Bell's story summary. "A Hero of Our Time" (Novel) Retelling. The novel "A Hero of Our Time"

HISTORY OF CREATION OF THE WORK

The pinnacle of creativity Lermontov-prose writer. Of course, Lermontov, first of all, is a poet. His prose works are not numerous and appeared during the period of domination of poetic genres in Russian literature.

The first prose work is the unfinished historical novel "Vadim" about the era of the Pugachev rebellion. This was followed by the novel "Princess of Lithuania" (1836) - another important stage in the development of Lermontov as a writer. If "Vadim" is an attempt to create an exclusively romantic novel, then in the subsequent work main character Georges Pechorin is a completely full-fledged type, characteristic of realistic prose.

It is in "Princess Ligovskaya" that the name of Pechorin first appears. In the same novel, the main features of his character are laid, as well as the author's style is developed and Lermontov's psychologism is born.

However, "A Hero of Our Time" is not a continuation of the novel "Princess of Lithuania". An important feature works is that the entire period of Pechorin's life in St. Petersburg is hidden from the reader. His capital past is mentioned only in a few places with vague hints, which creates an atmosphere of mystery and mystery around the figure of the main character. The only work completed and published during the author's lifetime.

A Hero of Our Time is a book that Lermontov worked on from 1837 to 1840, although many literary critics believe that work on the work continued until the author's death. It is believed that the first completed episode of the novel was the story "Taman", written in the autumn of 1837. Then "The Fatalist" was written, and the idea of ​​combining the stories into one work arose only in 1838.

In the first edition of the novel there was the following sequence of episodes: "Bela", "Maxim Maksimych", "Princess Mary". In August - September 1839, in the second intermediate edition of the novel, the sequence of episodes changed: "Bela", "Maxim Maksimych", "Fatalist", "Princess Mary". Then the novel was called "One of the heroes of the beginning of the century."

By the end of the same year, Lermontov created the final version of the work, including the story "Taman" in it and arranging the episodes in the usual order for us. Pechorin's Journal, a preface to it, and the final title of the novel appeared.

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COMPOSITION

The plot of the novel (the sequence of events in the work) and its plot (the chronological sequence of events) do not match. The composition of the novel, as conceived by the author, is as follows: "Bela", "Maxim Maksimych", "Taman", "Princess Mary", "Fatalist". Chronological order events of the novel are different: "Taman", "Princess Mary", "Bela", "Fatalist", "Maxim Maksimych". Five years pass between the events described in the story "Bela" and Pechorin's meeting with Maxim Maksimych in Vladikavkaz.

The most recent entry is the narrator's preface to Pechorin's journal, where he writes that he learned about his death. It is noteworthy that not only the chronology of events is violated in the work, but there are also several narrators.

The story begins with a mysterious storyteller who does not give his name, but in the preface to the magazine he indicates that he "took the opportunity to put his name on someone else's work."

Then the whole story of Bela is told by Maxim Maksimych in the first person. The narrator returns again, who sees with his own eyes the first and only appearance of the "live" Pechorin throughout the entire novel. Finally, in the last three parts, the main character himself narrates in his own name.

The composition is complicated by a technique called a novel in a novel: Pechorin's notes are part of someone else's work - a novel that the narrator writes. All other stories were written by him, one of them is stated from the words of the staff captain.

Such a complex multi-level composition serves to deeply reveal the image of the main character. First, the reader sees him through the eyes of a biased staff captain who clearly sympathizes with Pechorin, then through the objective gaze of the narrator, and finally, the reader gets to know Pechorin “personally” by reading his diary. It was not expected that Pechorin's notes would be seen by someone else, so his story is completely sincere.

With the gradual and closer acquaintance with the main character, the reader's attitude towards him is formed. The author tries to make the text as objective as possible, devoid of his own obsessive position - one where only the reader will have to give answers to the questions that have arisen and form their own opinion about Pechorin's personality.

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The complex composition of the work determined its genre. Lermontov chose the most unconventional option - mixing them both in form and content.

Small stories, short stories, essays were combined into one single work, turning small prose forms into a full-fledged big novel. Each story of the "Hero of Our Time" can act as an independent work: each has a complete plot, plot and denouement, its own system of characters.

What, in fact, unites them into a novel is the central character, officer Pechorin. Each of the stories is a reflection of a certain genre literary tradition and style, as well as its author's processing. Bela is a typical romantic love story. European male to the savage.

This popular plot, which can be easily found both in Byron and Pushkin in the southern poems, and in a huge number of authors of that time, Lermontov transforms it with the help of a narrative form. Everything that happens is passed through the prism of perception of the kind, simple and even too straightforward Maxim Maksimych.

The love story takes on new meanings and is perceived differently by the reader. In Tamani, a typical plot of an adventure novel is revealed: the main character accidentally falls into the lair of smugglers, but still remains unharmed. The adventure line prevails here, in contrast to the novel "The Fatalist". It also has a very exciting plot, but it serves to reveal the semantic concept.

"The Fatalist" is a philosophical parable with an admixture of a romantic motif: the characters talk about fate, fate and predestination - the cornerstone values ​​of this literary movement.

"Princess Mary" - the author's vision of the genre of "secular" story. Pechorin's entire journal refers to a well-known problem raised by many authors - Lermontov's predecessors and contemporaries. It is no coincidence that the author himself in the preface recalls the work of J.-J. Rousseau "Confession". The image of Pechorin, of course, had prototypes in the works of Russian classical literature, the most significant of which were "Woe from Wit" by A. S. Griboyedov and "Eugene Onegin" by A. S. Pushkin.

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Portrait. Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin - an officer of “medium height: his slender, thin frame and broad shoulders proved a strong build, able to endure all the difficulties of nomadic life and climate change, not defeated either by the debauchery of metropolitan life, nor by spiritual storms; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only with the bottom two buttons, made it possible to discern the dazzlingly clean linen, which exposed the habits of a decent person.

His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms, a sure sign of a certain secretiveness of character. At first glance at his face I wouldn't give him more than twenty three years, although after I was ready to give him thirty. There was something childlike in his smile.

His blond hair, curly by nature, so picturesquely outlined his pale, noble forehead, on which, only after a long observation, one could notice traces of wrinkles crossing one another. Despite the light color of his hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black - a sign of breed in a person, he had a slightly upturned nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness and brown eyes ... ".

Hero of our time.

The title of the work certainly alludes to the central character. The whole novel is written about Pechorin, and his image continues the galaxy of heroes, revealing literary theme"superfluous person"

“I am a fool or a villain, I do not know; but it is true that I am also very pitiful, 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 means left: to travel” - these words strike Maxim Maksimych to the depths of his soul.

A man who is still so young and has his whole life ahead of him has already known light, and love, and war - and he has had time to get tired of all this. However, Lermontov's character differs both from foreign prototypes and from domestic literary brethren in misfortune.

Pechorin is a bright extraordinary personality, he does contradictory things, but he cannot be called an inactive idler. The character combines not only the features of an "extra person", but also a romantic hero, capable of exploits, able to risk his life and appreciating freedom above all blessings.

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GRUSHNITSKY

Portrait. “Grushnitsky is a cadet. He is only a year in the service, wears, in a special kind of foppery, a thick soldier's overcoat. He has a St. George soldier's cross. He is well built, swarthy and black-haired; he looks to be twenty-five years old, although he is hardly twenty-one years old.

He throws his head back when he speaks, and continually twists his mustache with his left hand, for with his right he leans on a crutch. He speaks quickly and pretentiously: he is one of those people who have ready-made pompous phrases for all occasions, who are simply not touched by the beautiful and who importantly drape in extraordinary feelings, sublime passions and exceptional suffering.

The portrait of Grushnitsky is given through the eyes of the protagonist. Pechorin mockingly describes the external features and especially the internal properties of Grushnitsky's soul. However, he also sees his pluses, notes in his diary his beauty, wit (“He is rather sharp: his epigrams are often funny, but there are never marks and evil: he will not kill anyone with one word ...”), courage and goodwill (“in those moments when he throws off his tragic mantle, Grushnitsky is quite nice and funny”).

Reflection Pechorin. Gregory writes about his friend: “I understood him, and he does not love me for this. I don’t like him either: I feel that someday we will collide with him on a narrow road, and one of us will be unhappy. Grushnitsky irritates Pechorin with his theatricality and posturing. In the descriptions of the officer, the junker looks like a typical hero of a romantic novel. However, the features of Pechorin himself are easily guessed in the image of the opponent.

The protagonist sees his degraded and somewhat distorted, but still reflection. That is why Grushnitsky causes so much hostility in him and a desire to put him in his place. Pechorin’s egoism, as well as narcissism (let’s pay attention to his words about Grushnitsky: “He doesn’t know people and their weak strings, because he has been busy with himself all his life”), traits that are also inherent in his antagonist, eventually lead both characters to tragic events.

It is no coincidence that the protagonist in the end does not experience triumph when he sees the bloody body of a man who wanted not only to laugh at him, but also to harm him in a vile way, if not kill him. Pechorin sees in the fate of the deceased Grushnitsky and his own future.

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MAXIM MAKSIMYCH

The hero has many positive traits; he immediately wins over the reader. This is a simple person, "does not like metaphysical debate at all", but at the same time very friendly and observant.

The cold, almost rude behavior of Pechorin at their last meeting deeply hurts the hero. Maxim Maksimych is the only unambiguously positive hero. It evokes sympathy and sympathy not only from the narrator, but also from the reader. However, this character is in many ways opposed to Pechorin.

If Pechorin is young, smart and well educated, has a complex mental organization, then Maxim Maksimych, on the contrary, is a representative of the older generation, a simple and sometimes narrow-minded person who is not inclined to dramatize life and complicate relations between people. But it is worth paying attention to the main difference between the characters.

The captain is kind and sincere, while Pechorin is always secretive and has malicious intent, which follows from the confessions in his diary entries. Maxim Maksimych is a character that helps to reveal the essence and complexity of the nature of the protagonist.

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Werner is ugly, his natural ugliness is especially emphasized by Pechorin. In the appearance of Werner there is a resemblance to the devil, and ugliness always attracts even more than beauty. The Doctor is Pechorin's only friend in the novel.

“Werner is a wonderful person for many reasons. He is a skeptic and a materialist, like almost all doctors, and at the same time a poet, and in earnest - a poet in deed, always and often in words, although in his life he did not write two verses. He studied all the living strings of the human heart, as one studies the veins of a corpse, but he never knew how to use his knowledge.

Usually Werner surreptitiously mocked his patients; but I once saw how he wept over a dying soldier ... ". In conversations between Werner and Pechorin, one can feel how close their views on life are. Werner perfectly understands the nature of a friend. The doctor, like Grushnitsky, is a reflection of Pechorin, but he is a true friend (he learns that ill-wishers want to load one pistol, settles things after a duel).

But Werner was disappointed in Pechorin: "There is no evidence against you, and you can sleep peacefully ... if you can."

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FEMALE IMAGES

In all short stories of the novel, except for the part "Maxim Maksimych", there are female characters. The two largest stories in terms of volume are named female names- "Bela" and "Princess Mary". All the women in the novel are beautiful, interesting and smart in their own way, and all, one way or another, are unhappy because of Pechorin.

The work presents several female images: Bela is a Circassian girl, Vera is a married lady, Pechorin's old love, Princess Mary and her mother, Princess Ligovskaya, a smuggler from Taman, beloved Yanko. All women in the novel "A Hero of Our Time" are bright personalities. But none of them could keep Pechorin close to him for a long time, tie him to himself, make him better. He accidentally or deliberately hurt them, brought serious misfortunes into their lives.

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Portrait. “A girl of about sixteen, tall, thin, her eyes are black, like those of a mountain chamois, and looked into your soul.” A young Circassian, the daughter of a local prince, is an amazingly beautiful, young and exotic girl.

role in the novel. Bela is almost the wife of Pechorin, who is so afraid to link fate forever with a woman. As a child, a fortune-teller predicted his death from an evil wife, and this impressed him very much. Bela is the last beloved of the hero, judging by the chronology and the facts that appear before the reader. Her fate is the most tragic.

The girl dies at the hands of a robber, from whom Pechorin helped to steal a horse. However, the death of his beloved is perceived by him with some relief. Bela quickly got bored with him, turned out to be no better than the capital's secular beauties. Her death made Pechorin free again, which is the highest value for him.

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Princess Mary

Portrait. The princess is young and slender, always tastefully dressed. Pechorin says this about her: “This Princess Mary is very pretty. She has such velvet eyes - velvet indeed: the lower and upper eyelashes are so long that the rays of the sun are not reflected in her pupils. I love these eyes without shine: they are so soft, they seem to be stroking you ... ".

role in the novel. The young princess becomes a deliberate victim of Pechorin. To spite Grushnitsky, who is in love with her, and in order to be able to see his mistress and relative of the princess more often, the main character plans to fall in love with Mary. He does this easily and without a twinge of conscience. However, from the very beginning, he did not even think about marrying the princess. “... I often, running through the past with my thoughts, ask myself: why did I not want to set foot on this path, opened to me by fate, where quiet joys and peace of mind awaited me? No, I would not get along with this share! - here is Pechorin's confession after describing the last meeting with the princess.

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Portrait. Werner, in a conversation with Pechorin, mentions a woman whom he saw at the Ligovskys, "a relative of the princess by her husband." The doctor describes her like this: “she is very pretty, but she seems to be very sick ... She is of medium height, blonde, with regular features, consumptive complexion, and a mole on her right cheek: her face struck me with its expressiveness.”

role in the novel. Faith - the only woman about which Pechorin says he loves. He understands that she loved him more than other women. He rushes to her at full speed to see her for the last time, but his horse dies, and they never have time to meet.

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PSYCHOLOGISM IN THE NOVEL

A Hero of Our Time is the first psychological novel in Russian literature. Increased interest in personality inner world character, the image of his soul in order to reveal the essence of human nature - these are the tasks that Lermontov faced.

Self-analysis in Pechorin's journal. The notes made by the protagonist are a transition to a direct psychological portrayal. There are no more barriers between Pechorin and the reader, now it is an open dialogue between them. Confession to the interlocutor. In remarks addressed to Werner and Princess Mary, Pechorin sincerely confesses his feelings and thoughts.

Retrospective evaluation. Pechorin recalls previously committed actions and analyzes them. For the first time, this method of introspection appears at the end of "Taman", where the hero talks about his role in the fate of other people, in particular "honest smugglers". Psychological experiment. Pechorin checks on his own experience the reaction of other people and himself. Thus he manifests himself as a man of action and as a man with deep analytical abilities.

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On the way from Tiflis, the narrator meets a staff captain named Maksim Maksimych. They make part of the journey together. In the evenings Maksim Maksimych shares interesting stories about life in the Caucasus and talks about the customs of the locals. One of these stories begins at the wedding of the daughter of a local prince.

A young officer, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin, served under the command of the staff captain. Maxim Maksimych became friends with him. They were invited to a wedding in the village. The youngest daughter of the prince, Bela, approached Pechorin at the celebration and "sang to him like a compliment." Pechorin also liked the pretty princess. The local robber Kazbich was also at the celebration. Maxim Maksimych knew him, because he often brought sheep to the fortress and sold them cheaply. There were various rumors about Kazbich, but everyone admired his horse, the best in Kabarda.

That same evening, Maxim Maksimych accidentally witnessed a conversation between Kazbich and Azamat, Bela's brother. The young man begged to sell him a beautiful horse. He was even ready to steal his sister for him, because he knew that Kazbich liked Bela. However, the wayward robber was adamant. Azamat got angry, a fight broke out. Maxim Maksimych and Pechorin returned to the fortress.

The captain told his friend about the overheard conversation and the quarrel between two men. Some time later, someone stole Kazbich's horse. It happened like this. Kazbich brought sheep to the fortress for sale. Maxim Maksimych invited him to tea. The friends were talking, when suddenly Kazbich changed his face, rushed into the street, but saw only the dust from the hooves of the horse on which Azamat was running away. Kazbich's grief was so great that he "lay face down like a dead man", "he lay like that until late at night."

Kazbich went to the village to Azamat's father, but did not find him. The prince left somewhere, and, thanks to his absence, Azamat managed to steal his sister for Pechorin. Such was the agreement: Pechorin helped steal Kazbich's horse in exchange for Bela. The officer secretly settled the girl at his place. He showered her with gifts, hired servants for her, but Bela got used to it very slowly. Once Grigory could not stand it and said that if she was so disgusted with him and she could not love him, then he would immediately leave wherever his eyes looked. But Bela threw herself on Pechorin's neck and begged to stay. The officer achieved his goal - he won the heart of an adamant girl.

At first everything was fine, but soon Pechorin got bored with a happy life, he realized that he no longer loved Bela. More and more often, the officer went into the forest to hunt for long hours, and sometimes for whole days. Meanwhile, Maxim Maksimych became friends with the prince's daughter.

Bela often complained to him about Gregory. Once the staff captain decided to talk with Pechorin. Grigory told his friend about his unfortunate character: sooner or later he gets bored with everything. He lived in the capital, but pleasures, high society, and even studies - everything was disgusting to him. And so Pechorin went to the Caucasus in the hope that "boredom does not live under Chechen bullets." But even after a month they ceased to excite the hero. Finally, he met Bela and fell in love, but quickly realized that "the love of a savage is few better than love noble lady."

Once Pechorin persuaded Maxim Maksimych to go hunting with him. They took people, left early in the morning, found a wild boar by noon, started shooting, but the beast left. The unfortunate hunters went back. Already at the very fortress there was a shot. Everyone rushed towards the sound. Soldiers gathered on the rampart and pointed to the field. And a rider was flying along it, holding something white on the saddle.

Maxim Maksimych and Pechorin rushed to catch up with the fugitive. It was Kazbich who had stolen Bela to avenge his loss. Having caught up with the rider, Grigory fired, Kazbich's horse fell. Then Maxim Maksimych fired, and when the smoke cleared, everyone saw a girl and Kazbich running away next to the wounded horse. The robber stabbed the girl in the back.

Bela lived for two more days, dying in terrible agony. Pechorin did not close his eyes and sat by her bed all the time. On the second day, Bela asked for water, she seemed to feel better, but after three minutes she died. Maxim Maksimych led Pechorin out of the room, his own heart breaking with grief, but the officer's face was calm and expressionless. This indifference struck Maxim Maksimych.

Bela was buried behind the fortress, by the river, near the place where Kazbich abducted her. Pechorin was unwell for a long time, lost weight, and three months later he was transferred to another regiment, and he left for Georgia. What happened to Kazbich, the staff captain did not know.

While Maksim Maksimych had been recounting this story to the narrator for several days, the time had come for their parting. Due to the heavy luggage, the staff captain could not follow quickly; On this, the heroes said goodbye. But the narrator was lucky enough to meet the staff captain again.

After parting with Maxim Maksimych, the narrator quickly reached Vladikavkaz. But there he had to stay for three days in anticipation of an opportunity - a cover accompanying the carts. Already on the second day Maxim Maksimych arrived there. The staff captain prepared an excellent dinner for two, but the conversation did not fit - the men saw each other not so long ago. The narrator, who had already begun to sketch his own story about Bel and Pechorin, believed that he would not hear anything more interesting from Maxim Maksimych.

Several wagons drove into the yard. Among them was a wonderful, nifty travel carriage. The heroes took the new arrivals as an expected opportunity. But it turned out that this carriage belonged to the same Pechorin who served with Maxim Maksimych. The captain wanted to see him right away. But the servant announced that his master had stayed to supper and spend the night with a colonel he knew.

Maxim Maksimych asked the servant to tell Pechorin what was waiting for him. The elderly military man could not find a place for himself and did not go to bed, thinking that Pechorin was about to come. The narrator was very curious to meet a man about whom he had already heard so much. Early in the morning the staff captain went on official business. Pechorin appeared at the inn, he ordered to collect things and lay the horses.

The narrator recognized Pechorin and sent for Maxim Maksimych. He ran as fast as he could to see an old friend. But Pechorin was cold, spoke little, said only that he was going to Persia, and did not want to stay even for dinner. When the carriage started, the captain remembered that he had Pechorin's papers in his hands, which he wanted to return to him at the meeting. But Gregory did not take them away and left.

The clatter of the wheels of Pechorin's carriage had long ceased, and the old man still stood in thought, and tears now and then welled up in his eyes. He complained about the youth, scolded his old friend for his arrogance, and still could not calm down. The narrator asked what kind of papers Pechorin had left with Maxim Maksimych.

These were personal notes, which the now vexed staff captain was about to throw away. Delighted by such luck, the narrator asked to give Pechorin's papers to him. The men parted rather dryly, the angry staff captain became stubborn and quarrelsome.

The narrator got Pechorin's papers: it was an officer's diary. In the preface, he writes about what he learned about the death of Gregory in Persia. This fact gave, according to the narrator, the right to publish Pechorin's notes. However, the narrator assigned his own name to someone else's work. Why did he decide to publish someone else's diary?

“Rereading these notes, I was convinced of the sincerity of the one who so mercilessly exposed his own weaknesses and vices. The history of the human soul, even the smallest soul, is almost more curious and not more useful than history of a whole people, especially when it is the result of the observation of a mature mind over itself and when it is written without a vain desire to arouse interest or surprise.

So, one desire for usefulness made me print excerpts from a magazine that I got by chance. Even though I changed everything proper names, but those of whom it speaks will probably recognize themselves, and perhaps they will find justifications for the actions that until now have been accused of a person who no longer has anything in common with this world: we almost always excuse what we understand.

The narrator writes that he placed in this book only those materials that related to Pechorin's stay in the Caucasus. But he mentions that he still had a thick notebook in his hands, which describes the whole life of an officer. The narrator promises that someday she will appear for the judgment of the readers.

With a stay in Taman, Pechorin's diary begins for the reader. The officer arrived in this "bad little town" late at night. Pechorin was obliged to allocate a service apartment, but all the huts were occupied. The officer's patience was coming to an end, he was tired on the road, it was cold at night. The ten's manager offered the only option: “There is one more fater, only your nobility will not like it; it's unclean!" Without going into the meaning of this phrase, Pechorin ordered to take him there. It was a small house on the very shore of the sea. The door was opened by a blind boy of about fourteen. The owner was not in the house. Pechorin, together with the Cossack batman, settled down in the room.

The Cossack instantly fell asleep, but the officer could not sleep. About three hours later, Pechorin noticed a flashing shadow, then another. He got dressed and quietly left the house. A blind boy walked towards him. The man hid himself so that he would not be noticed, and followed the blind man.

Some time later, the blind man stopped on the shore. Pechorin followed him. A girl appeared. Very quietly, they began to discuss whether another of their comrades would come. Soon, despite the storm and the darkness, a boat arrived. A man brought something in a boat. Each took a bundle, and they all left.

The next morning, Pechorin found out that he would not be able to leave for Gelendzhik today. The officer returned to the hut, where not only the Cossack was waiting for him, but also the old housewife with the girl. The girl began to flirt with Pechorin. He told her what he saw at night, but achieved nothing. Later in the evening the girl came, threw herself on Grigory's neck and kissed him. She also told me to come ashore at night when everyone was asleep.

He did just that. The girl led him to the boat and offered to sit in it. The hero did not have time to come to his senses, as they were already swimming. The girl deftly and nimbly rowed away from the shore. Then she threw his gun into the sea and tried to throw the officer himself into the water. However
the man was stronger and he threw her overboard. Somehow, with the help of the remains of an old oar, Pechorin moored to the pier.

On the shore, the officer saw a girl, he hid in the bushes and waited for what would happen next. The same man arrived on the boat as the previous night. From snatches of an overheard conversation, Pechorin realized that they were smugglers. The chief of them, named Yanko, left this place, taking the girl with him. The blind man was left with almost no money in Taman.

Returning to the hut, Pechorin discovered that a poor boy had stolen all his things. There was no one to complain to, and the next day the officer managed to leave the ill-fated town. He did not know what had become of the old woman and the blind man.

Part two
(End of Pechorin's journal)

The events described in this part of Pechorin's journal cover about a month and take place in Pyatigorsk, Kislovodsk and the surrounding area. On the very first day of his stay on the waters, Pechorin meets his acquaintance Junker Grushnitsky. Both do not like each other, but pretend to be great friends.

They are discussing the local society, when suddenly two ladies walk past the men. They were Princess Ligovskaya with her daughter Mary. Grushnitsky really liked the young princess, and he tried to get to know her. From the first meeting, the princess began to dislike the impudent Pechorin and showed curiosity and goodwill towards Grushnitsky.

Pechorin had another friend in the city - Dr. Werner. He was a very intelligent and sharp-tongued man who really aroused Pechorin's sympathy. Once Werner went to visit the officer. During the conversation, it turned out that Pechorin intended to mock
over the ardent Grushnitsky and hit on the princess. In addition, Werner reports a newcomer woman, a distant relative of the princess. In the description of the woman, Pechorin recognizes his old love - Vera.

One day Pechorin meets Vera at the well. She is a married woman, but their feelings are still strong. They develop a dating plan: Pechorin should become a regular guest of the Ligovskys' house, and so that they are not suspected, take care of Mary. A good chance at the ball contributes to the fact that Pechorin is invited to the house of the Ligovskys. He thinks over a system of actions to make the princess fall in love with him.

Deliberately did not pay due attention to her, he always moved away when Grushnitsky appeared. But, as was to be expected, the Junker quickly bored Mary, and Pechorin aroused more and more interest. One day the whole society went for a horseback ride. At some point in the journey, Pechorin tells Mary that in childhood he was underestimated and not loved, therefore, with early years he became gloomy, heartless and became a "moral cripple." This made a strong impression on the young sensitive girl.

At the next ball, Mary danced with Pechorin and completely lost interest in Grushnitsky. Vera left with her husband for Kislovodsk and asked Grigory to follow her. Pechorin leaves for Kislovodsk. After a few days, the whole society also moves there. The heroes go on a short excursion to watch the sunset. Pechorin helped the princess's horse cross the mountain stream. Mary felt dizzy, and the officer grabbed her by the waist to keep her in the saddle.

He kissed her furtively on the cheek. By the reaction of Princess Pechorin, he realized that she was in love with him. Returning home that evening
the hero accidentally overheard a conversation in a tavern. Grushnitsky and his friends organized a conspiracy against him: he wanted to challenge him to a duel without loading his pistols. The next morning, Pechorin met the princess at the well and admitted that he did not love her. Soon he received a note from
Faith with an invitation. Her husband was away for a few days and she made sure to stay in the house alone. Pechorin arrived at the appointed time.

However, when he left, he was ambushed by conspirators. A fight took place, but Pechorin managed to escape. On the morning of the next day, Grushnitsky, who did not notice Pechorin, began to tell that they had caught him under the windows of the princess. After that, Grushnitsky was called to a duel. Werner was chosen as a second. He returned an hour later and told what he could hear in the house of the rivals. They changed the plan: now only Grushnitsky's pistol should be loaded. Pechorin has his own plan, which he does not tell Werner about.

The heroes meet early in the morning in a quiet gorge. Pechorin offers to resolve everything peacefully, but is refused. Then he says that he wants to shoot, as agreed, at six paces, but on a small platform above the abyss. Even a slight wound will be enough for the enemy to fall into the abyss. The mutilated corpse will be proof of the accident, and Dr. Werner will prudently remove the bullet. Everyone agrees. Grushnitsky is the first to shoot by lot. He easily wounds the enemy in the leg. Pechorin manages to stay over the abyss. He should shoot next. Pechorin asks if Grushnitsky wants to ask
forgiveness. After receiving a negative answer, he asks to load his gun, because he noticed that there was no bullet in it. It all ends with the fact that Pechorin shoots at the enemy, he falls off the cliff and dies.

Returning home, Pechorin receives a note from Vera. She says goodbye to him forever. The hero tries to catch up last meeting but on the way his horse dies. He visits the princess. She is grateful that Grigory protected her daughter from slander, and is sure that Pechorin wants to marry her, the Princess has nothing against the wedding, despite the position of the hero. He asks to see Mary. The officer forces the princess, offended by his previous confession, to tell her mother that she hates him.

This is an episode from the life of Pechorin when he lived in a Cossack village. In the evening, a dispute ensues among the officers about whether there is fate and predestination. Serb Vulich, a hot player, enters the dispute. “He was brave, spoke little, but sharply; did not confide his spiritual and family secrets to anyone; I hardly drank wine at all, I never followed young Cossack women.

Vulich offers to test for himself whether a person can manage his own life. Pechorin jokingly offers a bet. He says that he does not believe in predestination, and poured all the contents of his pockets onto the table - about two dozen chervonets. The Serbian agrees. Moving into another room, Vulich sat down at the table, the others followed him.

Pechorin for some reason told him that he would die today. Vulich asked one of his comrades if the pistol was loaded. He didn't remember exactly. Vulich asked Pechorin to get and toss a playing card. As soon as she touched the table, he pulled “the trigger of the pistol put to his temple. I There was a misfire. Then the Serb immediately shot at the cap hanging over the window and shot it through. Pechorin, like everyone else, was so amazed by what happened that he believed in predestination and gave the money.

Soon everyone dispersed. On the way home, Pechorin stumbled over the corpse of a chopped pig. Then I met two Cossacks who were looking for a drunken, raging neighbor. Pechorin went to bed, but was awakened at dawn. Vulich was killed. Pechorin followed his colleagues.

3.8 / 5. 66

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bela. Artist M. Zichy, 1902

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

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

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

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

I rode on the messenger from Tiflis. I hired as many as six bulls and several Ossetians to cross the mountain. And behind my cart, four bulls dragged another as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that it was overlaid to the top. Her master followed her, smoking from a small Kabardian pipe, trimmed in silver. He was wearing an officer's frock coat without an epaulet 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.

He told me Asians are terrible beasts and deceive me. It can be seen that I am new to the Caucasus, unlike him. He disagreed with me about the weather, predicting a storm. Later, it really smelled of a damp, cold wind and a fine rain began to fall.

We sheltered by the fire in a sakla filled with people. He, Maxim Maksimych, began to tell me that once an officer had come to them, a young man of about twenty-five:

- Thin, white, new uniform. His name was Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin. Nice guy, just a little weird. In the cold all day on the hunt. And another time he sits in his room, assures that he has caught a cold; sometimes he was silent for whole hours, but as he talks, you will tear your tummies with laughter ... He was with us for a year. He made trouble, there are people with whom extraordinary things happen!

A prince lived nearby. His son, fifteen years old, Azamat, was terribly greedy for money. Once the prince invites us to the wedding. We went. At the wedding, Pechorin was approached by the owner's younger daughter, Bela, a girl of about sixteen. They liked each other. She was beautiful: tall, thin, black eyes, and looked into our souls.

Also at the wedding was Kazbich. His face was the most robber: small, dry, broad-shouldered ... And he was dexterous, like a demon! And his horse was famous in the whole Kabarda.

I went out to freshen up and suddenly I heard voices: Azamat begged Kazbich to sell him a horse. And even offered to steal his sister for this! But Kazbich refused, and a fight broke out. Kazbich escaped, we went to the fortress. And in vain I told Pechorin about their conversation.

Later, Pechorin began to constantly praise Kazbich's horse under Azamat. And then he offered to get a horse for his sister. Azamat agreed and brought his sister tied up the next day. Pechorin, when Kazbich brought provisions, stole his horse and handed it over to Azamat, who disappeared and his further fate is not known.

Kazbich cried all night when he learned that Azamat had taken away his horse.

Upon learning of what had happened, I went to Pechorin to stop this wretched business. But he refused, saying that Kazbich was still a robber - he was not sorry, and the girl would be better off with him than in a wild village. I was silent, there was nothing special to cover.

Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something every day: for the first days she silently proudly pushed away the gifts. He fought with her for a long time, so he decided on the last resort - he said that she was free, and he was guilty and would go to seek death as punishment. This melted Bela's heart, she admitted that she immediately liked him.

Later we learned that Kazbich killed her father for the horse.

The night ended, we set off; we had to descend another five versts over icy rocks and slushy snow in order to reach Kobi station. The horses were exhausted, we were cold. The storm came again and we had to turn to a meager shelter consisting of two huts.

I wanted to know the continuation of the story. Maksim Maksimovich continued:

– Nice was a girl, this Bela! She was like a daughter to me. For four months, everything went perfectly. But Grigory Alexandrovich began to disappear hunting more and more often. This saddened Bela and I decided to console her by inviting her for a walk.

Suddenly we see someone jumping in the distance, and we recognized Kazbich. A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned from hunting; Bela threw herself on his neck. Pechorin thought. “Yes,” he answered, “Bela, from now on you must no longer go to the ramparts.”

In the evening I had a long explanation with him: I was annoyed that he had changed towards this poor girl. He replied: “I have an unhappy character; I myself am no less unhappy. In my first youth, I began to enjoy all the pleasures madly, and, of course, pleasures disgusted me. Soon I got tired of society; I fell in love with secular beauties and was loved - but my heart remained empty ... I began to study - science was also tired; I have seen that the happiest people are ignoramuses. I got bored ... Soon they transferred me to the Caucasus: this is the most happy time of my life. But I also began to get used to the danger. When I saw Bela, I thought she was an angel ... I was mistaken again: I would give my life for her - only I'm bored with her ... I have only one means left: to travel.

Kazbich did not appear again. That time Pechorin pulled me out to hunt. On the way back, we hear a shot ... We look: a horseman is flying headlong and holding something white on his saddle. Pechorin fired, and the bullet broke the horse's hind leg. Kazbich jumped off, and then we saw that he was holding Bela in his arms ... I shot ... When the smoke cleared, a wounded horse lay on the ground and Bela was near it; and Kazbich, wounded in the shoulder, fled. Bela lay motionless, and blood poured from the wound on her back in streams ... She was unconscious.

How did it happen? She left the fortress. Kazbich crept up, - tsap-scratch her and pull.

We took the wounded woman to Pechorin. Bela lived for two more days, she suffered for a long time. About ten o'clock in the evening she came to her senses. - "I will die!" - she said. How she did not want to die! .. By morning, the delirium had passed and she began to grieve that she was not a Christian and that another woman would be Pechorin's friend in paradise. But she refused to be baptized.

Another night has come. She suffered terribly, moaning. Before morning, she began to feel the anguish of death, began to thrash around, knocked off the bandage, and the blood flowed again. When the wound was bandaged, she calmed down for a moment and began to ask Pechorin to kiss her. She tightly wrapped her trembling arms around his neck, as if in this kiss she wanted to convey her soul to him ... No, she did well that she died: well, what would become of her if Grigory Alexandrovich left her? And that would happen...

For half the next day she was quiet, silent and obedient. In the afternoon she began to languish with thirst. As soon as she drank water, she felt better, and after about three minutes she died. The next day, early in the morning, we buried her behind the fortress. Pechorin's face did not express anything special, and I felt annoyed: if I were in his place, I would have died of grief. Pechorin was unwell for a long time, emaciated. Three months later he left for Georgia.

We present summary one of famous works- "A Hero of Our Time" by the great writer Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov. I'm sure it will help you remember the main points of the plot!

Bela

The narrator-officer, traveling through the Caucasus, meets with the old staff captain Maxim Maksimych, the former commandant of a fortress on the southern borders of Russia. Maxim Maksimych tells about a young officer Grigory Pechorin, who served under his command, and after an unpleasant situation he was exiled to the Caucasus.

Pechorin was a nice fellow, but various unusual things constantly happened to him. He and Maxim Maksimych quickly became friends. Once they were invited by the local mountain prince to the wedding of their daughter, where Pechorin met the prince's youngest daughter Bela, who was very different from other girls. Pechorin decided to steal the beauty from the house.

This came to Pechorin's mind after Maxim Maksimych's story about the conversation between Bela's brother and one of the guests named Kazbich, who also fell in love with the girl. The boy wanted to buy from Kazbich the best horse in all of Kabarda, promising any money for him and even offering to paint his sister for him. However, he refused, which pleased Pechorin.

Sometimes such an unimportant incident can lead to cruel consequences.

Pechorin promised the boy to steal a horse from Kazbich as a reward for Bela. The girl's brother brought her to the fortress and got a horse while Grigory distracted Kazbich, and disappeared, fearing the highlander's revenge. Kazbich grieved for a long time about the loss of his horse and it was difficult to survive the deceit, and someday his revenge should have poured out on the participants in the events.

Bela, imprisoned in a Russian fortress, was very homesick and did not accept Pechorin's courtship. Neither gifts nor Pechorin's tender words could melt the ice in the girl's heart. However, over time, she fell in love with him, but he began to cool off towards her.

Love, like a fire, goes out without food.

Pechorin again began to overcome boredom. He began to go hunting often and for a long time, leaving the girl alone.

Soon Kazbich kidnaps Bela. Hearing the girl's screams, Grigory and Maxim Maksimych rush in pursuit of the highlander. Kazbich, realizing that he will not be able to leave, abandons Bela, inflicting a mortal wound on her. The girl dies in Pechorin's arms 2 days later. Gregory takes the loss hard and never talks about Bel again. And after the funeral, he is transferred to another part. He meets Maxim Maksimych only after 5 years.

Maksim Maksimych

In a roadside hotel, the officer-narrator again encounters Maxim Maksimych. Also at this time, Pechorin arrives here, heading to Persia. In anticipation of a joyful meeting, the old commandant, through a footman, notifies Pechorin that he is waiting for him at home.

But Grigory was indifferent to the news of Maxim Maksimych and came only before leaving. At a meeting, Pechorin behaves coldly and immediately sets off on the road, citing a hurry.

The old man remained in place for a long time, even when the sound of wheels and bells was no longer heard.

Disappointed, the old commandant passes the magazine to Grigory to the narrator.

Officers' travel notes and Pechorin's diary turn into a novel. After the death of the hero, the narrator decides to publish the novel. Pechorin died on the way, returning home. The journal, which was written honestly, contained observations of the mind on mental anguish. The main question that worried Pechorin was whether a person is able to control his own destiny?

Taman

Being on a government trip, Pechorin stops in Taman, where he settles in an "unclean" house on the shore. A deaf old woman and a blind boy lived in the house.

At night, Gregory notices that the blind man has gone to the seashore, and he decides to follow him. There he sees a girl who, together with a boy, is waiting for someone from the sea. After some time, a boat approaches the shore, and an unknown man lowers the cargo, and those who are waiting help him. In the morning, Pechorin sees the girl again and gets to know her, asking about the incident at night. Having received no answer, Grigory threatened her to report the smuggling to the authorities, for these words he almost paid with his life.

At night, the girl called Gregory to the sea. Although her proposal was suspicious, he nevertheless went on a date and sailed away from the shore with the girl.

And the girl's cheek pressed against his cheek, and he felt her fiery breath on his face.

Suddenly, the girl attacked Gregory, trying to push him into the sea, but he resisted, threw the girl into the water and returned to the shore.

Then Pechorin again returned to where the smugglers were, and again saw them. However, now the man took the girl, and the blind boy was left alone. In the morning Grigory left Taman. There was regret in his soul that he disturbed the peace of the smugglers.

Princess Mary

Having been wounded, Grigory went to Pyatigorsk for treatment, where he meets an old acquaintance, Junker Grushnitsky, who is also being treated after being wounded. Despite the friendly relations, Grigory realized that when they collided on a narrow path, one of them would not say hello.

Of all the people staying in Pyatigorsk, the most notable were the princess and princess Ligovsky. Grushnitsky, who wanted to become the hero of a novel, fell in love with Mary and was looking for any excuse to get to know the princess and visit her house. The princess was in no hurry to get to know him, despite his romantic appearance. She thought that Grushnitsky had been demoted for taking part in the duel.

Pechorin, on the contrary, avoided meeting the princess in every possible way and did not want to visit her house, which surprised and even perplexed the Ligovskys, the local doctor Werner told him about this. Tired of boredom, Grigory decided to make Mary fall in love with him, knowing that Grushnitsky would be jealous. Such an idea seemed to Pechorin amusing and intriguing.

Grigory learns from the doctor that a sick relative is staying in the princess's house, according to the description of which it becomes clear to him that this is his beloved Vera. And after their meeting, old feelings wake up in his soul again. In order to meet often, without arousing suspicion among others, Vera suggests that Grigory visit the princess more often, courting Mary. For fun, Pechorin agrees.

During the ball, he saves Mary from a molesting officer, and he invites him to his house. However, during the visit, Gregory shows indifference to the princess, which causes her anger. She is angered by his coldness, which adds passion to the intended game of the gentleman.

After that, the princess begins to constantly think about Pechorin, and she is very tired of Grushnitsky's attention. Even the appearance of Grushnitsky in a new uniform does not impress her, she grows cold towards him. Grushnitsky, noticing her passion for a rival, begins to be jealous.

Offended by Pechorin's ridicule, Grushnitsky decides to teach him a lesson by gathering his friends: call convenient occasion to duel and not load his gun. By chance, Grigory finds out about his plan, and wants to expose Grushnitsky to ridicule. Gregory comes up with a cunning plan.

The princess falls in love with Gregory, Vera becomes jealous and asks him to promise her that he will not marry Mary. During the walk, the princess confesses her love to Pechorin. In response, the princess hears indifferent and indifferent words. This greatly offends her, and she hastily returns to her room. Pechorin rejoices at the victory, because he fell in love with the princess.

O selfishness! You are the lever that Archimedes wanted to use to lift the globe!

Rumors spread in the city about the imminent marriage of Pechorin to Mary. Werner warns Grigory, and the princess expects that he will soon ask for his daughter's heart and hand. But he denies the rumors, because freedom is dearer to him. Pechorin still meets with Vera.

One evening, when the townspeople were gathering for a magician's performance, Vera invites Gregory on a date. At night, descending from her balcony, Pechorin jumps onto the grass and stumbles upon people, among whom was Grushnitsky. A group of people pretend to have caught the thief, and a scuffle ensues, resulting in Pechorin escaping. Grushnitsky announces in the morning that Pechorin was in the princess's bedroom at night. Insulted, Gregory challenges his opponent to a duel. He tells Werner about the duel and Grushnitsky's insidious plan. The doctor agrees to act as his second.

Implementing his plan, Grushnitsky offers to shoot from 6 steps, Grigory offers to go to the rock, to the edge of the cliff, so that even a small wound becomes fatal. In this case, the found corpse will be attributed to the Circassians. The right of the 1st shot falls to Grushnitsky, who faces a difficult choice - to kill or confess to an act that does not honor the officer. But the officer must not retreat, he shoots and wounds the opponent in the leg. When Grigory's turn came, he advises Grushnitsky to pray and listen to his conscience. But the opponent did not flash a single drop of remorse. He asks for the duel to continue. Then Grigory informs the second about the unloaded pistol. The 2nd second refuses to change weapons, but Grushnitsky insisted on a replacement and demanded to continue the duel, because together they would not find a place on earth. Pechorin has to shoot.

Grushnitsky's death was attributed to the Circassians. Vera, having learned about the shooting, confesses to her husband that she loves Pechorin, and her husband takes her away from the city. After receiving a farewell note, Pechorin rushes after her, but does not catch up. Now he understands that Vera is the dearest and most beloved woman for him.

Reckless and useless race for lost happiness.

Pechorin's superiors find out that he took part in a duel and transfer his service to the Caucasus. Before leaving, Grigory visits the princess's house, who thanks him for saving the honor of her daughter and wonders why he did not propose to the princess, because she is beautiful and rich. But Pechorin asks for a conversation with Mary and admits that he never loved her and just laughed. He hears in response: "I hate you." An hour later, Gregory leaves the city.

Fatalist

One day, Grigory's battalion ends up in the village of the Cossacks. In the evening, the officers occupied themselves with playing cards, and one day a conversation began between them about fate - is it written in heaven or not, is life and death predetermined? They begin to argue, and those present are divided into those who are against and those who are for.

Fatalist officer Vulich, offers to test whether people are able to dispose of themselves own life, or a fateful minute is prepared for everyone. Grigory announces a bet, and Vulich agrees - if he is destined to die today, then he will die, if not, he will be alive.

Taking a pistol, Vulich shocked everyone present. Gregory, seeing the seal of death in the eyes of the madman, told him that death awaited him today. But after the shot, there was a misfire. Everyone thought that the weapon was not loaded. But when Vulich shoots to the side, he pierces his cap. Soon the officers disperse, Grigory does not understand why he foresaw the death of Vulich.

Often, an unusual imprint of fate appears on a human face, which soon awaits death, so it is difficult to be mistaken.

In the morning, Pechorin learns that Vulich was hacked to death with a saber when he was returning home. So Gregory managed to predict fate. The Cossack who killed Vulich is quickly found, but he locks himself in the house, threatening to shoot. An unusual thought comes to Gregory: he decides to try his luck. He enters the house, the Cossack shoots, but does not touch the epaulette. Those who came to help twist and take away the Cossack. Gregory is felt like a hero.

Who knows whether he is convinced of what or not? Often people take mistakes of the mind or deceit of the senses for beliefs ...

Returning to the fortress, Gregory tells the old commandant about the events and asks about his belief in predestination. When asked, the staff captain suggested that weapons often misfire, and people are spelled in the same way.

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

The sun was already beginning to hide behind the snowy ridge when I drove into the Koishaur valley. The Ossetian cab driver tirelessly drove the horses in order to have time to climb the Koishaur mountain before nightfall, and sang songs at the top of his voice. What a glorious place this valley is! On all sides, impregnable mountains, 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 like a silver thread and sparkles like a snake I use my 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 epaulet 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 replied.

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?

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

- After all, such a people! - he said, - and he doesn’t know how to name bread in Russian, but he learned: “Officer, give me some vodka!” 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 his finger at me. high mountain rising 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 flickered, when a damp, cold wind smelled, the gorge hummed and a fine rain began to fall. I had hardly put on my cloak when the snow began to fall. I looked with reverence at the staff captain ...

“We’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.

– 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. - 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, I stood there for ten years in a fortress with a company, at Kamenny Brod, - 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! It used to be...

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 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’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 fall, a transport with provisions arrived; there was an officer in the transport, a young man of about twenty-five. He came to me in full uniform and announced that he was ordered to stay with me in the fortress. He was so thin, white, his uniform was so brand new that I immediately guessed that he had recently been in the Caucasus with us. “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; it happened that for whole hours you wouldn’t get a word, but sometimes, as soon as you start talking, you’ll tear your tummies with laughter ... Yes, sir, he was strange with big people, and he must be a rich man: how many different expensive little things he had! ..

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

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

– 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 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, the 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 much best opinion about Circassians,” Grigory Aleksandrovich told me. "Wait!" I replied smiling. I had mine on my mind.

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

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

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

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

- Yes, it seems like this: “Slender, they say, are our young 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 answered.

And sure enough, she was pretty: tall, thin, her eyes black, like those of a mountain chamois, looked into our souls. Pechorin did not take his eyes off her in thought, and she often looked at him from under her brows. Only Pechorin was not alone in admiring the pretty princess: from the corner of the room two other eyes, motionless, fiery, looked at her. I began to peer and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich. He, you know, was not that peaceful, not that peaceful. There were many suspicions of him, although he was not seen in any pranks. He used to bring rams to our fortress and sell them cheap, but he never bargained: whatever he asks, come on, even slaughter, he won’t give in. They said about him that he loves to drag himself to 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 now I look at this horse: black as pitch, legs - strings, and eyes no worse than Bela's; what a power! jump at least fifty miles; and already left - like a dog running after the owner, the voice even knew him! Sometimes he never ties her up. What a rogue horse!

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

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

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

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

"A! Kazbich! – I thought and remembered 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 cries of giaurs behind me, and in front of me was a dense forest. I lay down on the saddle, entrusted myself to Allah, and for the first time in my life insulted the horse with a blow of the whip. Like a bird he dived between the branches; sharp thorns tore my clothes, dry branches of elm beat me in the face. My horse jumped over the stumps, tore the bushes with his chest. It would have been better for me to leave him at the edge of the forest and hide on foot in the forest, but it was a pity to part with him, and the prophet rewarded me. Several bullets screeched over my head; I could already hear how the dismounted Cossacks were running in the footsteps... Suddenly there was a deep pothole in front of me; my horse became thoughtful - and jumped. His hind hooves broke off the opposite bank, and he hung on his front legs; I dropped the reins and flew into the ravine; this saved my horse: he jumped out. The Cossacks saw all this, only not one of them came down to look for me: they probably thought that I had killed myself, and I heard how they rushed to catch my horse. My heart bled; I crawled along the thick grass along the ravine - I look: the forest is over, several Cossacks leave it for a clearing, and now my Karagyoz jumps right to them; everyone rushed after him with a cry; for a long, long time they chased after him, especially once or twice he almost threw a lasso around his neck; I trembled, lowered my eyes, and began to pray. After a few moments I 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 a horse running along the bank of the ravine, snorting, neighing and beating its 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 you everything 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 won't change, he won't cheat.

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

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

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

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

- Wait, 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 got on horseback and rode home.

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

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

- And not injured? I asked.

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

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

– What is it? Tell me, please.

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

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

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

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

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

“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!”

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

Azamat was silent.

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

Azamat flared up.

- And my father? - he said.

Does he never leave?

- Is it true…

- Agree?..

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

- The first time Kazbich comes here; he promised to bring 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! I later 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 should have been punished. 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...

- Fine! - 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 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 ...”

- No! Urus yaman, yaman! - he roared and rushed out like a wild leopard. In two leaps he was already in the yard; at the gates of the fortress, a sentry blocked his 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 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.

- Doesn't 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 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! - said Pechorin, rising, - after all, you 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 today in vain; sits in a corner, wrapped in a veil, does not speak or look: shy, like a wild chamois. I hired our maid: she knows Tatar, will follow her and accustom her to the idea that she is mine, because she will belong to no one but me,” he added, banging his fist on the table. I agreed to this too... What do you want me to do? There are people with whom you must definitely agree.

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

- 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 clerk and aroused her eloquence. Ah, gifts! what a woman won't do for a colored rag!.. Well, yes, that's aside... Grigory Alexandrovich fought with her for a long time; meanwhile, he studied in Tatar, and she began to understand ours. Little by little she learned to look at him, at first frowningly, sideways, 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, then 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! Pechorin continued, “you see how much I love you; I am ready to give everything to cheer you up: I want you to be happy; and if you are sad again, then I will die. Tell me, will you have more fun?

She became thoughtful, never taking her black eyes off him, then smiled kindly and nodded her head in agreement. He took her hand and began to persuade her to kiss him; she weakly defended herself and only repeated: "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, Maxim Maksimych! - he said to me, showing the gifts, - can an Asian beauty stand against such a battery?

“You don’t know Circassian women,” I answered, “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! 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 for about three versts beyond the aul; the old man was returning from a futile search for his daughter; bridle him behind, - it was at dusk, - he rode thoughtfully at a pace, when suddenly Kazbich, like a cat, dived from behind a bush, jumped 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 the prediction of my companion, the weather cleared up and promised us 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 writhing 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 ran cool wind from the east, 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 amused that I was so high above the world: the feeling is childish, I do not argue, but, moving away from the conditions of society and approaching nature, we involuntarily become children; everything acquired falls away from the soul, and it becomes again such as it once was, and, surely, will someday be again. Anyone who happened, like me, to wander through the desert mountains, and for a long, long time peer into their bizarre images, and eagerly swallow the life-giving air spilled in their gorges, he, of course, will understand my desire to convey, tell, draw these magical pictures. Finally, we climbed the Gud-mountain, stopped and looked around: a gray cloud hung on it, and its cold breath threatened a coming 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 there was such an abyss that the whole village of Ossetians living at the bottom of it seemed like a swallow's nest; I shuddered, thinking that often here, in the dead of night, along this road, where two wagons cannot pass, some courier passes ten times a year without getting out of his shaky carriage. One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from Yaroslavl, the other was an Ossetian: the Ossetian led the native by the bridle with all possible precautions, having unharnessed the carry-aways in advance - and our careless rusak 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 they are: after all, this is not the first time for us, ”and he was right: we certainly could not have reached it, but nevertheless we arrived, and if all people reasoned more, they would be convinced that life is not worth taking care of it so much ...

But maybe you want to know the end of Bela's story? Firstly, I am not writing a story, but travel notes; consequently, I cannot force the staff captain to tell before he actually began to tell. So, wait, or if you like, turn a few pages, but I do not advise you to do this, because crossing the Cross Mountain (or, as the scholar Gamba calls it, le mont St.-Christophe) is worthy of your curiosity. So, we went down from Good Mountain to the Devil's Valley ... That's a romantic name! You can 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; part of the narrow road was 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, which waves, one thicker and tighter, ran from the east ... By the way, there is a strange, but universal legend about this cross, that Emperor Peter I set it up, 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, nothing is visible around, only fog and snow; just look that we will fall into the abyss or sit in a slum, and there lower, tea, Baydara played out so much that you won’t move. This is Asia for me! that people, that rivers - you can’t rely on anything!

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

“Your honor,” 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 staff captain, - 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...

- I am glad.

“It’s good for you to rejoice, but I’m really, really sad, as I remember. Nice was the girl, this Bela! I finally got used to her as much as I would to a daughter, and she loved me. I must tell you that I have no family: I have not had any news of my father and mother for twelve years, and I did not 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 a noble assembly, about twenty years ago - but where are they! not at all! Grigory Alexandrovich dressed her up like a doll, cherished and cherished her; and she has become so prettier with us that it’s a miracle; The tan came off her face and hands, a blush broke out on her cheeks ... What a cheerful one she used to be, and everyone was making fun of me, the naughty one ... God forgive her! ..

- And what, 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, it’s true that a black cat slipped between them!

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

- Where is Pechorin? I asked.

- On the hunt.

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

Finally, I said to her: “Do you want to go for a walk on the rampart? 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 high place, and the view was beautiful from the shaft; 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 is riding out of the forest on a gray horse, getting closer and closer, and, finally, he stopped on the other side of the river, a hundred fathoms from us, and began to circle his horse like a mad one. What a parable!

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

She looked up and screamed:

- This is Kazbich! ..

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

“This is my father's horse,” 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 get me this fellow, 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 they were starting negotiations 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 are you sighing about, Bela? are you sad?" - "No!" “Do you want anything?” - "No!" “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, Maxim Maksimych,” he answered, “I have an unhappy character; Whether my upbringing made me that way, 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 ignorant, 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: a month later I was so used to their buzzing and to the proximity of death that, really, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I 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'm grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes, I'll give my life for her - only I'm bored with her ... Whether I'm a fool or a villain, I don't know; but it is true that I am also very pitiable, maybe more than she: in me the soul is corrupted by light, the imagination is restless, the heart is insatiable; everything is not enough for me: I get used to sadness just as easily as to pleasure, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have only one option: to travel. As soon as possible, I will go - just not to Europe, God forbid! - I'll go to America, to Arabia, to India - maybe I'll die somewhere on the road! At least I am sure that this last consolation will not soon be exhausted, with the help of storms and bad roads. 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 remark of the staff member was more excusable: in order to abstain from wine, he, of course, tried to convince himself that all the misfortunes in the world come from drunkenness.

In the meantime, he continued his story thus:

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

Once Pechorin persuades me to go with him to the boar; I denied for a long time: well, what a curiosity a wild boar was to me! However, he took me with him. We took about five soldiers and left early in the morning. Until ten o'clock they darted through the reeds and through the forest - there was no 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! always inappropriately excited ... But the shot rang out, and the bullet broke the horse's hind leg: in the heat of the moment she made another ten jumps, stumbled and fell to her knees; Kazbich jumped off, and then we saw that he was holding a woman wrapped in a veil in his arms ... It was Bela ... poor Bela! He shouted something to us in his own way and raised a dagger over her ... There was nothing to delay: I, in turn, fired at random; sure, the bullet hit him in the shoulder, because suddenly he lowered his arm ... When the smoke cleared, a wounded horse lay 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." - "Is it true!" - I said, and we let the horses run at full speed. A crowd of people was waiting for us at the gates of the fortress; We carefully carried the wounded woman to Pechorin and sent for 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 here's how: despite the prohibition of Pechorin, she left the fortress to the river. It was, you know, very hot; she sat down on a rock and put her feet in the water. Here Kazbich crept up, - the tsap-scratch her, clamped his mouth and dragged him into the bushes, and there he jumped on a horse, and traction! In the meantime, she managed to scream, the sentries were alarmed, fired, but past, and we just arrived in time.

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

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

And Bela died?

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

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

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

By morning the delirium had passed; for an hour she lay motionless, pale, and in such weakness that one could hardly notice that she was breathing; then she felt better, and she began to talk, but what do you think about?.. Such a thought will only come to a dying person! It occurred to me to baptize her before her death; I offered it to her; she looked at me in indecision and for a long time could not utter a word; finally answered that she would die in the faith in which she was born. So the whole day passed. How she has changed that day! her pale cheeks were sunken, her eyes grew large, her lips burned. She felt an inner heat, as if she had a red-hot iron in her chest.

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

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

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

He turned pale as a sheet, grabbed a glass, poured it and gave it to her. I closed my eyes with my hands and began to read a prayer, I don’t remember which one… Yes, father, I saw a lot of people dying in hospitals and on the battlefield, but it’s not the same, not at all! but it seems that I loved her like a father ... well, God forgive her! .. And really say: what am I to remember me before death?

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

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

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

- And what about Pechorin? I asked.

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

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

I didn't interrupt him or listen.

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

“Have you heard what happened to Kazbich?” I asked.

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

In Kobi we parted ways with Maksim Maksimych; I went by post, and he, because of the heavy luggage, could not follow me. We did not hope to meet again, but we met, and if you like, I will tell you: this is a whole story ... Admit, however, that Maxim Maksimych is a man worthy of respect?.. If you confess this, then I will be fully rewarded for my story, perhaps too long.