A Hero of our time / Герой нашего времени. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Михаил Лермонтов

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СКАЧАТЬ torment me so? Or perhaps you love some Chechen? If you do, I’ll let you go home at once.’ She shuddered barely perceptibly and shook her head. ‘Or,’ he went on, ‘am I altogether hateful to you?’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps your faith forbids your loving me?’ She grew pale but did not say a word. ‘Believe me, there is only one Allah for all people, and if he permits me to love you why should he forbid you to return my love?’ She looked him straight in the face as if struck by this new thought: her eyes betrayed suspicion and sought reassurance. And what eyes she had! They shone like two coals.

      “‘Listen to me, sweet, kind Bela!’ Pechorin continued. ‘You can see how I love you. I am ready to do anything to cheer you: I want you to be happy, and if you keep on grieving, I will die. Tell me, you will be more cheerful?’ She thought for a moment, her black eyes searching his face, then smiled tenderly and nodded in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him. But she resisted weakly and repeated over and over again: ‘Please, please, no, no.’ He became persistent; she trembled and began to sob. ‘I am your captive, your slave,’ she said, ‘and of course you can force me.’ And again there were tears.

      “Pechorin struck his forehead with his fist and ran into the next room. I went in to him: he was gloomily pacing up and down with arms folded. ‘What now, old man?’ I asked him. ‘A she – devil, that’s what she is!’ he replied. ‘But I give you my word that she will be mine!’ I shook my head. ‘But you want to bet?’ he said. ‘Give me a week.’ ‘Done!’ We shook on it and separated.

      “The next day he sent off a messenger to Kizlyar to make some purchases, and there was no end to the array of various kinds of Persian

      “‘What do you think, Maksim Maksimich,’ he said as he showed me the gifts, ‘will an Asiatic beauty be able to resist a bunch of stuff like this?’ ‘You don’t know these Circassian girls,’ I replied. ‘they’re nothing like Georgian or Transcaucasian Tatar women – nothing like them. they have their own rules of conduct. Different upbringing, you know.’ Grigoriy Aleksandrovich smiled and began whistling a march.

      “It turned out that I was right: the gifts did only half the trick; she became more friendly and confiding – but nothing more. So he decided to play his last card. One morning he ordered his horse saddled, dressed in Circassian fashion, armed himself, and went in to her. ‘Bela,’ he said, ‘you know how I love you. I decided to carry you off believing that when you came to know me you would love me too. But I made a mistake. So, farewell, I leave you the mistress of everything I have, and if you want to, you can return to your father – you are free, I have wronged you and must be punished. Farewell, I will ride away: where, I don’t know. Perhaps it will not be long before I am cut down by a bullet or a saber blow; when that happens, remember me and try to forgive me.’ He turned away and extended his hand to her in parting. She didn’t take the hand, nor did she say a word. Standing behind the door I saw her through the crack, and I was sorry for her – such a deathly white had spread over her pretty little face. Hearing no reply, Pechorin took several steps towards the door. He was trembling, and do you know, I quite believe he was capable of actually doing what he threatened. The Lord knows that’s the kind of man he was. But barely had he touched the door when she sprang up, sobbing, and threw her arms around his neck. Believe me, I also wept standing there behind the door, that is, I didn’t exactly weep, but – well, never mind, it was just silliness.’

      The captain fell silent.

      “I might as well confess,” he said after a while, tugging at his mustache, “I was annoyed because no woman had ever loved me like that.”

      “How long did their happiness last?” I asked.

      “Well, she admitted that Pechorin had often appeared in her dreams since the day she first saw him and that no other man had ever made such an impression on her. Yes, they were happy!”

      “How boring!” I exclaimed involuntarily. Indeed, I was expecting a tragic end and it was a disappointment to see my hopes collapse so suddenly. “Don’t tell me the father didn’t guess she was with you in the fort?”

      “I believe he did suspect. A few days later, however, we heard that the old man had been killed. This is how it happened…”

      My interest was again aroused.

      “I should tell you that Kazbich had the idea that Azamat had stolen the horse with his father’s consent, at least, so I think. So he lay in ambush one day a couple of miles beyond the village when the old man was returning from a futile search for his daughter. The old man had left his cohorts lagging behind and was plunged deep in thought as he rode slowly down the road through the deepening twilight, when Kazbich suddenly sprang catlike from behind a bush, leapt behind him on the horse, cut him down with a blow of his dagger and grabbed the reins. Some of his men saw it all from a hill, but though they set out in pursuit they couldn’t overtake Kazbich.”

      “So he compensated himself for the loss of his horse and took revenge as well,” I said in order to draw an opinion out of my companion.

      “Of course he was absolutely right according to their rules,” said the captain.

      I was struck by the ability of this Russian to reconcile himself to the customs of the peoples among whom he happens to live. I don’t know whether this mental quality is a virtue or a vice, but it does reveal a remarkable flexibility and that sober common sense which forgives evil

      Meanwhile we had finished our tea. Outside, the horses had been harnessed long since and were now standing shivering in the snow; the moon, becoming pale in the western sky, was about to immerse itself in the black clouds that trailed like tattered bits of a torn curtain from the mountain peaks in the distance. We stepped out of the hut. Contrary to my companion’s prediction, the weather had cleared and promised a calm morning. The dances of stars, intertwined in a fantastic pattern in the distant heavens, went out one after another as the pale glimmer of the east spread out over the dark lilac sky, gradually casting its glow on the steep mountainsides blanketed by virginal snow. To right and left yawned gloomy, mysterious abysses, and the mist, coiling and twisting like a snake, crawled into them along the cracks and crevices of the cliffs as if in fearful anticipation of the coming day.

      There was a great peace in the heavens and on earth as there is in one’s heart at a morning prayer. Only now and then the cool east wind came in gusts, ruffling the hoary manes of the horses. We set out, the five lean nags hauling our carriages with difficulty along the tortuous road up Mount Gud. We walked behind, setting stones under the wheels when the horses could pull no longer; it seemed as if the road must lead straight to heaven, for it rose higher and higher as far as the eye could see and finally was lost in the cloud that had been resting on the mountain summit since the day before, like a vulture awaiting its prey. The snow crunched underfoot; the air grew so rare that it was painful to breathe; I continually felt the blood rushing to my head, yet a feeling of elation coursed through my being and somehow it felt good to be so far above the world – a childish feeling, I admit, but as we drift farther away from the conventions of society and draw closer to nature we become children again whether we wished to or not – the soul is unburdened of whatever it has acquired and it becomes what it once was and what it will surely be again. Anyone who has had occasion, as I have, to roam in the desolate mountains, feasting his eyes upon their fantastic shapes and drinking in the invigorating air of the gorges, will understand my urge to describe, to portray, to paint these magic canvases. Ar least we reached the summit of Mount Gud and paused to look around us; a gray cloud rested on the mountain top and its cold breath held the threat of an imminent blizzard; but the east was so clear and golden that we, that is, the captain and I, promptly forgot about it… Yes, the captain too: for simple hearts feel the beauty and majesty of nature a hundred times more keenly than do we, rapturous tellers of stories spoken or written.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ