A Hero of Our Time [62]
dreadfully since I saw you last" . . .
"You, too, have changed," she answered, casting a rapid glance at him, in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.
"I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible! Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for ever."
"Stop" . . .
"But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often listened to with con- descension -- and just recently, too?" . . .
"Because I do not like repetitions," she answered, laughing.
"Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken! . . . I thought, fool that I was, that these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope. . . No, it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that contemptible soldier's cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for your attention" . . .
"As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you" . . .
At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a little, and went on rapidly:
"Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur Grushnitski much better?" . . .
"I do not agree with you," I answered: "he is more youthful-looking still in his uniform."
That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself off.
"Confess now," I said to Princess Mary: "that although he has always been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be inter- esting . . . in the grey cloak?" . . .
She cast her eyes down and made no reply.
Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes, sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third quadrille she had begun to hate him.
"I did not expect this from you," he said, coming up to me and taking my arm.
"What?"
"You are going to dance the mazurka with her?" he asked in a solemn tone. "She ad- mitted it" . . .
"Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it"?*
"Of course not. . . I ought to have expected such a thing from that chit -- that flirt. . . I will have my revenge, though!"
"You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any longer?" . . .
"But why give me hopes?"
"Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something -- that I can understand! But who ever hopes?"
"You have won the wager, but not quite," he said, with a malignant smile.
The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me -- all the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her -- she will want to twice as much.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away without saying a word.
"I shall sleep badly to-night," she said to me when the mazurka was over.
"Grushnitski is to blame for that."
"Oh, no!"
And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.
The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was dark and nobody could see.
I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.
The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air. . .
I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one's guard, to catch every
"You, too, have changed," she answered, casting a rapid glance at him, in which he was unable to detect the latent sneer.
"I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that such a thing is impossible! Whoever has seen you once will bear your divine image with him for ever."
"Stop" . . .
"But why will you not let me say to-night what you have so often listened to with con- descension -- and just recently, too?" . . .
"Because I do not like repetitions," she answered, laughing.
"Oh! I have been bitterly mistaken! . . . I thought, fool that I was, that these epaulettes, at least, would give me the right to hope. . . No, it would have been better for me to have remained for ever in that contemptible soldier's cloak, to which, probably, I was indebted for your attention" . . .
"As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more becoming to you" . . .
At that moment I went up and bowed to Princess Mary. She blushed a little, and went on rapidly:
"Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey cloak suits Monsieur Grushnitski much better?" . . .
"I do not agree with you," I answered: "he is more youthful-looking still in his uniform."
That was a blow which Grushnitski could not bear: like all boys, he has pretensions to being an old man; he thinks that the deep traces of passions upon his countenance take the place of the lines scored by Time. He cast a furious glance at me, stamped his foot, and took himself off.
"Confess now," I said to Princess Mary: "that although he has always been most ridiculous, yet not so long ago he seemed to you to be inter- esting . . . in the grey cloak?" . . .
She cast her eyes down and made no reply.
Grushnitski followed the Princess about during the whole evening and danced either with her or vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes, sighed, and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. After the third quadrille she had begun to hate him.
"I did not expect this from you," he said, coming up to me and taking my arm.
"What?"
"You are going to dance the mazurka with her?" he asked in a solemn tone. "She ad- mitted it" . . .
"Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it"?*
"Of course not. . . I ought to have expected such a thing from that chit -- that flirt. . . I will have my revenge, though!"
"You should lay the blame on your cloak, or your epaulettes, but why accuse her? What fault is it of hers that she does not like you any longer?" . . .
"But why give me hopes?"
"Why did you hope? To desire and to strive after something -- that I can understand! But who ever hopes?"
"You have won the wager, but not quite," he said, with a malignant smile.
The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one but the Princess, other cavaliers chose her every minute: obviously a conspiracy against me -- all the better! She wants to talk to me, they are preventing her -- she will want to twice as much.
I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second time she drew it away without saying a word.
"I shall sleep badly to-night," she said to me when the mazurka was over.
"Grushnitski is to blame for that."
"Oh, no!"
And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I promised myself that I would not fail to kiss her hand that evening.
The guests began to disperse. As I was handing Princess Mary into her carriage, I rapidly pressed her little hand to my lips. The night was dark and nobody could see.
I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with myself.
The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were having supper at the large table. As I came in, they all fell silent: evidently they had been talking about me. Since the last ball many of them have been sulky with me, especially the captain of dragoons; and now, it seems, a hostile gang is actually being formed against me, under the command of Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courageous air. . .
I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in the Christian sense. They amuse me, stir my blood. To be always on one's guard, to catch every