot force the staff captain to tell before he actually began to tell. So, wait, or if you like, turn a few pages, but I do not advise you to do this, because crossing the Cross Mountain (or, as the scholar Gamba calls it, le mont St.-Christophe) is worthy of your curiosity. So, we went down from Good Mountain to the Devil's Valley ... That's a romantic name! You already see the nest of the evil spirit between the impregnable cliffs - it wasn’t there: the name of the Devil’s Valley comes from the word “devil”, and not “devil”, because there was once the border of Georgia. This valley was littered with snowdrifts, reminiscent quite vividly of Saratov, Tambov and other lovely places of our fatherland.

Here is the Cross! - said the staff captain to me when we drove off to the Devil's Valley, pointing to a hill covered with a veil of snow; on its top there was a black stone cross, and a barely noticeable road led past it, along which one passes only when the side is covered with snow; our cabbies announced that there had been no landslides yet, and, saving the horses, drove us around. At the turn we met about five Ossetians; they offered us their services and, clinging to the wheels, shoutingly began to pull and support our carts. And sure enough, the road was dangerous: piles of snow hung over our heads to the right, ready, it seems, at the first gust of wind to break off into the gorge; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some places fell under our feet, in others turned into ice from the action of the sun's rays and night frosts, so that we ourselves made our way with difficulty; horses fell; to the left a deep cleft yawned, where a stream rolled, now hiding under an ice crust, now jumping with foam over black stones. At two o'clock we could hardly go around Krestovaya Hill - two versts in two hours! Meanwhile, the clouds descended, hail and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the gorges, roared and whistled like a nightingale the robber, and soon the stone cross disappeared into the fog, whose waves, one thicker and tighter, ran from the east ... By the way, there is a strange, but universal legend about this cross, as if it was set by Emperor Peter I, passing through the Caucasus; but, firstly, Peter was only in Dagestan, and, secondly, it is written in large letters on the cross that he was placed on the orders of Mr. Yermolov, namely in 1824. But the tradition, despite the inscription, is so rooted that, really, you don’t know what to believe, especially since we are not accustomed to believing the inscriptions.

We had to descend another five versts over icy rocks and slushy snow in order to reach the Kobi station. The horses were exhausted, we were cold; the blizzard hummed stronger and stronger, like our dear, northern one; only her wild tunes were sadder, more mournful. "And you, an exile," I thought, "weep for your wide, expanse steppes! There is where to spread your cold wings, but here you are stuffy and cramped, like an eagle that screams against the bars of its iron cage."

Badly! - said the staff captain; - Look, nothing is visible around, only fog and snow; just look that we will fall into the abyss or sit in a slum, and there lower, tea, Baydara played out so much that you won’t move. This is Asia for me! that people, that rivers - you can’t rely on anything!

The cabbies, shouting and cursing, beat the horses, which snorted, resisted and did not want to move for anything in the light, despite the eloquence of the whips.

Your honor, - one finally said, - after all, we won’t get to Kobe today; Would you like me to turn to the left while I can? Over there, on the slope, something is turning black - that's right, sakli: there, travelers always stop in the weather; they say they will, if you give me vodka,” he added, pointing to the Ossetian.

I know, brother, I know without you! - said the staff captain, - these beasts! happy to find fault in order to pluck for vodka.

Admit, however, - I said, - that without them we would be worse off.

Everything is so, everything is so, - he muttered, - these are my guides! they hear by instinct where they can use it, as if without them it is impossible to find roads.

So we turned left and somehow, after many troubles, reached a meager shelter, consisting of two saklya, built of slabs and cobblestones and surrounded by the same wall; ragged hosts received us cordially. I later learned that the government pays them and feeds them on the condition that they receive travelers caught in a storm.

All goes to good! - I said, sitting down by the fire, - now you will tell me your story about Bela; I'm sure it didn't end there.

Why are you so sure? the staff captain answered me, winking with a sly smile...

Because it is not in the order of things: what began in an unusual way must also end in the same way.

After all, you guessed it...

I am glad.

It’s good for you to rejoice, but I’m really, really sad, as I remember. Nice was the girl, this Bela! I finally got used to her as much as I would to a daughter, and she loved me. I must tell you that I have no family: I have not had any news of my father and mother for twelve years, and I did not guess before to stock up on a wife - so now, you know, it’s not to my face; I was glad that I found someone to pamper. She used to sing songs to us or dance a lezginka ... And how she danced! I saw our provincial young ladies, I was once in Moscow in a noble assembly, about twenty years ago - but where are they! not at all! Grigory Alexandrovich dressed her up like a doll, cherished and cherished her; and she has become so prettier with us that it’s a miracle; The tan came off her face and hands, a blush broke out on her cheeks ... What a cheerful one she used to be, and everyone was making fun of me, the naughty one ... God forgive her! ..

And what about when you announced her father's death?

We hid this from her for a long time, until she got used to her position; and when they said so, she cried for two days, and then forgot.

For four months, everything went perfectly. Grigory Alexandrovich, I think I already said, was passionately fond of hunting: it used to be like that in the forest and washes away for wild boars or goats - and then at least he went beyond the ramparts. Here, however, I look, he began to think again, walks around the room, bending his arms back; then once, without telling anyone, he went to shoot, - he disappeared for a whole morning; time and again, more and more often ... "Not good," I thought, a black cat must have slipped between them!

One morning I go to them - as now before my eyes: Bela was sitting on the bed in a black silk beshmet, pale, so sad that I was frightened.

Where is Pechorin? I asked.

On the hunt.

Did you leave today? She remained silent, as if it was difficult for her to speak.

No, just yesterday,” she finally said, sighing heavily.

Has something happened to him?

I was thinking all day yesterday,” she answered through tears, “inventing various misfortunes: it seemed to me that a wild boar had wounded him, then a Chechen dragged him into the mountains ... And now it seems to me that he doesn’t love me.

You're right, dear, you couldn't think of anything worse! She began to cry, then lifted her head proudly, wiped away her tears, and continued:

If he doesn't love me, then who's to stop him from sending me home? I don't force him. And if this continues like this, then I myself will leave: I am not his slave - I am a prince's daughter! ..

I began to persuade her.

Listen, Bela, after all, he can’t sit here forever as if sewn to your skirt: he is a young man, loves to chase game - it’s like, and he will come; and if you are sad, you will soon get bored with him.

True true! - she answered, - I will be cheerful. - And with a laugh she grabbed her tambourine, began to sing, dance and jump around me; only and it was not long; she fell back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

What was I to do with her? You know, I never dealt with women: I thought, thought, how to console her, and did not come up with anything; for some time we were both silent... An unpleasant situation, sir!

Finally I said to her: "Do you want to go for a walk on the rampart? The weather is nice!" It was in September; and sure enough, the day was wonderful, bright and not hot; all the mountains were visible as if on a silver platter. We went, walked up and down the ramparts in silence; at last she sat down on the sod, and I sat down beside her. Well, really, it’s funny to remember: I ran after her, just like some kind of nanny.

Our fortress stood on a high place, and the view from the rampart was beautiful; on one side is a wide clearing pitted with several beams 7, ended in a forest that stretched to the very ridge of the mountains; in some places auls smoked on it, herds walked; on the other, a small river ran, and a dense shrubbery adjoined it, covering the siliceous hills, which were connected to the main chain of the Caucasus. We sat on the corner of the bastion, so that everyone could see in both directions. Here I look: someone is riding out of the forest on a gray horse, getting closer and closer, and, finally, he stopped on the other side of the river, a hundred fathoms from us, and began to circle his horse like a mad one. What a parable!

Look, Bela, - I said, - you have young eyes, what kind of horseman is this: whom did he come to amuse? ..

She looked up and screamed:

This is Kazbich!

Oh, he's a robber! laugh, or something, came over us? - I peer, just like Kazbich: his swarthy mug, tattered, dirty as always.

This is my father's horse, - said Bela, grabbing my hand; she trembled like a leaf, and her eyes sparkled. "Aha! - I thought, - and in you, my dear, the blood of robbers is not silent!"

Come here, - I said to the sentry, - inspect the gun and get me this fellow, - you will receive a ruble in silver.

I listen, your honor; only he does not stand still... - Order! I said laughing...

Hey dear! - shouted the sentry, waving his hand, - wait a little, why are you spinning like a top?

Kazbich actually stopped and began to listen: it’s true, he thought that they were starting negotiations with him, - how not so! .. My grenadier kissed ... bang! Kazbich pushed the horse, and it gave a leap to the side. He stood up in his stirrups, shouted something in his own way, threatened with a whip - and that was it.

Aren `t you ashamed! I said to the sentry.

Your honor! he went to die, - he answered, such a damned people, you won’t kill right away.

A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned from hunting; Bela threw herself on his neck, and not a single complaint, not a single reproach for a long absence ... Even I was already angry with him.

Have mercy, - I said, - just now Kazbich was here across the river, and we were shooting at him; Well, how long will it take you to stumble upon it? These highlanders are a vengeful people: do you think that he does not realize that you helped Azamat in part? And I bet that now he recognized Bela. I know that a year ago he really liked her - he told me himself - and if he had hoped to collect a decent bride price, then, surely, he would have engaged ...

Here Pechorin thought. "Yes," he answered, "you must be more careful... Bela, from now on you must no longer go to the ramparts."

In the evening I had a long explanation with him: I was annoyed that he had changed towards this poor girl; apart from the fact that he spent half the day hunting, his manner became cold, he rarely caressed her, and she noticeably began to dry, her face was drawn out, her big eyes grew dim. You used to ask:

"What are you sighing about, Bela? Are you sad?" - "Not!" - "Do you want something?" - "Not!" - "Do you miss your family?" - "I have no relatives." It happened that for whole days, except for "yes" yes "no", you will not get anything else from her.

That's what I started talking to him about. “Listen, Maxim Maksimych,” he answered, “I have an unhappy character; whether my upbringing made me like this, whether God created me that way, I don’t know; I only know that if I am the cause of others’ misfortune, then I myself am no less unhappy; of course This is a bad consolation to them - only the fact is that it is so. In my early youth, from the moment when I left the care of my relatives, I began to enjoy wildly all the pleasures that money can get, and, of course, these pleasures to me Then I set off into the big world, and soon I was also tired of society, fell in love with secular beauties and was loved - but their love only irritated my imagination and pride, and my heart remained empty ... I began to read, study - science as well tired; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depend on them in the least, because the happiest people are ignorant, and fame is luck, and to achieve it, you just need to be clever. Then I became bored ... Soon they transferred me to the Caucasus: this is the most sweet time of my life. I hoped that boredom did not live under Chechen bullets - in vain: a month later I was so used to their buzzing and to the proximity of death that, really, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I had almost lost my last hope . When I saw Bela in my house, when for the first time, holding her on my knees, kissed her black curls, I, a fool, thought that she was an angel sent to me by compassionate fate ... I was mistaken again: the love of a savage woman is little better than the love of a noble ladies; the ignorance and simple-heartedness of one are just as annoying as the coquetry of another. If you like, I still love her, I'm grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes, I'll give my life for her - only I'm bored with her ... Whether I'm a fool or a villain, I don't know; but it is true that I am also very pitiable, maybe more than she: in me the soul is corrupted by light, the imagination is restless, the heart is insatiable; everything is not enough for me: I get used to sadness just as easily as to pleasure, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have only one option: to travel. As soon as possible, I will go - just not to Europe, God forbid! - I'll go to America, to Arabia, to India - maybe I'll die somewhere on the road! At least I am sure that this last consolation will not soon be exhausted, with the help of storms and bad roads. " Thus he spoke for a long time, and his words stuck in my memory, because for the first time I heard such things from a twenty-five-year-old man, and , God willing, in the last. .. What a marvel! Tell me, please, - continued the staff captain, turning to me. - you seem to have been in the capital, and recently: is it really all the youth there?

I answered that there are many people who say the same thing; that there are probably those who tell the truth; that, however, disappointment, like all fashions, starting from the upper strata of society, descended to the lower ones, who wear it out, and that now those who really miss it the most are trying to hide this misfortune as a vice. The captain did not understand these subtleties, shook his head and smiled slyly:

And that's it, tea, the French have introduced a fashion to be bored?

No, the English.

Ah, that's what! .. - he answered, - but they were always notorious drunkards!

I involuntarily remembered a Moscow lady who claimed that Byron was nothing more than a drunkard. However, the remark of the staff member was more excusable: in order to abstain from wine, he, of course, tried to convince himself that all the misfortunes in the world come from drunkenness.

In the meantime, he continued his story thus:

Kazbich did not appear again. I just don’t know why, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that he hadn’t come in vain and was up to something bad.

Once Pechorin persuades me to go with him to the boar; I denied for a long time: well, what a curiosity a wild boar was to me! However, he took me with him. We took about five soldiers and left early in the morning. Until ten o'clock they darted through the reeds and through the forest - there was no beast. "Hey, why don't you come back?" I said, "why be stubborn? Already, apparently, such an unfortunate day has set!" Only Grigory Alexandrovich, despite the heat and fatigue, did not want to return without prey, such was the man: whatever he thinks, give; apparently, in childhood he was spoiled by his mother ... Finally, at noon, they found the damned boar: bang! bang! ... it wasn't there: he went into the reeds ... it was such an unhappy day! Here we are, resting a little, went home.

We rode side by side, silently, loosening the reins, and we were almost at the fortress itself: only the bushes covered it from us. Suddenly a shot ... We looked at each other: we were struck by the same suspicion ... We galloped headlong to the shot - we look: on the rampart the soldiers gathered in a heap and point into the field, and there a rider flies headlong and holds something white on his saddle . Grigory Alexandrovich squealed no worse than any Chechen; a gun from a case - and there; I follow him.

Fortunately, due to an unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not exhausted: they were torn from under the saddle, and with every moment we were closer and closer ... And finally I recognized Kazbich, but I could not make out what he was holding in front of yourself. I then caught up with Pechorin and shouted to him: "This is Kazbich! .." He looked at me, nodded his head and hit the horse with a whip.

At last we were within gunshot of him; whether Kazbich's horse was exhausted or worse than ours, only, despite all his efforts, it did not lean forward painfully. I think at that moment he remembered his Karagoz...

I look: Pechorin, at a gallop, kissed from a gun ... "Do not shoot! - I shout to him. - Take care of the charge; we will catch up with him anyway." This youth! he is always inappropriately excited ... But the shot rang out, and the bullet broke the horse's hind leg: in the heat of the moment she made another ten jumps, stumbled and fell to her knees; Kazbich jumped off, and then we saw that he was holding a woman wrapped in a veil in his arms ... It was Bela ... poor Bela! He shouted something to us in his own way and raised a dagger over her ... There was nothing to delay: I, in turn, fired at random; sure, the bullet hit him in the shoulder, because suddenly he lowered his arm... When the smoke cleared, a wounded horse was lying on the ground, and Bela beside it; and Kazbich, throwing down his gun, clambered through the bushes, like a cat, up a cliff; I wanted to take it off from there - but there was no charge ready! We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor thing, she lay motionless, and blood poured from the wound in streams ... Such a villain; even if he hit him in the heart - well, so be it, he would have finished everything at once, otherwise it would have been in the back ... the most robber blow! She was unconscious. We tore off the veil and bandaged the wound as tightly as possible; Pechorin kissed her cold lips in vain - nothing could bring her to her senses.

Pechorin mounted; I picked her up from the ground and somehow put her on his saddle; he put his arm around her and we drove back. After several minutes of silence, Grigory Alexandrovich said to me: "Listen, Maksim Maksimych, we won't get her alive that way." - "Truth!" - I said, and we started the horses at full speed. A crowd of people was waiting for us at the gates of the fortress; We carefully carried the wounded woman to Pechorin and sent for the doctor. Although he was drunk, he came: he examined the wound and announced that she could not live more than a day; he was just wrong...

Recovered? I asked the staff captain, grabbing his hand and involuntarily rejoicing.

No, - he answered, - but the doctor was mistaken in that she lived for two more days.

Yes, explain to me how Kazbich abducted her?

And here's how: despite the prohibition of Pechorin, she left the fortress to the river. It was, you know, very hot; she sat down on a rock and put her feet in the water. Here Kazbich crept up, - the tsap scratched her, clamped his mouth and dragged him into the bushes, and there he jumped on a horse, and traction! In the meantime, she managed to scream, the sentries were alarmed, fired, but past, and we just arrived in time.

Why did Kazbich want to take her away?

For mercy, yes, these Circassians are a well-known thieves' people: what lies badly, they cannot but pull off;? something else is unnecessary, but it will steal everything ... I ask you to forgive them in this! And besides, he liked her for a long time.

And Bela died?

Died; she only suffered for a long time, and we were exhausted with order. About ten o'clock in the evening she came to her senses; we sat by the bed; as soon as she opened her eyes, she began to call Pechorin. “I am here, beside you, my dzhanechka (that is, in our opinion, darling),” he answered, taking her by the hand. "I will die!" - she said. We began to console her, saying that the doctor promised to cure her without fail; she shook her head and turned to the wall: she did not want to die!...

At night she began to rave; her head burned, and a shiver of fever sometimes ran through her whole body; she spoke incoherent speeches about her father, brother: she wanted to go to the mountains, go home ... Then she also talked about Pechorin, gave him various tender names or reproached him for falling out of love with his dzhanechka ...

He listened to her in silence, his head in his hands; but all the time I didn’t notice a single tear on his eyelashes: whether he really couldn’t cry, or whether he controlled himself, I don’t know; As for me, I have never seen anything more pitiful than this.

By morning the delirium had passed; for an hour she lay motionless, pale, and in such weakness that one could hardly notice that she was breathing; then she felt better, and she began to talk, only what do you think about? .. Such a thought will only come to a dying person! .. She began to grieve that she was not a Christian, and that in the next world her soul would never meet with the soul Grigory Alexandrovich, and that another woman will be his girlfriend in paradise. It occurred to me to baptize her before her death; I offered it to her; she looked at me in indecision and for a long time could not utter a word; finally answered that she would die in the faith in which she was born. So the whole day passed. How she has changed that day! her pale cheeks were sunken, her eyes grew large, her lips burned. She felt an inner heat, as if she had a red-hot iron in her chest.

Another night has come; we did not close our eyes, did not leave her bed. She suffered terribly, moaning, and as soon as the pain began to subside, she tried to assure Grigory Alexandrovich that she was better, persuaded him to go to bed, kissed his hand, did not let it out of hers. Before morning, she began to feel the anguish of death, began to thrash around, knocked off the bandage, and the blood flowed again. When the wound was bandaged, she calmed down for a moment and began to ask Pechorin to kiss her. He knelt beside the bed, lifted her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to her cold lips; she tightly wrapped her trembling arms around his neck, as if in this kiss she wanted to convey her soul to him ... No, she did well that she died: well, what would become of her if Grigory Alexandrovich left her? And it would happen, sooner or later...

For half the next day she was quiet, silent and obedient, no matter how our doctor tortured her with poultices and potions. "Forgive me," I told him, "because you yourself said that she would certainly die, so why are all your drugs here?" - "All the same, it's better, Maxim Maksimych," he answered, "that the conscience be at peace." Good conscience!

In the afternoon she began to languish with thirst. We opened the windows - but it was hotter outside than in the room; put ice near the bed - nothing helped. I knew that this unbearable thirst was a sign of the approach of the end, and I said this to Pechorin. "Water, water! .." - she said in a hoarse voice, rising from the bed.

He turned pale as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured it and gave it to her. I closed my eyes with my hands and began to read a prayer, I don’t remember which one ... Yes, father, I saw a lot of how people die in hospitals and on the battlefield, only this is all wrong, not at all! .. Also, I confess, I this is what makes me sad: before her death, she never once thought of me; but it seems that I loved her like a father ... well, God forgive her! .. And really say: what am I to remember me before death?

As soon as she drank water, she felt better, and after about three minutes she died. They put a mirror to their lips - smoothly! .. I took Pechorin out of the room, and we went to the ramparts; for a long time we walked up and down side by side, without saying a word, with our arms folded on our backs; his face did not express anything special, and I became vexed: if I were in his place, I would have died of grief. Finally, he sat down on the ground, in the shade, and began to draw something with a stick in the sand. You know, more for decency, I wanted to console him, I began to speak; he raised his head and laughed... Chills ran down my skin from this laughter... I went to order a coffin.

To be honest, I did this partly for fun. I had a piece of thermal lama, I upholstered the coffin with it and decorated it with Circassian silver galloons, which Grigory Alexandrovich bought for her.

The next day, early in the morning, we buried her behind the fortress, by the river, near the place where she sat for the last time; bushes of white acacia and elderberry have now grown around her grave. I wanted to put an end to it, yes, you know, embarrassing: after all, she was not a Christian ...

And what about Pechorin? I asked.

Pechorin was unwell for a long time, emaciated, poor thing; only since then we have never talked about Bel: I saw that it would be unpleasant for him, so why? About three months later he was assigned to the th...th regiment, and he left for Georgia. We have not met since then, but I remember someone recently told me that he had returned to Russia, but there was no order for the corps. However, news reaches our brother late.

Here he launched into a lengthy dissertation on the unpleasantness of hearing the news a year later, probably to drown out the sad memories.

I didn't interrupt him or listen.

An hour later the opportunity to go appeared; The blizzard subsided, the sky cleared up, and we set off. On the way, I involuntarily started talking about Bel and Pechorin again.

Have you heard what happened to Kazbich? I asked.

With Kazbich? And, really, I don’t know ... I heard that on the right flank of the Shapsugs there is some kind of Kazbich, a daring man who, in a red beshmet, drives around step by step under our shots and bows politely when a bullet buzzes close by; yeah, it's not the same one!

In Kobi we parted ways with Maksim Maksimych; I went by post, and he, because of the heavy luggage, could not follow me. We never hoped to meet again, but we did meet, and if you like, I'll tell you: it's a whole story ... Admit, however, that Maxim Maksimych is a man worthy of respect? .. If you confess this, then I will be fully rewarded for your story may be too long.

1 Yermolov. (Note by Lermontov.)

2 bad (Turk.)

3 Good, very good! (Turk.)

4 No (Turk.)

5 I apologize to the readers for transcribing Kazbich's song into verse, transmitted to me, of course, in prose; but habit is second nature. (Note by Lermontov.)

6 Kunak means - a friend. (Note by Lermontov.)

7 ravines. (Note by Lermontov.)

M.Yu. Lermontov worked on the novel A Hero of Our Time from 1838 to 1840. Readers read with particular interest the first parts of the novel, which were published in the journal Otechestvennye Zapiski. Lermontov saw the huge popularity of these works and decided to combine them into one big novel.

Heroes of the work

Pechorin Grigory Alexandrovich — the protagonist of the novel, an officer of the Russian imperial army, a man too exalted, handsome, smart, but quite selfish.

Mary (Princess Ligovskaya) - a noble girl, for whom Pechorin made every effort to make her fall in love with him. Mary is generous, smart, arrogant.

Bela - daughter of a Circassian prince. She was treacherously kidnapped by her own brother Azamat and eventually becomes Pechorin's lover. The girl is frank, smart, beautiful and pure. Kazbich, in love with her, killed the girl with a dagger.

Maksim Maksimych - royal army officer. An honest and valiant man, a good friend of Pechorin.

Azamat - Circassian prince, quick-tempered and greedy guy, Bela's brother.

Grushnitsky - a young junker, an ambitious and proud man. He was killed by Pechorin in a duel.

Kazbich - a young Circassian who loved Bela but decided to kill the girl.

Werner - an intelligent and educated doctor, an acquaintance of Pechorin.

Faith - former lover of Grigory Alexandrovich.

Vulich - an officer, a gambling and young man, an acquaintance of Pechorin.

The narrator - accidentally met Maxim Maksimovich and wrote down in detail the whole story about Pechorin.

Very short content

The novel "A Hero of Our Time" tells about Pechorin, an intelligent, selfish and wealthy young man. The man was too cold towards all people, he had no real friends, relatives, relatives or lover.

Grigory Pechorin, with his behavior and attitude, broke the hearts of other people. The hard fate of the hero turns his life into torture, in which he still cannot find meaning. Pechorin's inner "I" harms not only the man himself, but also everyone around him.

The content of Lermontov's novel A Hero of Our Time briefly chapter by chapter

1. Bela

The story in this chapter comes from the name of the author, on the way from Tiflis to Stavropol he meets Maxim Maksimych. In this story, the reader will learn a lot of useful information about the hero himself - Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin. Maxim Maksimych, together with Grigory Pechorin, served for only a year, which was filled with many events.

Once, Pechorin and Maxim Maksimych are invited to a wedding to a prince who was friends with the staff captain (Maximych). Thanks to this wedding, the young officer gets acquainted with the charming Bela, the youngest daughter of the prince.

Maxim Maksimych accidentally overhears a conversation between Kazbich and the son of Prince Azamat. The second offers the guest to buy back his horse for a lot of money or even kidnap his sister, but Kazbich does not accept the offer of the prince's son.

The captain tells everything he heard to Pechorin, and he himself offers Azamat to kidnap Bela in exchange for the horse Kazbich. Grigory and Azamat waited for the old prince to leave, and together they take Bela away. Pechorin fulfilled his promises and helps the prince's son to steal a horse. Kazbich at this time is in sorrow.

Gregory tries to please the girl, so he gives her expensive gifts, behaves very affectionately and even specifically studies the language of the highlanders so that he does not have problems communicating with the girl. Bela avoids the young officer at first and misses home very much. Pechorin also hires a local woman to help a young girl learn Russian.

Maxim Maksimych was even able to see how Pechorin tried to amuse Bela, he told her about his love, but she did not reciprocate. Once Pechorin comes to Bela to say goodbye. The young officer decided to seek death in battle, as she does not want to love him. This confession touched Bela very much, so she threw herself on the man's neck with tears.

The girl still wasn't happy. After a while, she annoys Pechorin, who often goes hunting and pays Bela less and less attention.

Kazbich decides to avenge his horse. First, he kills Bela's father, believing that he allowed Azamat to commit such an act. Then Kazbich takes Bela away, Pechorin almost caught up with Kazbich, even managed to injure his horse. The vengeful Kazbich understands that he will not be able to get away from the chase, he inflicts a mortal wound on Bela.

The girl died two days later, Pechorin is experiencing this event, but outwardly it seems quite calm.

2. Maksim Maksimych

After a while, the narrator of the novel and Maxim Maksimych meet again, now in Vladikavkaz. Pechorin behaves very coldly and closed with Maxim Maksimych, he quite quickly says goodbye to him and leaves for Persia. Such isolation and coldness offended Maxim Maksimych, for this reason he decides to give Pechorin's diaries to the narrator of the novel in order to get rid of them.

"Pechorin's Journal"

Preface to Pechorin's Journal

After some time, the narrator learns that Grigory Pechorin died on the way from Persia to Russia. The narrator decides to publish his interesting diaries - Pechorin's Journal. These notes are made up of three chapters: "Taman", "Princess Mary" and "Fatalist".

3. Taman

Pechorin comes to Taman for work. The man stops in the poor's quarters. A blind boy and an undine girl live in the house, later it turns out that they are smugglers. At night, they unload a boat of goods provided by their accomplice Yanko.

Pechorin tells the girl that he knows everything. An attractive girl lures a man on a date and tries to drown him. Pechorin manages to escape, and the girl and Yanko swim away to another place so as not to be caught. The blind boy at that time was on the shore and cried, that same night Pechorin was robbed and he assumes that this boy did it. The man decides not to talk about this case and leaves Taman.

4. Princess Mary

In this part, the character of the protagonist is fully revealed. Pechorin arrives in Pyatigorsk and crosses paths with Grushnitsky, who is being treated after being wounded. Grushnitsky fell in love with Princess Mary, who came with her mother to the waters. But Mary is not yet going to establish a strong relationship with the junker.

Pechorin became friends with Dr. Werner, they often communicate and he learns that the princess and princess were interested in Pechorin and Grushnitsky.

At the ball, Pechorin saves Mary from a drunken man, the princess finds out about this act and invites Grigory to her home. But the dismissive attitude of Pechorin angers the princess and the courtship of the cadet bothers her.

After some time, Grushnitsky is promoted to officer, he is very happy. Vera, meanwhile, feels Pechorin's jealousy for the princess.

Grushnitsky appears at the ball in a new officer's uniform, he expected that everyone would be surprised, but everything happened quite the opposite. Grushnitsky ceased to be interesting, for the reason that he turned out to be one of the many vacationing officers. The man is offended and blames Pechorin for everything.

Pechorin overhears Grushnitsky's conversation with his comrades and learns that they are going to teach Grigory a lesson - to scare him with a challenge to a duel. However, pistols must not be loaded.

At this time, the princess reveals her deep feelings to Pechorin, but Grigory claims that he does not love the girl and thereby hurts her heart.

Pechorin's secret relationship with Vera continues, she even invites Grigory to her home when her husband is away. Returning from Vera, Pechorin practically comes across to the watchmen and Grushnitsky. The next day, Grushnitsky, in front of all the people, accuses Pechorin of being with Mary at night. From such words, Gregory challenges the offender to a duel, and asks the faithful doctor Werner to be a second. Doc learns that Grushnitsky's friends have decided to load only his gun.

Until the duel begins, Pechorin insists that the duel take place on the edge of a cliff. In this place, even a slight wound can become fatal. Grushnitsky and Pechorin cast lots, which shows that the cadet must shoot first. Grushnitsky holds a loaded pistol in his hands against Grigory's "blank" weapon and must make a difficult choice - shoot and kill Pechorin or refuse to duel. Juncker makes his choice and shoots Pechorin in the leg. Grigory once again offers Grushnitsky to apologize for the slander and refuse to fight. At this moment, Grushnitsky shows everyone that Pechorin's pistol is not loaded and asks for a cartridge. Pechorin kills Grushnitsky with an accurate shot.

Returning home, Grigory finds a note from Vera, which says that her husband found out everything, and they left the city. The lover hurries to return the girl, but only drives the horse.

Pechorin comes to Mary to say goodbye and explains to the princess that everything was a joke. He laughed at her, and there was nothing serious, a man deserves only the contempt of a girl. Mary says that she hates Pechorin and kicks him out of the house.

5. Fatalist

The most intense part of the novel, overflowing with interesting events. Pechorin says that he lived for about two weeks in the Cossack village, where the infantry battalion was located. There in the evening the officers sat and talked on various topics. Once the conversation turned to human destiny. Passionate gambler lieutenant Vulich said that the fate of a person has already been determined. Pechorin offers a bet to the lieutenant and claims that there is no predestination. Vulich accepts the bet. He removes a Circassian pistol from the wall, and Grigory says the following phrase: "You will die today." Despite this terrible prophecy, Vulich does not refuse the bet, the player asks Grigory to throw a card into the air, and he puts a gun to his forehead. When the card touched the table, Vulich pulls the trigger and suddenly - a misfire!

Everyone who was nearby decides that the gun was not loaded, but Vulich shoots at the cap that was hanging on a nail and pierces it, so he was able to win the bet.

Pechorin thinks about what happened for a long time on the way home. Suddenly he notices in the dark a pig hacked to death with a saber. Cossacks approach him and say that they know who did it. After some time, it turns out that a drunken Cossack killed Vulich with a saber. The killer sits in an empty house, and many people have gathered around him, but no one dares to go inside.

Pechorin, like Vulich, decides to enter and try his own fate. At his request, the captain distracts the drunken Cossack with communication, and three other Cossacks stand on the porch and are ready to knock down the door at a signal. Grigory tears off the shutter, he knocks out the window and jumps into the house. The Cossack fires at Pechorin, but only rips off the epaulette from his uniform. The killer is not able to find a saber on the floor and the rest of the Cossacks, on command, knock down the door and tie up the villain.

Grigory tells this story to Maxim Maksimych with particular interest and wants to know his opinion. He says that Circassian pistols misfire quite often. And the fact that Vulich met his killer at night, apparently, was his fate.

The Russian traveler was driving through the mountains from Tiflis. The cart with his luggage was carried by bulls, driven by hired mountaineers. Near the foot of the Koishaur mountain, he met another fellow countryman of the same kind, an officer of about fifty, still of a cheerful appearance, by the name of Maxim Maksimych. They turned out to be fellow travelers. During a difficult road through the passes near the abysses, Maxim Maksimych began to recall his service in Chechnya.

He told the satellite that since an officer of about 25 years old, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin, a rich man, with a firm and independent character, came to serve in their fortress. His behavior at first seemed somewhat strange. Pechorin sometimes disappeared for whole cold days hunting, going out alone and on a wild boar, otherwise he could not even stand a draft in the room. He often sat alone in his room for days on end, looking bored.

Near the fortress lived one allied Russian prince, who had a son, Azamat, a brave young man, but unbalanced and dissolute. The prince invited officers from the fortress to the wedding of his eldest daughter. During the dances and songs at this feast, the host’s youngest daughter, Bela, sang something like a compliment to Pechorin: “Our young horsemen are slender, and their caftans are lined with silver, and the young Russian officer is slenderer than them.” Pechorin liked Bela very much (see the article Pechorin and women), but the mountaineer Kazbich, known for her desperate disposition, also looked eagerly at her.

Lermontov. Hero of our time. Bela, Maxim Maksimych, Taman. Feature Film

While the wedding was going on, Maxim Maksimych went out into the yard - and heard a quiet conversation between Kazbich and Azamat. Azamat admired Kazbich's horse, Karagyoz, which was indeed unusually good. The young man asked Kazbich to give him the horse, promising to steal from his father and give her the best rifle or sword for her. Dispersing, he offered to kidnap and give his sister Bela for a horse.

Kazbich did not agree. A quarrel and a fight broke out between him and Azamat. Other guests fled to the screams, the wedding almost turned into a massacre. The officers left. Maxim Maksimych retold the whole story to Pechorin.

Kazbich often visited them in the fortress. Azamat also came. Pechorin began now and then to start a conversation with Azamat about Kazbich's horse. He promised help in her abduction, but demanded Bela in return. Maxim Maksimych convinced Pechorin that he had started a bad business, but Grigory Alexandrovich answered: a wild Circassian woman should be happy having a husband like me.

Once Kazbich brought a dozen rams to the fortress for sale. Pechorin detained him at his place, warning Azamat, and he stole Karagyoz. Hearing the neighing of his horse, Kazbich ran after the kidnapper with shots, but he galloped away. In a terrible grief, Kazbich fell to the ground and lay there until the morning. Azamat, who gave his sister to Pechorin, disappeared to no one knows where.

Maxim Maksimych wanted to return Bela to his father, but Pechorin told him that the prince, in anger, could slaughter his daughter, who had been with strangers. Fearful Bela was silent all the time at first. Pechorin treated her affectionately, gave rich gifts, swore in love. For a long time without receiving reciprocity, he finally said: “Bela, you are free! You can go back to your father, and out of anguish I will now go somewhere to seek death ... ”Hearing this, the mountain woman threw herself on his neck.

Kazbich, meanwhile, killed Bela's father, believing that Azamat stole the horse in collusion with him. Bela and Pechorin lived in passionate love for some time, but then the mountain woman began to bother him. He often left her to hunt. Bela yearned, often cried, complained about Pechorin Maxim Maksimych. Once he was walking with her along the ramparts - and they suddenly saw Kazbich in the distance on the horse of Bela's father. The sentry fired at him, but missed. Kazbich rode away.

Bela. Artist M. Zichy, 1902

Maxim Maksimych began to blame Pechorin for indifference to Bela. In response, he told the old man about his life. (See.) In his early youth, Pechorin drank a lot, but he soon got tired of it. Then he began to visit the big world - but he did not find anything attractive there either, secular beauties quickly began to seem empty to him. He went "to dispel boredom under the Chechen bullets", but soon "got used to their buzzing." The sight of Bela revived in him the last hope for a strong feeling, but it soon gave way to disappointment. “The love of a savage,” said Pechorin, “is little better than the love of a noble lady; the ignorance and simple-heartedness of one are just as annoying as the coquetry of another.” Now he was thinking of going on a trip: "to America, to Arabia, to India - maybe I'll die somewhere on the road!"

Soon Pechorin and Maxim Maksimych went hunting. Returning, they suddenly heard a shot at the fortress, and then they saw Kazbich, who was taking away Bela on a horse. The officers rushed after him, firing. They were already catching up with Kazbich, but at the last moment he hit Bela in the back with a dagger, and he jumped off his horse, climbed a cliff and disappeared. It turned out that Kazbich had ambushed the girl by the river, where she went to fetch water.

The wounded Bela died in agony in the arms of Pechorin. Pechorin stood over the body of the mountain woman with his usual impenetrable face, but when Maxim Maximim came up to console him, he suddenly burst out laughing - and from this laughter filled with extreme despair, frost crawled over the skin.

Three months later, Pechorin was transferred to serve in Georgia, and Maxim Maksimych no longer had news of him.

Current page: 1 (the book has 11 pages in total)

Mikhail Yurjevich Lermontov
Hero of our time

© Dunaev M., introductory article, 2000

© Nikolaev Yu., illustrations, 2000

© Design of the series. Publishing house "Children's Literature", 2002

M. Dunaev
"History of the Human Soul"

What is the name - "Hero of our time"? What is its meaning? The usual suggests itself: a typical representative of his time, the most characteristic character that characterizes the level of development of society, more precisely, the generation of young people of that time. Is not it? Pechorin is more like an exception - the properties of his nature. True, it is precisely what is inherent in many that is most clearly clarified through exclusivity, so let us not neglect the common interpretation.

But social reading has already bored everyone, to say the least. And what are the social characteristics of bygone times to us?

We must take into account the irony, in which the author himself persistently instructed the reading public both in the main preface and in the preface to Pechorin's Journal, and the author's warnings should not be neglected, although they are sometimes deliberately deceptive. Irony, as you know, is the use of a word in the opposite sense. The word "hero", therefore, can acquire an opposite meaning: an anti-hero. Before us, after all, is a literary text.

And in general, solving the riddles posed by Lermontov is more fruitful and interesting, approaching them from a different angle: not engaging in socio-historical research, but trying to comprehend the artistic perfection of the work. Still, Lermontov's novel is a literary masterpiece.

Lermontov showed himself in literature not only as a great poet, but also as a brilliant prose writer.

Gogol defined Lermontov's prose in a poetic way: thank you. Chekhov admired: “I do not know the language better than Lermontov. I would do this: I would take his story and sort it out, as they sort it out in schools, by sentences, by parts of a sentence ... That’s how I would learn to write.

Lermontov's syntax, the skill of constructing a phrase, the bewitching rhythm of all prose are indisputable. Here is a sample on which, following Chekhov's advice, one should learn to write:

“And sure enough, the road is dangerous: piles of snow hung over our heads to the right, ready, it seems, at the first gust of wind to break off into the gorge; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some places fell under our feet, in others turned into ice from the action of the sun's rays and night frosts, so that we ourselves made our way with difficulty; horses fell; to the left a deep cleft gaped, where a stream rolled, now hiding under an ice crust, now jumping with foam over black stones.

Such a construction, an asyndetic complex sentence that combines a number of complex sentences, including isolated secondary members and other complications, presents a considerable difficulty, because, in addition to the expressive clarity of meaning, the expressiveness of the description itself must be revealed in a clear rhythm of the constituent parts, devoid of monotony, but strictly sustained. Even more remarkable is the single final phrase of the story “Princess Mary”, the syntax of which can be defined as virtuoso: this is the level of prose mastery when no technical obstacles exist for a master who has reached perfection:

“I, like a sailor, was born and raised on the deck of a robber brig; his soul has become accustomed to storms and battles, and, thrown ashore, he is bored and languishing, no matter how beckoning his shady grove, no matter how the peaceful sun shines on him; he walks all day long on the coastal sand, listens to the monotonous murmur of the oncoming waves and peers into the misty distance: will there not flicker on the pale line separating the blue abyss from the gray clouds, the desired sail, at first similar to the wing of a sea gull, but little by little separated from the foam of boulders and evenly approaching the deserted pier ... "

It is enough just to silently point out such things, without destroying that impression of harmony, which anyone who is at least somewhat receptive to the perfection of artistic language cannot but experience.

For the sake of justice, it is necessary to point out one significant shortcoming of the architectonics of the novel: the too obsessive use of a certain conditional device, without which the development of events simply could not have been carried out. This technique has been noted for a long time: in the novel "A Hero of Our Time" the main characters too often "accidentally" eavesdrop and peep, further aligning their actions with the information acquired in this way about the situation, about the characters and intentions of those with whom they have to face in the course of development. actions.

For example, in the story "Bela" Maxim Maksimych inadvertently overhears Kazbich's conversation with Azamat, who offered to steal his own sister in exchange for a horse, and then Pechorin, who learned about it, organizes the abduction itself. In Taman, Pechorin again accidentally becomes an invisible witness to the conversation of smugglers, which fatally changed their fate. In Princess Mary, Pechorin is invisibly present at the conspiracy of his ill-wishers, who intend to cruelly laugh at him during a duel. Etc.

Lermontov's adherence to such conventionality is most likely explained by some undeveloped methods that stimulate the plot movement of the narrative - in the literature of that time.

We meet in the novel and some echoes of the romantic worldview - primarily in the construction of Pechorin's character, undoubtedly akin to some traits of stereotypical natures, which romanticism abounds. This is noticeable at least in that final phrase of the story "Princess Mary", where the main character compares himself with the "sailor of the robber brig": corsairs and robbers appear too often in romantic poems (and even in the same Lermontov) for such a comparison to arise by chance. An exceptional individuality with strong passions is nothing new in literature. But the mastery with which Lermontov weaves such a partly patterned character into the fabric of realistic psychological prose - without falsehood and exaggeration - the prose, the foundations of which he laid, deserves admiration.

The novel "A Hero of Our Time" is the first psychological novel in Russian literature, and one of the perfect examples of this genre.

The psychological analysis of the character of the protagonist is carried out in the complex compositional construction of the novel, the composition of which is bizarre by the violation of the chronological sequence of its main parts. And even if this has already become a common place for all critical analyzes of the "Hero of Our Time", let's not neglect to turn again to understanding the composition of the work as one of its most important artistic features.

The novel consists of five stories: after the general preface comes "Bela", then "Maxim Maksimych", the next three stories, "Taman", "Princess Mary" and "Fatalist", form a single "Pechorin's Journal", which is also preceded by a special foreword.

The true chronology is different. The young officer Pechorin, after some incident that happened in his fate and a story that destroyed the ambitious plans of the hero (we don’t know anything more detailed about that), follows to his new destination, stopping on the way in the small and “bad” town of Taman ( story "Taman"). Then, in the Caucasus, he takes part in hostilities and meets the cadet Grushnitsky, whom he then meets on the Waters, where he lives first in Pyatigorsk, and then in Kislovodsk ("Princess Mary"). After the murder of Grushnitsky in a duel, Pechorin was sent by his superiors to the fortress under the command of staff captain Maxim Maksimych ("Bela"). During a two-week absence to the Cossack village, the story described in the story "The Fatalist" happens. The sequence of events in these two stories is not entirely clear. Rather, the bet with Vulich described in The Fatalist happened earlier than the story of Bela's kidnapping - and this is of fundamental importance. Shortly after the death of Bela, Pechorin was transferred to a new place, and then retired. Five years after the events described, Pechorin goes to Persia and in Vladikavkaz casually meets again with an old colleague (“Maxim Maksimych”). He was not destined to return from Persia: on the way back he dies (as reported in the Preface to Pechorin's Journal).

The story is told on behalf of three narrators: a certain wandering officer (who should not be confused with the author himself), staff captain Maxim Maksimych, and, finally, the most central character, the young ensign Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. Why did the author need different narrators? Clearly: to illuminate the events and character of the central character from different points of view, and as fully as possible. But Lermontov has not just three narrators, but three different types of narrators - that's important. What are these types? There are only three of them: an outside observer of what is happening, firstly, a minor character, a participant in the events, secondly, and the main character himself, and lastly. All three are dominated by the creator of the entire work, the Author, to unravel the identity of which, based on the analysis of his creation, is the most exciting activity.

We encounter all three in the novel. But there are not just three points of view, but three levels of character comprehension, psychological disclosure of the nature of the “hero of time”, three measures of comprehending the complex inner world of an outstanding individuality. The presence of three types of narrator, their location in the course of the narrative is closely linked to the overall composition of the novel, and determines the chronological rearrangement of events, while at the same time being in a complex dependence on such a rearrangement.

Maxim Maksimych begins the story about Pechorin, a man we certainly like, kind, but rustic (not to say - narrow-minded). He watched Pechorin a lot, but he was decidedly unable to understand his character: Pechorin is strange for him, which he ingenuously declares at the very beginning of his story: “He was a nice guy, I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold all day hunting; everyone will get cold, tired, but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, the wind smells, he assures that he has caught a cold; the shutter will knock, he will shudder and turn pale; and with me he went to the boar one on one; it happened that for whole hours you couldn’t get a word, but sometimes, as soon as you start talking, you’ll tear your tummies with laughter ... Yes, sir, he was very strange ... "

A less naive reader will immediately suspect that something is wrong: a person shudders from a sharp sound, not out of cowardice at all, but taken out of a state of deep thought, self-absorption, as evidenced by the following remark: sometimes “you won’t get a word.” But Maxim Maksimych is unaware of such a state and therefore incomprehensible, and he resorts, as such persons always do, to an explanation.

But still, some oddities in the character of the young officer cannot but interest the reader. From the story of Maxim Maksimych, he will make an impression of the main character as a callous, even cruel person. For the sake of his whim, Pechorin destroys fate, makes several people unhappy. And when, after the funeral of Bela, Maxim Maksimych, partly observing a banal ritual, begins to express words of sympathy to Pechorin, he only laughs in response. “I had a chill run through my skin from this laughter,” the staff captain admits. And it's kind of weird.

Pechorin himself, trying to explain to Maxim Maksimych his condition, his behavior, expresses a paradoxical thought that not everyone can accept immediately and unconditionally: “... I have an unhappy character: did my upbringing make me like this, did God create me like that, I don’t know; I only know that if I am the cause of the unhappiness of others, then I myself am no less unhappy; Of course, this is bad consolation for them - only the fact is that it is so.<…>Whether I'm a fool or a villain, I don't know; but it is true that I am also very pitiable…”

And really weird. But what is the reason for this strangeness? “Maxim Maksimych cannot help us with our doubts.

The story then moves on to an unnamed wandering officer. He far surpasses the staff captain in observation. So, he makes a remark that Maxim Maksimych would never be capable of; After observing Pechorin for a short time, he suggests: "His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not wave his arms - a sure sign of some secretiveness of character."

The introduction of a second narrator into the fabric of the novel corrects the focus of the image. If Maksim Maksimych examines the events as if through inverted binoculars, so that everything is in his field of vision, but everything is too general, then the storyteller officer zooms in on the image, transfers it from a general plan to a larger one. However, as a narrator, he has an important drawback in comparison with the staff captain: he knows too little, being content with only passing observations. The second story, therefore, basically confirms the impression made after acquaintance with the beginning of the novel: Pechorin is too indifferent to people, otherwise, with his coldness, he would not have offended Maxim Maksimych, who was so devoted to his friendship with him. Yes, and he is truly strange, and his strangeness clearly comes through in his whole appearance, contradictory even for an outsider.

And the hero turns out to be indifferent not only to his neighbor, but also to himself, giving Maxim Maksimych his notes, the same Journal, which will turn out to be the main part of the novel. Later we learn that these notes were previously precious to him: “After all, I write this journal for myself,” we come across, among others, such a record, “and, therefore, everything that I throw into it will eventually be for me a precious memory." And now he was almost ashamed of his whole former life, since he now does not put a penny on memories of her: he cannot help but know that an old friend will use the once precious manuscript, most likely, for cartridges. And this act itself is aggravated by the narrator's deep observation of the appearance of an unexpected oncoming one: “... I must say a few more words about the eyes. First, they didn't laugh when he laughed! Have you ever noticed such strangeness in some people? .. This is a sign - either an evil disposition, or a deep constant sadness. Their half-drooped eyelashes shone with a kind of phosphorescent sheen, so to speak. It was not a reflection of the heat of the soul or a playful imagination: it was a brilliance, like the brilliance of smooth steel, dazzling, but cold; his glance - short, but penetrating and heavy, left an unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and could have seemed impudent if it had not been so indifferently calm.

The second story can only tease the reader's imagination: what is true in Pechorin - is it an evil disposition (to which it is so easy to incline as if) or deep constant sadness? The second answer raises some doubt. But the narrator himself gives too little reason to finally accept this or that version.

And only after that, having aroused an inquisitive interest in such an unusual character, forcing the reader, who is looking for an answer, to be attentive to every detail of the further story, the author changes the narrator, giving the floor to the most central character: as a narrator, he has undoubted advantages over his two predecessors, for not he simply knows about himself more than others (which is natural), but he is also able to comprehend his actions, motives, emotions, the subtlest movements of the soul - how rarely anyone can do this. It is difficult even to immediately understand what he is more concerned about - action or reflection on the meaning of action. In it alone is the perfect combination of both the hero and the subtle observant narrator. “I weigh, analyze my own passions and actions with strict curiosity, but without participation. There are two people in me: one lives in the full sense of the word, the other thinks and judges him ... ”Pechorin points a magnifying glass at his soul, and she appears before everyone without embellishment, without the narrator’s attempt to hide something, smooth it over, give it in a more favorable light, for he confesses to himself, knowing that there is no point in deceiving himself and trying: for this his mind is too penetrating.

“The history of the human soul, even the smallest soul, is almost more interesting and useful than the history of a whole people, especially when it is the result of observations of a mature mind over itself and when it is written without a vain desire to arouse interest or surprise,” the narrator prefaces our acquaintance with Pechorin's notes, which he decided to publish, and thus indicates to our already sharpened attention which path we should rush.

However, the first part of Pechorin's Journal by no means dispels our bewilderment, but only aggravates it. Important: if we didn’t know the beginning, we wouldn’t have fully perceived the paradox: Pechorin’s nature appears before us in sharp contrast to what we already know about him. It is also important: the transition from the second story to the third is associated not only with a change in the narrator, but also with a sharp chronological shift - from the very end of the hero's story, we are transported to its beginning. And we suddenly see that what we have before us is not a frozen romantic character, but individuality in its development. And it turns out that Pechorin was not previously as lazy in soul and body as at the end - on the contrary: he is mobile, curious, full of internal energy. His romantic mood is excited by some secret (in fact, the secret turned into an ordinary routine: honest smugglers did not seek to discover their activities in the light of day, that's all), he embarks on a dangerous adventure and makes no small effort to stay alive.

Pechorin during his trip to Persia, perhaps, it would be too lazy to take an extra step for the sake of revealing any riddle. The only thing that is invariable in him from beginning to end (we see now) is the ability to bring misfortune to everyone with whom fate brings him. Kindness would take care of preventing lawlessness, otherwise it is only idle curiosity that is to blame for everything.

The third story only puzzles the reader even more, who is not just following the change of events, but is preoccupied with unraveling the inner development of human individuality. If the story "Taman" were at the beginning of the novel, as it should be according to the time sequence, it would not be able to raise any questions in the reader, but would only give rise to a superficial impression: what kind of outlandish cases do not sometimes happen in this world!

Only after our perception is extremely sharpened does the self-disclosure of the character of the protagonist of the novel, the hero of such a long time already for us, begin. Pechorin constantly reflects, is busy self-digging, self-criticism - he is worried about the internal contradictions of his own aspirations and actions. And the indifferent reader will be able to discern that his own time can become somewhat closer and more understandable for him when he, without mental laziness, comprehends the life outcome of this never-existing character, born of the artist's fiction. Never existed in reality, but for a century and a half existing in the minds and imagination of every educated Russian person.

Getting acquainted with Pechorin's notes, we get the opportunity to judge him impartially and dispassionately. It is precisely to judge, to condemn, since judgment and condemnation are directed here not against a person (he does not exist, he is only an incorporeal fiction), but against that sinful state of the soul, which is captured by Lermontov in the image of Pechorin.

Pechorin is insightful and sometimes sees through a person. Only having settled in Pyatigorsk, he ironically suggests the level of relations between local ladies and officers who want to attract their favor: “The wives of local authorities ... pay less attention to their uniforms, they are used to meeting an ardent heart under a numbered button in the Caucasus and an educated mind under a white cap.” And please: at the first meeting, Grushnitsky almost verbatim repeats the same thing, but already quite seriously, condemning the visiting nobility: “This proud nobility looks at us, the army, as if they were wild. And what do they care if there is a mind under a numbered cap and a heart under a thick overcoat? Achieving power over the soul of Princess Mary, Pechorin foresees the development of events several moves ahead. And even dissatisfied with it - it becomes boring: "I know all this by heart - that's what's boring!"

But no matter how ironically Pechorin over the banal antics of his neighbors, he himself is not averse to using the same tricks he ridicules in order to achieve his own goal. “... I am sure,” Pechorin mentally ridicules Grushnitsky, “that on the eve of his departure from his father’s village, he spoke with a gloomy look to some pretty neighbor that he was not going so simply to serve, but that he was looking for death, because ... here he is, right , covered his eyes with his hand and continued like this: “No, you (or you) should not know this! Your pure soul will shudder! Yes, and why? What am I to you? Will you understand me? .. "- and so on." Secretly laughing at his friend, Pechorin soon utters a spectacular tirade in front of the princess: “I acted like a madman ... this will not happen another time: I will take my measures ... Why do you need to know what has happened so far in my soul? You will never know, and so much the better for you. Farewell". The comparison is interesting.

He accurately calculates Grushnitsky's behavior in a duel, adding circumstances of his own free will in such a way that, in fact, deprives the enemy of the right to an aimed shot, and thus puts himself in a more advantageous position, ensuring his own safety and at the same time the opportunity to dispose of the life of a former friend at his own discretion. .

Similar examples can be multiplied. Pechorin invisibly directs the actions and deeds of those around him, imposing his will on them and thus reveling in it.

He will not make a mistake in himself, not concealing from his own attention the hidden weaknesses of his soul. And the reader, who is able to compare and comprehend the actions of the characters, unexpectedly discovers pettiness and vanity, more worthy of Grushnitsky: “I was actually told that in a Circassian costume on horseback I look more like a Kabardian than many Kabardians. And for sure, as far as this noble combat clothing is concerned, I am a perfect dandy: not a single extra galloon; a weapon of value in a simple finish, the fur on the hat is not too long, not too short; leggings and slippers fitted with all possible precision; white beshmet, dark brown Circassian.

Or another - the passion to contradict, which he admits to himself. Who knows this passion, knows its source - what is defined in modern language as an inferiority complex. Excuse me, at Pechorin’s?! Pride - yes. He is all filled with pride, conscious in rapture of his own superiority over those around him: he is an intelligent person and cannot but be conscious of such superiority. Yes, of course. But pride is always accompanied by a secret torment, which can only be pacified by contradicting everyone and everything, contradicting for the sake of the very possibility of refuting, thereby showing oneself, regardless of whether truth or error stands behind you. The very desire of a romantic nature to fight is a consequence of such a complex, the reverse side of any pride. Pride and an inferiority complex are inseparable, they fight among themselves in the soul of a person invisibly at times, making up his torment, his torment and constantly demanding for himself a fight with someone, a contradiction with someone, power over someone as food. “To be the cause of suffering and joy for someone, without having any positive right to do so - is this not the sweetest food of our pride?” Pechorin acts solely for the sake of satiating pride. “... I love enemies, although not in a Christian way. They amuse me, excite my blood. To be always on the alert, to catch every glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to destroy conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived, and suddenly with one push to topple the whole huge and laborious edifice of their cunning and plans - that's what I call life.

In order to expose one's vices so ruthlessly to oneself, as Pechorin does, one definitely needs courage, and of a special kind. A person more often seeks to hide from himself something painful in his nature, in life - even to escape from reality into the world of intoxicating and mind-numbing dreams, fiction, pleasant self-deception. Sober self-esteem is often an additional cause of internal depression and torment. Pechorin becomes truly a hero of his time, for he does not hide from the present either in the past or in dreams of the future, he becomes an exception to the rule personified by Grushnitsky, this pompous deceiver of himself.

Pechorin is a hero. But his heroism is spiritual, not spiritual in nature. Pechorin is an emotionally courageous person, but he is not able to reveal his true self in himself. inner man. Reveling in his strength or tormented by inner torments, he does not humble himself at all even when he sees in himself obvious weaknesses, obvious falls; on the contrary, he is constantly inclined to self-justification, which is combined in his soul with severe despair. He is not so drawn when he utters his famous tirade in front of the princess: “Everyone read signs of bad qualities on my face that were not there; but they were supposed - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of slyness: I became secretive. I deeply felt good and evil; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy - other children are cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them—I was placed inferior. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world - no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in the struggle with myself and the light; my best feelings, fearing ridicule, I buried in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they did not believe me: I began to deceive; knowing well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others, without art, are happy, enjoying the gift of those benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple…”

There is also a grain of truth in Pechorin's words. It is not for nothing that the Gospel says: “Do not be deceived: bad associations corrupt good morals.” Pechorin was fully aware of this. But the gospel words reveal all the incompleteness of the consciousness of Lermontov's hero: “Sober up, as you should, and do not sin; for I will tell you to your shame, some of you do not know God.”

Pechorin is ready to shift the blame to the "bad community", but he does not at all seek to realize his godlessness. Ignorance of God leads in a very definite direction.

There is no humility in him, that is why he does not recognize deep-rooted sinfulness in the weakness of his nature. It can be said that Pechorin is sincere in his impenitence: he ingenuously does not distinguish between many of his sins. He is soberly aware of his own vices, but does not recognize the sin in them.

“It is not majesty, not many sins that destroy a person, but an unrepentant and hardened heart” - these words of St. Tikhon of Zadonsk could be put as an epigraph to the entire novel.

If we trace the behavior and thoughts of the protagonist of Lermontov's novel, then, perhaps, he (the hero, not the novel) will remain pure only against the ninth commandment: he does not stain his soul with false evidence; although, I must admit, at times Pechorin is Jesuitically quirky and, without uttering an undoubted lie, behaves, no doubt, deceitfully. This is noticeable in his relationship with Grushnitsky, the same with the princess: never once saying a word about his love (which is not at all), he does not prevent her from making sure that all his actions and words are driven precisely by a heartfelt inclination. The conscience seems to be clear, and if someone is deceived in something, then it is his own fault.

It seems to be pointless to talk about the first four commandments, united by the general concept of human love for the Creator, in relation to Pechorin. However, one cannot call him a person completely alien to religious experience, at least in the past. Weak reflections of faith departed from him are visible in some minor details, essential for understanding his fate. Details cannot be neglected: Lermontov uses them skillfully and tactfully, and they will reveal a lot to a sensitive writer (no wonder Chekhov, the great master of artistic detail, admired Lermontov so much).

Here Pechorin enters the smugglers' shack: "There is not a single image on the wall - a bad sign!" However, this can be regarded as the perceptiveness of a person who is also indifferent to icons. But completely indifferent will not notice anything. Pechorin turns out to be familiar with the Scriptures: he quotes, although inaccurately (rather, he does not quote, but transcribes in his own words) one of the prophecies of Isaiah: "On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see." Another time, Pechorin quotes the Gospel: “... I overtook a crowd of men, civilians and military men, who, as I later learned, make up a special class of people between those who look forward to the movement of water. They drink - but not water ... "Everyone recognizes here a well-known episode noted in the Gospel. True, both times in Pechorin's appeal to Scripture there is irony, which should be recognized as a sinful violation of the third commandment (turning to the word of God in vain - with a broad interpretation of the commandment), however, one cannot say about Lermontov's hero that he is outside religion in general.

It is important to realize: Pechorin, as it were, confesses to himself, but this confession remains graceless - not only because it is not church. He and alone with himself, with his own conscience, veiled his eyes. He does not recognize outright sinfulness. Why?

The following reasoning by Pechorin must be recognized as the most important energy node of the entire novel:

“But there is an immense pleasure in the possession of a young, barely blossoming soul! She is like a flower whose best fragrance evaporates towards the first ray of the sun; it must be torn off at that moment and, after breathing it to its fullest, throw it on the road: maybe someone will pick it up! I feel this insatiable greed within me, consuming everything that comes my way; I look at the sufferings and joys of others only in relation to myself, as food that supports my spiritual strength. I myself am no longer capable of madness under the influence of passion; my ambition is suppressed by circumstances, but it manifested itself in a different form, for ambition is nothing but a thirst for power, and my first pleasure is to subordinate everything that surrounds me to my will; arouse a feeling of love, devotion and fear for oneself - isn't this the first sign and the greatest triumph of power? To be the cause of suffering and joy for someone, without having any positive right to do so - is this not the sweetest food of our pride? And what is happiness? Intense pride. If I considered myself better, more powerful than anyone in the world, I would be happy; if everyone loved me, I would find in myself endless sources of love. Evil begets evil; the first suffering gives the idea of ​​the pleasure of torturing another; the idea of ​​evil cannot enter a person's head without him wanting to apply it to reality: ideas are organic creations, someone said: their birth already gives them a form, and this form is an action; the one in whose head more ideas were born, he acts more than others; from this a genius, chained to a bureaucratic table, must die or go mad, just as a man with a powerful physique, with a sedentary life and modest behavior, dies of apoplexy.

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Part one

BELA

I rode on the messenger from Tiflis. All the luggage of my cart consisted of

one small suitcase, which was half full of travel notes

about Georgia. Most of them, fortunately for you, are lost, and the suitcase

the rest of the things, fortunately for me, remained intact.

The sun was already beginning to hide behind the snowy ridge when I drove into

Koishaur valley. The Ossetian cab driver tirelessly drove the horses in order to catch

before night climb the Koishaur mountain, and sang songs at the top of his voice.

What a glorious place this valley is! On all sides the mountains are impregnable, reddish

rocks hung with green ivy and crowned with plane trees, yellow cliffs,

streaked with gullies, and there, high, high, a golden fringe of snow, and below

Aragva, embracing another nameless river, noisily escaping from the black,

a gorge full of darkness, stretches like a silver thread and sparkles like a snake with its

Having approached the foot of the Koishaur mountain, we stopped near the dukhan. Here

there was a noisy crowd of about two dozen Georgians and highlanders; camel caravan nearby

stopped for the night. I had to hire bulls to pull my cart

on this accursed mountain, because it was already autumn and sleet, - and this mountain

is about two miles long.

Nothing to do, I hired six bulls and several Ossetians. One of them

put my suitcase on his shoulders, others began to help the bulls almost alone

Behind my cart, four bulls dragged another as if nothing had happened,

despite the fact that she was overlaid to the top. This circumstance me

surprised. Her master followed her, smoking from a small Kabardian pipe,

sheathed in silver. He was wearing an officer's frock coat without an epaulette and a Circassian

furry hat. He seemed about fifty; his swarthy complexion showed

that it has long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and prematurely gray

his mustache did not match his firm gait and cheerful appearance. I approached him

and bowed: he silently answered my bow and let out a huge puff of smoke.

We are fellow travelers, it seems?

He silently bowed again.

Are you sure you're going to Stavropol?

So, sir, for sure ... with government things.

Please tell me why this is your heavy cart four bulls

dragged along jokingly, and my empty six brutes are hardly moved with the help of these

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

You, right, recently in the Caucasus?

A year, I replied.

He smiled a second time.

Yes, yes! Terrible beasts, these Asians! Do you think they help that

shout? And the devil will understand what they are shouting? The bulls understand them; harness

even twenty, so if they shout in their own way, the bulls will not move...

Terrible crooks! And what can you take from them? .. They like to tear money from those passing by ...

Spoiled the scammers! You will see, they will still charge you for vodka. I already have them

I know I won't be fooled!

How long have you been serving here?

Yes, I already served here under Alexei Petrovich, 1 he answered,

sitting up. “When he came to the Line, I was a second lieutenant,” added

he, - and under him he received two ranks for deeds against the highlanders.

And now you?..

Now I count in the third linear battalion. And you, dare I ask?

I told him.

The conversation ended with this and we continued to walk silently beside each other. On the

We found snow on top of the mountain. The sun went down and night followed day

without a gap, as is usually the case in the south; but thanks to the tide

snow, we could easily distinguish the road, which was still going uphill, although already

not so cool. I ordered to put my suitcase in the cart, to replace the bulls

horses and looked back at the valley for the last time; but the thick fog that surging

waves from the gorges, covered it completely, not a single sound reached

from there to our ears. Ossetians noisily surrounded me and demanded for vodka;

but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they fled in an instant.

After all, such a people! - he said, - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian,

and learned: "Officer, give me some vodka!" The Tatars are better for me: at least those

non-drinkers...

There was still a mile to go to the station. It was quiet all around, so quiet that

the buzzing of a mosquito could follow its flight. To the left blackened deep

gorge; behind him and in front of us dark blue peaks of mountains, pitted with wrinkles,

covered with layers of snow, were drawn on the pale sky, which still retained

the last gleam of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and strangely,

it seemed to me that it is much higher than in our north. On both sides

the roads were bare, black stones; in some places peeking out from under the snow

bushes, but not a single dry leaf stirred, and it was merry to hear

in the midst of this dead sleep of nature, the snorting of a tired mail troika and uneven

jingling of a Russian bell.

Tomorrow will be nice weather! - I said. The captain didn't answer.

words and pointed to me with his finger at a high mountain that rose directly in front of us.

What is it? I asked.

Good mountain.

Well, so what?

See how it smokes.

And in fact, Good Mountain smoked; light trickles crawled along its sides -

clouds, and on top lay a black cloud, so black that in the dark sky

she looked like a blur.

Already we could distinguish the post station, the roofs of the shacks surrounding it. and before

welcoming lights flashed by us when the damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge

roared and it began to rain. As soon as I had time to put on a cloak, I threw

snow. I looked with reverence at the staff captain ...

We will have to spend the night here, - he said with annoyance, - in such a snowstorm

you can't go over the mountains. What? Were there any landslides on Krestovaya? - he asked

cabbie.

There was not, sir, - answered the Ossetian cab driver, - but there are many, many.

In the absence of a room for those traveling at the station, we were given an overnight stay in

smoky sakle. I invited my companion to drink a glass of tea together, for

I had a cast-iron teapot - my only consolation in traveling around

The saklya was stuck with one side to the rock; three slippery, wet

steps led up to her door. I groped my way in and stumbled upon a cow (the barn of these

people replaces the footman). I did not know where to go: here sheep bleat, there

dog growls. Luckily, a dim light shone off to the side and helped me find

another hole like a door. Here the picture is quite

entertaining: a wide saklya, with which the roof rested on two sooty

pillar, was full of people. In the middle crackled a light spread out on the ground, and

smoke blown back by the wind from a hole in the roof spread around

such a thick veil that for a long time I could not look around; two were sitting by the fire

old women, many children and one thin Georgian, all in rags. Nothing

had to do, we took refuge by the fire, lit our pipes, and soon the kettle hissed

affably.

Pitiful people! I said to the staff captain, pointing to our dirty

the hosts, who silently looked at us in some kind of stupefaction.

Stupid people! he answered. - Would you believe it? can't do anything,

capable of any education! At least our Kabardians or

Chechens, although robbers, naked, but desperate heads, and these have to arms

there is no hunting: you will not see a decent dagger on any one. Really

How long have you been in Chechnya?

Yes, I stood there for ten years in a fortress with a company, at Kamenny Ford, -

Here, father, we are tired of these thugs; now, thank God, more peacefully;

and it happened, you would go a hundred steps behind the rampart, somewhere the shaggy devil was already sitting

and guards: he gapes a little, and look - either a lasso around his neck, or a bullet in

back of the head. And well done!..

And, tea, have you had many adventures? - I said, incited

curiosity.

How not to be! used to...

Here he began to pluck his left mustache, hung his head and became thoughtful. I fear

I wanted to draw some little story out of him - a desire inherent in

to all travelers and bookers. Meanwhile the tea was ripe; I pulled out

suitcase two camping cups, poured and put one in front of him. He

took a sip and said as if to himself: "Yes, it happened!" This exclamation

I have high hopes. I know old Caucasians love to talk, to tell;

they so rarely succeed: another for five years has been standing somewhere in the outback with

company, and for five whole years no one will say "hello" to him (because

The sergeant-major says "I wish you good health"). And there would be something to chat about: around

wild, curious people; every day there is danger, there are wonderful cases, and then

involuntarily you will regret that we record so little.

Would you like some more rum? - I said to my interlocutor, - I have

there is a white one from Tiflis; it's cold now.

No, thank you, I don't drink.

What's wrong?

Yes so. I gave myself a spell. When I was still a second lieutenant, once,

you know, we played among ourselves, and at night there was an alarm; here we are out

tipsy in front of the front, and we got it, as Alexei Petrovich found out: not

God forbid, how angry he was! almost got sued. It is exactly:

other times you live for a whole year, you don’t see anyone, but how is there still vodka -

missing person!

Hearing this, I almost lost hope.

Yes, at least the Circassians, - he continued, - how boozes get drunk at the wedding

or at a funeral, and so the felling went. I once took my legs by force, and also at Mirnov

The prince was visiting.

How did it happen?

Here (he filled his pipe, dragged on and began to talk), if you please

see, I was then standing in the fortress behind the Terek with a company - this will soon be five years old.

Once, in the fall, a transport with provisions arrived; there was an officer in the transport, young

a man of twenty-five. He came to me in full uniform and announced that

he was ordered to stay with me in the fortress. He was so thin, white,

his uniform was so new that I immediately guessed that he was in the Caucasus with

us recently. "Are you right," I asked him, "are you transferred here from Russia?" -

"Exactly so, Mr. Staff Captain," he answered. I took his hand and

said: "Very glad, very glad. You will be a little bored ... well, yes, we

we will live as friends ... Yes, please, just call me Maxim

Maksimych, and, please, what is this full form for? come to me always

in a cap". He was given an apartment, and he settled in a fortress.

And what was his name? I asked Maksim Maksimych.

His name was... Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin. The little one was nice

I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold

hunting all day everyone will get cold, tired - but nothing to him. And another time

sits in his room, the wind smells, assures that he has caught a cold; shutter

knocks, he shudders and turns pale; and with me he went to the boar one on one;

it used to be that you couldn’t get a word for whole hours, but sometimes, as soon as you start

to tell, so you will tear your tummies with laughter ... Yes, sir, he was with big

oddities, and must be a rich man: how many different

expensive things!

How long did he live with you? I asked again.

Yes, for a year. Well, yes, but this year is memorable to me; he gave me trouble

not so be remembered! After all, there are, really, such people whose kind

it is written that various extraordinary things must happen to them!

Extraordinary? I exclaimed with an air of curiosity, pouring tea for him.

And here I will tell you. About six versts from the fortress lived a peaceful prince.

His son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of going to us: every day,

it happened, then after one, then after another; and certainly, we spoiled him with Gregory

Alexandrovich. And what a thug he was, agile for whatever you want: a hat

raise at full gallop, whether to shoot from a gun. One thing was wrong with him:

he was terribly greedy for money. Once, for laughs, Grigory Alexandrovich promised

give him a gold piece if he steals the best goat from his father's flock for him; and

what do you think? the next night he dragged him by the horns. And it happened that we

we dare to tease, so the eyes will bleed and pour, and now for the dagger. "Hey,

Azamat, don't blow your head off, - I told him, yaman2 will be your head!

Once the old prince himself comes to invite us to the wedding: he gave the eldest

daughter married, and we were kunak with him: so you can’t, you know, refuse, even

he is a Tatar. Let's go. In the village, many dogs greeted us loudly

barking. Women, seeing us, hid; those that we could consider in

face, were far from beauties. "I had a much better opinion of

Circassians,” Grigory Alexandrovich said to me. “Wait a minute!” I answered,

grinning. I had mine on my mind.

A multitude of people had already gathered in the prince's shrine. Asians, you know

the custom is to invite everyone you meet and cross to the wedding. We were received from

with all honors and led to the kunatskaya. However, I did not forget to note where

put our horses in, you know, for an emergency.

How do they celebrate their wedding? I asked the staff captain.

Yes, usually. First, the mullah will read something from the Koran to them; after

they give young people and all their relatives, eat, drink buza; then it starts

horse riding, and always one ragamuffin, greasy, on a nasty

lame horse, breaks down, clows around, makes honest company laugh; after,

when it gets dark, in the kunatska begins, in our opinion, the ball. Poor

the old man strums on a three-stringed ... I forgot how they say it, well, sort of

our balalaika. Girls and young guys stand in two lines one against

the other, clap their hands and sing. Here comes one girl and one man

middle and begin to say verses to each other in a singsong voice, whatever, and

the rest join in chorus. Pechorin and I were sitting in a place of honor, and now

the younger daughter of the owner, a girl of about sixteen, came up to him and sang

to him ... how should I say? .. like a compliment.

And what did she sing, don't you remember?

Yes, it seems like this: "Slender, they say, our young horsemen, and

their caftans are lined with silver, and the young Russian officer is slimmer than them, and

the galloons on it are gold. He is like a poplar between them; just don't grow, don't bloom

him in our garden." Pechorin stood up, bowed to her, putting his hand to his forehead and

heart, and asked me to answer her, I know their language well and translated it

When she left us, then I whispered to Grigory Alexandrovich: "Well

what, what is it?" - "Lovely! he answered. - What is her name? - Her name is

Beloi," I replied.

And sure enough, she was pretty: tall, thin, eyes black, like

mountain chamois, and looked into our souls. Pechorin did not reduce in thought

her eyes, and she often looked at him from under her brows. Just not alone

Pechorin admired the pretty princess: from the corner of the room they looked at her

the other two eyes, motionless, fiery. I began to peer and recognized my

an old acquaintance of Kazbich. He, you know, was not that peaceful, not that

unpeaceful. There were many suspicions about him, although he was not in any prank

seen. He used to bring sheep to our fortress and sell them cheap,

only he never bargained: whatever he asks, come on - at least slaughter, don’t

give in. They said about him that he likes to go to the Kuban with abreks, and,

to tell the truth, his face was the most robber: small, dry,

broad-shouldered ... And he was dexterous, dexterous, like a devil! Beshmet always

tattered, in patches, and the weapon in silver. And his horse was famous for the whole

Kabarda, - and for sure, it is impossible to invent anything better than this horse. not without reason

he was envied by all the riders and more than once tried to steal it, but not

succeeded. How now I look at this horse: black as pitch, legs -

strings, and eyes no worse than Bela's; what a power! jump at least fifty

versts; and already left - like a dog running after the owner, the voice even knew him!

Sometimes he never ties her up. What a rogue horse!

That evening Kazbich was gloomier than ever, and I noticed that

he is wearing chain mail under his beshmet. "It's not without reason that this chain mail is on him," he thought.

I'm sure he's up to something."

It became stuffy in the sakla, and I went out into the air to freshen up. The night has gone to bed

on the mountains, and fog began to wander through the gorges.

It occurred to me to turn under the shed where our horses stood, to see

whether they have food, and besides, caution never hurts: I had

a glorious horse, and more than one Kabardian looked at her touchingly,

saying: "Yakshi te, check yakshi!"3

learned: it was the rake Azamat, the son of our master; the other spoke less and

quiet. “What are they talking about here?” I thought, “isn’t it about my horse?” Here

I sat down by the fence and began to listen, trying not to miss a single

interesting conversation for me.

Nice horse you have! - said Azamat, - if I were the owner in

house and had a herd of three hundred mares, I would give half for your horse,

"Ah! Kazbich!" - I thought and remembered chain mail.

Yes, - answered Kazbich after a certain silence, - in the whole of Kabarda there is not

you will find one. Once - it was beyond the Terek - I went with abreks to beat

Russian herds; we were not lucky, and we scattered in all directions. Follow me

four Cossacks rushed; I already heard the cries of giaurs behind me, and in front of me was

dense forest. I lay down on the saddle, entrusted myself to Allah, and for the first time in my life

insulted the horse with a whip. Like a bird he dived between the branches; sharp

thorns tore my clothes, dry twigs of elm beat me in the face. my horse

jumped over the stumps, tore the bushes with his chest. It would be better for me to leave him

edge and hide in the forest on foot, but it was a pity to part with him - and the prophet

rewarded me. Several bullets screeched over my head; I already heard

how dismounted Cossacks ran in the footsteps ... Suddenly, in front of me is a pothole

deep; my horse became thoughtful - and jumped. His back hooves broke off

from the opposite shore, and he hung on his front legs; I dropped the reins and

flew into a ravine; this saved my horse: he jumped out. Cossacks saw it all

only no one came down to look for me: they probably thought that I had killed myself before

death, and I heard them rush to catch my horse. My heart sank

blood; I crawled along the thick grass along the ravine - I look: the forest is over,

several Cossacks leave it for a clearing, and then jumps out directly to them

my Karagez; everyone rushed after him with a cry; for a long, long time they chased after him,

especially once or twice, I almost threw a lasso around his neck; I trembled

lowered his eyes and began to pray. After a few moments I pick them up - and

I see: my Karagyoz flies, waving his tail, free as the wind, and the giaours are far away

one by one they are dragged along the steppe on exhausted horses. Wallach! this is true,

true truth! Until late at night I sat in my ravine. Suddenly, what are you

Do you think Azamat? in the darkness I hear a horse running along the bank of the ravine, snorting, neighing

comrade! .. Since then we have not been separated.

And it was heard how he ruffled his hand on the smooth neck of his steed, giving

He has different gentle names.

If I had a herd of a thousand mares, - said Azamat, - then I gave

I wish you all for your Karagez.

Yok4, I don’t want to, - Kazbich replied indifferently.

Listen, Kazbich, - Azamat said, caressing him, - you are kind

man, you are a brave horseman, and my father is afraid of the Russians and does not let me in

the mountains; give me your horse and I'll do whatever you want, steal for you

father has his best rifle or saber, whatever you want - and his saber

real gourda: put the blade to your hand, it will dig into the body itself; and chain mail -

like yours, no matter.

Kazbich was silent.

The first time I saw your horse, Azamat continued when he

spinning and jumping under you, flaring nostrils, and flints flew in sprays

from under his hooves, something incomprehensible became in my soul, and since then everything

I was disgusted: I looked at the best horses of my father with contempt, ashamed

I had to appear at them, and melancholy took possession of me; and, yearning, I sat

on the cliff for whole days, and every minute your black horse appeared to my thoughts with

with his slender gait, with his smooth, straight, like an arrow, ridge; is he

looked into my eyes with his lively eyes, as if he wanted to utter a word.

I'll die, Kazbich, if you don't sell it to me! - said Azamat trembling

I heard that he was crying: but I must tell you that Azamat was

stubborn boy, and nothing happened to knock his tears out, even when he

was younger.

Something like laughter was heard in response to his tears.

make up my mind. Do you want me to steal my sister for you? How she dances! how he sings! a

embroider with gold - a miracle! The Turkish padishah never had such a wife...

If you want, wait for me tomorrow night there in the gorge where the stream runs: I will go with

her past to the neighboring village, - and she is yours. Isn't Bela worth your horse?

For a long, long time Kazbich was silent; finally, instead of answering, he tightened the old

We have many beauties in the villages,

The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.

It is sweet to love them, an enviable share;

But valiant will is more fun.

Gold will buy four wives,

The dashing horse has no price:

He will not lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,

He will not change, he will not deceive.

In vain Azamat begged him to agree, and wept, and flattered him, and

swore; Finally Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:

Go away you crazy boy! Where do you ride my horse? On the

the first three steps he will throw you off, and you will break the back of your head on the stones.

Me? - shouted Azamat in a rage, and the iron of the children's dagger

rang about chain mail. A strong hand pushed him away, and he hit the

wattle fence so that the wattle fence staggered. "There will be fun!" - I thought, rushed into

stable, bridled our horses and led them out into the back yard. Two minutes later

already there was a terrible uproar in the sakla. Here's what happened: Azamat ran there in

torn beshmet, saying that Kazbich wanted to kill him. Everyone jumped out

grabbed the guns - and the fun began! Scream, noise, shots; only Kazbich

was on horseback and circling among the crowd along the street, like a demon, waving his saber.

A bad thing in someone else's feast is a hangover, - I said to Grigory

Alexandrovich, catching him by the hand, - wouldn't it be better for us to get out as soon as possible?

Wait, how will it end.

Yes, it’s true, it will end badly; these Asians have everything like this: boozes have been pulled,

and the massacre began! We got on horseback and rode home.

What about Kazbich? I asked the staff captain impatiently.

What are these people doing! - he answered, finishing his glass of tea, -

because he slipped away!

And not hurt? I asked.

And God knows! Live, robbers! I saw others in action, for example:

after all, he was all punctured, like a sieve, with bayonets, but he was still waving his saber. - Headquarters Captain

After some silence, he continued, stamping his foot on the ground:

I will never forgive myself for one thing: the devil pulled me when I arrived at the fortress,

to retell to Grigory Alexandrovich everything I heard while sitting behind the fence; is he

laughed - so cunning! - and he thought of something.

What is it? Tell me, please.

Well, there's nothing to do! began to talk, so it is necessary to continue.

Four days later, Azamat arrives at the fortress. As usual, he went

to Grigory Alexandrovich, who always fed him delicacies. I've been here.

The conversation turned to horses, and Pechorin began to praise Kazbich's horse:

she is so frisky, beautiful, like a chamois - well, just, according to him,

there is no such thing in the whole world.

The eyes of the Tatar girl flashed, but Pechorin did not seem to notice; I

I’ll talk about something else, and, you see, he will immediately turn the conversation onto Kazbich’s horse

This story continued every time Azamat came. Three weeks later

I began to notice that Azamat was turning pale and withering, as happens from love in

novels-s. What a wonder?..

You see, I learned the whole thing later: Grigory Alexandrovich before

he teased him that at least into the water. Once he tells him:

I see, Azamat, that you really liked this horse; not to see

you like the back of your head! Well, tell me what would you give to the one who gives it to you

would you give?

Anything he wants, - answered Azamat.

In that case, I'll get it for you, only with the condition ... Swear that

you will make it...

I swear... You swear too!

Well! I swear you will own a horse; only for him you owe

give me my sister Bela: Karagyoz will be your bride price. Hope bidding for

beneficial to you.

Azamat was silent.

Do not want? As you want! I thought you were a man, and you are still a child:

it's too early for you to ride...

Azamat flared up.

And my father? - he said.

Doesn't he ever leave?

Truth...

I agree?..

I agree, - whispered Azamat, pale as death. - When?

The first time Kazbich comes here; he promised to bring a dozen

rams: the rest is my business. Look, Azamat!

So they managed this business ... to tell the truth, it’s not a good deal! I

after that, and said this to Pechorin, but only he answered me that a wild Circassian

should be happy having a nice husband like him, because,

in their language, he is still her husband, and what - Kazbich is a robber who should have been

punish. Judge for yourself, what could I answer against this? .. But at that time

I didn't know anything about their plot. Once Kazbich arrived and asked if

do you need rams and honey; I told him to bring it the next day.

Azamat! - said Grigory Alexandrovich, - tomorrow Karagyoz in my

hands; if Bela isn't here tonight, you won't see the horse...

Well! - said Azamat and galloped to the village. In the evening Gregory

Alexandrovich armed himself and left the fortress: how did they handle this matter, not

I know - only at night they both returned, and the sentry saw that across

saddle Azamat lay a woman whose hands and feet were tied, and her head

wrapped in a veil.

What about the horse? I asked the staff captain.

Now. The next day Kazbich arrived early in the morning and drove

a dozen sheep for sale. Having tied his horse at the fence, he entered me; I

treated him to tea, because although he was a robber, he was still mine

Kunakom.6

We began to chat about this and that: suddenly, I see, Kazbich shuddered,

changed in the face - and to the window; but the window, unfortunately, faced the backyard.

What happened to you? I asked.

My horse! .. horse! .. - he said, trembling all over.

Exactly, I heard the clatter of hooves: "That's right, some Cossack

I arrived..."

Not! Urus yaman, yaman! - he roared and rushed headlong out, as if

wild leopard. In two leaps he was already in the yard; at the gates of the fortress

blocked his way with a gun; he jumped over the gun and rushed to run along

the road ... Dust curled in the distance - Azamat rode on the dashing Karagez; on the run

Kazbich pulled out a gun from the case and fired, for a minute he remained motionless,

until he was convinced that he gave a miss; then he squealed, hit the gun on a stone,

smashed it to smithereens, fell to the ground and sobbed like a child ... Here

people from the fortress gathered around him - he did not notice anyone; stood,

talked and went back; I ordered to put money for sheep near him - he

he did not touch them, he lay face down, as if dead. Believe me, he lay like that

until late at night and all night? .. Only the next morning he came to the fortress and

began to ask to be named the kidnapper. The sentry who saw

Azamat unleashed his horse and galloped off on it, did not consider it necessary to hide. Wherein

Name Kazbich's eyes sparkled, and he went to the village where Azamat's father lived.

What about father?

Yes, that’s the thing, that Kazbich didn’t find him: he went somewhere for days

by six, otherwise would Azamat have managed to take his sister away?

And when the father returned, there was neither daughter nor son. Such a trickster

after all, he realized that he would not be blown off his head if he were caught. So since then

disappeared: it’s true, he stuck to some gang of abreks, and he laid down a violent

head beyond the Terek or beyond the Kuban: there is the road!..

I confess, and on my lot decently got. As I just passed

that Grigory Alexandrovich had a Circassian, he put on epaulettes, a sword and went to

He was lying on the bed in the first room, with one hand behind the back of his head, and

another holding an extinguished pipe; the door to the second room was locked,

And there was no key in the lock. I noticed all this at once ... I began to cough and

tapping his heels on the threshold - only he pretended not to hear.

Sir Lieutenant! I said as sternly as possible. - Dont you

do you see me coming to you?

Oh, hello, Maxim Maksimych! Would you like a phone? - he answered,

without getting up.

Sorry! I am not Maxim Maksimych: I am a staff captain.

Doesn't matter. Would you like some tea? If you knew what torments me

I know everything,” I answered, going up to the bed.

So much the better: I'm not in the mood to tell.

Mr. Ensign, you have committed a misdemeanor for which I can

respond...

And completeness! what's the trouble? After all, we have long been all in half.

What jokes? Please have your sword!

Mitka, sword! ..

Mitka brought a sword. Having done my duty, I sat down on his bed and

Listen, Grigory Alexandrovich, admit that it's not good.

What's not good?

Yes, the fact that you took Bela away ... This beast Azamat to me! .. Well, admit it,

I told him.

When do I like it?

Well, what do you want to answer to this? .. I was at a dead end. However, after

some silence, I told him that if the father begins to demand it, then it is necessary

will give away.

Not at all!

Does he know she's here?

How will he know?

I got stuck again.

Listen, Maksim Maksimych! - said Pechorin, rising, - after all

you are a good man - and if we give our daughter to this savage, he will slaughter her or

will sell. The deed is done, it is not only necessary to spoil it with a desire; leave it with me and

I have my sword...

Show it to me, I said.

She is behind this door; only I myself wanted to see her today in vain;

sits in a corner, wrapped in a veil, does not speak or look: timid,

wild chamois. I hired our dukhan woman: she knows Tatar, she will go to

her and accustom her to the idea that she is mine, because she will not be

belong but to me,” he added, banging his fist on the table. I'm in it too

agreed ... What do you want to do? There are people with whom you must

agree.

And what? - I asked Maxim Maksimych, - did he really teach

her to her, or did she wither away in captivity, from homesickness?

For mercy, why is it from homesickness. From the fortress were visible the same

mountains from the village - and these savages do not need anything else. Yes, moreover

Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something every day: for the first days she silently

proudly pushed away the gifts, which then went to the clerk and aroused

her eloquence. Ah, gifts! what a woman won't do for a colored rag!..

Well, yes, this is aside ... Grigory Alexandrovich fought with her for a long time; meanwhile

studied in Tatar, and she began to understand ours. Little by little she

I learned to look at him, at first frowningly, askance, and kept feeling sad,

when listening to it from the next room. I will never forget one scene, I was walking

past and looked out the window; Bela sat on the couch, hanging her head on her chest, and

Grigory Alexandrovich stood in front of her.

Listen, my peri, - he said, - because you know that sooner or

late you must be mine - why do you only torment me? Do you love

some chechen? If so, then I'll let you go home now. - She is

she shuddered slightly and shook her head. “Or,” he continued, “I

completely hateful? She sighed. - Or your faith forbids to fall in love

me? She turned pale and remained silent. - Believe me. Allah is one for all tribes and

the same, and if he allows me to love you, why will he forbid you to pay

me reciprocity? She looked him intently in the face, as if

struck by this new thought; her eyes showed incredulity and

desire to be sure. What eyes! they sparkled like two coals. -

Listen, dear, kind Bela! - continued Pechorin, - you see how I

I love; I am ready to give everything to cheer you up: I want you to be

happy; and if you are sad again, then I will die. Say you will

She became thoughtful, not taking her black eyes off him, then

smiled kindly and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and became

to persuade her to kiss him; she defended herself weakly and only

repeated: "Please, please, don't, don't." He began to insist;

she trembled, wept.

I am your prisoner, she said, your slave; of course you can me

compel, - and again tears.

Grigory Alexandrovich hit himself on the forehead with his fist and jumped out into another

room. I went to him; he walked gloomily to and fro with folded arms.

What, father? I told him.

Devil, not a woman! - he answered, - only I give you my honest

word that she will be mine...

I shook my head.

Want to bet? - he said, - in a week!

Please!

We shook hands and parted ways.

The next day, he immediately sent a messenger to Kizlyar for various

shopping; a lot of different Persian materials were brought, not all of them

count.

What do you think, Maxim Maksimych! - he said to me, showing the gifts,

Can an Asian beauty stand against such a battery?

You don’t know Circassian women,” I answered, “that’s not at all what

Georgians or Transcaucasian Tatars, not at all. They have their own rules: they

brought up differently. - Grigory Alexandrovich smiled and began to whistle

But it turned out that I was right: the gifts worked only half;

she became more affectionate, more trusting - and nothing more; so he decided to

last resort. One morning he ordered to saddle a horse, dressed in Circassian,

armed and went to her. "Bela!" he said, "you know how much I love you.

I decided to take you away, thinking that when you get to know me, you will love me; I

wrong: sorry! remain the complete mistress of all that I have; if you want,

come back to your father - you are free. I am guilty before you and must punish myself;

goodbye, I'm going - where? why do i know? Maybe I won't be chasing a bullet for long

or by hitting a checker; then remember me and forgive me." He turned away and

extended his hand to her in farewell. She did not take her hand, she was silent. Only standing behind

door, I could see her face through the crack: and I felt sorry - such

deathly pallor covered that pretty face! Hearing no answer, Pechorin

took a few steps towards the door; he was trembling - and did you tell? I think he is in

able to actually do what he said jokingly. Such was

man, God knows! As soon as he touched the door, she jumped up,

sobbed and threw herself on his neck. Would you believe? me, standing outside the door,

he started crying, that is, you know, not really crying, but that’s stupidity!..

The captain was silent.

Yes, I confess, - he said later, tugging at his mustache, - I felt annoyed,

that no woman has ever loved me so much.

And how long was their happiness? I asked.

Yes, she admitted to us that from the day she saw Pechorin, he

often she dreamed in her dreams and that no man had ever produced on her

such an impression. Yes, they were happy!

How boring! I exclaimed involuntarily. Indeed, I expected

tragic denouement, and suddenly deceive my hopes so unexpectedly! .. - Yes

Is it possible, - I continued, - that my father did not guess that she was in your fortress?

I mean, he seemed to suspect. A few days later we learned that

the old man is killed. Here's how it happened...

My attention has awakened again.

I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that Azamat, with the consent of his father

stole his horse, or so I believe. Here he is waiting for

roads three versts beyond the village; the old man was returning from a vain search for

daughter bridle him behind - it was at dusk - he rode thoughtfully

step, when suddenly Kazbich, like a cat, dived from behind a bush, jumped behind him on

horse, knocked him to the ground with a blow of a dagger, grabbed the reins - and was like that;

some bridles saw all this from a hillock; they rushed to catch up, only

didn't catch up.

He rewarded himself for the loss of his horse and took revenge, - I said, so that

provoke the opinion of my interlocutor.

Of course, in their language, - said the staff captain, - he was absolutely right.

I was involuntarily struck by the ability of a Russian person to apply himself to

the customs of those peoples among whom he happens to live; I don't know worthy

censure or praise is a property of the mind, only it proves an incredible

its flexibility and the presence of that clear common sense that forgives evil

wherever he sees its necessity or impossibility of its destruction.

Meanwhile tea was drunk; long-harnessed horses chilled in the snow;

the moon grew pale in the west and was ready to plunge into its black clouds,

hanging on distant peaks like shreds of a torn curtain; we got out of

sakli. Contrary to the prediction of my companion, the weather cleared up and promised us

quiet morning; round dances of stars intertwined in wonderful patterns in the distant sky

and one after another faded as the pale reflection of the east

spilled over the dark purple vault, gradually illuminating the steep slopes of the mountains,

covered with virgin snows. Left and right blackened gloomy,

mysterious abysses, and mists, swirling and wriggling like snakes, slid down

there along the wrinkles of neighboring rocks, as if feeling and being afraid of the approach of the day.

Everything was quiet in heaven and on earth, as in the heart of a person in a minute

morning prayer; only occasionally a cool wind came from the east,

lifting the mane of the horses, covered with hoarfrost. We set off; with difficulties

five skinny nags were pulling our wagons along the winding road up Good Mountain; we went

on foot behind, placing stones under the wheels when the horses were exhausted;

the road seemed to lead to heaven, for as far as eyes could see it

everything rose and finally disappeared in a cloud that had been resting since evening

on the top of Mount Gud-mountain, like a kite waiting for prey; the snow crunched underfoot

ours; the air became so thin that it hurt to breathe; blood every minute

rushed to the head, but with all that, some kind of gratifying feeling

spread through all my veins, and I was somehow amused that I

high above the world: a childish feeling, I do not argue, but, moving away from the conditions

society and approaching nature, we involuntarily become children; all

what has been acquired falls away from the soul, and it becomes again what it was

once, and, surely, will someday again. The one who happened like me

wander through the desert mountains, and for a long, long time peer into their bizarre

images, and greedily swallow the life-giving air spilled in their gorges, the one

of course, he will understand my desire to convey, tell, draw these magical

paintings. Finally, we climbed the Good Mountain, stopped and looked around:

a gray cloud hung on it, and its cold breath threatened a coming storm; but

in the east everything was so clear and golden that we, that is, I and the staff captain,

they completely forgot about him ... Yes, and the staff captain: in the hearts of ordinary people, a feeling

the beauty and grandeur of nature is stronger, more alive a hundred times than in us,

enthusiastic storytellers in words and on paper.

You, I think, are accustomed to these magnificent paintings? I told him.

Yes, sir, and you can get used to the whistle of a bullet, that is, get used to hiding

involuntary heartbeat.

On the contrary, I heard that for some old warriors this music even

Of course, if you like, it is pleasant; just yet because

heart beats stronger. Look,” he added, pointing to the east, “what

And for sure, it is unlikely that I will be able to see such a panorama anywhere else: below us

lay the Koishaur valley, crossed by the Aragva and another river, as two

silver threads; a bluish mist slid over it, escaping into neighboring

gorges from the warm rays of the morning; to the right and left the crests of the mountains, one higher

another, crossed, stretched, covered with snow, bushes; away the same

mountains, but at least two rocks, similar to one another - and all these snows burned

with a ruddy sheen so cheerful, so bright that it seems that one would have to stay here to live

forever; the sun barely peeked out from behind the dark blue mountain, which only

the accustomed eye could distinguish from a thundercloud; but above the sun

a bloody streak, to which my comrade paid special attention. "I

told you, - he exclaimed, - that the weather will be today; gotta hurry up and

then, perhaps, she will find us on Krestovaya. Move!" he shouted.

They put chains on the wheels instead of brakes so that they do not roll out,

they took the horses by the bridle and began to descend; there was a cliff to the right, to the left

such an abyss that the whole village of Ossetians living at the bottom of it seemed

swallow's nest; I shuddered, thinking that often here, in the dead of night,

this road, where two wagons cannot pass, some courier

ten a year passes without getting out of his jolting carriage. One of our

the drivers were a Russian Yaroslavl peasant, another Ossetian: the Ossetian led the indigenous

by the bridle with all possible precautions, having unharnessed the carry-aways in advance,

And our careless hare did not even get off the irradiation! When I noticed that he

could have bothered in favor of my suitcase, for which I did not at all

wanted to climb into this abyss, he answered me: "And, master! God willing, no worse than them

we’ll get there: after all, it’s not the first time for us, ”and he was right: we definitely could not have reached it,

however, we still arrived, and if all people reasoned more, then

make sure that life is not worth taking so much care of it ...

But maybe you want to know the end of Bela's story? First, I

I write not a story, but travel notes; so I can't force

staff captain to tell before he began to tell in the very

deed. So wait, or if you like, turn a few pages, just

I do not advise you to do this, because the passage through the Krestovaya Mountain (or, as

the scientist Gamba calls her, le mont St.-Christophe) is worthy of your

curiosity. So, we went down from Good Mountain to the Devil's Valley ... Here

romantic name! You already see the nest of the evil spirit between impregnable

cliffs - it was not there: the name of the Devil's Valley comes from the word

"line", not "devil", because here was once the border of Georgia. This valley

was littered with snowdrifts, reminiscent quite vividly of Saratov,

Tambov and other lovely places of our fatherland.

Here is the Cross! - the staff captain told me when we moved into

Devil's Valley, pointing to a hill covered with a veil of snow; on top of it

a stone cross was black, and a barely noticeable road led past it, along

which they pass only when the side is littered with snow; our

the cabbies announced that there had been no landslides yet, and, saving the horses, they drove

us around. At the turn we met about five Ossetians; they offered

us their services and, clinging to the wheels, with a cry began to drag and

support our carts. And sure enough, the road is dangerous: to the right hung over

with our heads heaps of snow, ready, it seems, at the first gust of wind

break off into the gorge; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some

in places fell through underfoot, in others it turned into ice from the action

sunshine and night frosts, so that with difficulty we ourselves made our way;

horses fell; to the left a deep cleft gaped, where a stream rolled, then

hiding under the ice crust, then jumping with foam on black stones. At two o'clock

we could hardly go around Krestovaya Hill - two versts in two hours! Meanwhile

clouds descended, hail and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the gorges, roared,

whistled like a nightingale the robber, and soon the stone cross disappeared into the fog,

whose waves, one thicker and tighter than the other, ran in from the east ... By the way, about

this cross there is a strange, but universal tradition, as if he was placed

Emperor Peter I, passing through the Caucasus; but, in the first place, Peter was only in

Dagestan, and, secondly, it is written in large letters on the cross that he

put on the orders of Mr. Yermolov, namely in 1824. But the legend

despite the inscription, it is so rooted that, really, you don’t know what to believe,

especially since we are not used to believing inscriptions.

We had to go down another five versts along the icy rocks and

marshy snow to reach Kobi station. The horses are exhausted, we

chilled; the blizzard hummed stronger and stronger, like our dear, northern one;

only her wild tunes were sadder, more mournful. "And you, exile," thought

I, - you cry about your wide, expanse steppes! There is where to expand

cold wings, but here you are stuffy and cramped, like an eagle that screams

beats against the bars of his iron cage.

Badly! - said the staff captain; - look around, there is nothing to see,

only fog and snow; and look that we will fall into the abyss or sit in

slum, and down there, tea, Baidara played out so much that you won’t move. Already

This is Asia for me! that people, that rivers - you can’t rely on anything!

The cabbies, shouting and cursing, beat the horses, which snorted,

resisted and did not want to budge for anything in the world, despite

the eloquence of whips.

Your honor, - one finally said, - after all, we are not going to Kobe today.

we'll get there; Would you like me to turn to the left while I can? There's something over there

the hillside turns black - that's right, sakli: there always, with those passing by, stop

in the weather; they say they'll do it if you give me some vodka," he added,

pointing to the Ossetians.

I know, brother, I know without you! - said the staff captain, - these beasts!

happy to find fault in order to pluck for vodka.

Admit, however, - I said, - that without them we would be worse off.

Everything is so, everything is so, - he muttered, - these are my guides! flair

they hear where they can be used, as if without them it is impossible to find roads.

So we turned left and somehow, after many troubles, got to

a meager shelter, consisting of two saklya, built of slabs and cobblestones and

surrounded by the same wall; ragged hosts received us cordially. I am after

learned that the government pays them and feeds them on the condition that they

received travelers caught in a storm.

All goes to good! - I said, sitting down by the fire, - now you will tell me

your story about Bela; I'm sure it didn't end there.

Why are you so sure? - the staff captain answered me, winking with

sly smile...

Because it is not in the order of things: what began as an extraordinary

so it must end the same way.

After all, you guessed it...

I am glad.

It’s good for you to rejoice, but I’m really, really sad, as I remember.

Nice was the girl, this Bela! I'm finally as used to her as to my daughter, and

she loved me. I must tell you that I have no family: about my father and

I haven’t heard from my mother for twelve years, but I didn’t think of stocking up on a wife

before, - so now, you know, and not to the face; I was glad that I found someone

pamper. She used to sing songs to us or dance a lezginka ... And how

danced! I saw our provincial young ladies, I once was, sir, and in Moscow in

noble assembly, twenty years ago - but where are they! Absolutely not

then! .. Grigory Alexandrovich dressed her up like a doll, cherished and cherished her; and she

we have become so prettier that it’s a miracle; tan, blush came off the face and hands

played out on my cheeks ... What a cheerful one used to be, and everything is over me,

naughty, joking ... God forgive her! ..

And what about when you announced her father's death?

We hid it from her for a long time, until she got used to her

position; and when they said so, she cried for two days, and then forgot.

For four months, everything went perfectly. Grigory Alexandrovich, I

he seemed to say that he passionately loved hunting: it used to be like this in the forest and washes away behind

wild boars or goats - and here at least he went beyond the ramparts. Here, however

but, I see, he began to think again, walks around the room, bending his arms back;

then once, without telling anyone, he went to shoot, - he disappeared for a whole morning; once

and another, more and more often...

the cat is gone!"

One morning I go to them - as now before my eyes: Bela was sitting on

bed in black silk beshmet, pale, so sad that I

scared.

Where is Pechorin? I asked.

On the hunt.

Did you leave today? She remained silent, as if it was difficult for her to speak.

No, just yesterday,” she finally said, sighing heavily.

Has something happened to him?

I was thinking all day yesterday,” she answered through tears, “I thought up

various misfortunes: it seemed to me that a wild boar had wounded him, then a Chechen

dragged him to the mountains... And now it seems to me that he doesn't love me.

You're right, dear, you couldn't think of anything worse! - She cried

then proudly raised her head, wiped away her tears, and continued:

If he doesn't love me, then who's to stop him from sending me home? I him

I do not force. And if this continues like this, then I myself will leave: I am not a slave

him - I am a prince's daughter! ..

I began to persuade her.

Listen, Bela, he can't sit here forever as if he were sewn to

your skirt: he is a young man, loves to chase game - it seems, and

will come; and if you are sad, you will soon get bored with him.

True true! - she answered, - I will be cheerful. - And with laughter

grabbed her tambourine, began to sing, dance and jump around me; only this

was not long; she fell back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

What was I to do with her? You know, I've never dealt with women:

thought, thought, how to console her, and came up with nothing; some time we both

were silent... An unpleasant situation, sir!

Finally, I said to her: “Do you want to go for a walk on the rampart?

glorious!" It was in September; and sure enough, the day was wonderful, bright and not

hot; all the mountains were visible as if on a silver platter. We went, walked along

rampart back and forth, silently; at last she sat down on the sod, and I sat down

near her. Well, really, it’s funny to remember: I ran after her, just like some kind of

Our fortress stood on a high place, and the view from the rampart was beautiful; with

on one side a wide clearing, pitted with several beams7, ended

a forest that stretched to the very ridge of the mountains; in some places auls smoked on it,

herds walked; on the other hand, a small river ran, and a frequent

shrub that covered the flint uplands that connected with

the main chain of the Caucasus. We were sitting on the corner of the bastion, so both ways

could see everything. Here I look: someone on a gray horse leaves the forest, everything

closer and closer, and finally stopped on the other side of the river, a hundred fathoms from

us, and began to circle his horse like a madman. What a parable!

Look, Bela, - I said, - you have young eyes, what is this

horseman: whom did he come to amuse? ..

She looked up and screamed:

This is Kazbich!

Oh, he's a robber! laugh, or something, came over us? - I look

like Kazbich: his swarthy mug, tattered, dirty as always.

This is my father's horse, - said Bela, grabbing my hand; she is

trembled like a leaf, and her eyes sparkled. "Aha! - I thought, - and in you,

darling, the blood of robbers is not silent!

Come here, - I said to the sentry, - inspect the gun and hit me

this fellow, - you will receive a ruble in silver.

I listen, your honor; only he does not stand still ... -

Command! I said laughing...

Hey dear! - shouted the sentry, waving his hand, - wait

a little, what are you spinning like a top?

Kazbich actually stopped and began to listen carefully: it was true that he thought that

they start negotiations with him - how not so! .. My grenadier kissed ... bam! ..

past, - the gunpowder on the shelf just flared up; Kazbich pushed the horse, and she

took a step to the side. He stood up in his stirrups, shouted something in his own way,

threatened with a whip - and that was it.

Aren `t you ashamed! I said to the sentry.

Your honor! went to die, - he answered, such

damn people, you won't kill right away.

A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned from hunting; Bela rushed to him

neck, and not a single complaint, not a single reproach for a long absence ... Even I

got angry with him.

Have mercy, - I said, - after all, just now Kazbich was here beyond the river, and

we fired at him; Well, how long will it take you to stumble upon it? These mountain people

vindictive: you think he doesn't realize that you helped in part

Azamat? And I bet that now he recognized Bela. I know that a year ago

ago he liked her painfully - he told me himself - and if he had hoped

collect a decent kalym, then, right, I would marry ...

Here Pechorin thought. "Yes," he replied, "you have to be careful...

Bela, from now on you must no longer go to the ramparts."

In the evening I had a long explanation with him: I was annoyed that he

changed to this poor girl; except that he spent half the day

on the hunt, his address became cold, he rarely caressed her, and she noticeably

she began to dry up, her face was drawn out, her large eyes grew dim. used to

ask:

"What are you sighing about, Bela? Are you sad?" - "Not!" - "Something for you

want?" - "No!" - "Do you miss your relatives?" - "I have no relatives."

It happened, for whole days, except for "yes" yes "no", nothing more from her

achieve.

That's what I started talking to him about. "Listen, Maxim Maksimych, -

he answered, - I have an unhappy character; Did my upbringing make me

Whether God created me this way, I don't know; I only know that if I cause

the misfortunes of others, then he himself is no less unhappy; Of course it's bad for them

consolation - only the fact that it is so. In my first youth, with that

minutes when I left the custody of my relatives, I began to enjoy wildly all

pleasures that can be obtained for money, and of course, the pleasures

these disgusted me. Then I set off into the big world, and soon society

also tired; fell in love with secular beauties and was loved - but their love

only irritated my imagination and pride, and my heart remained empty ... I

happiness does not depend on them at all, because the happiest people are

ignorant, and fame is luck, and to achieve it, you just need to be dexterous. Then

I got bored ... Soon they transferred me to the Caucasus: this is the happiest

time of my life. I hoped that boredom did not live under Chechen bullets -

in vain: a month later I was so used to their buzzing and to the proximity of death that,

right, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before,

because I lost almost my last hope. When I saw Bela in my

house, when for the first time, holding her on my knees, kissing her black curls, I,

fool, I thought that she was an angel sent to me by a compassionate fate ... I

again he was mistaken: the love of a savage woman is little better than the love of a noble lady; ignorance

and the simple-heartedness of one is just as annoying as the coquetry of another. If you

if you want, I still love her, I am grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes,

I'll give my life for her - only I'm bored with her ... Whether I'm a fool or a villain, not

I know; but it is true that I am also very pitiable, maybe more,

than she: in me the soul is corrupted by light, the imagination is restless, the heart

insatiable; everything is not enough for me: I get used to sadness just as easily as to

pleasure, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have one left

medium: travel. As soon as possible, I will go - just not to

Europe, God save! - I'll go to America, to Arabia, to India, - maybe

I'll die somewhere along the way! At least I'm sure it's the last

consolation is not soon exhausted, with the help of storms and bad roads. "Thus he spoke

for a long time, and his words stuck in my memory, because for the first time I

heard such things from a twenty-five-year-old man, and, God willing, in

the last one... What a marvel! Tell me, please, - continued the staff captain,

addressing me. - you, it seems, have been to the capital, and recently: really

Is all the youth there like that?

I answered that there are many people who say the same thing; what is,

probably those who tell the truth; which, however, is a disappointment

all fashions, starting from the upper strata of society, descended to the lower ones, which

wear out, and that now those who really miss the most,

they try to hide this misfortune as a vice. The captain did not understand these

subtleties, shook his head and smiled slyly:

And that's it, tea, the French have introduced a fashion to be bored?

No, the English.

Ah, that's what! .. - he answered, - but they were always notorious

I involuntarily thought of a Moscow lady who claimed that

Byron was nothing more than a drunkard. However, the remark of the staff pakitan

was more excusable: in order to abstain from wine, he, of course, tried

to assure oneself that all the misfortunes in the world come from drunkenness.

In the meantime, he continued his story thus:

Kazbich did not appear again. Just don't know why, I couldn't knock out

head thought that it was not for nothing that he came and was up to something bad.

Once Pechorin persuades me to go with him to the boar; i long

denied: well, what a curiosity a wild boar was to me! However, he did drag

me with you. We took about five soldiers and left early in the morning. To ten

hours darted through the reeds and through the forest - there is no beast. "Hey, won't you come back? -

I said - why be stubborn? It must have been such an unfortunate day!"

Only Grigory Alexandrovich, despite the heat and fatigue, did not want to

to return without prey, such was the man: whatever he thinks, give; seen in

was spoiled by his mother as a child ... Finally, at noon, they found the damned

boar: poof! bang! ... it wasn’t there: he went into the reeds ... he was so

unlucky day! Here we are, resting a little, went home.

We rode side by side, silently, loosening the reins, and we were almost at the very

fortress: only the bush covered it from us. Suddenly a shot ... We looked

at each other: we were struck by the same suspicion ... We galloped headlong

at the shot - we look: on the shaft the soldiers gathered in a heap and point into the field, and

there a rider flies headlong and holds something white on his saddle. Gregory

Aleksandrovich squealed as well as any Chechen; a gun from a case - and there; I

Fortunately, due to an unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not exhausted: they

were torn from under the saddle, and with every moment we were closer and closer ... And

finally I recognized Kazbich, only I could not make out what he was holding in front of

yourself. I then caught up with Pechorin and shouted to him: "This is Kazbich! .. "He

looked at me, nodded his head and hit the horse with a whip.

At last we were within gunshot of him; were you exhausted

Kazbicha's horse or worse than ours, only, despite all his efforts, she does not

leaned forward painfully. I think at that moment he remembered his

Karageza...

I look: Pechorin, at a gallop, kissed from a gun ... "Don't shoot! - I shout

I him. - take care of the charge; we will catch up with him anyway. "Oh, these youth! forever

inopportunely excited ... But the shot rang out, and the bullet broke the hind leg

horses: she rashly made ten more jumps, stumbled and fell on

knees; Kazbich jumped off, and then we saw that he was holding his

a woman wrapped in a veil... It was Bela... poor Bela! He is something to us

shouted in his own way and raised a dagger over her ... There was nothing to delay: I

shot, in turn, at random; sure, the bullet hit him in the shoulder, because

that suddenly he lowered his hand ... When the smoke cleared, a wounded woman was lying on the ground

the horse and Bela beside it; and Kazbich, throwing his gun, through the bushes,

a cat climbing a cliff; I wanted to take it off from there - but there was no charge

ready! We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor thing, she was lying

motionless, and blood flowed from the wound in streams ... Such a villain; at least in the heart

hit - well, so be it, he would have finished everything at once, otherwise in the back ... the most

rogue strike! She was unconscious. We tore off the veil and bandaged the wound

as tight as possible; Pechorin kissed her cold lips in vain - nothing could

bring her to her senses.

Pechorin mounted; I picked her up from the ground and somehow put her on

saddle; he put his arm around her and we drove back. After a few minutes

silence, Grigory Alexandrovich said to me: "Listen, Maxim Maksimych, we

that way we won’t bring her alive. ”-“ True! ”I said, and we let the horses into

the whole spirit. A crowd of people was waiting for us at the gates of the fortress; we carefully moved

wounded to Pechorin and sent for a doctor. Although he was drunk, he came:

examined the wound and declared that she could not live more than a day; only he

Recovered? I asked the staff captain, grabbing his hand and

involuntarily overjoyed.

No, - he answered, - but the doctor was mistaken in that she

Yes, explain to me how Kazbich abducted her?

And here's how: despite Pechorin's prohibition, she left the fortress to

river. It was, you know, very hot; she sat down on a rock and put her feet in the water.

Here Kazbich crept up, - the tsap-scratch her, clamped his mouth and dragged him into the bushes, and there

jumped on a horse, and traction! Meanwhile, she managed to scream, sentries

alarmed, shot, but past, and here we arrived in time.

Why did Kazbich want to take her away?

For mercy, yes, these Circassians are a well-known thieves' people: what lies badly,

can't pull it off; the other is unnecessary, but it will steal everything ... I ask them for this

sorry! And besides, he liked her for a long time.

And Bela died?

Died; she only suffered for a long time, and we were exhausted with order.

About ten o'clock in the evening she came to her senses; we sat by the bed; just now

she opened her eyes, began to call Pechorin. - "I'm here, beside you, my

dzhanechka (that is, in our opinion, darling)," he answered, taking her by the hand. "I

I’ll die!” she said. We began to comfort her, saying that the doctor had promised her

cure without fail; she shook her head and turned to the wall: she didn't

wanted to die!

At night she began to rave; her head burned, all over her body sometimes

a shiver of fever ran through; she spoke incoherent speeches about her father, brother: she

I wanted to go to the mountains, go home ... Then she also talked about Pechorin, gave him

various tender names or reproached him for falling out of love with his

dzhanechka...

He listened to her in silence, his head in his hands; but I'm the only one who doesn't

noticed not a single tear on his eyelashes: could he really cry,

or controlled himself - I do not know; as for me, I'm sorry for nothing more than this

By morning the delirium had passed; for an hour she lay motionless, pale, and in such

weakness, that one could hardly notice that she was breathing; then she got better

and she began to speak, only what do you think about? .. A sort of thought will come

after all, only to the dying! .. She began to grieve that she was not a Christian, and

that in the next world her soul would never meet the soul of Gregory

Alexandrovich, and that another woman will be his girlfriend in paradise. I came to

the thought of christening her before death; I offered it to her; she looked at me

in indecision and for a long time could not utter a word; finally answered that she

will die in the faith in which she was born. So the whole day passed. How is she

changed that day! pale cheeks sunken, eyes became large, lips

burned. She felt an inner heat, as if in her chest lay

hot iron.

Another night has come; we did not close our eyes, did not leave her bed. She is

terribly tormented, moaning, and as soon as the pain began to subside, she tried

to assure Grigory Alexandrovich that she was better, persuaded him to go to bed,

kissed his hand, never let it out of hers. Before morning she became

feel the anguish of death, began to thrash about, knocked off the bandage, and blood flowed

again. When they bandaged the wound, she calmed down for a minute and began to ask

Pechorin to kiss her. He knelt beside the bed, lifted

her head off the pillow and pressed his lips to her cold lips; she is tight

wrapped her trembling arms around his neck, as if in this kiss she wanted to convey to him

her soul ... No, she did well that she died: well, what would become of her,

if Grigory Alexandrovich left her? And it would happen, sooner or later

For half the next day she was quiet, silent and obedient, no matter how

our doctor tormented her with poultices and potions. "Have mercy," I said to him,

after all, you yourself said that she would certainly die, so why are all your

drugs?" - "Still, it's better, Maxim Maksimych," he answered, "for conscience

was calm." Good conscience!

In the afternoon she began to languish with thirst. We opened the windows - but on

the yard was hotter than the room; put ice near the bed - nothing

helped. I knew that this unbearable thirst was a sign of the end approaching, and

said this to Pechorin. "Water, water! .." - she said in a hoarse voice,

rising from the bed.

He turned pale as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured it and gave it to her. I

I have seen many how people die in hospitals and on the battlefield, only this

everything is not right, not at all!

death never remembered me; but it seems that I loved her like a father ... well

God forgive her!

remember before death?

As soon as she drank water, she felt better, and after about three minutes she

passed away. They put a mirror to their lips - smoothly! .. I took Pechorin out of

rooms, and we went to the ramparts; for a long time we walked back and forth side by side,

without saying a word, bending his hands on his back; his face showed nothing

special, and I felt annoyed: I would have died of grief in his place. Finally he

sat down on the ground, in the shade, and began to draw something with a stick in the sand. I know

more for decency, I wanted to console him, began to speak; he raised his head and

laughed ... I had a chill run through my skin from this laughter ... I went

order a coffin.

To be honest, I did this partly for fun. I had a piece

thermal lamas, I upholstered the coffin with it and decorated it with Circassian silver galloons,

which Grigory Alexandrovich bought for her.

The next day, early in the morning, we buried her behind the fortress, by the river, near

where she last sat; around her grave now

bushes of white acacia and elderberry grew. I wanted to put up a cross, yes,

You know, embarrassing: after all, she was not a Christian ...

And what about Pechorin? I asked.

Pechorin was unwell for a long time, emaciated, poor thing; just never with these

we haven't talked about Bel since then: I saw that he would be unpleasant, so why?

About three months later he was assigned to the th...th regiment, and he left for Georgia. We have since

we haven’t met since, but I remember someone recently told me that he

returned to Russia, but was not in the orders for the corps. However, before our

brother news reach late.

Here he embarked on a long dissertation on how unpleasant it is to learn

news a year later - probably in order to drown out the sad

memories.

I didn't interrupt him or listen.

An hour later the opportunity to go appeared; the blizzard subsided, the sky cleared, and

we went. On the way, I involuntarily started talking about Bel and Pechorin again.

Have you heard what happened to Kazbich? I asked.

With Kazbich? And, really, I don’t know ... I heard that on the right flank of

Shapsugs have some kind of Kazbich, a daring man who drives around in a red beshmet

step by step under our shots and politely bows when a bullet

buzz close; yeah, it's not the same one!

In Kobi we parted ways with Maksim Maksimych; I went to the post office, and he,

due to heavy luggage, could not follow me. We didn't hope

never meet again, but met, and if you want, I will tell you:

this is a whole story ... Confess, however, that Maxim Maksimych is a man

worthy of respect?.. If you confess this, then I will

rewarded for his perhaps too long story.

1 Yermolov. (Note by Lermontov.)

2 bad (Turk.)

3 Good, very good! (Turk.)

4 No (Turk.)

5 I apologize to the readers for putting the song into verse

Kazbich, handed down to me, of course, in prose; but habit is second nature.

(Note by Lermontov.)

6 Kunak means - a friend. (Note by Lermontov.)

7 ravines. (Note by Lermontov.)