Portrait and landscape descriptions in Lermontov’s novel “A Hero of Our Time. Online reading of the book Hero of Our Time I. Bela Maxim Maksimych often talks about life

03.11.2019

1. Whose portrait is this: “He was wearing an officer’s frock coat without epaulettes and a Circassian shaggy hat. He seemed to be about fifty years old; his dark complexion showed that it had long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and his mustache did not match his firm gait”? A) Pechorin B) marching officer C) Maxim Maksimych I. Petrenko as Pechorin

4. Who and about which of the heroes said this: “He was a nice fellow, only a little strange... He knocked on the shutter, he shuddered and turned pale; and with me he went to fight a wild boar one on one...”? A) Pechorin about Maxim Maksimych B) Maxim Maksimych about Pechorin C) Kazbich about Azamat 5. By whom social status is Bela? A) princess B) peasant C) countess

10. Finish Bela’s words to Pechorin: “If he doesn’t love me, I don’t force him…. I am not his slave...” A) I am a prince’s daughter B) I will go home C) I do not force him to love 11. How did Kazbich manage to kidnap Bela? A) Azamat helped Kazbich lure his sister out B) Bela left the walls of the fortress to the river C) Kazbich stole the girl from the fortress at night

12. Fill in the blanks with the necessary words confirming Pechorin’s confession. My soul is spoiled...., my imagination is restless, my heart....; to sadness I..., and my life becomes.... day by day. 13. How does the chapter “Bela” end? A) the death of Bela B) the traffic officer says goodbye to Maxim Maksimovich C) Pechorin left the fortress

“Maksim Maksimych” 1.Which of the heroes had deep knowledge of the art of cooking? A) Pechorin B) Maxim Maksimych C) infantry officer 2. Whose portrait is this: “He was of medium height, his slender, thin frame and broad shoulders proved a strong build... his gait was careless and lazy, but he did not wave his arms - a sure sign secrecy of character"? A) Pechorin B) Maxim Maksimych C) infantry officer

5. Military rank of Maxim Maksimych? A) staff - captain B) staff - lieutenant C) major 6. What is the name of this fragment: “Yes, I always knew that he was a flighty person who could not be relied upon. I always said that there is no use in those who forget old friends”? A) lyrical digression B) reflection of the hero C) monologue

1. What is the name of this fragment: “The full moon shone on the reed roof and white walls of my new home. The shore sloped down steeply to the sea, almost at the very walls; dark blue waves splashed below with a continuous murmur. The moon looked at the restless, but submissive element"? A) landscape B) interior C) story 2. Why did Pechorin end up in the smugglers’ house? A) He wanted to spend the night on the seashore B) there were no available apartments in the city C) He decided to find out what kind of people live here

5. What is the fate of the undine? A) she sails away with the smuggler B) she died at sea C) Pechorin exposed her 6. Finish Pechorin’s words: “What happened to the old woman and the poor blind man - I don’t know………..” A) I’m not interested in knowing about them B) What do I care about human joys and misfortunes? C) What do I care about honest smugglers

2. Whose portrait is this: “He is well built, dark and black-haired; he looks about 25 years old. He throws his head back when he speaks, he speaks quickly and pretentiously”? A) Pechorin B) Grushnitsky C) dragoon captain 3. As Pechorin says about Grushnitsky: “I don’t like him either: I feel that we will someday collide with him on a narrow road, and... (what?) A) I will kill him in a duel B) we will become rivals in love c) one of us will be in trouble

“One thing has always been strange to me:...” 8. Finish Pechorin’s words: “One thing has always been strange to me: ....” A) I have never become the slave of the woman I love B) I don’t know what to say to Mary C) I always bring misfortune to women who love me 9. How did Pechorin find out about the upcoming fight with Grushnitsky? A) Grushnitsky told him about this b) Pechorin found out from Mary c) Pechorin overheard a conversation between officers in the reconstruction

10. What is Grushnitsky’s rank A) captain b) private c) cadet 11. Why did Pechorin feel “a long-forgotten thrill ran through his veins at the sound of this sweet voice,” did her eyes express distrust and something similar to reproach? A) He saw Vera B) He invited Mary for a walk C) He was waiting for Vera on a date

12. Finish Pechorin’s words: “The period of life has passed when they are looking only for happiness, when the heart feels the need to love someone strongly and passionately - now...” A) I want to experience Mary’s love B) I think about quiet family happiness C) I want to be loved, and even then by very few; affection alone would be enough for me. 13. Indicate the characters of this dialogue: - You dangerous man! - Do I look like a murderer? -You are worse... A) Pechorin and Vera B) Pechorin and Mary C) Pechorin and Werner

14. How to call Pechorin’s words: “Everyone read on my face signs of bad qualities that were not there... I was modest - I was accused of slyness: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me - I became vindictive; ... I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world - no one understood me: I learned to hate...”? A) confession B) slander C) rebuke

17.Who does Pechorin compare himself to the night before the duel? A) with a man who was deceived B) with a man tired of life C) with a man yawning at a ball 18. At what point in his life did Pechorin realize that he had not sacrificed anything for those he loved? A) on the day of the date with Vera B) on the night before the duel C) on the day of farewell to Vera

Researchers have repeatedly noted the detail, detail and psychologism of the character portraits created by M.Yu. Lermontov. B. M. Eikhenbaum wrote that the basis portrait painting The writer “laid out a new idea about the connection between a person’s appearance and his character and psyche in general - an idea in which echoes of new philosophical and natural science theories that served as a support for early materialism can be heard.”

Let's try to look at the portraits of characters in the novel "A Hero of Our Time". The most detailed description appearance in the novel is a portrait of Pechorin, given in the perception of a passing officer. It gives a detailed description of the hero's physique, his clothes, face, gait, and each of these details of appearance can tell a lot about the hero. As V.V. Vinogradov notes, external details are interpreted by the author in a physiological, social or psychological aspect, and a kind of parallelism is established between the external and the internal.

Thus, Pechorin’s aristocratic origin is emphasized by such details in his portrait as “a pale, noble forehead”, “a small aristocratic hand”, “dazzling white teeth”, a black mustache and eyebrows, despite light color hair. Pechorin’s physical strength, agility and endurance are indicated by “broad shoulders” and “a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life.” The hero's gait is careless and lazy, but he does not have the habit of waving his arms, which indicates a certain secrecy of character.

But most of all, the narrator is struck by Pechorin’s eyes, which “did not laugh when he laughed.” And here the narrator openly connects the portrait of the hero with his psychology: “This is a sign of either an evil disposition or deep, constant sadness,” the narrator notes.

His cold, metallic gaze speaks of the hero’s insight, intelligence and at the same time indifference. “Because of the half-lowered eyelashes, they [the eyes] shone with some kind of phosphorescent shine, so to speak. It was not a reflection of the heat of the soul or the playing imagination: it was a brilliance, similar to the brilliance of smooth steel, dazzling, but cold, his gaze was short, but penetrating and heavy, leaving an unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and could have seemed impudent if not was so indifferently calm.”

The contradictory nature of Pechorin is revealed by the opposite features in his portrait: “strong build” and “nervous weakness” of the whole body, a cold, penetrating gaze - and a childish smile, an indefinite impression of the hero’s age (at first glance, no more than twenty-three years old, on closer acquaintance - thirty).

Thus, the composition of the portrait is built as if narrowing,< от более внешнего, физиологического к психологическому, характеристическому, от типического к индивидуальному»: от обрисовки телосложения, одежды, манер к обрисовке выражения лица, глаз и т.д.

Other characters are depicted in less detail in the novel. For example, a description of the appearance of Maxim Maksimych: “Behind my cart, four bulls were dragging another... Its owner walked behind it, smoking from a small Kabardian pipe, trimmed in silver. He was wearing an officer's frock coat without epaulettes and a Circassian shaggy hat. He seemed to be about fifty years old; his dark complexion showed that he had long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and his prematurely gray mustache did not match his firm gait and cheerful appearance.”

Maxim Maksimych is a physically strong person, in good health, cheerful and resilient. This hero is simple-minded, sometimes awkward and seems funny: “He did not stand on ceremony, even hit me on the shoulder and curled his mouth like a smile. Such a weirdo!” However, there is something childish about him: “...he looked at me in surprise, grumbled something through his teeth and began rummaging through the suitcase; so he took out one notebook and threw it with contempt on the ground; then the second, third and tenth had the same fate: there was something childish in his annoyance; I felt funny and sorry..."

Maxim Maksimych is a simple army captain; he does not have Pechorin’s insight, his intellect, his spiritual needs. However, this hero has kind hearted, youthful naivety, integrity of character, and the writer emphasizes these traits by depicting his manners and behavior.

In Pechorin's perception, the novel gives a portrait of Grushnitsky. This is a portrait-essay that reveals not only the appearance of the hero, but also his manners, habits, lifestyle, and character traits. Grushnitsky appears here as a certain human type. We find this kind of portrait-essays in Pushkin and Gogol. However, it is worth noting that all descriptions of Lermontov’s appearance are accompanied by the author’s commentary - conclusions that the author makes when outlining this or that detail of appearance (in in this case Pechorin makes all the conclusions). Pushkin and Gogol have no such comments. We find similar comments when depicting appearance in Tolstoy, however, Tolstoy does not comment on the initial portrait of the hero, but on the dynamic descriptions of the character’s states.

The portrait of Grushnitsky indirectly characterizes Pechorin himself, emphasizing his intelligence and insight, ability to understand human psychology and at the same time - the subjectivity of perception.

“Grushnitsky is a cadet. He has only been in the service for a year, and wears, out of a special kind of dandyism, a thick soldier’s overcoat... He is well built, dark and black-haired; he looks like he might be twenty-five years old, although he is hardly twenty-one. He throws his head back when he speaks, and constantly twirls his mustache with his left hand, because he leans on a crutch with his right. He speaks quickly and pretentiously: he is one of those people who have ready-made pompous phrases for all occasions, who are not touched by simply beautiful things and who are solemnly draped in extraordinary feelings, sublime passions and exceptional suffering. To produce an effect is their delight; Romantic provincial women like them crazy.”

Here, the hero’s appearance is first described, then his characteristic gestures and manners. Then Lermontov outlines Grushnitsky’s character traits, emphasizing what is common and typical in the character. In describing the hero’s appearance, Lermontov uses the technique of facial characterization (“He throws his head back when he speaks and constantly twirls his mustache with his left hand”), which was then used by Tolstoy (the jumping cheeks of Prince Vasily in the novel “War and Peace”).

In the minds of Pechorin, Grushnitsky is seen as a certain type of personality, in many ways opposite to himself. And this is exactly the balance of power in the novel. Grushnitskaya, with his demonstrative disappointment, is a caricature, a parody of the main character. And this caricature of the image, the vulgarity of Grushnitsky’s inner appearance is constantly emphasized in the description of his appearance. “Half an hour before the ball, Grushnitsky appeared to me in the full glory of an army infantry uniform. Fastened to the third button was a bronze chain on which hung a double lorgnette; epaulettes of incredible size were curved upward in the shape of cupid's wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he held brown kid gloves and a cap, and with his right hand he whipped his curled crest into small curls every minute.”

If the first portrait of Grushnitsky is a detailed sketch of appearance, behavior and character, then his second portrait is a specific, fleeting impression of Pechorin. Despite the contempt he feels for Grushnitsky, Grigory Alexandrovich tries to be objective here. However, it is worth noting that he does not always succeed.

Grushnitsky is in many ways still a boy, following fashion, wanting to show off and in the heat of youthful ardor. However, Pechorin (with his knowledge of human psychology) does not seem to notice this. He considers Grushnitsky as a serious opponent, while the latter is not one.

The portrait of Doctor Werner, also given in the perception of Pechorin, is magnificent in the novel. “Werner was short, and thin, and weak, like a child; one of his legs is shorter than the other, like Byron; in comparison with his body, his head seemed huge: he cut his hair into a comb, and the irregularities of his skull, exposed in this way, would strike a phrenologist with a strange interweaving of opposing inclinations.”

Werner is neat and has good taste: “Taste and neatness were noticeable in his clothes; his thin, wiry and small hands showed off in light yellow gloves. His coat, tie and vest were always black.”

Werner is a skeptic and a materialist. Like many doctors, he often makes fun of his patients, but he is not cynical: Pechorin once saw him cry over a dying soldier. The doctor is well versed in female and male psychology, but never uses his knowledge, unlike Pechorin. At Werner's evil tongue, his small black eyes, penetrating into the thoughts of his interlocutor, speak of his intelligence and insight.

However, for all his skepticism and evil mind, Werner is a poet in life, he is kind, noble, and has a pure, childish soul. Despite external ugliness, the hero attracts with his nobility of soul, moral purity, and brilliant intellect. Lermontov notes that women fall madly in love with such men, preferring their ugliness to the beauty of “the freshest and pinkest endymions.”

Thus, the portrait of Dr. Werner is also a portrait-sketch, revealing the features of the hero’s appearance, his character traits, way of thinking, and behavior. This portrait indirectly characterizes Pechorin himself, conveying his powers of observation and penchant for philosophical generalizations.

The portraits of women in the novel are also magnificent. Thus, the author “entrusts” the description of Bela’s appearance to Maxim Maksimych, who here becomes a poet: “And for sure, she was good: tall, thin, black eyes, like a mountain chamois, and looked into your soul.”

Remarkable and picturesque psychological portrait“undines”, given in the perception of Pechorin. In this description, the author acts as a true connoisseur of female beauty. The reasoning here takes on the character of generalizations. The first impression made by this girl is charming: extraordinary flexibility of the figure, “long brown hair”, “golden tint of tanned skin”, “correct nose”, eyes “gifted with magnetic power”. But the “undine” is the smugglers’ assistant. Hiding the traces of her crimes, she tries to drown Pechorin. She has cunning and deceit, cruelty and determination unusual for women. These features are also conveyed in the description of the heroine’s appearance: in her indirect glances there is “something wild and suspicious,” in her smile there is “something vague.” However, all the behavior of this girl, her mysterious speeches, her oddities remind Pechorin of Goethe’s Mignon, and it eludes him true essence"undines".

Thus, Lermontov appears before us as a real master of portraiture. The portraits created by the writer are detailed and detailed; the author is well versed in the physiognomy and psychology of people. However, these portraits are static, just like the characters themselves are static. Lermontov does not depict heroes in their dynamics states of mind, in changing moods, feelings and impressions, and usually gives one large sketch of the character’s appearance throughout the entire narrative. The static nature of the portraits distinguishes Lermontov from Tolstoy and brings him closer to Pushkin and Gogol.

4. Who and about which of the heroes said this: “He was a nice fellow, only a little strange... He knocked on the shutter, he shuddered and turned pale; and with me he went to fight a wild boar one on one...”? A) Pechorin about Maxim Maksimych B) Maxim Maksimych about Pechorin C) Kazbich about Azamat 5. What is Bela’s social status? A) princess B) peasant C) countess

12. Finish Pechorin’s words: “The period of life has passed when they are looking only for happiness, when the heart feels the need to love someone strongly and passionately - now...” A) I want to experience Mary’s love B) I think about quiet family happiness C) I want to be loved, and even then by very few; affection alone would be enough for me. 13. Indicate the characters of this dialogue: - You are a dangerous person! - Do I look like a murderer? -You are worse... A) Pechorin and Vera B) Pechorin and Mary C) Pechorin and Werner

Researchers have repeatedly noted the detail, detail and psychologism of the character portraits created by M.Yu. Lermontov. B. M. Eikhenbaum wrote that the basis of the writer’s portraiture “is a new idea of the connection between a person’s appearance and his character and psyche in general - an idea in which echoes of new philosophical and natural science theories that served as a support for early materialism can be heard.”

Let's try to look at the portraits of characters in the novel "A Hero of Our Time". The most detailed description of appearance in the novel is the portrait of Pechorin, given in the perception of a passing officer. It gives a detailed description of the hero's physique, his clothes, face, gait, and each of these details of appearance can tell a lot about the hero. As V.V. Vinogradov notes, external details are interpreted by the author in a physiological, social or psychological aspect, and a kind of parallelism is established between the external and the internal.

Thus, Pechorin’s aristocratic origin is emphasized by such details in his portrait as “a pale, noble forehead”, “a small aristocratic hand”, “teeth of dazzling whiteness”, a black mustache and eyebrows, despite his light hair color. Pechorin’s physical strength, agility and endurance are indicated by “broad shoulders” and “a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life.” The hero's gait is careless and lazy, but he does not have the habit of waving his arms, which indicates a certain secrecy of character.

Maxim Maksimych is a simple army captain; he does not have Pechorin’s insight, his intellect, his spiritual needs. However, this hero has a kind heart, youthful naivety, and integrity of character, and the writer emphasizes these traits by depicting his manners and behavior.

In Pechorin's perception, the novel gives a portrait of Grushnitsky. This is a portrait-essay that reveals not only the appearance of the hero, but also his manners, habits, lifestyle, and character traits. Grushnitsky here appears as a certain human type. We find this kind of portrait-essays in Pushkin and Gogol. However, it is worth noting that all descriptions of Lermontov’s appearance are accompanied by the author’s commentary - conclusions that the author draws when outlining this or that detail of appearance (in this case, all the conclusions are made by Pechorin). Pushkin and Gogol have no such comments. We find similar comments when depicting appearance in Tolstoy, however, Tolstoy does not comment on the initial portrait of the hero, but on the dynamic descriptions of the character’s states.

Werner is neat and has good taste: “Taste and neatness were noticeable in his clothes; his thin, wiry and small hands showed off in light yellow gloves. His coat, tie and vest were always black.”

Werner is a skeptic and a materialist. Like many doctors, he often makes fun of his patients, but he is not cynical: Pechorin once saw him cry over a dying soldier. The doctor is well versed in female and male psychology, but never uses his knowledge, unlike Pechorin. Werner has an evil tongue, his small black eyes, penetrating the thoughts of his interlocutor, speak of his intelligence and insight.

The picturesque, psychological portrait of the “undine” given in Pechorin’s perception is also noteworthy. In this description, the author acts as a true connoisseur of female beauty. The reasoning here takes on the character of generalizations. The first impression made by this girl is charming: extraordinary flexibility of the figure, “long brown hair”, “golden tint of tanned skin”, “correct nose”, eyes “gifted with magnetic power”. But the “undine” is the smugglers’ assistant. Hiding the traces of her crimes, she tries to drown Pechorin. She has cunning and deceit, cruelty and determination unusual for women. These features are also conveyed in the description of the heroine’s appearance: in her indirect glances there is “something wild and suspicious,” in her smile there is “something vague.” However, all the behavior of this girl, her mysterious speeches, her oddities remind Pechorin of “Gethe’s Mignon,” and the true essence of the “undine” eludes him.

Thus, Lermontov appears before us as a real master of portraiture. The portraits created by the writer are detailed and detailed; the author is well versed in the physiognomy and psychology of people. However, these portraits are static, just like the characters themselves are static. Lermontov does not depict the characters in the dynamics of their mental states, in the changes of moods, feelings and impressions, but, as a rule, gives one large sketch of the character’s appearance throughout the entire narrative. The static nature of the portraits distinguishes Lermontov from Tolstoy and brings him closer to Pushkin and Gogol.

I was traveling by train from Tiflis. The entire luggage of my cart consisted of one small suitcase, which was half filled with travel notes about Georgia. Most of them, fortunately for you, were lost, but 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 entered the Koishauri Valley. The Ossetian cab driver tirelessly drove his horses in order to climb Mount Koishauri before nightfall, and sang songs at the top of his lungs. This valley is a wonderful place! On all sides there are inaccessible mountains, reddish rocks, hung with green ivy and crowned with clumps of plane trees, yellow cliffs, streaked with gullies, and there, high, high, a golden fringe of snow, and below Aragva, embracing another nameless river, noisily bursting out of a black gorge full of darkness , stretches like a silver thread and sparkles like a snake with its scales.

Having approached the foot of the Koishauri mountain, we stopped near the dukhan. There were a noisy crowd of about two dozen Georgians and mountaineers; nearby, a camel caravan stopped for the night. I had to hire oxen to pull my cart up this damned mountain, because it was already autumn and there was ice - and this mountain is about two miles long.

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

Behind my cart, four oxen were dragging another as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that it was loaded to the brim. This circumstance surprised me. Her owner followed her, smoking from a small Kabardian pipe trimmed in silver. He was wearing an officer's frock coat without epaulettes and a Circassian shaggy hat. He seemed to be about fifty years old; his dark complexion showed that he had long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and his prematurely gray mustache did not match his firm gait and cheerful appearance. I approached him and bowed: he silently returned my bow and blew out a huge puff of smoke.

– We’re fellow travelers, it seems?

He bowed silently again.

– You’re probably going to Stavropol?

- Yes, that’s right... with government items.

“Tell me, please, why is it that four bulls jokingly drag your heavy cart, but six cattle can barely move mine, empty, with the help of these Ossetians?”

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

– You’ve recently been to the Caucasus, right?

“A year,” I answered.

He smiled a second time.

- So what?

- Yes, sir! Terrible beasts these Asians! Do you think they are helping by shouting? Who the hell knows what they are shouting? Bulls understand them; Harness at least twenty, and if they shout in their own way, the bulls will not move... Terrible rogues! What will you take from them?.. They love to take money from people passing by... The scammers have been spoiled! You'll see, they'll also charge you for vodka. I already know them, they won’t deceive me!

- How long have you been serving here?

- Yes, I already served here under Alexei Petrovich Ermolov. (Lermontov's note.)“, he answered, becoming dignified. “When he came to the Line, I was a second lieutenant,” he added, “and under him I received two ranks for affairs against the highlanders.”

- And now you?..

– Now I’m considered in the third line battalion. And you, dare I ask?..

I told him.

The conversation ended there and we continued to walk silently next to each other. We found snow at the top of the mountain. The sun set, and night followed day without interval, as usually happens in the south; but thanks to the ebb of the snow we could easily make out the road, which still went uphill, although no longer so steeply. I ordered to put my suitcase in the cart, replace the oxen with horses and last time looked back at the valley; But thick fog, surging in waves from the gorges, covered it completely, not a single sound reached our ears from there. The Ossetians noisily surrounded me and demanded vodka; but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they instantly fled.

- After all, such people! - he said, - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian, but he learned: “Officer, give me some vodka!” I think the Tatars are better: at least they 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 buzzing of a mosquito. To the left was a deep gorge; behind him and in front of us, the dark blue peaks of the mountains, pitted with wrinkles, covered with layers of snow, were drawn on the pale horizon, which still retained the last glow of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and strangely, it seemed to me that it was much higher than here in the north. Bare, black stones stuck out on both sides of the road; here and there bushes peeked out from under the snow, but not a single dry leaf moved, and it was fun to hear among this dead sleep nature, the snorting of a tired postal troika and the uneven jingling of a Russian bell.

- Tomorrow the weather will be nice! - I said. The staff captain did not answer a word and pointed his finger at me high mountain, rising directly opposite us.

- What is this? – I asked.

- Good Mountain.

- Well, what then?

- Look how it smokes.

And indeed, Mount Gud was smoking; 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.

We could already make out the postal station and the roofs of the saklyas surrounding it. and welcoming lights flashed in front of us, when the damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge began to hum and a light rain began to fall. I barely had time to put on my cloak when snow began to fall. I looked at the staff captain in awe...

“We’ll have to spend the night here,” he said with annoyance, “you can’t cross the mountains in such a snowstorm.” What? Were there any collapses on Krestovaya? - he asked the cab driver.

“It wasn’t, sir,” answered the Ossetian cab driver, “but there’s a lot, a lot hanging.”

Due to the lack of a room for travelers at the station, we were given overnight accommodation 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 joy in traveling around the Caucasus.

The hut was stuck on one side to the rock; three slippery, wet steps led to her door. I groped my way in and came across a cow (the stable for these people replaces the lackey's). I didn’t know where to go: sheep were bleating here, a dog was grumbling there. Fortunately, a dim light flashed to the side and helped me find another opening like a door. Here a rather interesting picture opened up: a wide hut, the roof of which rested on two sooty pillars, was full of people. In the middle, a light crackled, laid out on the ground, and the smoke, pushed back by the wind from the hole in the roof, spread around such a thick veil that for a long time I could not look around; 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 welcomingly.

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

- Stupid people! - he answered. -Will you believe it? They don’t know how to do anything, they’re not capable of any education! At least our Kabardians or Chechens, although they are robbers, naked, but have desperate heads, and these have no desire for weapons: you won’t see a decent dagger on any of them. Truly Ossetians!

– How long have you been in Chechnya?

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

- I heard.

- Well, father, we are tired of these thugs; these days, thank God, it’s more peaceful; and it used to happen that you would go a hundred steps behind the rampart, and somewhere a shaggy devil would sit and stand guard: if he was a little gape, the next thing you know - either a lasso on the neck, or a bullet in the back of the head. Well done!..

- Oh, tea, have you had many adventures? – I said, spurred on by curiosity.

- How can it not happen! It happened...

Then he began to pluck his left mustache, hung his head and became thoughtful. I desperately wanted to get some story out of him - a desire common to all people who travel and write. Meanwhile, the tea was ripe; I took two travel glasses out of my suitcase, poured one and placed one in front of him. He took a sip and said as if to himself: “Yes, it happened!” This exclamation gave me high hopes. I know that old Caucasians love to talk and tell stories; they succeed so rarely: another stands somewhere in a remote place with a company for five years, and for five whole years no one says “hello” to him (because the sergeant major says “I wish you good health”). And there would be something to chat about: there are wild, curious people all around; Every day there is danger, there are wonderful cases, and here you can’t help but regret that we record so little.

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

- No, thank you, I don’t drink.

- What's wrong?

- Yes, yes. I gave myself a spell. When I was still a second lieutenant, once, you know, we were playing around with each other, and at night there was an alarm; So we went out in front of the frunt, tipsy, and we had already gotten it, when Alexey Petrovich found out: God forbid, how angry he got! I almost went to trial. It’s true: sometimes you live for a whole year and don’t see anyone, and how about vodka – a lost man!

Hearing this, I almost lost hope.

“Well, even the Circassians,” he continued, “when the buzas get drunk at a wedding or at a funeral, so the cutting begins.” I once carried my legs away, and I was also visiting Prince Mirnov.

- How did this happen?

- Here (he filled his pipe, took a drag and began to tell), if you please see, I was then standing in the fortress behind the Terek with a company - this one is almost 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 in my fortress. He was so thin and white, his uniform was so new that I immediately guessed that he had only recently arrived in the Caucasus. “Are you, right,” I asked him, “transferred here from Russia?” “Exactly so, Mr. Staff Captain,” he answered. I took him by the hand and said: “Very glad, very glad. You will be a little bored... well, yes, you and I will live like friends... Yes, please, just call me Maksim Maksimych, and please, what is this for? full form? always come to me wearing a cap.” He was given an apartment and settled in the fortress.

-What was his name? - I asked Maxim Maksimych.

– His name was... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice guy, I dare to assure you; just a little strange. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold, hunting all day; everyone will be cold and tired - but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, smells the wind, assures him that he has a cold; the shutter knocks, he shudders and turns pale; and with me he went to the wild boar one on one; It happened that you wouldn’t get a word for hours at a time, but sometimes as soon as he started talking, you’d burst your stomach with laughter... Yes, sir, he was very strange, and he must have been a rich man: how many different expensive things he had!..

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

- Yes, about a year. Well, yes, this year is memorable for me; He caused me trouble, so be remembered! After all, there are, really, these people who have it written in their nature that all sorts of extraordinary things should happen to them!

- Unusual? – I exclaimed with an air of curiosity, pouring him some tea.

- But I’ll tell you. About six versts from the fortress lived a peaceful prince. His little son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of visiting us: every day, it happened, now for this, now for that; and certainly, Grigory Alexandrovich and I spoiled him. And what a thug he was, agile at whatever you want: whether to raise his hat at full gallop, or shoot from a gun. There was one bad thing about him: he was terribly hungry for money. Once, for fun, Grigory Alexandrovich promised to give him a gold piece if he would steal the best goat from his father’s herd; and what do you think? the next night he dragged him by the horns. And it happened that we decided to tease him, so his eyes would become bloodshot, and now for the dagger. “Hey, Azamat, don’t blow your head off,” I told him, Yaman bad (Turk.) it will be your head!

Once the old prince himself came to invite us to the wedding: he gave eldest daughter married, and we were kunaki with him: you can’t refuse, you know, even though he’s a Tatar. Let's go. In the village, many dogs greeted us with loud barking. The women, seeing us, hid; those whom we could see in person were far from beautiful. "I had much best opinion about Circassian women,” Grigory Alexandrovich told me. “Wait!” – I answered, grinning. I had my own thing on my mind.

A lot of people had already gathered in the prince’s hut. Asians, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone they meet to a wedding. We were received with all honors and taken to the kunatskaya. I, however, did not forget to notice where our horses were placed, 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 gifts to the young people and all their relatives, eat and drink buza; then the horse riding begins, and there is always some ragamuffin, greasy, on a nasty lame horse, breaking down, clowning around, making the honest company laugh; then, when it gets dark, the ball begins in the kunatskaya, as we say. The poor old man strums a three-string... I forgot how it sounds in theirs, well, yes, like our balalaika. Girls and young boys stand in two lines, one opposite the other, clap their hands and sing. So one girl and one man come out into the middle and begin to recite poems to each other in a sing-song voice, whatever happens, and the rest join in in chorus. Pechorin and I were sitting in a place of honor, and then the owner’s youngest 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: “Our young horsemen are slender, they say, and their caftans are lined with silver, but the young Russian officer is slimmer than them, and the braid on him is gold. He is like a poplar between them; just don’t grow, don’t bloom 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 his answer.

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

And indeed, she was beautiful: tall, thin, eyes black, like those of a mountain chamois, and looked into our souls. Pechorin, thoughtfully, did not take his eyes off her, and she often glanced at him from under her brows. Only Pechorin was not the only one admiring the pretty princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes were looking at her, motionless, fiery. I began to take a closer look and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He, you know, was not exactly peaceful, not exactly non-peaceful. There was a lot of suspicion about him, although he was not seen in any prank. He used to bring sheep to our fortress and sell them cheaply, but he never haggled: whatever he asked for, go ahead, no matter what he slaughtered, he wouldn’t give in. They said about him that he loved to travel to the Kuban with abreks, and, to tell the truth, he had the most robber's face: small, dry, broad-shouldered... And he was as clever, as clever as a devil! The beshmet is always torn, in patches, and the weapon is in silver. And his horse was famous throughout Kabarda - and indeed, 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 I look at this horse now: black as pitch, legs like strings, and eyes no worse than Bela’s; and what strength! ride at least fifty miles; and once she’s been trained, she’s like a dog running after her owner, she even knew his voice! Sometimes he never tied her down. Such a robber horse!..

That evening Kazbich was more gloomy than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing chain mail under his beshmet. “It’s not for nothing that he’s wearing this chain mail,” I thought, “he’s probably up to something.”

It became stuffy in the hut, and I went out into the air to freshen up. Night was already falling on the mountains, and the 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 hurts: I had a nice horse, and more than one Kabardian looked at it touchingly, saying: “Yakshi the, check.” Yakshi! Good, very good! (Turkic)

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 often 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 chatter of voices flying out of the saklya drowned out the conversation that was interesting to 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!

"A! Kazbich! – I thought and remembered the chain mail.

“Yes,” answered Kazbich after some silence, “you won’t find one like this in the whole of Kabarda.” Once, - it was beyond the Terek, - I went with abreks to repel Russian herds; We were not lucky, and we scattered in all directions. Four Cossacks were rushing after me; I already heard the cries of the infidels 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 I insulted my horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird he dived between the branches; sharp thorns tore my clothes, dry elm branches hit me in the face. My horse jumped over stumps and tore through bushes with his chest. It would have been better for me to leave him at the edge of the forest and hide in the forest on foot, but it was a pity to part with him, and the prophet rewarded me. Several bullets squealed over my head; I could already hear the dismounted Cossacks running in the footsteps... Suddenly there was a deep rut in front of me; my horse became thoughtful - and jumped. His hind hooves broke off from 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, but not a single one 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 through the thick grass along the ravine, - I saw: the forest ended, several Cossacks were driving out of it into a clearing, and then my Karagöz jumped out straight to them; everyone rushed after him screaming; They chased him for a long, long time, especially once or twice they almost threw a lasso around his neck; I trembled, lowered my eyes and began to pray. A few moments later I lift them up and see: my Karagöz is flying, his tail fluttering, free as the wind, and the infidels, far one after another, are stretching across the steppe on exhausted horses. Wallah! it's the truth, the real truth! I sat in my ravine until late at night. 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 you could hear him rubbing his hand over the smooth neck of his horse, giving it various tender names.

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

– Yoke No (Turk.)“I don’t want to,” Kazbich answered indifferently.

“Listen, Kazbich,” Azamat said, caressing him, “you 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 everything you want, I will steal for you from your father his best rifle or saber, whatever you want - and his saber is a real gourde Gurda is the name of the best Caucasian blades (named after the gunsmith).: apply the blade to your hand, it will dig into your body; and chain mail is like yours, it doesn’t matter.

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 splashes from under his hooves, something incomprehensible happened in my soul, and since then everything I was disgusted: I looked at my father’s best horses with contempt, I was ashamed to appear on them, and melancholy took possession of me; and, melancholy, I sat on the cliff for whole days, and every minute your black horse with its slender gait, with its smooth, straight, like an arrow, ridge appeared in my thoughts; he looked into my eyes with his lively eyes, as if he wanted to say a word. I will die, Kazbich, if you don’t sell it to me! – Azamat said in a trembling voice.

I thought he began to cry: but I must tell you that Azamat was a stubborn boy, and nothing could make him cry, even when he was younger.

In response to his tears, something like laughter was heard.

- 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 he embroiders with gold - a miracle! The Turkish padishah never had such a wife... If you want, wait for me tomorrow night 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 steed?

For a long, long time Kazbich was silent; finally, instead of answering, he began to sing an old song in a low voice I apologize to the readers for translating Kazbich’s song into verse, which was, of course, conveyed to me in prose; but habit is second nature. (Lermontov's note.):

There are many beauties in our villages,

The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.

It is sweet to love them, an enviable lot;

But valiant will is more fun.

Gold will buy four wives

A dashing horse has no price:

He won’t lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,

He won't change, he won't deceive.

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

- Go away, crazy boy! Where should 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? - Azamat shouted in rage, and the iron of the child’s dagger rang against the chain mail. A strong hand pushed him away, and he hit the fence so that the fence shook. “It will be fun!” - I thought, rushed into the stable, bridled our horses and led them out into the backyard. Two minutes later there was a terrible hubbub in the hut. This is what happened: Azamat ran in with a torn beshmet, saying that Kazbich wanted to kill him. Everyone jumped out, grabbed their guns - and the fun began! Screaming, noise, shots; only Kazbich was already on horseback and was spinning 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 his hand, “wouldn’t it be better for us to get away quickly?”

- Just wait, how will it end?

- Yes, it’s true that it will end badly; With these Asians it’s all like this: tensions tightened, and a massacre ensued! “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 wounded? – I asked.

- God knows! Live, robbers! I’ve seen others in action, for example: they’re all stabbed like a sieve with bayonets, but they’re still waving a saber. - The staff captain continued after some silence, stamping his foot on the ground:

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

- What is it? Please tell me.

- Well, there’s nothing to do! I started talking, so I have to continue.

Four days later Azamat arrives at the fortress. As usual, he went to see Grigory Alexandrovich, who always fed him delicacies. I was here. The conversation turned to horses, and Pechorin began to praise Kazbich’s horse: it was so playful, beautiful, like a chamois - well, it’s just that, according to him, there is nothing like it in the whole world.

The little Tatar boy’s eyes sparkled, but Pechorin didn’t seem to notice; I’ll start talking about something else, and you see, he’ll immediately divert the conversation to Kazbich’s horse. This story continued every time Azamat arrived. About three weeks later I began to notice that Azamat was turning pale and withering, as happens with love in novels, sir. What a miracle?..

You see, I only found out about this whole thing later: Grigory Alexandrovich teased him so much that he almost fell into the water. Once he tells him:

“I see, Azamat, that you really liked this horse; and you shouldn’t see her as the back of your head! Well, tell me, what would you give to the person who gave it to you?..

“Whatever he wants,” answered Azamat.

- In that case, I will get it for you, only on condition... Swear that you will fulfill it...

- I swear... You too swear!

- Fine! I swear you will own the horse; only for him you must give me your sister Bela: Karagez will be your kalym. I hope the bargain is profitable for you.

Azamat was silent.

- Don't you want to? Well, as you wish! I thought that you were a man, but you are still a child: it’s too early for you to ride a horse...

Azamat flushed.

- And my father? - he said.

- Doesn't he ever leave?

- Is it true…

- Agree?..

“I agree,” Azamat whispered, 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 settled this matter... to tell the truth, it was not a good thing! I later told this to Pechorin, but only he answered me that the wild Circassian woman should be happy, having such a sweet husband like him, because, in their opinion, he is still her husband, and that Kazbich is a robber who needs was to be punished. Judge for yourself, how could I answer against this?.. But at that time I knew nothing about their conspiracy. One day Kazbich arrived and asked if he needed sheep and honey; I told him to bring it the next day.

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

- Fine! - said Azamat and galloped into 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 shrouded in a veil.

- And the horse? – I asked the staff captain.

- Now, now. The next day, Kazbich arrived early in the morning and brought a dozen sheep for sale. Having tied his horse at the fence, he came in to see me; I treated him to tea, because even though he was a robber, he was still my kunak. Kunak means friend. (Lermontov's note.)

We began to chat about this and that: suddenly, I saw, Kazbich shuddered, his face changed - and he went to the window; but the window, unfortunately, looked out onto the backyard.

- What's wrong with you? – I asked.

“My horse!.. horse!..” he said, trembling all over.

Sure enough, I heard the clatter of hooves: “It’s probably some Cossack who has arrived...”

- No! 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 path with a gun; he jumped over the gun and rushed to run along the road... Dust swirled in the distance - Azamat was galloping on the dashing Karagöz; as he ran, Kazbich grabbed the gun from its case and fired; he remained motionless for a minute until he was convinced that he had missed; then he screamed, hit the gun on a stone, smashed it into pieces, fell to the ground and sobbed like a child... So the people from the fortress gathered around him - he did not notice anyone; they stood, talked and went back; I ordered the money for the rams to be placed next to him - he did not touch them, he lay on his face as if dead. Would you believe that he lay there until late at night and all night long?.. Only the next morning he came to the fortress and began to ask that the kidnapper be named. The sentry, who saw Azamat untiing his horse and galloping off on it, did not consider it necessary to hide it. 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, 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 cunning man: he realized that he wouldn’t blow his head off if he got caught. So from then on he disappeared: probably, he stuck with 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 admit, I’ve had my fair share of it too. As soon as I found out that Grigory Alexandrovich had a Circassian woman, I put on epaulettes and a sword and went to him.

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

- Mister Ensign! – I said as sternly as possible. “Don’t you see that I have come to you?”

- Oh, hello, Maxim Maksimych! Would you like the 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 only you knew what worries torment me!

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

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

- Mister Ensign, you have committed an offense for which I can answer...

- And completeness! what's the problem? After all, we have been splitting everything for a long time.

- What kind of jokes? Bring your sword!

- Mitka, sword!..

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

- Listen, Grigory Alexandrovich, admit that it’s not good.

– What’s wrong?

“Yes, the fact that you took Bela away... Azamat is such a beast to me!.. Well, admit it,” I told him.

- Yes, when do I like her?..

Well, what do you have to answer to this?.. I was at a dead end. However, after some silence, I told him that if my father began to demand it, he would have to give it back.

- No need at all!

“Will he know she’s here?”

- How will he know?

I was stumped again.

- Listen, Maxim Maksimych! - said Pechorin, standing up, - after all, you are a kind person, - and if we give our daughter to this savage, he will kill her or sell her. The job is done, just don’t want to spoil it; leave it with me, and leave my sword with you...

“Show it to me,” I said.

- She is behind this door; Only I myself wanted to see her in vain today; sits in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, does not speak or look: timid, like a wild chamois. “I hired our dukhan girl: she knows Tatar, will follow her and teach her to the idea that she is mine, because she will not belong to anyone but me,” he added, hitting the table with his fist. I agreed on 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, out of homesickness?”

- For mercy's sake, why is it out of homesickness? From the fortress the same mountains were visible as from the village, but these savages needed nothing more. Moreover, Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something every day: the first days she silently proudly pushed away the gifts, which then went to the perfumer and aroused her eloquence. Ah, gifts! What won’t a woman do for a colored rag!.. Well, that’s an aside... Grigory Alexandrovich fought with her for a long time; Meanwhile, he studied in Tatar, and she began to understand in ours. Little by little she learned to look at him, at first from under her brows, sideways, and she kept getting sad, humming her songs in a low voice, so that sometimes I felt sad when I listened to her from the next room. I will never forget one scene: I was walking past and looked out the window; Bela was sitting 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, so why are you torturing me?” Do you love any Chechen? If so, then I will let you go home now. “She shuddered barely noticeably and shook her head. “Or,” he continued, “do you completely hate me?” – She sighed. – Or does your faith prohibit you from loving me? “She turned pale and was 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 with me? “She looked at him intently in the face, as if struck by this new thought; her eyes expressed distrust and a desire to be convinced. What eyes! they sparkled like two coals. - Listen, dear, kind Bela! - Pechorin continued, - you see how much I love you; I’m 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 be more fun?

She thought for a moment, not taking her black eyes off him, then smiled tenderly and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him; She defended herself weakly and only repeated: “Podzhalusta, podzhalusta, no nada, no nada.” He began to insist; she trembled and cried.

“I am your captive,” she said, “your slave; Of course you can force me,” and again tears.

Grigory Alexandrovich hit himself in the forehead with his fist and jumped out into another room. I went to see him; he walked sullenly back and forth with folded arms.

- What, father? – I told him.

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

I shook my head.

- Do you want a bet? - he said, - in a week!

- If you please!

We shook hands and parted ways.

The next day he immediately sent a messenger to Kizlyar for various purchases; Many different Persian materials were brought, it was impossible to count them all.

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

“You don’t know Circassian women,” I answered, “they’re not at all like Georgians or Transcaucasian Tatars, not at all the same.” They have their own rules: they were brought up differently. – Grigory Alexandrovich smiled and began to whistle the march.

But it turned out that I was right: the gifts only had half an effect; she became more affectionate, more trusting - and that’s all; so he decided on a last resort. One morning he ordered the horse to be saddled, dressed in Circassian style, armed himself and went in to see 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 was wrong: goodbye! remain the complete mistress of everything I have; if you want, return to your father - you are free. I am guilty before you and must punish myself; goodbye, I'm going - where? why do I know? Perhaps I won’t be chasing a bullet or a saber strike for long; then remember me and forgive me.” “He turned away and extended his hand to her in farewell. She did not take his hand, she was silent. Only standing behind the door could I see her face through the crack: and I felt sorry - such deathly pallor covered that sweet face! Without hearing the answer, Pechorin took several steps towards the door; he was trembling - and should I tell you? I think he was able to actually fulfill what he was talking about jokingly. That was the kind of man he was, God knows! As soon as he touched the door, she jumped up, began to sob and threw herself on his neck. Will you believe it? I, standing outside the door, also began to cry, that is, you know, not that I cried, but just like that - stupidity!..

The staff captain fell silent.

“Yes, I admit,” he said later, tugging at his mustache, “I felt annoyed that no woman had ever loved me so much.”

– And how long did their happiness last? – I asked.

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

- How boring it is! – I exclaimed involuntarily. In fact, I was expecting a tragic outcome, and suddenly my hopes were so unexpectedly deceived!

- That is, it seems he suspected. A few days later we learned that the old man had been killed. Here's how it happened...

My attention was awakened again.

“I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that Azamat, with his father’s consent, stole his horse from him, at least I think so.” So he once waited by the road about three miles beyond the village; the old man was returning from a vain search for his daughter; his bridles fell behind - it was at dusk - he was riding at a thoughtful pace, when suddenly Kazbich, like a cat, dived from behind a bush, jumped onto his horse behind him, knocked him to the ground with a blow of a dagger, grabbed the reins - and was off; some Uzdeni saw all this from a hillock; They rushed to catch up, but they didn’t catch up.

“He compensated himself for the loss of his horse and took revenge,” I said, in order to evoke the opinion of my interlocutor.

“Of course, in their opinion,” said the staff captain, “he was absolutely right.”

I was involuntarily struck by the ability of the 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 the tea was drunk; the long-harnessed horses were chilled in the snow; the month was turning 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 saklya. Contrary to my companion's prediction, the weather cleared up and promised us quiet morning; round dances of stars intertwined in wonderful patterns in the distant sky and faded one after another as the pale glow of the east spread across the dark purple arch, gradually illuminating the steep slopes of the mountains, covered with virgin snows. To the right and to the left dark, mysterious abysses loomed black, and the fogs, swirling and writhing like snakes, slid there along the wrinkles of the neighboring rocks, as if sensing and fearing 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 blew in from the east, lifting the horses' manes covered with frost. We set off; with difficulty five thin nags dragged our carts along the winding road to Mount Gud; we walked behind, putting stones under the wheels when the horses were exhausted; it seemed that the road led to the sky, because as far as the eye could see, it kept rising and finally disappeared into the cloud, which had been resting on the top of Mount Gud since the evening, like a kite awaiting prey; the snow crunched under our feet; the air became so thin that it was painful to breathe; blood was constantly rushing into my head, but with all that some kind of joyful feeling spread through all my veins, and I felt somehow happy 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 the same as it once was, and, most likely, will be someday again. Anyone who has happened, like me, to wander through the desert mountains and peer for a long, long time at their bizarre images, and greedily swallow the life-giving air spilled in their gorges, will, of course, understand my desire to convey, tell, and draw these magical pictures. Finally, we climbed Mount Gud, stopped and looked back: a gray cloud hung on it, and its cold breath threatened a nearby storm; but in the east everything was so clear and golden that we, that is, the staff captain and I, completely forgot about it... Yes, and the staff captain: in the hearts of simple people the feeling of the beauty and grandeur of nature is stronger, a hundred times more vivid than in us, enthusiastic storytellers in words and on paper.

– I think you are used 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 the involuntary beating of your heart.”

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

– Of course, if you want, it’s pleasant; only because the heart beats stronger. Look,” he added, pointing to the east, “what a land it is!”

And indeed, it is unlikely that I will be able to see such a panorama anywhere else: below us lay the Koishauri Valley, crossed by the Aragva and another river, like two silver threads; a bluish fog slid along it, escaping into the neighboring gorges from the warm rays of the morning; to the right and to the left the ridges of the mountains, one higher than the other, intersected and stretched, covered with snow and bushes; in the distance there are the same mountains, but at least two rocks, similar to one another - and all this snow glowed with a ruddy shine so cheerfully, so brightly that it seems that one would live here forever; the sun barely appeared from behind a dark blue mountain, which only a trained eye could distinguish from a thundercloud; but there was a bloody streak above the sun, to which my comrade paid special attention. “I told you,” he exclaimed, “that the weather will be bad today; We must hurry, otherwise, perhaps, she will catch us on Krestovaya. Get going!” - he shouted to the coachmen.

They put chains under the wheels instead of brakes so that they would not roll, took the horses by the bridles 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 seemed like a swallow’s nest; I shuddered, thinking that often here, in the dead of night, along this road, where two carts cannot pass each other, some courier drives ten times a year without getting out of his shaking carriage. One of our cab drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the other an Ossetian: the Ossetian led the native by the bridle with all possible precautions, having unharnessed the carried ones in advance - and our careless hare did not even get off the carriage! When I noticed to him that he could at least worry about my suitcase, for which I did not at all want to climb into this abyss, he answered me: “And, master! God willing, we’ll get there no worse than them: after all, this is not the first time for us,” and he was right: we definitely could not have gotten there, but we still got there, and if all the people had reasoned more, we would have been convinced that life is not worth living to take so much care of her...

But maybe you want to know the end of Bela's story? Firstly, I am not writing a story, but travel notes; therefore, I cannot force the staff captain to tell before he actually began to tell. So, wait, or, if you want, turn a few pages, but I don’t advise you to do this, because crossing Krestovaya Mountain (or, as the scientist Gamba calls it « ...as the scientist Gamba calls it, le Mont St.-Christophe“- the French consul in Tiflis Jacques-François Gamba, in a book about a trip to the Caucasus, mistakenly called Krestovaya Mountain the Mount of St. Christophe., le mont St.-Christophe) is worthy of your curiosity. So, we descended from Mount Gud to the Devil’s Valley... What a romantic name! You already see the nest of an evil spirit between the inaccessible cliffs, but that was not the case: the name of the Devil’s Valley comes from the word “devil”, not “devil”, because here once was the border of Georgia. This valley was littered with snowdrifts, quite vividly reminiscent of Saratov, Tambov and other lovely places of our fatherland.

- Here comes the Cross! - the staff captain told me when we drove down to the Devil’s Valley, pointing to a hill covered with a shroud of snow; on its top there was a black stone cross, and a barely noticeable road led past it, which one drives along only when the side one is covered with snow; our cab drivers announced that there had been no landslides yet, and, saving their horses, they drove us around. As we turned, we met about five Ossetians; They offered us their services and, clinging to the wheels, began to pull and support our carts with a cry. And indeed, the road was dangerous: to the right, piles of snow hung over our heads, ready, it seemed, to fall into the gorge at the first gust of wind; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some places fell under our feet, in others it turned into ice from the action of the sun's rays and night frosts, so that we made our way with difficulty; horses fell; to the left a deep chasm yawned, where a stream rolled, now hiding under the icy crust, now jumping with foam over the black stones. We could barely go around Krestovaya Mountain in two hours - two miles in two hours! Meanwhile, the clouds descended, hail and snow began to fall; the wind, rushing into the gorges, roared and whistled like the Nightingale the Robber, and soon the stone cross disappeared into the fog, whose waves, one another thicker and closer than the other, came from the east... By the way, about this cross there is a strange, but universal legend that it set by Emperor Peter I, passing through the Caucasus; but, firstly, Peter was only in Dagestan, and, secondly, on the cross it is written in large letters that it was erected by order of Mr. Ermolov, namely in 1824. But the legend, despite the inscription, is so ingrained that you really don’t know what to believe, especially since we are not used to believing inscriptions.

We had to descend another five miles over icy rocks and muddy snow to reach Kobi station. The horses were exhausted, we were cold; the blizzard hummed stronger and stronger, like our native northern one; only her wild melodies were sadder, more mournful. “And you, exile,” I thought, “cry for your wide, free steppes! There is room to spread your cold wings, but here you are stuffy and cramped, like an eagle screaming and beating against the bars of its iron cage.”

- Badly! - said the staff captain; - look, you can’t see anything around, only fog and snow; The next thing you know, we'll fall into an abyss or end up in a slum, and down there, tea, Baidara is so played out that you won't even be able to move. This is Asia for me! Whether it’s people or rivers, you can’t rely on it!

The cab drivers, shouting and cursing, beat the horses, which snorted, resisted and did not want to budge for anything in the world, despite the eloquence of the whips.

“Your honor,” one finally said, “after all, we won’t get to Kobe today; Would you like to order us to turn left while we can? There’s something black on the slope there—that’s right, a sakli: people passing by always stop there in bad weather; “They say they’ll cheat you if you give me some vodka,” he added, pointing to the Ossetian.

- I know, brother, I know without you! - said the staff captain, - these beasts! We’re happy to find fault so we can get away with vodka.

“Admit it, however,” I said, “that without them we would have been worse off.”

“Everything is so, everything is so,” he muttered, “these are my guides!” They instinctively hear where they can use it, as if without them it would be impossible to find the roads.

So we turned left and somehow, after much trouble, we reached a meager shelter, consisting of two huts, built of slabs and cobblestones and surrounded by the same wall; the 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.

- Everything is for the better! - 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 this is not in the order of things: what began in an extraordinary way must end in the same way.

- You guessed it...

– I’m very glad.

“It’s good for you to be happy, but I’m really sad, as I remember.” She was a nice girl, this Bela! I finally got used to her as much as to my daughter, and she loved me. I must tell you that I don’t have a family: I haven’t heard from my father and mother for twelve years, and I didn’t think of getting a wife before—so now, you know, it doesn’t suit me; 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 I was once, sir and in Moscow in a noble meeting, twenty years ago - but where are they! not at all!.. Grigory Alexandrovich dressed her up like a doll, groomed and cherished her; and she has become so prettier with us that it’s a miracle; The tan faded from my face and hands, a blush appeared on my cheeks... She used to be so cheerful, and she kept making fun of me, the prankster... God forgive her!..

– What happened when you told her about her father’s death?

“We hid it from her for a long time until she got used to her situation; and when they told her, she cried for two days and then forgot.

For four months everything went as well as possible. Grigory Alexandrovich, I think I said, passionately loved hunting: it used to be that he would be tempted into the forest after wild boars or goats - and here he would at least go beyond the ramparts. However, I see that he began to think again, walks around the room, bending his arms back; then once, without telling anyone, he went to shoot - he disappeared the whole morning; once and twice, more and more often... “This is 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 scared.

- Where is Pechorin? – I asked.

- On the hunt.

- Left today? “She was silent, as if it was difficult for her to pronounce.

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

- Did something happen to him?

“I thought all day yesterday,” she answered through tears, “I came up with various misfortunes: it seemed to me that he was wounded by a wild boar, then a Chechen dragged him into the mountains... But now it seems to me that he doesn’t love me.”

“Really, honey, you couldn’t come up with anything worse!” “She began to cry, then proudly raised her head, wiped away her tears and continued:

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

I began to persuade her.

“Listen, Bela, he can’t sit here forever as if sewn to your skirt: he’s a young man, he likes to chase game, and he’ll come; and if you are sad, you will soon get bored with him.

- True, true! - she answered, “I will be cheerful.” - And with laughter she grabbed her tambourine, began to sing, dance and jump around me; only this did not last long; she fell on the bed again and covered her face with her hands.

What was I supposed to do with her? You know, I have never treated women: I thought and thought how to console her, and came up with nothing; We were both silent for some time... A very unpleasant situation, sir!

Finally I told her: “Do you want to go for a walk on the rampart? the weather is nice!” This 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 the ramparts back and forth, silently; Finally she sat down on the turf, and I sat down next to her. Well, really, it’s funny to remember: I ran after her, like some kind of nanny.

Our fortress stood on a high place, and the view from the rampart was beautiful; on one side there is a wide clearing, pockmarked with several beams ravines. (Lermontov's note.), ended in a forest that stretched all the way to the ridge of the mountains; here and there auls were smoking on it, herds were walking; on the other, a small river ran, and adjacent to it were dense bushes that covered siliceous hills that connected with the main chain of the Caucasus. We sat on the corner of the bastion, so we could see everything 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 yards away from us, and began to circle his horse like mad. What a parable!..

“Look, Bela,” I said, “your eyes are young, what kind of horseman is this: who did he come to amuse?”

She looked and screamed:

- This is Kazbich!..

- Oh, he’s a robber! Did he come to laugh at us? - I look closely, just like Kazbich: his dark face, ragged, dirty as always.

“This is my father’s horse,” said Bela, grabbing my hand; she trembled like a leaf, and her eyes sparkled. “Yeah! - I thought, “and in you, darling, the blood of the robber is not silent!”

“Come here,” I said to the sentry, “examine the gun and give me this fellow, and you will receive a silver ruble.”

– I’m listening, your honor; only he doesn’t stand still...

- Order! - I said, laughing...

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

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

- Shame on you! - I told the sentry.

- Your Honor! went to die,” he answered, “such damn people, you won’t kill it 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 his long absence... Even I was already angry with him.

“For goodness sake,” I said, “just now there was Kazbich across the river, and we were shooting at him; Well, how long will it take you to stumble upon it? These mountaineers are a vindictive people: do you think that he doesn’t realize that you partially helped Azamat? And I bet that today 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, he would probably have wooed her...

Then Pechorin thought about it. “Yes,” he answered, “you need to be more careful... Bela, from now on you should no longer go to the ramparts.”

In the evening I had a long explanation with him: I was annoyed that he had changed for this poor girl; In addition to the fact that he spent half the day hunting, his manner became cold, he rarely caressed her, and she noticeably began to dry out, her face became long, her large eyes dimmed. Sometimes you ask:

“What are you sighing about, Bela? are you sad? - "No!" - “Do you want anything?” - "No!" - “Are you homesick for your family?” - “I have no relatives.” It happened that for whole days you wouldn’t get anything else from her except “yes” and “no”.

This is what I began to tell him about. “Listen, Maxim Maksimych,” he answered, “I have an unhappy character; Whether my upbringing made me this way, whether God created me this way, I don’t know; I only know that if I am the cause of the misfortune of others, then I myself am no less unhappy; Of course, this is little consolation for them - only the fact is that it is so. In my early youth, from the moment I left the care of my relatives, I began to madly enjoy all the pleasures that could be obtained for money, and of course, these pleasures disgusted me. Then I went into big light, and soon I was also tired of society; I fell in love with society beauties and was loved - but their love only irritated my imagination and pride, and my heart remained empty... I began to read, study - I was also tired of science; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depended on them at all, because the most happy people- ignoramuses, and fame is luck, and to achieve it, you just need to be dexterous. Then I became 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: after a month I got so used to their buzzing and the proximity of death that, really, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I had lost almost my last hope . When I saw Bela in my house, when for the first time, holding her on my knees, I kissed her black curls, I, a fool, thought that she was an angel sent to me by compassionate fate... I was wrong again: the love of a savage is for few better than love noble lady; the ignorance and simple-heartedness of one are just as annoying as the coquetry of the other. If you want, I still love her, I am grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes, I would give my life for her, but I’m bored with her... Am I a fool or a villain, I don’t know; but it is true that I am also very worthy of regret, perhaps more than she: my soul is spoiled by light, my imagination is restless, my 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 remedy left: 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 by storms and bad roads.” He spoke like this for a long time, and his words were engraved in my memory, because it was the first time I heard such things from a twenty-five-year-old man, and, God willing, the last... What a miracle! Tell me, please,” the staff captain continued, turning to me. – It seems like you’ve been to the capital recently: are all the young people there really like that?

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

- And that’s it, tea, the French have introduced a fashion for being bored?

- No, the British.

“Aha, that’s what!” he answered, “but they were always notorious drunkards!”

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

Meanwhile, he continued his story in this way:

– Kazbich did not appear again. I just don’t know why, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was not for nothing that he came and was up to something bad.

One day Pechorin persuades me to go wild boar hunting with him; I protested for a long time: well, what a wonder the wild boar was to me! However, he did drag me away 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 animal. “Hey, should you come back? - I said, - why be stubborn? Looks like it was such a miserable day!” Only Grigory Alexandrovich, despite the heat and fatigue, did not want to return without booty, that’s the kind of man he was: whatever he thinks, give it to him; Apparently, as a child, he was spoiled by his mother... Finally, at noon, they found the damned boar: poof! pow!.. that was not the case: he went into the reeds... such a miserable day! So we, having rested a little, went home.

We rode side by side, silently, loosening the reins, and were almost at the very fortress: only the bushes blocked it from us. Suddenly there was a shot... We looked at each other: we were struck by the same suspicion... We galloped headlong towards the shot - we looked: on the rampart the soldiers had gathered in a heap and were pointing into the field, and there a horseman was flying headlong and holding something white on the saddle. Grigory Aleksandrovich squealed no worse than any Chechen; gun out of the case - and there; I'm behind him.

Fortunately, due to the unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not exhausted: they were straining from under the saddle, and every moment we were getting closer and closer... And finally I recognized Kazbich, but I couldn’t make out what he was holding in front of him. 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 his whip.

Finally we were within a rifle shot of him; whether Kazbich’s horse was exhausted or worse than ours, only, despite all his efforts, it did not painfully lean forward. I think at that moment he remembered his Karagöz...

I look: Pechorin takes a shot from a gun while galloping... “Don’t shoot! - I shout to him. – take care of the charge; We’ll catch up with him anyway.” These young people! always gets excited inappropriately... But the shot rang out, and the bullet broke the horse’s hind leg: she rashly made ten more jumps, tripped and fell to her knees; Kazbich jumped down, and then we saw that he was holding a woman shrouded 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 no point in hesitating: I, in turn, shot at random; It’s true that the bullet hit him in the shoulder, because suddenly he lowered his hand... When the smoke cleared, a wounded horse was lying on the ground and Bela was next to it; and Kazbich, throwing his gun, climbed through the bushes like a cat onto the cliff; I wanted to take it out of there - but there was no ready-made charge! We jumped off our horses and rushed to Bela. Poor thing, she lay motionless, and blood flowed from the wound in streams... Such a villain; even if he hit me in the heart - well, so be it, it would all end at once, otherwise it would be in the back... the most robber blow! She was unconscious. We tore the veil and bandaged the wound as tightly as possible; in vain Pechorin kissed her cold lips - nothing could bring her to her senses.

Pechorin sat on horseback; I picked her up from the ground and somehow placed her on the saddle; he grabbed her with his hand and we drove back. After several minutes of silence, Grigory Alexandrovich told me: “Listen, Maxim Maksimych, we won’t bring her alive this way.” - "Is it true!" - I said, and we let the horses run 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 a doctor. Although he was drunk, he came: he examined the wound and announced that it was more than a day cannot live; only he was wrong...

– Have you 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.”

- Explain to me how Kazbich kidnapped her?

– Here’s how: despite Pechorin’s prohibition, she left the fortress to the river. It was, you know, very hot; she sat down on a stone and dipped her feet into the water. So Kazbich crept up, scratched her, covered her mouth and dragged her into the bushes, and there he jumped on his horse, and the traction! Meanwhile, she managed to scream, the sentries were alarmed, fired, but missed, and then we arrived in time.

- Why did Kazbich want to take her away?

- For pity’s sake, these Circassians are a well-known nation of thieves: they can’t help but steal what’s in bad shape; anything else is unnecessary, but he will steal everything... I ask you to forgive them for this! And besides, he had liked her for a long time.

– And Bela died?

– Died; She just suffered for a long time, and she and I were already pretty exhausted. 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’m here, next to you, my janechka (that is, in our opinion, darling),” he answered, taking her hand. "I'm going to 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 didn’t want to die!..

At night she began to become delirious; her head was burning, a feverish shiver sometimes ran through her whole body; she spoke incoherently about her father, brother: she wanted to go to the mountains, to go home... Then she also talked about Pechorin, gave him various tender names or reproached him for no longer loving his little girl...

He listened to her in silence, his head in his hands; but all the time I did not notice a single tear on his eyelashes: whether he really could not 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 say, just what are you thinking about? Grigory Alexandrovich, and that another woman will be his girlfriend in heaven. It occurred to me to baptize her before her death; I suggested it to her; she looked at me indecisively and for a long time could not utter a word; Finally she answered that she would die in the faith in which she was born. The whole day passed like this. How she changed that day! the pale cheeks were sunken, the eyes became large, the lips were burning. She felt an internal heat, as if she had a hot iron in her chest.

Another night came; we did not close our eyes, did not leave her bed. She suffered terribly, moaned, 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, and did not let go of hers. Before morning she began to feel the melancholy of death, began to rush about, knocked off the bandage, and the blood flowed again. When the wound was bandaged, she calmed down for a minute and began to ask Pechorin to kiss her. He knelt down next to 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 to die: well, what would have happened to her if Grigory Alexandrovich had left her? And this would happen, sooner or later...

For half the next day she was quiet, silent and obedient, no matter how much our doctor tormented her with poultices and potions. “For mercy,” I told him, “you yourself said that she would certainly die, so why are all your drugs here?” “It’s still better, Maxim Maksimych,” he answered, “so that my conscience is at peace.” Good conscience!

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

He turned pale as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured it and handed 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’ve seen a lot of people dying in hospitals and on the battlefield, but this is not the same, not at all!.. Also, I must admit, that’s what I’m like saddens: before her death she never remembered me; but it seems that I loved her like a father... well, God will forgive her!.. And really say: what am I that I should be remembered before my death?

As soon as she drank the water, she felt better, and three minutes later 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 back and forth side by side, without saying a word, with our hands bent on our backs; his face did not express anything special, and I felt annoyed: 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 in the sand with a stick. I, you know, more for the sake of decency, wanted to console him, I began to speak; he raised his head and laughed... A chill ran through my skin from this laughter... I went to order a coffin.

Frankly, I did this partly for fun. I had a piece of thermal laminate, I lined the coffin with it and decorated it with Circassian silver braid, 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 last sat; White acacia and elderberry bushes now grew around her grave. I wanted to put a cross, but, you know, it’s awkward: after all, she was not a Christian...

- What about Pechorin? – I asked.

- Pechorin was unwell for a long time, lost weight, poor thing; only from then on we never talked about Bel: I saw that it would be unpleasant for him, so why? Three months later he was assigned to the E... regiment, and he left for Georgia. We haven’t met since then, but I remember someone recently told me that he returned to Russia, but it wasn’t in the orders for the corps. However, news reaches our brother too late.

Then he launched into a long dissertation about how unpleasant it was to learn the 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 arose to go; the snowstorm subsided, the sky cleared, and we set off. On the way, I involuntarily started talking about Bel and Pechorin again.

“Didn’t you hear what happened to Kazbich?” – I asked.

- With Kazbich? But, really, I don’t know... I heard that on the right flank of the Shapsugs there is some kind of Kazbich, a daredevil, who in a red beshmet walks around with steps under our shots and bows politely when a bullet buzzes close; Yes, it’s hardly the same one!..

In Kobe we parted ways with Maxim Maksimych; I went by mail, and he, due to the heavy luggage, could not follow me. We didn’t hope to ever meet again, but we did, and if you want, I’ll tell you: it’s a whole story... Admit, however, that Maxim Maksimych is a man worthy of respect?.. If you admit this, then I will be fully rewarded for mine, maybe the story is too long.