The novel is a hero of our time full content. "Hero of our time". Briefly. M. Dunaev "History of the human soul"

) - "from the outside", through the eyes of strangers. The other three are based on his diaries, representing an "inside" view of himself.

"Bela"

An unnamed Russian traveler travels through the Caucasus. On the way through the mountains, he meets an elderly staff captain Maxim Maksimych (see Obraz Maksim Maksimych, Pechorin and Maksim Maksimych), formerly the head of a fortress in Chechnya. The story of Maxim Maksimych about a strange incident from his life there is the plot of Bela.

An officer of about 25 years old, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin, comes to serve in the fortress, a man of a strange, closed, but firm and strong character. He often gives himself up to inactive boredom, but sometimes he lights up with great energy and will.

Once, at a wedding at one of the surrounding mountain princes, the youngest daughter of the owner, Bela, sings something like a compliment to Pechorin. Pechorin likes this beauty. Soon he learns that her dissolute brother Azamat is eager to get the beautiful horse of the horseman Kazbich (see Characterization of Kazbich with quotes). For this horse, Azamat is ready to steal from his father's house and give it to Bel.

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

Pechorin enters into a deal with Azamat. He helps steal Kazbich's horse when he brings sheep to the Russian fortress for sale. In return, Azamat brings Pechorin a sister stolen with his own hands.

Pechorin is about to leave, and not remembering Maxim Maksimych. However, he suddenly returns and runs as fast as he can to hug an old comrade. Pechorin, in response, only gives the captain a hand - friendly, but rather cold. Briefly saying that he was going to Persia, he got into the carriage.

Maxim Maksimych is shocked by such indifference. He tries to detain Pechorin, but he gives the coachman a sign to leave. The old man reminds: “Yes, I have your notes. What to do with them? Throwing: "What do you want" - Pechorin leaves.

The companion Maxim Maksimych, who became interested in Pechorin, asks the old man to give him the notes of this incomprehensible person. Learning soon that Pechorin died during a trip to Persia, he decides to publish them. From the diaries of Pechorin, the last three parts of the "Hero of Our Time" are compiled. The publisher says that he was particularly struck by "with what merciless sincerity the author exposes his own weaknesses and vices in them."

In the morning the old mistress of the hut comes. Pechorin laughingly asks the blind boy, "Where did he go at night"? Soon the girl he saw at the pier appears. This mermaid-like beauty begins playfully flirting with Pechorin.

Trying to intrigue the beautiful stranger, Pechorin hints to her that he can inform the commandant about what happened at night on the shore. The girl just laughs in response. A little later, she comes to Pechorin's room, unexpectedly kisses him, invites him to the shore when it gets dark, and quickly slips away.

With the onset of darkness, Pechorin meets with a "mermaid" by the sea. She takes him on a boat ride. Having sailed out to sea, the girl first beckons Pechorin with caresses, and then tries to throw her overboard and drown - thinking that way to get rid of the scammer.

After a desperate struggle, Pechorin himself pushes her off the boat into the water. He rows to the pier and after a while he sees a surviving “mermaid” on the shore from a distance. The boat with Yanko reappears, and the blind man arrives. Fearing arrest, Yanko and the girl decide to swim away from here. The blind man asks to sail with them, but they drive him away.

This case causes painful reflections in Pechorin. Unwittingly, he destroyed someone else's existence. It is not known what fate now awaits the old woman and the boy. “Why did fate throw me to them? Like a stone thrown into a smooth spring, I disturbed their calmness and, like a stone, I almost sank myself!” Pechorin will have to play a similar role more than once.

Pechorin comes to rest in Pyatigorsk. Here the familiar Junker Grushnitsky tells him about the guests from Moscow - Princess Ligovskaya and her daughter, the young beauty Mary. Close-minded, prone to feigned, theatrical gestures and feelings, Grushnitsky begins to ardently court Mary. Partly out of boredom, partly in defiance of Grushnitsky, and partly out of real sympathy for the charming princess, Pechorin is drawn into the same game.

Knowing from experience all the secret strings of the female soul, he seduces Mary very skillfully. At first, Pechorin irritates her with a number of defiant, mocking antics. However, the hostility generated by them makes the princess pay close attention to the impudent gentleman. Having inflamed Mary's interest to passion, Pechorin gradually exposes himself in her eyes as an unfortunate victim of human malice and envy, which perverted the good inclinations of his soul. Mary is imbued with compassion for him. It turns into passionate love.

At first, Mary shows favor to Grushnitsky, but then she rejects this empty dandy for the sake of the strong-willed and intelligent Pechorin. Grushnitsky decides to take revenge. A series of minor skirmishes eventually culminates in a duel between Pechorin and Grushnitsky. On the advice of one insidious dragoon captain, Grushnitsky agrees to low meanness: during the duel, only his pistol will be loaded, and the enemy’s weapon will remain without a bullet. Pechorin learns about this plan, thwarts it and kills Grushnitsky in a duel. (See the full text of the excerpt "The Duel of Pechorin and Grushnitsky", Pechorin's monologue before the duel.)

Lermontov. Princess Mary. Feature film, 1955

Mary confesses her love to Pechorin. He himself already feels a strong attachment to an outstanding girl, but this growing feeling only pushes him to part with her. Pechorin loves a free, stormy and dangerous life too much. The quiet joys of marriage do not beckon him, the specter of a possible marriage always prompts him to give up another passion. Mary is shocked by Pechorin's words that he does not love her and previously only laughed at her. At the final explanation, Pechorin barely restrains himself so as not to throw himself at the feet of the princess, but his proud, freedom-loving nature takes over his heart impulse. (See Pechorin and Princess Mary's last conversation.)

Illustration for M. Yu. Lermontov's story "The Fatalist". Artist V. Polyakov

Pechorin loses the bet, but cannot get rid of the belief that the sign of death is visible on the lieutenant's face. The officers disperse. On the way home, Pechorin is overtaken by two Cossacks, telling: one of their violent comrades got very drunk and just ran out into the street, waving his saber.

As soon as Pechorin comes home, they come running to him with the story that Vulich has been killed. The same drunken Cossack stumbled upon him along the street and hacked him with a saber. Before his death, the lieutenant managed to say: “He is right!”, Obviously referring to the prediction of an imminent death, heard from Pechorin.

The criminal is surrounded in an empty hut. He does not want to give up and threatens to kill anyone who tries to enter him. Pechorin also decides to try his fate. Having broken the window, he jumps into the hut to the killer. He shoots at him, knocking down the epaulette but not wounding him. Pechorin grabs the Cossack by the hands, and others burst in through the door and knit the criminal.

“After all this, how can one not become a fatalist, it seems?” However, Pechorin’s dry skeptical mind is still not inclined to blindly believe in rock, because “often we take a deceit of feelings or a mistake of reason for conviction! ..”

"Foreword"

In any book, the preface is the first and at the same time the last thing; it either serves as an explanation of the purpose of the essay, or as a justification and answer to criticism. But as a rule, readers do not care about the moral goal and about the attacks of the magazine, and therefore they do not read the prefaces. And it is a pity that this is so, especially with us. Our public is still so young and simple-hearted that it does not understand a fable if it does not find a moral at the end. She does not guess the joke, does not feel the irony; she's just ill-bred. She does not yet know that in a decent society and in a decent book, open abuse cannot take place; that modern learning has invented a sharper, almost invisible, and yet deadly weapon, which, under the garb of flattery, delivers an irresistible and sure blow. Our public is like a provincial who, having overheard the conversation of two diplomats belonging to hostile courts, would remain convinced that each of them is deceiving his government in favor of mutual, most tender friendship.
This book has recently experienced the unfortunate gullibility of some readers and even magazines to the literal meaning of words. Others were terribly offended, and not jokingly, that they were given as an example such an immoral person as the Hero of Our Time; others very subtly noticed that the writer painted his own portrait and portraits of his acquaintances ... An old and pathetic joke! But it is clear that Russia is so created that everything in it is renewed, except for such absurdities. The most magical of fairy tales in our country can hardly escape the reproach of an attempted personal insult!
The Hero of Our Time, my gracious sirs, is indeed a portrait, but not of one person: it is a portrait composed of the vices of our entire generation, in their full development. You will tell me again that a person cannot be so bad, but I will tell you that if you believed the possibility of the existence of all tragic and romantic villains, why do you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you have admired fictions much more terrible and ugly, why does this character, even as fiction, find no mercy in you? Is it because there is more truth in it than you would like it to be? ..
You say that morality does not benefit from this? Sorry. Enough people were fed with sweets; their stomachs have deteriorated because of this: bitter medicines, caustic truths are needed. But after this, do not think that the author of this book would ever have a proud dream of becoming a corrector of human vices. God save him from such ignorance! It was just fun for him to draw modern man as he understands him and, to his misfortune and yours, met him too often. It will also be that the disease is indicated, but how to cure it - God only knows!

Bela

I rode on the messenger from Tiflis. All the luggage of my cart consisted of one small suitcase, which was half full of travel notes about Georgia. Most of them, fortunately for you, are lost, and the suitcase, with the rest of the things, fortunately for me, remained intact.
The sun was already beginning to hide behind the snowy ridge when I drove into the Koishauri Valley. The Ossetian cab driver tirelessly drove the horses in order to have time to climb the Koishauri Mountain before nightfall, and sang songs at the top of his voice. What a glorious place this valley is! On all sides the mountains are impregnable, reddish rocks, hung with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane trees, yellow cliffs, streaked with gullies, and there, high, high, a golden fringe of snow, and below the Aragva, embracing with another nameless river, noisily escaping from the black, full of haze gorge, stretches with a silver thread and sparkles like a snake with its scales.
Arriving at the foot of the Koishaur Mountain, we stopped near the dukhan. There was a noisy crowd of about two dozen Georgians and highlanders; in the vicinity, a camel caravan stopped for the night. I had to hire bulls to pull my cart up this accursed mountain, because it was already autumn and sleet - and this mountain is about two versts long.
Nothing to do, I hired six bulls and several Ossetians. One of them put my suitcase on his shoulders, others began to help the bulls with almost one cry.
Behind my cart, a quarter of bulls dragged another, as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that it was overlaid to the top. 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 an epaulette and a shaggy Circassian hat. He seemed about fifty; his swarthy complexion showed that he had long been familiar with the Transcaucasian sun, and his prematurely gray mustache did not correspond to his firm gait and cheerful look. I went up to him and bowed; he silently answered my bow and let out a huge puff of smoke.
- We are fellow travelers, it seems?
He silently bowed again.
- Are you sure you're going to Stavropol?
- So, sir, exactly ... with state things.
- Tell me, please, why are four bulls dragging your heavy cart jokingly, and my empty six cattle are barely moving with the help of these Ossetians?
He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.
- You are right recently in the Caucasus?
“About a year,” I replied.
He smiled a second time.
- So what?
- Yes, sir! Terrible beasts, these Asians! Do you think they help that they scream? And the devil knows what they are screaming? The bulls understand them; harness at least twenty, so if they shout in their own way, the bulls still don’t move ... Terrible rogues! And what can you take from them? .. They love to tear money from those passing by ... They spoiled the scammers! you'll see, they'll charge you for vodka. I already know them, they won't fool me!
- How long have you been here?
“Yes, I already served here under Alexei Petrovich,” he answered, drawing himself up. “When he came to the Line, I was a second lieutenant,” he added, “and under him I received two ranks for deeds against the highlanders.
- And now you?
- Now I am considered in the third linear battalion. And you, dare I ask?
I told him.
The conversation ended with this, and we continued walking in silence beside each other. We found snow on top of the mountain. The sun set, and the night followed the day without interval, as is usually the case in the south; but, thanks to the ebb of the snow, we could easily distinguish the road, which was still uphill, although not so steep. I ordered to put my suitcase in the cart, to replace the bulls with horses, and for the last time looked back down at the valley - but the thick fog that surged in waves from the gorges completely covered it, and not a single sound reached our ears from there. Ossetians noisily surrounded me and demanded for vodka; but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they fled in an instant.
- After all, such a people! - he said: - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian, but he learned: “officer, give me some vodka!” For me, the Tatars are better: at least those who don’t drink ...
The station was still a mile away. It was quiet all around, so quiet that you could follow its flight by the buzzing of a mosquito. To the left a deep gorge blackened; behind him and in front of us, the dark blue peaks of the mountains, pitted with wrinkles, covered with layers of snow, were drawn in the pale sky, which still retained the last reflection of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and strangely, it seemed to me that they were much higher than in our north. Bare, black stones stuck out on both sides of the road; here and there bushes peeped out from under the snow, but not a single dry leaf stirred, and it was merry to hear, in the midst of this dead sleep of nature, the snorting of a tired postal troika and the uneven jingling of a Russian bell.
- Tomorrow will be glorious weather! - I said.
The captain did not answer a word and pointed to me with his finger at a high mountain that rose directly in front of us.
- What is it? I asked.
- Good Mountain.
- Well, so what?
- Look how it smokes.
And in fact, Good Mountain smoked; light streams of clouds crawled along its sides, and on top lay a black cloud, so black that it seemed like a spot in the dark sky.
We could already distinguish the post station, the roofs of the huts surrounding it, and welcoming lights flickered before us when the damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge hummed, and a light rain began to fall. I had hardly put on my cloak when the snow began to fall. I looked with reverence at the staff captain ...
- We'll have to spend the night here, - he said with annoyance: - in such a blizzard you can't move through the mountains. What? Were there any landslides on Krestovaya? he asked the driver.
“There wasn’t, sir,” answered the Ossetian cab driver: “but there are many, many.
In the absence of a room for those passing through the station, we were given an overnight stay in a smoky hut. I invited my companion to drink a glass of tea together, because I had a cast-iron teapot with me - my only consolation in traveling around the Caucasus.
The saklya was stuck with one side to the rock; three slippery, wet steps led up to her door. I groped my way in and stumbled upon a cow (the stable of these people replaces the lackey). I didn’t know where to go: sheep bleating here, a dog grumbling there. Luckily, a dim light shone off to the side and helped me find another opening like a door. Here a rather entertaining picture opened up: a wide hut, with which the roof rested on two sooty pillars, was full of people. In the middle a fire crackled, spread out on the ground, and the smoke, pushed back by the wind from a hole in the roof, spread around in such a thick veil that I could not look around for a long time; two old women, many children and one thin Georgian, all in rags, were sitting by the fire. There was nothing to do, we took shelter by the fire, lit our pipes, and soon the kettle hissed affably.
- Pathetic people! - I said to the staff captain, pointing to our dirty hosts, who silently looked at us in some kind of stupefaction.
- Stupid people! he answered. - Believe me, they can’t do anything, they are not capable of any education! At least our Kabardians or Chechens, although they are robbers, naked, but desperate heads, and these have no desire for weapons either: you will not see a decent dagger on any of them. Truly Ossetians!
- Have you been in Chechnya for a long time?
- Yes, for ten years I stood there in a fortress with a company, at Kamenny Ford, - you know?
- Heard.
- Here, father, we are tired of these thugs; now, thank God, it’s quieter, but it used to be that you’d go a hundred steps behind the rampart, somewhere a shaggy devil would sit and watch: if you gape a little, you’ll see - either a lasso around your neck, or a bullet in the back of your head. And well done!..
- And, tea, did you have many adventures? I said, spurred on by curiosity.
- How not to happen! used to...
Here he began to pluck his left mustache, hung his head and became thoughtful. I fearfully wanted to draw some little story out of him, a desire inherent in all traveling and writing people. Meanwhile the tea was ripe; I took two camping glasses out of my suitcase, poured one out and put one in front of him. He took a sip and said as if to himself: “Yes, it happened!” This exclamation gave me great hope. I know old Caucasians love to talk, to tell; they so rarely succeed: another five years stands somewhere in the outback with a company, and for five whole years no one will tell him Hello(because the sergeant says I wish you good health). And there would be something to chat about: the people around are wild, curious; every day there is danger, there are wonderful cases, and here you will inevitably regret that we record so little.
"Would you like some more rum?" - I said to my interlocutor: - I have a white man from Tiflis; it's cold now.
- No, thank you, I don't drink.
- What is it?
- Yes, it is. I gave myself a spell. When I was still a lieutenant, once, you know, we played among ourselves, and at night there was an alarm; so we went out in front of the frunt tipsy, and we got it, as Alexei Petrovich found out: God forbid, how angry he was! almost got sued. It is for sure, another time you live for a whole year, you don’t see anyone, but how is there still vodka - a lost person!
Hearing this, I almost lost hope.
- Yes, at least the Circassians, - he continued: - as boozes get drunk at a wedding, or at a funeral, the felling went on. Once I took my legs by force, and I was also visiting the Mirnov prince.
- How did it happen?
- Here (he filled his pipe, dragged on and began to tell), - if you please, I was then standing in the fortress behind the Terek with a company - this will soon be five years old. Once, in the autumn, a transport came with provisions: there was an officer in the transport, a young man of about twenty-five. He came to me in full uniform and announced that he was ordered to stay with me in the fortress. He was so thin, white, his uniform was so brand new that I immediately guessed that he had recently been with us in the Caucasus. “Are you right,” I asked him, “are you transferred here from Russia?” “Exactly so, Mr. Staff Captain,” he replied. - I took his hand and said: “Very glad, very glad. You will be a little bored ... well, yes, we will live as friends. Yes, please, just call me Maxim Maksimych, and please - what is this full form for? Come to me always in a cap. He was given an apartment, and he settled in the fortress.
- What was his name? I asked Maksim Maksimych.
- His name was ... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice fellow, I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold, hunting all day; everyone will get cold, tired, but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, the wind smells, he assures that he has caught a cold; the shutter will knock, he will shudder and turn pale; and with me he went to the boar one-on-one; sometimes you couldn’t get a word for whole hours, but sometimes, as soon as he starts talking, you’ll tear your tummies with laughter ... Yes, with great oddities, and you must be a rich man: how many different expensive little things he had! ..
How long did he live with you? I asked again.
- Yes, for a year. Well, yes, but this year is memorable to me; he made trouble for me, don’t be remembered by that! After all, there are, really, such people whose family is written that various unusual things should happen to them!
- Unusual? I exclaimed with an air of curiosity, pouring tea for him.
- But I'll tell you. About six versts from the fortress lived one peaceful prince. His son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of going to us: every day it happened first after one, then after another. And we certainly spoiled him with Grigory Alexandrovich. And what a thug he was, agile for whatever you want: whether to raise his hat at full gallop, whether to shoot from a gun. One thing was not good about him: he was terribly greedy for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised to give him a gold piece if he steals the best goat from his father's flock for him; and what do you think? the next night he dragged him by the horns. And, it happened, we would take it into our head to tease him, so his eyes would fill up with blood, and now for the dagger. “Hey, Azamat, don’t blow your head off,” I told him: “Yaman will be your head!”
Once the old prince himself comes to invite us to the wedding: he gave his eldest daughter in marriage, and we were kunak with him: so you can’t refuse, you know, even though he is a Tatar. Let's go. In the village, many dogs greeted us with loud barking. Women, seeing us, hid; those whom we could see in person were far from beauties. “I had a much better opinion of the Circassians,” Grigory Alexandrovich told me. - "Wait!" I replied smiling. I had mine on my mind.
A multitude of people had already gathered in the prince's shrine. The Asians, you know, have a custom of inviting everyone they meet and cross to a wedding. We were received with all honors and taken to the kunatskaya. However, I did not forget to notice where our horses were put, you know, for an unforeseen event.
- How do they celebrate the wedding? I asked the staff captain.
- Yes, usually. First, the mullah will read something from the Koran to them; then they give the young and all their relatives; eat, drink buza; then the trick-or-treating begins, and always one ragamuffin, greasy, on a nasty, lame horse, breaks down, clownishes, makes honest company laugh; then, when it gets dark, in the kunatsky begins, in our words, the ball. The poor old man is strumming on a three-stringed ... I forgot what they call it ... well, like our balalaika. Girls and young guys stand in two lines, one against the other, clap their hands and sing. Here one girl and one man come out in the middle and begin to sing verses to each other in a singsong voice, whatever, and the rest pick up in chorus. Pechorin and I were sitting in a place of honor, and then the owner's younger daughter, a girl of about sixteen, came up to him and sang to him ... how should I say? .. like a compliment.
- And what did she sing, don't you remember?
- Yes, it seems like this: “Slender, they say, are our young zhigits, and the caftans are lined with silver on them, and the young Russian officer is slimmer than them, and the galloons on him are gold. He is like a poplar between them; just don’t grow, don’t bloom for him in our garden.” Pechorin got up, bowed to her, putting his hand to his forehead and heart, and asked me to answer her; I know their language well, and translated his answer.
When she left us, then I whispered to Grigory Alexandrovich: “Well, what is it like?” - “Lovely! - he answered: - what is her name? “Her name is Beloyu,” I replied.
And sure enough, she was pretty: tall, thin, her eyes were black, like those of a mountain chamois, and looked into your soul. Pechorin did not take his eyes off her in thought, and she often looked at him from under her brows. Only Pechorin was not alone in admiring the pretty princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes, motionless, fiery, looked at her. I began to peer and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He, you know, was not that peaceful, not that not peaceful. There were many suspicions of him, although he was not seen in any pranks. He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheap, but he never bargained: what he asks, come on, even slaughter, he won’t give in. They said about him that he likes to drag around the Kuban with abreks, and, to tell the truth, his face was the most robbery: small, dry, broad-shouldered ... And he was dexterous, dexterous, like a demon! The beshmet is always torn, in patches, and the weapon is in silver. And his horse was famous in the whole Kabarda - and for sure, it is impossible to invent anything better than this horse. No wonder all the riders envied him, and more than once tried to steal it, but failed. How now I look at this horse: black as pitch, legs - strings, and eyes no worse than Bela's; what a power! jump at least 50 miles; and already left - like a dog running after the owner, the voice even knew him! Sometimes he never ties her up. What a rogue horse!
That evening Kazbich was gloomier than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing chain mail under his beshmet. “It’s not for nothing that he is wearing this chain mail,” I thought: “he’s surely up to something.”
It became stuffy in the sakla, and I went out into the air to freshen up. Night was already falling on the mountains, and fog began to wander through the gorges.
I took it into my head to turn under the shed where our horses stood, to see if they had food, and besides, caution never interferes: I had a glorious horse, and more than one Kabardian looked at her touchingly, saying: yakshi te, check yakshi!
I make my way along the fence and suddenly I hear voices; I immediately recognized one voice: it was the rake Azamat, the son of our master; the other spoke less frequently and more quietly. "What are they talking about here?" I thought: “Is it not about my horse?” So I sat down by the fence and began to listen, trying not to miss a single word. Sometimes the noise of songs and the sound of voices, flying out of the sakli, drowned out the conversation that was curious for me.
- Nice horse you have! - said Azamat: - if I were the owner of the house and had a herd of three hundred mares, I would give half for your horse, Kazbich!
"Ah, Kazbich!" - I thought, and remembered chain mail.
- Yes, - answered Kazbich after some silence: - in the whole Kabarda you will not find such a one. Once - it was beyond the Terek, I went with abreks to beat off Russian herds; we were not lucky, and we scattered, who went where. Four Cossacks rushed after me; I already heard the cries of giaurs behind me, and in front of me was a dense forest. I lay down on the saddle, entrusted myself to Allah, and for the first time in my life insulted the horse with a whip. Like a bird he dived between the branches; sharp thorns tore my clothes, dry branches of elm beat me in the face. My horse jumped over the stumps, tore the bushes with his chest. It would have been better for me to leave him at the edge of the forest and hide on foot in the forest, but it was a pity to part with him, and the prophet rewarded me. Several bullets screeched over my head; I could already hear how the dismounted Cossacks were running in the footsteps... Suddenly there was a deep pothole in front of me; my horse became thoughtful - and jumped. His hind hooves broke off the opposite bank, and he hung on his front legs. I dropped the reins and flew into the ravine; this saved my horse: he jumped out. The Cossacks saw all this, only not one of them came down to look for me: they rightly thought that I had killed myself to death, and I heard how they rushed to catch my horse. My heart bled; I crawled along the thick grass along the ravine - I look: the forest is over, several Cossacks leave it for a clearing, and now my Karagyoz jumps right to them; everyone rushed after him with a cry; for a long, long time they chased after him, especially once or twice he almost threw a lasso around his neck; I trembled, lowered my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I raise them - and I see: my Karagyoz flies, waving his tail, free as the wind, and giaurs far one after another stretch across the steppe on exhausted horses. Wallach! this is the truth, the real truth! Until late at night I sat in my ravine. Suddenly, what do you think, Azamat? in the darkness I hear a horse running along the bank of the ravine, snorting, neighing and beating its hooves on the ground; I recognized the voice of my Karagyoz: it was him, my comrade!.. Since then, we have not been separated.
And one could hear how he patted his horse's smooth neck with his hand, giving him various tender names.
- If I had a herd of a thousand mares, - said Azamat, - then I would give it all to you for your Karagyoz.
- Yok I don’t want to,” replied Kazbich indifferently.
“Listen, Kazbich,” Azamat said, caressing him: “you are a kind person, you are a brave horseman, and my father is afraid of the Russians and does not let me into the mountains; give me your horse, and I will do whatever you want, steal for you from your father his best rifle or saber, whatever you want - and his saber is a real gourd: put it with a blade to your hand, it will dig into your body; and chain mail such as yours, nothing.
Kazbich was silent.
“The first time I saw your horse,” continued Azamat, “when he was spinning under you and jumping, flaring his nostrils, and flints flew in sprays from under his hooves, something incomprehensible became in my soul, and since then everything I was disgusted: I looked at the best horses of my father with contempt, I was ashamed to appear on them, and melancholy took possession of me; and, yearning, I sat on the cliff for whole days, and every minute your black horse appeared to my thoughts with its slender tread, with its smooth, straight as an arrow ridge; he looked into my eyes with his lively eyes, as if he wanted to utter a word. I'll die, Kazbich, if you don't sell it to me! Azamat said in a trembling voice.
I heard that he was crying: but I must tell you that Azamat was a stubborn boy, and nothing happened to knock out his tears, even when he was younger.
Something like laughter was heard in response to his tears.
- Listen! - Azamat said in a firm voice: - you see, I decide on everything. Do you want me to steal my sister for you? How she dances! how he sings! and embroiders with gold - a miracle! The Turkish padishah did not have such a wife ... Do you want to? wait for me tomorrow night there, in the gorge where the stream runs: I will go with her past to the neighboring village, - and she is yours. Isn't Bela worth your horse?
For a long, long time Kazbich was silent; Finally, instead of answering, he sang the old song in an undertone:

We have many beauties in the villages,
The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.
It is sweet to love them, an enviable share;
But valiant will is more fun.
Gold will buy four wives,
The dashing horse has no price:
He will not lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,
He will not change, he will not deceive.

In vain Azamat begged him to agree, and wept, and flattered him, and swore; Finally Kazbich interrupted him impatiently:
- Go away, crazy boy! Where do you ride my horse? On the first three steps, he will throw you off, and you will break the back of your head on the stones.
- Me! - shouted Azamat in a rage, and the iron of the children's dagger rang against the chain mail. A strong hand pushed him away, and he hit the wattle fence so that the wattle fence staggered. "There will be fun!" - I thought, rushed to the stable, bridle our horses and led them to the backyard. Two minutes later there was a terrible uproar in the sakla. Here's what happened: Azamat ran in there in a torn beshmet, saying that Kazbich wanted to kill him. Everyone jumped out, grabbed their guns - and the fun began! Scream, noise, shots; only Kazbich was already on horseback and circling among the crowd along the street like a demon, waving his saber.
“It’s a bad thing to have a hangover in someone else’s feast,” I said to Grigory Alexandrovich, catching him by the hand: “wouldn’t it be better for us to get out as soon as possible?
- Wait, what will it end.
- Yes, it will surely end badly; everything is like this with these Asians: the booze was pulled, and the massacre began! We got on horseback and rode home.
- And what about Kazbich? I asked the staff captain impatiently.
- Yes, what are these people doing! - he answered, finishing his glass of tea: - after all, he slipped away!
- And not injured? I asked.
- God knows! Live, robbers! I saw others in action, for example: after all, everything was punctured like a sieve with bayonets, but still waving a saber. - The captain, after some silence, continued, stamping his foot on the ground: - I will never forgive myself for one thing: the devil pulled me, having arrived at the fortress, to retell Grigory Alexandrovich everything that I heard sitting behind the fence; he laughed, - so cunning! - and he thought of something.

Hero of our time

Mikhail Yurjevich Lermontov

List of school literature Grade 9

The book includes the novel by M.Yu. Lermontov (1814-1841) "A Hero of Our Time", which is mandatory for reading and studying in a secondary school.

The novel "A Hero of Our Time" is one of the pinnacles of Russian prose in the first half of the 19th century. Perceived by M.Yu. Lermontov's contemporaries as "strange", the novel encourages more and more generations of readers to look for solutions to his riddles.

Mikhail Yurjevich Lermontov

Hero of our time

Foreword

This book has recently experienced the unfortunate credulity of some readers and even magazines to the literal meaning of words. Others were terribly offended, and not jokingly, that they were given as an example such an immoral person as the Hero of Our Time; others very subtly noticed that the writer painted his own portrait and portraits of his acquaintances ... An old and pathetic joke! But, apparently, Russia is so created that everything in it is renewed, except for such absurdities. The most magical of fairy tales in our country can hardly escape the reproach of an attempted insult to a person!

The Hero of Our Time, my gracious sirs, is like a portrait, but not of one person: it is a portrait composed of the vices of our entire generation, in their full development. You will tell me again that a person cannot be so bad, but I will tell you that if you believed in the possibility of the existence of all tragic and romantic villains, why do you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you have admired fictions much more terrible and ugly, why does this character, even as fiction, find no mercy in you? Is it because there is more truth in it than you would like it to be? ..

You say that morality does not benefit from this? Sorry. Enough people were fed with sweets; their stomachs have deteriorated because of this: bitter medicines, caustic truths are needed. But do not think, however, after this, that the author of this book would ever have a proud dream of becoming a corrector of human vices. God save him from such ignorance! It was just fun for him to draw modern man as he understands him and, to his misfortune and yours, met him too often. It will also be that the disease is indicated, but God knows how to cure it!

PART ONE

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

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

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

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

- We are fellow travelers, it seems?

He silently bowed again.

- Are you going to Stavropol?

- So, sir, exactly ... with government things.

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

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

- You, right, recently in the Caucasus?

“A year,” I answered.

He smiled a second time.

– What then?

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

- How long have you been here?

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

- And now you?

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

I told him.

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

- After all, such a people! - he said, - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian, but he learned: “Officer, give me some vodka!”

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For me, the Tatars are better: at least those who don’t drink ...

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

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

– What is it? I asked.

- Good mountain.

- Well, so what?

- Look how it smokes.

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

We could already distinguish the post station, the roofs of the huts surrounding it, and welcoming lights flickered before us when the damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge hummed and a light rain began to fall. I had hardly put on my cloak when the snow began to fall. I looked with reverence at the staff captain ...

“We’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 landslides on Krestovaya? he asked the driver.

“There wasn’t, sir,” answered the Ossetian cab driver, “but there are many, many hangings.

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

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

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

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

– How long have you been in Chechnya?

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

- I heard.

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

“Ah, tea, have you had many adventures?” I said, spurred on by curiosity.

- How not to happen! used to...

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

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

“No, thank you, I don’t drink.”

– What is it?

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

Hearing this, I almost lost hope.

- Yes, at least the Circassians, - he continued, - as soon as boozes get drunk at a wedding or at a funeral, the felling began. Once I took my legs by force, and I was also visiting the Mirnov prince.

– How did it happen?

- Here (he filled his pipe, dragged on and began to talk), if you please, I was then standing in the fortress behind the Terek with a company - this will soon be five years old. Once, in the autumn, a transport with provisions came; there was an officer in the transport, a young man of about twenty-five. He came to me in full uniform and announced that he was ordered to stay with me in the fortress. He was so thin, white, his uniform was so brand new that I immediately guessed that he had recently been in the Caucasus with us. “You, right,” I asked him, “are you transferred here from Russia?” “Exactly so, Herr Staff Captain,” he answered. I took his hand and said: “Very glad, very glad. You will be a little bored ... well, yes, we will live as friends. Yes, please, just call me Maxim Maksimych, and, please, what is this full form for? Come to me always in a cap. He was given an apartment, and he settled in the fortress.

– What was his name? I asked Maksim Maksimych.

- His name was ... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice fellow, I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold all day hunting; everyone will get cold, tired - but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, the wind smells, he assures that he has caught a cold; the shutter will knock, he will shudder and turn pale; and with me he went to the boar one on one; sometimes you couldn’t get a word for whole hours, but sometimes, as soon as you start talking, you’ll break your bellies with laughter ... Yes, sir, with great oddities, and, no doubt, a rich man: how many different expensive little things he had! ..

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

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

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

- And here I will tell you. About six versts from the fortress lived a peaceful prince. His son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of going to us: every day, it happened, now for this, then

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after another. And certainly, we spoiled him with Grigory Alexandrovich. And what a thug he was, nimble for whatever you want: whether to raise his hat at full gallop, whether to shoot from a gun. One thing was not good about him: he was terribly greedy for money. Once, for a laugh, Grigory Alexandrovich promised to give him a chervonets if he steals the best goat from his father's flock for him; and what do you think? the next night he dragged him by the horns. And it happened that we would take it into our head to tease him, so his eyes would become bloodshot and poured, and now for the dagger. “Hey, Azamat, don’t blow your head off,” I told him, “yaman will be your head!”

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

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

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

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

“And what did she sing, don’t you remember?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"BUT! Kazbich! – I thought and remembered chain mail.

“Yes,” Kazbich answered after some silence, “you won’t find one like it in the whole of Kabarda. Once - it was beyond the Terek - I went with abreks to beat off Russian herds; we were not lucky, and we scattered in all directions.

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

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ravine horse, snorts, neighs and beats hooves on the ground; I recognized the voice of my Karagoz; it was him, my comrade! .. Since then, we have not been separated.

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

- If I had a herd of a thousand mares, - said Azamat, - then I would give it all to you for your Karagyoz.

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

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

Kazbich was silent.

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

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

Something like laughter was heard in response to his tears.

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

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

We have many beauties in the villages,

The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.

It is sweet to love them, an enviable share;

But valiant will is more fun.

Gold will buy four wives,

The dashing horse has no price:

He will not lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,

He will not change, he will not deceive.

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

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

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

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

- Wait, wait, how it ends.

- Yes, it’s true, it will end badly; everything is like this with these Asians: the booze was pulled, and the massacre began!

We mounted and galloped home.

- And what about Kazbich? I asked the staff captain impatiently.

“What are these people doing!” he answered, finishing his glass of tea. - He slipped away!

- And not injured? I asked.

“But God knows!” Live, robbers! I’ve seen others in action, for example: after all, he’s all punctured like a sieve with bayonets, and he’s still waving his saber, ”the staff captain, after some silence, continued, stamping his foot on the ground:“ I will never forgive myself for one thing: the devil pulled me when he arrived to the fortress, to retell to Grigory Alexandrovich everything that I heard, sitting behind the fence; he laughed - so cunning! - and he thought of something.

– What is it? Tell me, please.

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever he wants,” answered Azamat.

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

“I swear… You swear too!”

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

Azamat was silent.

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

Azamat flared up.

- And my father? - he said.

Does he never leave?

- Truth…

- Agree?..

“I agree,” whispered Azamat, pale as death. – When?

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

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

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

- Good! - said Azamat and galloped to the village.

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

- And the horse? I asked the staff captain.

- Now. The next day Kazbich arrived early in the morning and brought a dozen rams for sale. Having tied

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horse at the fence, he came to me; I regaled him with tea, because although he was a robber, he was still my kunak.

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

- What happened to you? I asked.

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

Precisely, I heard the clatter of hooves: “That’s right, some Cossack has arrived ...”

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

- What about father?

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, hello, Maksim Maksimych! Would you like a phone? he answered without getting up.

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

- Does not matter. Would you like some tea? If only you knew what an anxiety torments me!

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

"So much the better; I'm not in the mood to talk."

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

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

- What kind of jokes? Please have your sword!

- Mitka, a sword! ..

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

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

- What's not good?

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

- Yes, when I like it? ..

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

– Not at all!

Will he know she's here?

– How will he know?

I got stuck again.

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

“Show me her,” I said.

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

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

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

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

She became thoughtful, never taking her black eyes off him, then smiled kindly and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him; she weakly defended herself and only repeated: "Poly, pogo, not nada, not nada." He began to insist; she trembled, wept.

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

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

- What, father? I told him.

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

I shook my head.

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

- Excuse me!

We shook hands and parted ways.

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

“What do you think, Maksim Maksimych,” he said to me, showing the gifts, “will the Asiatic beauty resist

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against such a battery?

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

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

The captain was silent.

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

And how long was their happiness? I asked.

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

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

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

My attention has awakened again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you are accustomed to these magnificent pictures?” I told him.

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

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

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

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

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the village of the Ossetians living at the bottom of it seemed like a swallow's nest; I shuddered, thinking that often here, in the dead of night, along this road, where two wagons cannot pass, some courier passes ten times a year without getting out of his shaky carriage. One of our cabbies was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the other was an Ossetian: the Ossetian led the native by the bridle with all possible precautions, having unharnessed those who had been carried away in advance - and our careless Russian did not even get off the irradiation! When I remarked to him that he could have bothered in favor of at least my suitcase, for which I did not at all want to climb into this abyss, he answered me: “And, master! 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 reached it, but nevertheless we arrived, and if all people reasoned more, they would be convinced that life is not worth it. taking care of her so much...

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

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

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

- Badly! - said the staff captain, - look, you can’t see anything around, only fog and snow; just look that we will fall into the abyss or sit in a slum, and there lower, tea, Baydara played out so much that you won’t move. This is Asia for me! that people, that rivers - you can’t rely on anything!

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

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

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

“Confess, however,” I said, “that it would be worse for us without them.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” he muttered, “these are my guides!” they hear by instinct where they can use it, as if without them it is impossible to find roads.

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

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

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

“Because it’s not in the order of things: what started in an unusual way must end the same way.”

- You guessed it...

- Very glad.

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

- And what, when you announced to her about the death of her father?

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

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

One morning I go to them - as now before my eyes: Bela was sitting on

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bed in a black silk beshmet, pale, so sad that I was frightened.

- Where is Pechorin? I asked.

- On the hunt.

– Did he leave today?

She remained silent, as if it was difficult for her to speak.

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

"Did something happen to him?"

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

“Really, my dear, you couldn’t think of anything worse!

She began to cry, then proudly lifted 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 myself will leave: I am not his slave - I am a prince's daughter! ..

I began to persuade her.

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

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

What was I to do with her? You know, I've never dealt with women; thought, thought, how to console her, and came up with nothing; for some time we were both silent... An unpleasant situation, sir!

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

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

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

She looked up and screamed:

- This is Kazbich! ..

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

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

“Come here,” I said to the sentry, “inspect the gun and put this young man to me - you will receive a ruble in silver.”

- I listen, your honor; only he doesn't stand still...

- Command! I said laughing...

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

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

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

- Your highness! went to die, - he answered, - such a cursed people, you can’t kill right away.

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

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

Here Pechorin thought. “Yes,” he answered, “you have 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 towards this poor girl; apart from the fact that he spent half the day hunting, his manner became cold, he rarely caressed her, and she noticeably began to dry, her face was drawn out, her big eyes grew dim. You used to ask: “What did you sigh about, Bela? are you sad?" - "Not!" “Do you want anything?” - "Not!" “Do you miss your family?” “I have no relatives.” It happened that for whole days, except for “yes” and “no”, you won’t get anything else from her.

That's what I started talking to him about. “Listen, Maksim Maksimych,” he answered, “I have an unhappy character: whether my upbringing made me like this, whether God created me that way, I don’t know; I only know that if I am the cause of the unhappiness of others, then I myself am no less unhappy; Of course, this is bad consolation for them - only the fact is that it is so. In my first youth, from the moment I left the care of my relatives, I began to enjoy wildly all the pleasures that money can get, and, of course, these pleasures disgusted me. Then I set off into the big world, and soon I also got tired of society; I fell in love with secular beauties and was loved - but their love only irritated my imagination and pride, and my heart remained empty ... I began to read, study - science was also tired; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depended on them in the least, because the happiest people are ignoramuses, and fame is luck, and to achieve it, you just need to be clever. Then I got bored ... Soon they transferred me to the Caucasus: this is the happiest time of my life. I hoped that boredom did not live under Chechen bullets; - in vain: after a month I was so used to their buzzing and to the proximity of death that, really, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I had almost lost my last hope. When I saw Bela in my house, when for the first time, holding her on my knees, I kissed her black curls, I, a fool, thought that she was an angel sent to me by compassionate fate ... I was mistaken again: the love of a savage woman is little better than the love of a noble lady; the ignorance and simple-heartedness of one are just as annoying as the coquetry of another. If you like, I still love her, I am grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes, I would give my life for her, only I am bored with her ... Whether I am a fool or a villain, I do not know; but it is true that I am also very worthy of pity, perhaps more than she: in me the soul is corrupted by the light, the imagination is restless, the heart is insatiable; everything is not enough for me: I get used to sadness just as easily as to pleasure, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have only one option: to travel. As soon as possible, I will go - just not to Europe, God forbid! - I will go to America, to Arabia, to India, - maybe somewhere

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die on the road! At least I am sure that this last consolation will not soon be exhausted, with the help of storms and bad roads. So he spoke for a long time, and his words stuck in my memory, because for the first time I heard such things from a twenty-five-year-old man, and, God willing, the last ... What a marvel! Tell me, please,” continued the staff captain, turning to me, “you seem to have been in the capital, and recently: is it really all the youth there?

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

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

No, the English.

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

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

In the meantime, he continued his story thus:

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

Once Pechorin persuades me to go with him to the boar; I denied for a long time: well, what a curiosity a wild boar was to me! However, he dragged 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, why don't you come back? - I said, - why be stubborn? It must have been such an unfortunate day!” Only Grigory Alexandrovich, despite the heat and fatigue, did not want to return without prey, such was the man: whatever he thinks, give; apparently, in childhood he was spoiled by his mother ... Finally, at noon, they found the damned boar: bang! bang! .. it wasn’t there: he went into the reeds ... it was such an unhappy day! Here we are, resting a little, went home.

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

Fortunately, due to an unsuccessful hunt, our horses were not exhausted: they were torn from under the saddle, and every moment we were closer and closer ... And finally I recognized Kazbich, but I could not make out what he was holding in front of 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 a whip.

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

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

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

- Did you recover? I asked the staff captain, grabbing his hand and involuntarily rejoicing.

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

- Yes, explain to me how Kazbich abducted her?

- And like this: despite the prohibition of Pechorin, she left the fortress to the river. It was, you know, very hot; she sat down on a rock and put her feet in the water. Here Kazbich crept up - the tsap-scratch her, clamped his mouth and dragged him into the bushes, and there he jumped on a horse, and traction! She meanwhile managed to scream; the sentries got alarmed, fired, but by, and we arrived in time.

“But why did Kazbich want to take her away?”

- Pardon me, but these Circassians are a well-known thieves' people: what lies badly, they cannot but pull off; there is no need for anything else, but he will steal everything ... in this I ask you to forgive them! And besides, he liked her for a long time.

And Bela died?

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

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

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

By morning the delirium had passed; for an hour she lay motionless, pale, and in such weakness that one could hardly see that she was breathing; then she felt better, and she began to talk, but what do you think, about what? .. Such a thought will only come to a dying person! the soul of Grigory Alexandrovich, and that another woman will be his girlfriend in paradise. It occurred to me to baptize her before her death; I offered it to her; she looked at me in

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indecision and for a long time could not utter a word; finally answered that she would die in the faith in which she was born. So the whole day passed. How she has changed that day! her pale cheeks were sunken, her eyes grew large, her lips burned. She felt an inner heat, as if she had a red-hot iron in her chest.

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Notes

Dukhan - a tavern, a tavern, a small shop.

Yermolov. (Note by M. Yu. Lermontov)

bad (Turk.).

Good, very good! (Turk.)

No (turk.).

Gurda is a steel grade, the name of the best Caucasian blades.

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

Kunak means friend. (Note by M. Yu. Lermontov.)

ravines. (Note by M. Yu. Lermontov.)

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Foreword

PART ONE

I
BELA

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

- We are fellow travelers, it seems?

He silently bowed again.

- Are you going to Stavropol?

- So, sir, exactly ... with government things.

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

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

- You, right, recently in the Caucasus?

“A year,” I answered.

He smiled a second time.

– What then?

- How long have you been here?

- And now you?

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

I told him.

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

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

– What is it? I asked.

- Good mountain.

- Well, so what?

- Look how it smokes.

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

“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 landslides on Krestovaya? he asked the driver.

“There wasn’t, sir,” answered the Ossetian cab driver, “but there are many, many hangings.

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

– How long have you been in Chechnya?

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

- I heard.

“Ah, tea, have you had many adventures?” I said, spurred on by curiosity.

- How not to happen! used to...

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

“No, thank you, I don’t drink.”

– What is it?

Hearing this, I almost lost hope.

– How did it happen?

– What was his name? I asked Maksim Maksimych.

- His name was ... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice fellow, I dare to assure you; just a little weird. After all, for example, in the rain, in the cold all day hunting; everyone will get cold, tired - but nothing to him. And another time he sits in his room, the wind smells, he assures that he has caught a cold; the shutter will knock, he will shudder and turn pale; and with me he went to the boar one on one; sometimes you couldn’t get a word for whole hours, but sometimes, as soon as you start talking, you’ll break your bellies with laughter ... Yes, sir, with great oddities, and, no doubt, a rich man: how many different expensive little things he had! ..

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

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

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

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

“And what did she sing, don’t you remember?

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

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

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

"BUT! Kazbich! – I thought and remembered chain mail.

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

- If I had a herd of a thousand mares, - said Azamat, - then I would give it all to you for your Karagyoz.

We have many beauties in the villages,
The stars shine in the darkness of their eyes.
It is sweet to love them, an enviable share;
But valiant will is more fun.
Gold will buy four wives,
The dashing horse has no price:
He will not lag behind the whirlwind in the steppe,
He will not change, he will not deceive.

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

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

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

- Wait, wait, how it ends.

- Yes, it’s true, it will end badly; everything is like this with these Asians: the booze was pulled, and the massacre began!

We mounted and galloped home.

- And what about Kazbich? I asked the staff captain impatiently.

“What are these people doing!” he answered, finishing his glass of tea. - He slipped away!

- And not injured? I asked.

– What is it? Tell me, please.

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

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

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

“Whatever he wants,” answered Azamat.

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

“I swear… You swear too!”

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

Azamat was silent.

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

Azamat flared up.

- And my father? - he said.

Does he never leave?

- Truth…

- Agree?..

“I agree,” whispered Azamat, pale as death. – When?

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

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

- Good! - said Azamat and galloped to the village.

- And the horse? I asked the staff captain.

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

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

- What happened to you? I asked.

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

Precisely, I heard the clatter of hooves: “That’s right, some Cossack has arrived ...”

- What about father?

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

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

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

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

Mikhail Lermontov

Hero of our time

The Hero of Our Time, my gracious sirs, is indeed a portrait, but not of one person: it is a portrait composed of the vices of our entire generation, in their full development. You will tell me again that a person cannot be so bad, but I will tell you that if you believed in the possibility of the existence of all tragic and romantic villains, why do you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you have admired fictions much more terrible and ugly, why does this character, even as fiction, find no mercy in you? Is it because there is more truth in it than you would like it to be? ..

You say that morality does not benefit from this? Sorry. Enough people were fed with sweets; their stomachs have deteriorated because of this: bitter medicines, caustic truths are needed. But do not think, however, after this, that the author of this book would ever have a proud dream of becoming a corrector of human vices. God save him from such ignorance! It was just fun for him to draw modern man, as he understands him, and to his misfortune and yours, he met too often. It will also be that the disease is indicated, but God knows how to cure it!

Part one

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

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

- We are fellow travelers, it seems?

He silently bowed again.

- Are you going to Stavropol?

- So, sir, exactly ... with government things.

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

He smiled slyly and looked at me significantly.

- You, right, recently in the Caucasus?

“A year,” I answered.

He smiled a second time.

– What then?

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

- How long have you been here?

- And now you?

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

I told him.

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

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

– What is it? I asked.

- Good mountain.

- Well, so what?

- Look how it smokes.

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

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

“We’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 landslides on Krestovaya? he asked the driver.

“There wasn’t, sir,” answered the Ossetian cab driver, “but there are many, many hangings.

The novel is a hero of our time full content. "Hero of our time". Briefly. M. Dunaev "History of the human soul"

"Bela"

Bela

End of introductory segment.

Foreword

PART ONE

I BELA

I
BELA