Seeker of Lost Time as they call it. Marcel Proust

"Princess Ligovskaya" "Princess Ligovskaya", unfinished socio-psychological. novel by L. (1836). The setting is St. Petersburg in the 1830s, the plot is based on the history of relationships ch. hero guards officer Pechorin with his former lover, Prince. Vera Ligovskaya and the conflict between Pechorin and the poor official from the nobility Krasinsky. The image of Pechorin is largely autobiographical. The storyline of Pechorin - Negurov reproduces L.’s relationship with E.A. Sushkova (cf. L.’s letter to A.M. Vereshchagina, spring 1835). Prototypes of Vera and the book. Ligovsky - V. A. Lopukhina and her husband N. F. Bakhmetyev (cf. the same names in the drama “Two Brothers”, Jan. 1836). Pechorin’s biography is built parallel to the author’s personal biography: “... instead of the tailcoat of a Moscow youth or a student’s frock coat, I wear a uniform with epaulettes...” (VI, 152). At the same time, Pechorin is already an attempt to create character, a desire for a certain generalization. There are clear certain typical features in it. traits of a secular young man: cynical. skepticism, internal emptiness, spiritual callousness, the desire to play a noticeable role in the world, which he despises. At the same time, Pechorin is an extraordinary person; independence of judgment, analytical intelligence, critical ability comprehension of reality sets him apart from the environment. The figure of Pechorin was probably suggested by “Eugene Onegin”, and L. deliberately emphasizes this connection: see the epigraph to Chapter. 1 (“Go! - go! there was a scream!”); a reminiscence from Pushkin and the very name Pechorin, which, as V. G. Belinsky noted, “invisibly” connects him with Onegin. In the manuscript chap. 1 - characteristic typo: instead of “Pechorin” L. wrote “Evgeniy”.

Pechorin's trotter knocks down Krasinski. Ill. D. N. Kardovsky. Dry brush. 1913.

Pechorin in the novel is opposed by Krasinsky. Perhaps there was some kind of prototype for this image: during the period of work on the novel, L. constantly met with S.A.’s friends and colleagues. Raevsky - officials of the state department. property. As a result of these communications, the image of a minor official probably arose and a plot conflict that was social in nature was found - a clash between an impoverished nobleman and virtually deprived of class privileges and a brilliant aristocratic guardsman. Krasinsky is described in contrast to the image of Pechorin: the latter is short and ugly, while Krasinsky “ tall "and "amazingly good-looking" (VI, 132). Krasinski’s intense worldview and his intense emotionality make him similar to the “frantic” heroes of early L. However, in the artist’s work. system of social and everyday realism, “violent” impulses inevitably lost their scale and were transformed into “petty hatred” (VI, 183) or into social egoism with very limited life goals: “Money, money and money alone, what do they need beauty, intelligence and heart? Oh, I will certainly be rich, no matter what, and then I will force this society to give me due justice” (VI, 182-83). This recognition reveals in Krasinsky not so much a kinship with the “little” Gogol official, but with that protester against humiliation, striving to get “to the top”, a resident of a big city, who would later be described by F. M. Dostoevsky. The emerging tendency in this image towards the reduction of the “furious” hero apparently contradicted the author’s intentions in relation to Krasinski; in any case, L. takes measures to prevent the debunking of his hero and to emphasize his significance. This task is served, in particular, by the method of slow revelation of Krasinski’s character, creating an aura of a certain amount of mystery around him. Pechorin is almost completely characterized in the first chapter: the author gives him time to come home and immediately introduces him to the reader; what follows - his biography and the episodes characterizing him in the development of the action - only complements the characterization “given” from the very first steps. It’s different with Krasinski: at first he is shown incompletely - an unnoticed victim of a street incident, a poor official without individual character traits. A description of his appearance is given at his second appearance (chapter 2), but even here he is still a “stranger,” “some young man.” His name appears in ch. 7, and only in the following chapters does he become involved in the circle of actions. persons of the novel, already associated with them by a certain role. The gradual exposition of Krasinski's character corresponds to the dynamics of the increase in the plot conflict. Mutual enmity, arising from a random incident, inevitably grows as a result of social inequality and psychology. incompatibility of heroes. Apparently, ch. Krasinski's role was planned later; in the written chapters there are signs that the social conflict should have been accompanied by the love rivalry of the two chapters. valid persons “Princess Ligovskaya” is a step forward on L.’s path to realism. prose. Before this, L. wrote only one prose book. prod. - “Vadim”; at the same time, he already had a wealth of lyrical experience. poet and playwright. It is in these areas, especially in prose. dramaturgy, creative arts were formed. principles that L. had to develop into social psychology. narration: methods of objectification of actions. persons, methods of psychol. delineation of character, form of dialogue, and to a certain extent, plot composition. organization of the work. The formation of narration. technology proceeded extremely intensively, the need for a transition to a new art. system arose in L. before he had time to exhaust one or another plot idea (see Prose). Hence the incompleteness of the prose. L.'s experiments, with the exception of “Hero of Our Time,” in which his style finally found its completeness. The defining factor for “Princess...” was L.’s refusal of romanticism. symbolism of images loosely related to the setting and development of the plot, as was the case in “Vadim”. Now characters are determined by the situation and environment that determine their psyche and actions. However, this trend is still far from over. The entire system of images bears the stamp of transitivity; this especially applies to the central character: unlike in “Vadim,” this will no longer be excluded. hero, unlike “Hero...” - he is not yet endowed with clearly expressed features of social psychology. Pechorin has many traits inherited from Vadim, although in a greatly weakened form. Vadim is grotesquely ugly, Pechorin is only ugly and “awkward”; Vadim is exceptional, Pechorin is just unusual, but this unusualness goes back to the demonism of his predecessor: “in the world they argued that his language was evil and dangerous...”, in his face - “deep traces of the past and wonderful promises of the future... the crowd she said that there was something in his smile, in his strangely sparkling eyes...” (VI, 124; characterizing Vadim, L. more than once drew the reader’s attention to the “gaze” of his hero). Romantic the element, even some signs of “demonism,” is definitely present in Pechorin’s characterization. But the proportion is pathetic. the romanticism in “Vadim” and in “Princess...” is incommensurable: Vadim opposes the entire group of everyday characters; Pechorin is characterized in the same style as other actors. persons, by virtue of this he is included in general environment without standing out from it. In narration. The novel's technique reveals a variety of socio-psychological means. character revelation. L. refuses to introduce confession and other forms of lyricism. self-outpouring of the hero and widely uses methods of external detection of internal. states (see Psychologism). The harmful influence of “light” is due to many. complex emotional and psychological hero complexes. In a world of deformed social relations“The purest love is half mixed with pride,” love is intertwined with hatred, compassion with sadism, spontaneously. impulses of feelings - with petty calculations.

Collision in a restaurant. Autolithography by I. V. Shabanov. 1941

The secondary participants in the action of the novel are presented as a “gallery” of types with the help of short epigrammatic texts. sketches. Their characteristics are superior. not psychological, but caricature, basically. on external description exterior, symbolizing the interior. image content. This mass characteristic The characters are especially clear in the scene of the ball in the house of Baroness R** (chapter 9). Satiric. the image of “light” will distinguish. feature of the novel. Mass character and some typological paradise. The “herd nature” of the characters is ironically conveyed by the uniformity of syntax. segments, which are introduced with the same type of beginning: “here was everything that is best in St. Petersburg...”, “here were five or six of our home-grown diplomats...”, etc. Here L.’s stylistic manner openly approaches Pushkin’s (cf.: “However, here was the color of the capital... / There were elderly ladies here...” - “Eugene Onegin”, Chapter 8) and Gogol’s (“Nevsky Prospekt”).

Lunch at the Pechorins'. Ill. D. N. Kardovsky. Mascara. 1914

In the description of St. Petersburg. Life and society of L. follows partly the poetics of Gogol’s stories and “physiology”, partly the tradition of the “secular story”. There is no doubt about his interest in depicting the everyday realities of the Nikolaev capital. Not afraid of glaring social contrasts, he leads the reader into the ballrooms and dirty courtyards of St. Petersburg. outskirts, into the closet of an official and into the living room of an aristocrat, but at the same time L. only partially anticipates the artist. natural school practice. He does not strive to pile up and expose the details of everyday life; does not slow down the rhythm of the narrative, does not stop at micro-analysis of the surrounding nature, but encourages the reader to see the most characteristic features of the painted picture. Certain principles of the “secular” story, with its increased interest in protocol authenticity, are reflected in the fact that the time of action of the novel is determined with an accuracy of the day and minute, it is associated with the events of the society chronicle known to the reader. The beginning of the action is precisely indicated: “In 1833, December 21st at 4 o’clock... note the day and hour...” (VI, 122). It is further reported: “They gave Fenella (4th performance)” (VI, 130); or “...Bryullov’s painting: “The Last Day of Pompeii” goes to St. Petersburg” (VI, 164; the painting was brought at the beginning of 1834). In the same series of precise information is L.’s concern for the topography of the action: “along Voznesenskaya Street,” “they turned onto Nevsky, from Nevsky to Karavannaya, from there..., then right along Fontanka” (VI, 122-23). Finally, the tale style of narration emerging in the novel is associated with the traditions of the “secular” story: it is characterized by a wider use of colloquial vocabulary and a more noticeable admixture of syntactics. constructions of live oral speech with its everyday intonations, greater expression than in the book-descriptive style. stories of that time. In “Princess...” the main narrative was formed. technique and style, certain conflicts and situations emerged, which L. used in “Hero...”. Petersburg Pechorin's life outwardly looks like the prehistory of "Hero...", where there are several. allusions to it in the text. However, this is not a single biography of the same person: the connection between works. not plot, but genetic, and “Princess...” should be considered as a stage in the formation of the concept of a novel about modern times. L. hero. The beginning of the manuscript “Princess...” - L.’s autograph; from ser. Ch. III it was written by Raevsky’s hand; in ch. Part IV of the text - by L.'s hand; then again Raevsky's handwriting. This is how several things change. times - to the end, with the exception of two passages in ch. VII and IX, written by the hand of A.P. Shan-Girey. The text written by Raevsky and Shan-Girey is edited by L. In total, 19 handwritten sheets were written by L. total number- 57. “The romance that you and I began,” he wrote to Raevsky in 1838, “has dragged on and is unlikely to end, because circumstances ... have changed, and I, you know, in this case cannot deviate from the truth” (VI, 445). Judging by the autobiographical episodes. character, the novel began in 1836 after the drama “Two Brothers”. Raevsky at that time lived with L. in St. Petersburg. apartment with E. A. Arsenyeva on Sadovaya. Work on the novel was interrupted by the arrest and exile of both at the beginning. 1837 in connection with verse. L. on the death of Pushkin. By that time, 9 chapters had been written; As can be seen from the letter, work on the novel did not resume. V. Kh. Khokhryakov asked questions in the 50s. Raevsky about the degree of his participation in the creation of the novel and wrote down: “S Af says that he wrote only under Lermontov’s dictation.” This is consistent with an objective analysis of style, poetics and ideology. features of the novel. The story was illustrated by V. G. Bekhteev, N. V. Zaretsky, D. N. Kardovsky, V. I. Komarov, M. V. Ushakov-Poskochin, I. V. Shabanov. Autograph - GPB, Collection. manuscripts L., No. 5, pp. 1-57. The title “Princess Ligovskaya” was apparently added later: at first, instead of the title, L. wrote in capital letters: “Roman.” In the margins of the autograph are drawings by L. For the first time - “RV”, 1882, v. 157, Jan., with distortions.

Lit.: Belkina, With. 516-51; Vinogradov V.V., p. 542-64; Tomashevsky B.V., p. 484-95, 507; Manuilov(7), p. 310-12; Manuilov(9), p. 169-88; Mikhailova E. N. (2), p. 129-202; Andronikov I. L., Day L..., “LG”, 1964, September 15; Eikhenbaum(12), p. 69-72; Friedlander, With. 37-49; Fedorov(2), p. 200-207; Udodov(2), p. 539-42.

I. A. Kryazhimskaya, L. M. Arinshtein Lermontov Encyclopedia / USSR Academy of Sciences. Institute rus. lit. (Pushkin. House); Scientific-ed. Council of the publishing house "Sov. Encycl."; Ch. ed. Manuilov V. A., Editorial Board: Andronikov I. L., Bazanov V. G., Bushmin A. S., Vatsuro V. E., Zhdanov V. V., Khrapchenko M. B. - M.: Sov. Encycl., 1981

See what “Princess Ligovskaya” is in other dictionaries:

Princess Ligovskaya- an unfinished novel in nine chapters. Work on the novel dates back to 1835 and represents Lermontov's first attempt to create the type that found full expression in the Hero of Our Time. The novel has an autobiographical meaning. Relationship… … Dictionary of literary types

Ligovskaya, Princess Vera Dmitrievna ("Princess Ligovskaya")- See also Woman, twenty-two years old, average female height, blonde, with black eyes. She was not a beauty, although her features were quite regular. The oval of the face is completely attic and the transparency of the skin is extraordinary. Continuous... ... Dictionary of literary types

Vera ("Princess Ligovskaya")- See also. princess... Dictionary of literary types

Baron ("Princess Ligovskaya")- See also >> A fat, bald gentleman in a uniform tailcoat, with huge bloodshot eyes and an endless wide smile, the Baron for some reason did not understand Russian well, although he was born in Russia; Ligovsky explained in detail his... ... Dictionary of literary types

Branicki ("Princess Ligovskaya")- See also Artillery officer, Pechorin’s friend. A clever young man; noticeably distinguished Pechorin's sister; knew how to skillfully enliven society with casual chatter, but B.’s conversation with his friend was incoherent and empty, like everyone else’s conversations... ... Dictionary of literary types

Gorshenkov ("Princess Ligovskaya")- See also His surname was Little Russian, although instead of Gorshenko he called himself Gorshenkov. He was of decent height and so thin that his English-cut tailcoat hung on his shoulders as if on a coat rack. A stiff satin tie propped up his angular... ... Dictionary of literary types

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The formation of psychologism (the novel “Princess of Lithuania”)

Lermontov did not finish the novel “Princess of Lithuania”. There are many reasons for this, both personal and creative reasons.

The beginning of work on the novel dates back to 1836. It reflected the facts of the poet’s personal fate: the line “Pechorin - Negurova” is autobiographical, Lermontov’s love for Varvara Lopukhina served as the basis for the collision “Pechorin - Vera Litovskaya”, some turns of Lermontov’s fate are guessed in the biography of the main character ( the need to change the student's frock coat to a military uniform).

Overt autobiography served as an obstacle to the publication of the novel. But this was the peculiarity of Lermontov’s thinking: to look at oneself from the outside, sharpening, to embody in the image of a hero that peculiarity of one’s appearance, character, fate that caused suffering in the poet’s soul. Therefore, his Vadim (the novel of the same name) is not just ugly, but ugly; Pechorin is also ugly and unhappy in love (in “Princess of Lithuania”); a feud between father and grandmother causes the death of the hero of the drama “People and Passions,” etc.

But there are still deeper reasons that prompted Lermontov to stop working on the novel. The obstacle was the very type of conflict identified in the work.

The novel outlines two

storylines: love and social. And at the same time, the two heroes begin to occupy an equal, independent position in the conflict of the work.

And what a hero! Pechorin is a representative of secular Petersburg, noble and rich from birth, combining cynicism, the ability to manipulate other people's destinies and the ability to painfully love and suffer. He is endowed with an extraordinary analytical mind, which allows him to see the hidden motives of people’s actions and counteract them, manipulate the crowd, but at the same time he is a lonely, suffering, misunderstood hero.

And Krasinski is a “little man” with exorbitant social ambitions, a “monomaniac”, captured by the idea of ​​​​breaking into the highest rungs of the social ladder. Each of these figures pulled behind them a special chain of conflicts and characters.

Outside circumstances also intervened in the process of creating the work. In 1837, Lermontov was arrested for the poem “The Death of a Poet” and then exiled to the Caucasus.

“The Princess of Lithuania” would be published only in 1882; it could not have influenced the literary process of Lermontov’s time. One can only be amazed at how Lermontov was ahead of his time, how he anticipated the paths along which Russian literature would develop starting in the 40s of the 19th century, so it is impossible to overestimate the role of this work in the formation of Lermontov’s psychologism. It was in this novel that the narrative technique, style, and methods of psychological depiction were formed, which Lermontov later uses in “A Hero of Our Time.”

What is unique about Lermontov’s psychological manner?

Lermontov clearly builds on Pushkin’s methods of psychological depiction. In Belkin's Tales, for example, the movements of the heroes' souls clearly appear through their actions. Every gesture and step of the hero is a consequence of the emotions that he experiences. In the episode with money, Samson Vyrin's actions reflect what is happening in his soul. It is this direct connection between internal and external that Lermontov violates. His psychologism grows out of the discrepancy between action and experience. Liza Negurova receives an anonymous letter that deeply offends her and destroys all hopes of marriage. But the heroine’s feelings do not break through. Lermontov emphasizes the atypicality of Negurova’s reaction to the letter (“with it would have been hysterical otherwise."

The only action in which her reaction to the content of the letter is manifested is T his burning. Restraint in expressing feelings leads to the inability to understand what is really happening to the heroine at the moment, hence the narrator’s remarks: “...if you stood at her head, you would think that she was sleeping calmly and serenely.”

An observer could not have guessed the true course of Negurova’s experiences. Such a stingy form of manifestation of feelings is acquired by the skill of secular pretense. More than once Lisa will demonstrate this ability not to reveal her experiences, to hide her feelings under the guise of social politeness. This skill is acquired painfully, but if a person is forced to live in the world, he is forced to master it to perfection. It is noteworthy that Vera Litovskaya, after a dangerous conversation with Pechorin during lunch, seeks solitude to cope with her anxiety. Only alone with herself can she give vent to her feelings, but And here a glance at the light comes in: “.“She cried, cried bitterly, until it occurred to her that with red eyes it would be awkward to appear in the living room.” By the time a third party (Pechorin’s sister Varenka) appears, she is already completely in control of herself. Vera is just entering the St. Petersburg world, she has yet to master all the subtleties of secular etiquette, her habit of “ruling herself” has not yet been brought to automatism.

Small talk in “The Princess of Lithuania” becomes not the background against which the characters are explained, but a cover that allows them to speak out and argue without moving on to a direct explanation or clarification of relationships (this is how a hidden dialogue arises). It turns out that due to the emptiness and emptiness of small talk, it can be given any meaning, used as a screen for a subtle psychological duel. And if traditional small talk is instantly forgotten due to the insignificance of its content, then the dialogue hidden in it, on the contrary, sinks into the consciousness of the heroes for a long time and does not let them go; they will return to its continuation again and again.

Small talk is characterized by fragmentation, logical disconnection of parts, kaleidoscopicity. As a rule, it develops in spurts and constantly tends to fade; it can stop at any moment.

The hidden dialogue, despite its external fragmentation, seems integral, having its own logic of development, but its dynamics are not a movement towards some end, but rather a movement in a circle.

As we see, the source of psychologism is the discrepancy between words and feelings, movements of the soul and action; it is also due to the fluidity of experiences.

Lermontov depicts the inner world of a person as a change of various, often opposing mental states. Lermontov’s man “peers” intently into himself, into his soul. He records the dynamics of his feelings, discovers unexpected emotional movements in himself. He seeks to understand himself. Introspection correlates with the narrator’s point of view, his commentary, and the opinion of the crowd. This is how a plurality of points of view is outlined on the same act, on the same emotion (later Lermontov uses this principle of understanding character in “A Hero of Our Time”). This is how the type of psychologism that will later be called “analytical” is formed.

In The Princess of Lithuania, Lermontov uses two fundamentally different principles for creating characters. He develops the characters of such heroes as Pechorin, Negurova, Krasinsky, Vera comprehensively, strives to show the movements of their souls, their inner world, and to understand the reasons that shaped their character.

Another group of heroes - representatives of the secular crowd - is painted with different colors. These heroes are deprived of names and detailed portrait characteristics. Lermontov endows each of them with one or two bright external features that exhaust the internal content. “A red-haired gentleman, hung with crosses”, “a lady of about thirty, extremely fresh and youthful, in a crimson current, with feathers, and with a proud look” (“impregnable virtue”), “an old woman, dressed up like a doll, with gray eyebrows and black puffs ", "a diplomat, long and pale, with his hair combed a la russe and who spoke Russian worse than any Frenchman" - masks appear before the reader, not people. Artificiality and soullessness are enhanced by the way they react to external influences. Most often, the “stimulant” turns out to be a word that seems to “revive” the mask, sets it in motion, but these movements are automatic, repeating, “fading out” gradually, by themselves: “At the word “old gossip,” the dressed-up old woman shook her head and slightly I didn’t choke on asparagus”; “silent virtue awoke at this unexpected question, and ostrich feathers fluttered on the beret,” etc. This creates an image of the world in which a person turns out to be a soulless puppet. Those who are endowed with a soul are forced to live by its laws. This method of creating images will also be used by Lermontov in “A Hero of Our Time” when describing the “water society” (dragoon captain, “fat lady, shaded with pink feathers,” etc.).

As you can see, “Princess of Lithuania” is a unique work. It has its own Lermontov personal experience secular communication is transformed into literary text. In it, he for the first time depicts the inner world of man as a changeable, fluid world (anticipating Tolstoy’s “dialectics of the soul”). For the first time, Lermontov shows Petersburg not only as a “lush city”, but also as a “poor city” (Krasinsky lives in the courtyard-well). For the first time, in the image of Krasinski, a type of hero is outlined that Dostoevsky would later turn to. But the main thing is that this novel is the threshold of “A Hero of Our Time”, in it Lermontov’s principles of psychological depiction are formed, a hero appears, the main features of which will then be embodied in Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. However, Pechorin from Princess Ligovskaya and from the hero of our time are two different characters.

Go! - Go! There was a scream!
Pushkin

In 1833, December 21st at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, a crowd of people was pouring down Voznesenskaya Street, as usual, and by the way one young official was walking; note the day and hour, because on this day and at this hour an event occurred from which a chain of various adventures stretches that befell all my heroes and heroines, the story of which I promised to pass on to posterity, if posterity begins to read novels. - So, one young official was walking along Voznesenskaya, and he was coming from the department, tired of monotonous work, and dreaming of a reward and a delicious dinner - for all officials dream! - He was wearing a cap of an indeterminate shape and a blue cotton overcoat with an old beaver collar; it was difficult to distinguish his facial features: the reason for this was the visor, the collar - and the twilight; - it seemed that he was in no hurry to go home, but was enjoying the clean air of the frosty evening, spreading its pink rays across the roofs of houses through the winter darkness, the seductive shine of shops and pastry shops; sometimes, raising his eyes upward with truly poetic tenderness, he would come across some pink hat and, embarrassed, apologize; the insidious pink hat became angry, then looked under his cap and, after walking a few steps, turned around, as if expecting a second apology; in vain! The young official was completely unaware!.. But even more often he stopped to gaze through the solid windows of a store or pastry shop, sparkling with wonderful lights and magnificent gilding. He looked at various objects for a long time, intently, with envy, and, having come to his senses, with a deep sigh and stoic firmness he continued on his way; - his most terrible tormentors were the cabbies, - and he hated the cabbies; “master! Where would you like to go? - Would you like to serve? - Serve, sir! This was the torture of Tantalus, and in his soul he deeply hated cab drivers.
Coming down from the Voznesensky Bridge and about to turn right along the ditch,1 he suddenly hears a cry: “Beware, go!..” A bay trotter was flying straight at him; from behind the coachman a white plume flashed, and the collar of a gray overcoat fluttered. “He barely had time to raise his eyes when one shaft was already against his chest, and the steam flying out in clouds from the runner’s nostrils washed over his face; mechanically, he grabbed the shaft with his hands and at the same moment, a strong gust of the horse was thrown several steps to the side onto the sidewalk... it was heard all around: “crushed, crushed,” the cabbies chased after the troublemaker, but the white plume only flashed before their eyes and was that's how it is.
When the official woke up, he did not feel pain anywhere, but his knees were still shaking from fear; he stood up and leaned his elbows on the railing of the ditch, trying to come to his senses; Bitter thoughts took possession of his heart, and from that moment he transferred all the hatred of which his soul was capable, from the cabbies to the chestnut trotters and white plumes.
Meanwhile, the white sultan and the bay trotter rushed along the canal, turned onto Nevsky, from Nevsky to Karavannaya, from there to the Simionovsky Bridge, then to the right along the Fontanka - and then they stopped at a rich entrance, with a canopy and glass doors, with shiny copper lining.
“Well, sir,” said the coachman, a broad-shouldered man with a thick red beard, “Vaska has shown himself today!”
It should be noted that the coachmen always call their favorite horse Vaska, even contrary to the wishes of the masters who endow it with the loud names of Achilles, Hector... for the coachman it will still be not Achel or Nector, but Vaska.
The officer got down, patted the smoking trotter on the steep neck, smiled at him gratefully and climbed up the shiny stairs; - there was no mention of the crushed official... Now that he took off his overcoat, covered with snow, and went into his office, we can freely follow him and describe his appearance - unfortunately, not at all attractive; he was short, broad-shouldered and generally awkward; seemed strongly built, incapable of sensitivity and irritation; his gait was somewhat cautious for a cavalryman, his gestures were abrupt, although often they showed laziness and carefree indifference, which is now in fashion and in the spirit of the century - if this is not pleonasm. “But the real nature of man often broke through this cold crust; it was clear that he was not following the general fashion, but was compressing his feelings and thoughts out of mistrust or pride. The sounds of his voice were sometimes thick, sometimes harsh, depending on the influence of the current moment; when he wanted to speak pleasantly, he began to stammer, and suddenly ended with a caustic joke in order to hide his own embarrassment - and in the world they claimed that his tongue was evil and dangerous... for the world does not tolerate in its circle anything strong, shocking, anything that would could expose character and will: - the world needs French vaudevilles and Russian submission to alien opinion. His dark, irregular face, but full of expressiveness, would have been interesting for Lavater3 and his followers: they would have read on it deep traces of the past and wonderful promises of the future... the crowd said that there was something in his smile, in his strangely sparkling eyes ...
In conclusion of the portrait, I will say that he was called Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin, and among his relatives simply Georges, in the French way, and that, moreover, he was 23 years old - and that his parents had 3 thousand souls in the Saratov, Voronezh and Kaluga provinces - the latter I add this to brighten up his appearance a little in the opinion of strict readers! - guilty, I forgot to include that Georges was the only son, not counting his sister, a 16-year-old girl who was very pretty and, according to her mother (her father was no longer in the world), did not need a dowry and could occupy a high position in society, with the help of God and a pretty face and brilliant upbringing.
Grigory Alexandrovich, entering his office, collapsed into wide armchairs; the footman came up and reported to him that, they say, the lady deigned to leave for dinner on a visit, and the sister deigned to have a meal... “I won’t have dinner,” was the answer: I had breakfast!..” Then a boy of about thirteen in a red Cossack jacket, quick-eyed, came up , a fair-haired man who looked like a big rogue,” and handed over, without saying a word, a business card: Pechorin casually put it on the table and asked who brought it.
“A young lady and her husband came here today,” answered Fedka, “and they ordered this card to be given to Tatyana Petrovna (that was the name of Pechorin’s mother).
- Why did you bring her to me?
- Yes, I thought it was all the same, sir!.. Maybe you’d like to read it?
– That is, you want to know what is written here.
- Yes, sir, these gentlemen have never been with us before.
“I spoiled you too much,” Pechorin said in a stern voice, “fill my phone.”
But this one business card, apparently, had the property of arousing curiosity... For a long time, Georges did not dare to change his comfortable position on the wide armchairs and stretch out his hand to the table... moreover, there were no candles in the room - it was illuminated by the reddish flame of the fireplace, and he also could not order the fire to be turned on and upset the charming effect of the fireplace lighting I wanted to. “But curiosity prevailed,” he stood up, took the card and, with some incomprehensible excitement of expectation, brought it to the fireplace grate... on it was printed in Gothic letters: Prince Stepan Stepanich Ligovskoy, with the princess. “He turned pale, shuddered, his eyes sparkled, and the card flew into the fireplace. For about three minutes he walked back and forth around the room, doing different things. strange movements hand, different exclamations, now smiling, now frowning; Finally he stopped, grabbed the tongs and rushed to pull the card out of the fire: - alas! One half of it turned to dust, and the other curled up, turned black, and it was barely possible to make out Stepan Step...
Pechorin put these mortal remains on the table, sat down again in his chair and covered his face with his hands - and although I very well read the impulses of the soul in their faces, for this very reason I cannot tell you his thoughts in any way. He sat in this position for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly he heard a rustling sound like easy steps, the noise of a dress, or the movement of a sheet of paper... although he did not believe ghosts... but he shuddered, quickly raised his head - and saw in front of him in the dusk something white and, it seemed, airy... for a minute he did not know what to think, so far away were his thoughts... if not from the world, then at least from this room...
- Who is this? - he asked.
- I! - answered the forced contralto - and ringing female laughter was heard.
- Varenka! - what a minx you are.
– And you were sleeping!.. Terribly fun!..
- I would like to sleep. It's calmer!..
- It's a shame! - Why is it so boring for us at balls, in societies!.. You are all looking for peace... what kind young people...
“And let me ask,” Georges objected, yawning, “for what benefits are we obliged to amuse you...
- Because we are ladies.
- Congratulations. But we’re not bored without you...
- Why do I know!.. And what are we going to say to each other?
– Fashion, news... isn’t that enough? Confide your secrets to each other...
– What secrets? – I have no secrets... all young people are so obnoxious...
– Most of them are not used to female society.
– Let them get used to it - they don’t even want to try it!..
Georges stood up importantly and bowed with a mocking smile:
– Varvara Alexandrovna, I notice that you are walking with long steps to the temple of initiation.
Varenka blushed and pouted her pink lips... and her brother calmly sank back into his chair. Meanwhile, a candle was served, and while Varenka is angry and knocks on the window with her finger, I will describe to you the room in which we are. – It was both an office and a living room; and was connected by a corridor to another part of the house; light blue French wallpaper covered its walls... sleek oak doors with fashionable handles and oak window frames showed the owner to be a decent person. The drapery over the windows was in the Chinese style, but in the evening or when the sun hit the glass, crimson curtains were drawn down - the opposite of sharp with the color of the upper room, but showing some kind of love for the strange, the original. Opposite the window stood a desk covered with a pile of pictures, papers, books, various types of inkwells and fashionable little things - on one side there was a tall trellis entwined with an impenetrable net of green ivy, on the other the chairs on which Georges was now sitting... On the floor below him a wide carpet was spread out, painted with colorful arabesques; - another Persian carpet hung on the wall opposite the windows, and on it were hung pistols, two Turkish guns, Circassian sabers and daggers, gifts from colleagues who had once walked beyond the Balkans...4 on the marble fireplace stood three alabaster caricatures5 of Paganini, Ivanova and Rossini... the rest of the walls were bare, all around and along them there were wide sofas upholstered in crimson-colored woolen damask; – one single painting attracted the eye, it hung above the doors leading to the bedroom; it depicted an unknown male face, painted by an unknown Russian artist, a man who did not know his genius and to whom no one bothered to hint about it. – This picture was a fantasy, deep, gloomy. - This face was painted straight, without any artificial inclination or rotation, the light fell from above, the dress was sketched roughly, dark and vaguely - it seemed that the artist’s whole thought was concentrated in the eyes and smile... The head was larger than life-size, the hair fell smoothly on both sides the sides of the forehead, which protruded roundly and strongly and seemed to have something unusual in its structure. The eyes, looking forward, shone with that terrible brilliance with which living eyes sometimes shine through the slits of a black mask; their searching and reproachful beam seemed to follow you to all corners of the room, and the smile, stretching the narrow and compressed lips, was more contemptuous than mocking; every time Georges looked at this head, he saw a new expression in it; – she became his interlocutor in moments of loneliness and dreaming – and he, like Byron’s partisan, called her a portrait of Lara. 6 – The comrades to whom he enthusiastically showed it called it a decent picture.
Meanwhile, while I was describing the office, Varenka gradually moved closer to the table, then came closer to her brother and sat down opposite him on the chair; There wasn’t even a spark of momentary anger in her blue eyes, but she didn’t know how to resume the conversation. She came across a half-burnt business card.
- What it is? Stepan Step... Ah! It’s true, Prince Ligovskoy was with us today!.. How I would like to see Verochka! Married - she was so kind... I heard yesterday that they came from Moscow!.. Who burned this card... It should be given to mummy!
“It seems I,” answered Georges, “was lighting a pipe!”
- Wonderful! I would like Verochka to know this... she would be very pleased!.. So, sir, your heart is changeable!.. I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her - without fail!.. However, no! Now she shouldn’t care!.. She’s married!..
“You judge very sensibly for your age!” the brother answered her and yawned, not knowing what to add...
- For my age! What kind of child am I! Mama says that a girl at 17 is as sensible as a man at 25.
“You are doing a very good job of listening to your mother.”
This phrase, apparently similar to praise, seemed like a mockery; Thus, the agreement was again upset, and they fell silent... The boy went up and brought a note: an invitation to a ball with Baron R***.
- What a melancholy! - Georges exclaimed. - Must go.
“Mademoiselle Negouroff will be there!” Varenka objected in an ironic tone. – She asked about you yesterday!.. What eyes she has! - lovely!..
– Like a hot coal in a furnace!..7
- However, admit that the eyes are wonderful!
– When people praise their eyes, it means that the rest is no good.
- Laugh!.. And I’m not indifferent...
- Let's put it down.
– I’ll tell Verochka this!..
– How long ago did you insist that I was all the same to her!..8
- Believe me, I speak Russian better than this - I’m not a monastery.
- ABOUT! Not at all! - very far…
She blushed and left.
But I must warn you that it was a dark day for them... they usually lived very amicably, and Georges especially loved his sister with the most tender brotherly love.
The last hint about Mademoiselle Negouroff (as we will call her later) made Pechorin think; Finally, an unexpected thought came to him from above, he moved the inkwell, took out a sheet of notepaper - and began to write something; while he was writing, a self-satisfied smile often appeared on his face, his eyes sparkled - in a word, he was very happy, like a man who had invented something extraordinary. - Having finished writing, he put the paper in an envelope and inscribed: Dear Mr. Elizaveta Lvovna Negurova in your own hands; - then he called Fedka and ordered him to take it to the city post office - so that none of the people would see. Little Mercury, 9 proud of his master’s great trust, rushed like an arrow to the shop; and Pechorin ordered the sleigh to be laid and half an hour later he left for the theater; however, on this trip he did not manage to crush a single official.

They gave Fenella 10 (4th performance). In the narrow loophole leading to the ticket office, an impenetrable crowd of people was crowding... Pechorin, who did not yet have a ticket and was impatient, addressed himself to a theater attendant selling posters. For 15 rubles he got a seat in the second row on the left side - and on the edge: an important advantage for those who take care of their legs and go to drink tea with Phoenix. 11 - When Pechorin entered, the overture had not yet begun, and it was not yet in the boxes moved in together; - by the way, right above him in the dress circle there was an empty box, near the empty box sat the Negurovs, father, mother and daughter; - the daughter would not be bad if pallor, thinness and old age, almost a common defect of St. Petersburg girls, did not overshadow the brilliance of two huge eyes and did not destroy the harmony between fairly regular features and witty expression. She bowed to Pechorin quite affectionately and beamed with a smile.
“Apparently the letter has not yet reached the address!” - he thought and began to point the lorgnette at the other boxes; in them he recognized many ballroom acquaintances, with whom he sometimes bowed, sometimes not; depending on whether he was noticed or not; he was not offended by the indifference of the world to him, because he valued the light at its true value; he knew that it was easy to get someone to talk about himself, but he also knew that the world did not deal with the same person twice in a row; he needs new idols, new fashions, new novels... veterans of secular glory, like all other veterans, the most pitiful creatures... In a short society, where intelligent, varied conversation replaces dancing (receptions aside), where you can talk about everything without fear censorship of aunts, and without meeting overly strict and unapproachable girls, in such a circle he could shine and even be liked, because the mind and soul, showing out, give life and play to the features and make them forget their shortcomings; but we have few such societies in Russia, even fewer in St. Petersburg, despite the fact that it is called a completely European city and the ruler of good taste. Let me note in passing that good tone reigns only where you don’t hear anything unnecessary, but alas! My friends! But how little you will hear there.
At balls, Pechorin, with his unfavorable appearance, got lost in the crowd of spectators, was either sad - or too angry, because his pride suffered. Dancing rarely, he could only talk to those ladies who sat by the wall all evening - and these were the ones he never met... He previously had an occupation - satire - standing outside the mazurka circle, he sorted out the dancers - and his caustic remarks very soon spread throughout the hall and then throughout the city; - but once, in a mazurka, he overheard a conversation between a long diplomat and some princess... The diplomat, under his own name, printed all his witticisms, and the princess, out of decency alone, did not laugh at the top of her lungs; - Pechorin remembered that when he said the same thing and much better than one of the ballroom nymphs three days ago - she just shrugged her shoulders and did not even take the trouble to understand him; from that moment on he began to dance more and speak intelligently less often; – and even it seemed to him that they began to receive him with great pleasure. In a word, he began to understand that according to the fundamental laws of society, intelligence is not required in a dancing gentleman!
The overture thundered; everything was full, one box next to the Negurovs’ box remained empty and often attracted Pechorin’s curious gaze; this seemed strange to him, and he would really like to finally see the people who missed Fenella’s overture.
The curtain rose, and at that moment the chairs in the empty box began to knock; Pechorin raised his head, but could only see a crimson beret and a round white divine hand with a divine lorgnette, carelessly falling on the crimson velvet of the box; several times he tried to follow the movements of the unknown woman in order to see at least an eye or a cheek; in vain - since he threw his head back so that he could see her forehead and eyes... but as luck would have it, a huge double tube covered the entire upper part of her face. “His neck hurt, he got angry and promised himself not to look at that damned box anymore.” The first act ended, Pechorin got up and went with some of his comrades to Phoenix, trying not to even accidentally look at the hated box.
Phoenix is ​​a very remarkable restaurant in terms of its topographical position in relation to the rear entrances of the Alexandrinsky Theater. It happened when clumsy weeping horses, drawn by a pair of lame nags, crowded near the narrow doors of the theater, and young nymphs, shrouded in coarse official scarves, jumped onto the creaking steps, a crowd of mustachioed rednecks, armed with shiny lorgnettes and even brighter shining eyes, crowded on your porch, oh Phoenix! But soon these wild days flew by: and where black and white plumes flashed before, triangular hats without plumes now walk decorously; a great example of the upheavals of human destiny!
Pechorin ascended to Phoenix with one Preobrazhensky and another cavalry artillery officer. “He ordered tea to be served and sat down with them near the table; there were a lot of people; at the same table where Pechorin was sitting, there was also a young man in a tailcoat, not very well dressed and smoking his own paquitos, to the great temptation of the tavern servants. – This young man was tall, blond and surprisingly good-looking; large, languid blue eyes, a regular nose, similar to the nose of Apollo Belvedere, a Greek oval face and lovely hair, curled by nature, should have attracted everyone’s attention to him; I would not have liked his lips alone, too thin and pale in comparison with the liveliness of the colors spread across his cheeks; from the brass buttons with coats of arms on his tailcoat one could guess that he was an official, like all the young men in tailcoats in St. Petersburg. He sat lost in thought and, it seemed, not listening to the conversation of the officers, who were joking, laughing and telling anecdotes, washing down the smoke of their pipe with bad tea. Among other things, they began to talk about horses: one artillery lieutenant boasted about his trotter; an argument began. Pechorin á propos12 told how today he ran over some dandy at the Voznesensky Bridge and sped away from the chase... The dandy’s suit in a crumpled cap was described, his unfortunate position on the sidewalk was also described. Laughed. When Pechorin finished, the young man in a tailcoat stood up and, stretching out his hand to take the hat from the table, pulled the tray with the teapot and cups to the floor; the movement was clearly deliberate; all eyes turned to him; but Pechorin’s gaze was bolder and more questioning than others; – blood rushed into the face of the unknown gentleman, he stood motionless and did not apologize – the silence continued for a minute. A circle formed and everyone predicted the story. Suddenly Pechorin sat down again and loudly shouted to the servant: “What are the dishes worth?” – he was told the price was three times more expensive.
“This official was so awkward that he broke it,” continued Georges coldly; - here's the money! “He threw the money on the table and added:
- Tell him that now he can leave here freely.
In front of everyone, the servant reported with respect to the official that he had received everything - and asked for vodka!.. But he, without answering anything, disappeared: the crowd laughed after him; - the officers laughed even more... and praised their comrade, who had so nicely finished off the enemy without getting entangled in history. - ABOUT! Our history is a terrible thing; Whether you acted nobly or basely, right or wrong, you could have avoided it or you couldn’t, but your name is mixed up in history... all the same, you lose everything: the goodwill of society, your career, the respect of friends... getting caught in history! Nothing could be more terrible than this, no matter how this story ends! Private fame is already a sharp knife for society, you forced people to talk about you for two days. - Suffer for twenty years for this. The judgment of general opinion, erroneous everywhere, occurs, however, in our country on completely different grounds than in the rest of Europe; in England, for example, bankruptcy - an indelible dishonor - is a sufficient reason for suicide. A depraved prank in Germany closes the doors of good society forever (I’m not talking about France: in Paris alone there are more different general opinions than in the whole world) - but here?.. An announced bribe-taker is received very well everywhere: he is justified with the phrase: and! Who doesn’t do this!.. The coward is treated kindly everywhere, because he is a quiet fellow, but involved in history! - ABOUT! There is no mercy for him: mothers say about him: “God knows what kind of person he is,” and daddies add: “Scoundrel!..”
The officers finished their tea without further alarm and left; Pechorin came out after everyone else; on the porch someone stopped him by the hand, saying: “I have to talk to you!” By the trembling of his hand, he guessed that this was his old adversary; There’s nothing to do: you can’t avoid history.
“If you please,” he answered casually. - Just not here in the cold.
- Let's go to the theater corridor! - the official objected. - They walked away in silence.
The second act had already begun: the corridors and wide staircases were empty; on the landing of one solitary staircase, barely illuminated by a distant lamp, they stopped, and Pechorin, folding his arms on his chest, leaning against the iron railing and narrowing his eyes, looked at his enemy from head to toe and said:
– I’m listening to you!..
“Dear sir,” the official’s voice trembled with rage, the veins on his forehead bulged and his lips turned pale, “dear sir!.. You offended me!” You insulted me mortally.
“This is not a secret to me,” answered Georges, “and you could explain yourself in front of everyone: “I would answer you the same thing that I will answer now... when do you want to shoot yourself?” Today? Tomorrow? – I think I guessed your intention; at least the breaking of the cups was not an accident: you wanted to start with something... and you started very witty,” he added, bowing mockingly...
- Your Majesty! - he answered breathlessly, - you almost ran over me today, yes, me, who is in front of you... and you brag about it, you’re having fun! – and by what right? Because you have a trotter, a white sultan? Golden epaulets? Am I not a nobleman like you? - I'm poor! - yes, I'm poor! I walk - of course, after that I am not a person, not only a nobleman! - A! This is fun for you!.. You thought that I would listen humbly to insolence, because I have no money that I could throw on the table!.. No, never! I will never, never forgive you for this!..
At that moment his fiery face was as beautiful as a storm; Pechorin looked at him with cold curiosity and finally said:
- Your reasoning is a little long - set an hour - and we’ll leave: you shout so much that you’ll wake up all the footmen: - and sure enough, some of them, who were sleeping on their master’s cloaks in the corridor of the first tier, began to raise their heads...
- What do I care about them! - let the whole world listen to me!..
“I don’t have that opinion... If you like, tomorrow at eight o’clock in the morning I’ll be waiting for you with a second.”
Pechorin said his address...
- Fight! I understand you! - fight to the death!.. And you think that I will be sufficiently rewarded when I put a lead ball into your heart!.. Wonderful consolation!.. No, I would wish that you lived forever, and so that I could take revenge on you forever. Fight! No!.. Here success is too uncertain...
“In that case, go home, drink a glass of water and go to bed,” Pechorin objected, shrugging his shoulders and wanting to go.
“No, wait,” said the official, having come to his senses somewhat, “and listen to me!.. Do you think I’m a coward? As if courage could not exist without the sign of spurs or epaulettes? Believe me, I value my life and future less than you do! My life is bitter, I have no future... I am poor, so poor that I walk into chairs;13 I cannot throw away 5 rubles once a year for my pleasure, I live on my salary, without friends, without relatives - I have one mother, an old woman ... I am everything for her: I am her providence and support. She is for me: both friends and family; Since I have been living, I have never loved anyone except her: - having lost me, sir, she will either die of sadness or die of hunger...
He stopped, his eyes filled with tears and blood...
– And you thought that I would fight with you?..
- What, finally, do you want from me? - Pechorin said impatiently.
“I wanted to make you repent.”
“You seem to have forgotten that I didn’t start the quarrel.”
– Is it really a joke or fun to run over a person?
“I promise you to flog my coachman.”
- Oh, you will drive me out of patience!..
- Well? Then we'll shoot!..
The official did not answer, he covered his face with his hands, his chest was agitated, despair was visible in his abrupt words, he seemed to be sobbing, and finally he exclaimed:
“No, I can’t, I won’t destroy her!..” - and ran away.
Pechorin looked after him with regret and went to his chair: Fenella’s second act was already coming to an end... The artilleryman and the Preobrazhenist, sitting on the other side, did not notice his absence.

Dear readers, you have all seen Fenella a hundred times, you have all loudly called for Novitskaya and Holland,14 and therefore I will skip over the remaining 3 acts and raise my curtain at the very minute the curtain of the Alexandrinsky Theater fell, I will only note that Pechorin was not doing much the play, was distracted and even forgot about the interesting box, which he promised himself not to look at.
A noisy and contented crowd of spectators descended the winding stairs to the entrance... the screams of gendarmes and lackeys could be heard below. The ladies, wrapped up and pressed against the walls, and shielded by the bear coats of their husbands and fathers from the impudent gaze of the youth, shivered from the cold - and smiled at their acquaintances. Officers and civilian dandies with lorgnettes walked back and forth, knocking - some with sabers and spurs, others with galoshes. Ladies of high tone formed a special group on the lower steps of the main staircase, laughed, spoke loudly and pointed their golden lorgnettes at the ladies of low tone, ordinary Russian noblewomen - and some secretly envied the others: extraordinary beauty of the ordinary, ordinary, alas! Extraordinary pride and splendor.
Both had their own gentlemen; The first ones are respectful and important, the second ones are helpful and sometimes awkward!.. In the middle there was a circle of non-secular people, not familiar with either one or the other - a circle of spectators. Merchants and common people passed through other doors. – It was a miniature picture of the entire St. Petersburg society.
Pechorin, wrapped in an overcoat and pulling his hat down over his eyes, tried to make his way to the doors. He drew level with Lizaveta Nikolaevna Negurova; he responded to an expressive smile with a dry bow and wanted to continue on his way, but was delayed by the following question: “Why are you so serious, Monsieur George?15 - are you unhappy with the performance?”
– On the contrary, I called Holland at the top of my lungs!
– Isn’t it true that Novitskaya is very nice!
-Your truth.
– Are you delighted with her?
– I am very rarely delighted.
– You don’t encourage anyone with this! - she said with annoyance and trying to smile ironically...
“I don’t know anyone who needs my encouragement!” - Pechorin answered casually. - And besides, delight is something so childish...
– Your thoughts and words are surprisingly subject to change... how long ago...
- Right...
Pechorin did not listen, his eyes tried to penetrate the motley wall of fur coats, cloaks, hats... it seemed to him that there, behind the column, flashed a face familiar to him, especially familiar... at that moment the gendarme shouted, and the lanky footman repeated after him: “Prince Ligovskov’s carriage !”... With desperate efforts, pushing the crowd aside, Pechorin rushed to the doors... about four people in front of him, a pink cloak flashed, boots shuffled... the footman lifted the pink cloak into the shiny compartment, then a bearskin coat climbed into it, the doors slammed, - “to Morskaya! Let’s go!”.. The interesting carriage was replaced by another, perhaps no less interesting, but not for Pechorin. He stood rooted to the spot!.. A painful thought drilled into his brain: this box, which he promised himself not to look at... The princess was sitting in it, her pink hand resting on crimson velvet; her eyes, perhaps, often rested on him, and he did not even think to turn around, the magnetic power of the gaze of his beloved woman did not affect his bullish nerves - oh, madness! He will never forgive himself for this! Frustrated, he walked along the sidewalk, found his sleigh, woke up the coachman, who lay curled up, covered with bear cavity, and went home. And we will turn to Lizaveta Nikolaevna Negurova and follow her.
When she got into the carriage, her father began a long dissertation on the young people of the present century. “For example, Pechorin,” he said, “there is nothing to look for in me or in Katenka (Katenka is his wife, 55 years old), and he doesn’t want to look!.. As happened in our time: a young man falls in love, he tries to please the parents, all the relatives... and not just whispering in the corners with your daughter and making eyes... what is it these days, it’s scary to look at! You won’t get an answer from them... and you, mother, are a 25-year-old girl, and hang yourself like that... I wanted to get married!”
Lizaveta Nikolaevna wanted to answer, tears welled up in her eyes... - and she could not utter a word; Katerina Ivanovna stood up for her!..
“You always attack her... in vain!.. What to do when young people don’t get married... you have to not miss the opportunity! Pechorin is a rich groom... with a good surname, why not a husband? After all, it’s not an age to sit at home... - thank God that her outfits are worth it to me... and you have yours: you want to get married, you want to get married... - Yes, if only they didn’t get married, so what would happen..." and so on...
These conversations were repeated in one form or another every time the mother, father and daughter were alone... the daughter was silent, and only God knows what was happening in her heart at these moments.
We arrived home. Katerina Ivanovna and her grumpy husband went to their room - and their daughter to hers. Her parents belonged to both the old and new centuries; old concepts, half-forgotten, half-erased by new impressions of St. Petersburg life, by the influence of society in which Nikolai Petrovich, by his rank, had to be, appeared only in moments of annoyance, or during an argument; they seemed to him the strongest arguments, for he remembered their formidable effect on his own mind in the days of his youth; Katerina Ivanovna was not a stupid lady, according to the officials who served in her husband’s office; the woman is cunning and crafty, in the opinion of other old women; a kind, trusting and blind mother for ballroom youth... I have not yet figured out her true character; In describing, I will only try to combine and express together all three of the above opinions... and if the portrait comes out similar, then I promise to go on foot to the Nevsky Monastery16 - to listen to the singers!..
Lizaveta Nikolavna... Oh! An exclamation mark... wait!.. Now she went into her bedroom and called the maid Marfusha - a fat, pockmarked girl!.. A bad sign!.. I would not want my wife or fiancee to have a fat and pockmarked maid!.. Tolerate I can’t bear the fat and pockmarked maids, with their heads smeared with Chukhon oil or smoothed with kvass, from which their hair sticks together and turns red, with hands as rough as yesterday’s sieve bread, with sleepy eyes, with feet clapping in shoes without ribbons, a heavy gait, and (worst of all) a quadrangular waist, clinging to a motley house dress, which is narrower at the bottom than at the top... Such a maid, sitting at work in the back room of a decent house, is like a crocodile17 at the bottom of a bright American well... such a maid is like a greasy stain peeking through the fresh the patterns of a re-dyed dress - leads the mind into sad doubt about the gentlemen's home lifestyle... oh, dear friends, God forbid you fall in love with a girl who has such a maid, if you share my opinions - then your charm is lost forever.
Lizaveta Nikolaevna ordered the maid to take off her stockings and shoes and unlace her corset, and she, sitting down on the bed, carelessly threw her headdress on the toilet, her black hair fell onto her shoulders; - but I do not continue the description: no one is interested in admiring the faded charms, the thin leg, the sinewy neck and dry shoulders, on which red scars from a tight dress were visible. Everyone has probably seen enough of such things. Lizaveta Nikolaevna went to bed, put a candle on the table next to her and opened some French novel - Marfusha came out... silence reigned in the room. The book fell from the hands of the sad girl, she sighed and indulged in reflection.
Of course, not a single faded beauty confided to me the thoughts and feelings that agitated her chest after a long ball or party, when in her lonely room she recalled her entire past, recounted all the love explanations that she had once listened to with feigned coldness, a feigned smile - or with true pleasure and which had no other consequences for her than an extra ten lines in the album or a vengeful epigram from a rejected admirer thrown in passing behind her chair during a long mazurka. But I guess that these reflections must be difficult, unbearable for pride and the heart - if there is one, for natural history18 has now been enriched with a new class of very sweet and beautiful creatures - namely the class of women without a heart. To make it easier to guess what Lizaveta Nikolaevna deigned to think about, I am forced, to my great regret, to tell you some details of her life... especially since this is necessary to explain the following incidents. She was born in St. Petersburg - and never left St. Petersburg - however, once for two months in Revel19 for water... - but you yourself know that Revel is not Russia, and therefore the direction of her St. Petersburg upbringing did not receive any change; here in Russia, French madams have gone somewhat out of fashion, and in St. Petersburg they don’t keep them at all... Her parents were unable to hire an English woman... English women are expensive - it was also awkward to take a German woman: God knows which one will come across: there are so many different ones here... Lizaveta Nikolaevna was left without a madame at all - she learned French from her mother, and more from the guests, because from childhood she spent her days in the living room, sitting next to her mother and listening to all sorts of things... When she was 13 years old, they hired teachers on tickets :20 a year she completed a course in French... and her secular upbringing began. There was a piano in her room, but no one had heard her play... She learned to dance at children's balls... She began to read novels as soon as she stopped learning the vocabulary... and read them surprisingly quickly... Meanwhile, her father received a decent inheritance, following him a good place- and began to live more openly... At the age of 15 they began to take her out, passing her off as 17 years old, and until the age of 25 this conditional age did not change... 17 years is the freezing point: they stretch as much as they want, like rubber bands. Lizaveta Nikolaevna was not bad - and very interesting: pallor and thinness are interesting... because the French women are pale, and the English women are thin... it must be noted that the charm of paleness and thinness exists only in the ladies' imagination, and that the men here only indulge their opinion out of pleasure. to somehow deflect accusations of impoliteness and so-called “barracks-like behavior.”
When Lizaveta Nikolaevna first entered the living room parquet, she found admirers. These were all people who always applauded the new vaudeville, jumping to listen new singer who read only new books. They were replaced by others: these dragged after her in order to arouse jealousy in the cooling-off mistress or to prick the vanity of cruel beauty; - after these, a third kind of admirers appeared: people who fell in love out of nothing to do, in order to spend a pleasant evening, for Lizaveta Nikolaevna acquired the skill of small talk and was very kind, somewhat mocking, somewhat dreamy... Some of these red tape fell in love seriously and demanded her hands: but she wanted to try the flattering role of the inflexible... and besides, they were all boring: they were refused... one was sick for a long time out of despair, the others were soon consoled... meanwhile time passed: she became an experienced and lively maiden: she looked at everyone through her lorgnette , addressed herself very boldly, did not blush from ambiguous speech or gaze - and rosy youths began to hover around her, trying their hand at a verbal skirmish and devoting to her their first experiments in passionate eloquence - alas, there was even less hope for these than for all the previous ones ; with annoyance and at the same time secret pleasure she killed their hopes, stopped the floods of eloquence with caustic mockery - and soon they were convinced that she was an invincible and wonderful woman; the sighing swarm scattered in different directions... and finally, for Lizaveta Nikolaevna, the most painful and dangerous period began for the heart of a fading woman...
She was at that age when it was still not ashamed to pursue her, and it became difficult to fall in love with her; in those years when some flighty or careless dandy no longer considers it a sin to jokingly assure of deep passion, so that later, just for fun, to compromise the girl in the eyes of her friends, thinking by this to give himself more weight... to assure everyone that she from him without memory, and try to show that he pities her, that he doesn’t know how to get rid of her... he tells her tenderness in a whisper, and out loud barbs... the poor thing, sensing that this is her last admirer, without love, out of sheer pride, she tries to keep the naughty man at her feet for as long as possible... in vain: she becomes more and more confused - and finally... alas... after this period there remain only dreams of a husband, some husband... only dreams.
Lizaveta Nikolaevna entered this period, but the final blow was dealt to her not by a careless naughty man or a soulless dandy; - that's how it happened.
A year and a half ago, Pechorin was still a fairly new person in the world: in order to support himself, he needed to acquire what some call secular fame, that is, to be known as a person who can do evil whenever he pleases; For some time he searched in vain for a pedestal,21 by standing on which he could force the crowd to look at him; becoming the lover of a famous beauty would be too difficult for a beginner, and he would not dare to compromise a young and innocent girl, and therefore he chose Lizaveta Nikolaevna as his instrument, who was neither one nor the other. What should I do? In our poor society, the phrase: he ruined so many reputations means almost: he won so many battles.
Lizaveta Nikolaevna and he had known each other for a long time. They bowed. Having drawn up his plan, Pechorin went to a ball where he was supposed to meet her. He watched her closely and noticed that no one had invited her to the mazurka: the sign was given to the musicians to begin, the gentlemen rustled their chairs, placing them in a circle, Lizaveta Nikolaevna went to the restroom to hide her annoyance: Pechorin was waiting for her at the door. When she returned to the hall, a second figure appeared: Pechorin hastily approached her.
“Where were you hiding,” he said, “I looked for you everywhere - I even prepared chairs: so I really hoped that you would not refuse me.”
- How self-confident you are.
And unexpected pleasure flashed in her eyes.
- However, you won’t punish me too severely for this self-confidence?
She didn't answer and followed him.
Their conversation continued throughout the dance, shining with jokes, epigrams, touching on everything, even love metaphysics. Pechorin did not spare any of her young and fresh rivals. At dinner he sat down next to her, the conversation moved further and further, so that finally he almost told her that he adored her to the point of madness (in an ambiguous way, of course). The huge step was taken and he returned home happy with his evening.
For several weeks after this they met at different evenings; Of course, he tirelessly sought these meetings, and at least she did not avoid them. In a word, he followed in the footsteps of ancient red tape and acted according to form, classically. Soon everyone began to notice their constant attraction to each other, as a new and completely original phenomenon in our cold society. Pechorin avoided immodest questions, but acted very openly. Lizaveta Nikolaevna was also very pleased with this, because she hoped to lure him further and further and then, as our mothers said, marry him to herself. Her parents, not yet having any opinion about him, nevertheless, without any pretensions, nevertheless invited him to visit their home in order to get to know him more briefly. Many had already begun to laugh at him as a future groom, good friends began to persuade him, to deviate him from a reckless act that had never entered his head. From all this he concluded that the moment of decisive crisis had arrived.
There was a brilliant ball at Baron ***. Pechorin, as usual, danced the first quadrille with Lizaveta Nikolaevna.
“How beautiful the little R. is today,” Lizaveta Nikolaevna remarked.
Pechorin pointed his lorgnette at the young beauty, looked silently for a long time and finally answered:
- Yes, she is beautiful. “With what taste these crimson flowers are intertwined in her thick, blond curls, I certainly promised myself to dance with her today, precisely because you like her; Isn’t it true, I’m very quick-witted when I want to please you.
“Oh, without a doubt, you are very kind,” she answered, flushing.
At that moment the music stopped, the first quadrille ended, and Pechorin bowed very politely. The rest of the evening he either danced with R... or stood near her chair, tried to talk as much as possible and seem as pleased as possible, although, between us, the girl R** was very simple and almost did not listen to him; but since he talked a lot, she concluded that Pechorin was a very kind gentleman. After the mazurka, she approached Lizaveta Nikolaevna, and she asked her with an ironic smile:
– What do you think of your permanent current beau?
“Il est très aimable,” answered R.
This was a cruel blow for Lizaveta Nikolaevna, who felt that she was losing her last gentleman - for the rest of the young people, seeing that Pechorin was exclusively interested in her, completely abandoned her.
And indeed, from that day on, Pechorin became more absent-minded and colder with her, clearly trying to cause her those minor troubles that are noticed by everyone and for which, meanwhile, it is impossible to demand satisfaction. Speaking with other girls, he expressed insulting regret about her, while she, on the contrary, as a result of poor calculation, wanting to prick his pride, confided to her friends, under the seal of the strictest secrecy, her purest, most sincere love. But in vain, he only enjoyed the excessive triumph, and she, assuring others, little by little became convinced that she definitely loved him. Her parents, more perceptive as impartial spectators, began to reproach her, saying: “Here, mother, she missed a whole year for nothing, she refused an income to a groom with 20 thousand, it’s true that he is old and paralyzed - but what about today’s young people! Your Pechorin is good, we knew in advance that he would not marry you, and his mother would not allow him to marry! What happened? He’s making fun of you.”
Of course, such words will not calm either wounded pride or a deceived heart. Lizaveta Nikolaevna felt their truth, but this truth was no longer new to her. Anyone who has pursued a goal for a long time and has sacrificed a lot for it finds it difficult to give up on it, and if the last hopes of fading youth are attached to this goal, then it is impossible. In this position we left Lizaveta Nikolaevna, who had arrived from the theater, lying on her bed, with a book in her hands, and with thoughts wandering in the past and in the future.
Bored of running her eyes over the same page ten times, she impatiently threw the book on the table and suddenly noticed a letter addressed to her name and with a city postmark. Some inner feeling whispered to her not to open the mysterious envelope, but curiosity prevailed, the envelope was torn off with trembling hands, the candle was pulled down, and her eyes eagerly scanned the first lines. The letter was written in noticeably distorted handwriting, as if they were afraid that the very letters would betray the secret. Instead of a name signature, some kind of Egyptian scribble was drawn below, very similar to the spots visible on the moon, to which many commoners attach some kind of symbolic meaning. Here is the letter word by word:

“Dear Empress!
You don’t know me, I know you: 23 we meet often, the story of your life is as familiar to me as mine Notebook, and you have never heard my name. I take part in you precisely because you have never paid attention to me, and besides, I am now very pleased with myself and intend to do a good deed: I know that you like Pechorin, that you are thinking in every possible way to rekindle in him the feelings that he never dreamed of him, he joked with you - he is not worthy of you: he loves another, all your efforts will only serve to your death, the world is already pointing its fingers at you, soon he will completely turn away from you. No personal gain forced me to give you such careless and bold advice. And so that you are more convinced of my selflessness, I swear to you that you will never know my name.
As a result I remain
your most humble servant:
Karakula."

Such a letter would have sent anyone else into hysterics, but the blow, having struck Lizaveta Nikolaevna in the depths of her heart, did not affect her nerves; she only turned pale, hastily burned the letter and blew its light ashes onto the floor.
Then she put out the candle and turned to the wall: it seemed that she was crying, but so quietly, so quietly that if you stood at her head, you would think that she was sleeping calmly and serenely.
The next day she got up paler than usual, went out into the living room at ten o’clock, and poured the tea herself as usual. When the table was cleared, her father left for his post, her mother sat down to work, she went to her room: passing through the hall, she met a footman.
- Where are you going? – she asked.
- Report, sir.
- About whom?
- That one... officer... Mr. Pechorin...
- Where is he?
– He stopped at the porch.
Lizaveta Nikolaevna blushed, then turned pale again, and then abruptly said to the footman:
- Tell him there is no one at home. And when he comes again,” she added, as if pronouncing the last phrase with difficulty, “then don’t accept it!..
The footman bowed and left, and she rushed headlong into her room.

Having received such a decisive refusal, Pechorin, as you can guess, was not surprised: he prepared for such a denouement and even desired it. He went to Morskaya, his sleigh quickly gliding through the loose snow: the morning was foggy and promised an imminent thaw. Many residents of St. Petersburg, who spent their childhood in a different climate, are subject to the strange influence of the local sky. A kind of sad indifference, similar to the one with which our northern sun turns away from the ungrateful land here, creeps into the soul, numbing all the vital organs. At this moment the heart is incapable of enthusiasm, the mind is incapable of reflection. Pechorin was in a similar position. Unexpected success crowned his frivolous enterprise, and he was not even happy. In a few minutes he was to see the woman who had been his constant dream for several years, with whom he was connected by the past, for whom he was ready to give up his future - and his heart did not tremble with impatience, fear, hope. A kind of painful fading, a kind of turbidity and immobility of thoughts that besieged his mind like heavy clouds, foreshadowed an imminent spiritual storm. Remembering his former ardor, he was inwardly annoyed at his current calm.
Now his sleigh stopped in front of a house; he went out and took hold of the doorknob, but before he opened it, the past slipped into his imagination like a dream, and various feelings suddenly, noisily awakened in his soul. He himself was frightened by the loud beating of his heart, as sleepy city dwellers are frightened at the sound of the night alarm. What his intentions, fears and hopes were, only God knows, but, apparently, he was ready to take a decisive step, to give a new direction to his life. Finally the door opened and he slowly walked up the wide stairs. When the doorman asked who he wanted, he answered with the question: “Is Princess Vera Dmitrevna at home?”
- Prince Stepan Stepanovich is at home, sir.
- And the princess? – Pechorin repeated impatiently.
- Princess too, sir.
Pechorin told the doorman his last name, and he went to report.
Through the half-open door into the hall, Pechorin cast a curious glance, trying to guess at least a faint shade of the family life of the owners by the decoration of the rooms, but alas! In the capital, all the halls are similar to each other, like all the smiles and all the greetings. The study alone can sometimes expose household secrets, but the study is as impenetrable to outsiders as the heart; however, a short conversation with the doorman allowed Pechorin to guess that the main person in the house was the prince. “It’s strange,” he thought, “she married an old, unpleasant and ordinary man, probably in order to do her will, and what if I guessed the truth, if she voluntarily changed one slavery for another, then what did she have a purpose? What’s the reason?.. But no, she can’t love him, I can vouch for that with my head.”
At that moment the doorman stood up and solemnly said:
- Welcome, the prince is in the living room.
Pechorin walked through the hall with slow steps, his gaze became clouded, and the blood rushed to his heart. He felt himself turn pale as he crossed the threshold of the living room. A young woman in a morning satin bonnet and a blond cap sat casually on the sofa; Next to her, on an armchair in a uniform tailcoat, sat a fat, bald gentleman with huge bloodshot eyes and an endlessly wide smile; At the window stood another in a frock coat, rather lean, with hair cut into a comb, with sagging cheeks and a rather ignoble expression on his face. He was looking through newspapers and did not even turn around when a young officer came up. It was Prince Stepan Stepanovich himself.
The young woman hastily stood up, addressing Pechorin with some very unclear greeting, then went up to the prince and said to him:
- Mon ami, here is Mr. Pechorin, he is an old acquaintance of our family... Monsieur Pechorin, I recommend my husband to you.
The prince threw the newspapers at the window, bowed, wanted to say something, but only abrupt words came out of his mouth:
“Of course... I am very pleased... my wife’s family... that you are so kind... I made it my duty... your mother is such a respectable lady,” I had the honor of visiting her with my wife yesterday.
“Mother and her sister wanted to come to see you today, but she was a little unwell and instructed me to pay my respects to you.”
Pechorin himself did not know what he was saying. Having come to his senses and thinking that he had said something stupid, he assumed a kind of cold, forced appearance. It probably seemed to the princess that with this phrase he wanted to explain his visit, as if it was involuntary. Her expression also became equally forced. She suspected an intention to reproach, her cheeks were ready to flush, but she quickly turned away, said something to the fat gentleman, he laughed and said loudly: “Oh, yes!” “Then she invited Pechorin to sit down, took her former place, and the prince again picked up his newspapers.
Princess Vera Dmitrevna was a woman of 22 years old, of average female height, blonde with black eyes, which gave her face some kind of original charm and thus, sharply distinguishing her from other women, destroyed comparisons that, perhaps, would not have been in her benefit. She was not a beauty, although her features were quite regular. The oval of the face is completely attic and the transparency of the skin is extraordinary. The continuous variability of her physiognomy, apparently incongruous with her somewhat sharp features, prevented her from being liked by everyone and liked at all times, but on the other hand, a person accustomed to observing these instantaneous changes could discover in them a rare ardor of the soul and a constant irritability of the nerves, which promises so much pleasures for a quick-witted lover. Her figure was flexible, her movements were slow, her gait was even. Seeing her for the first time, you would say, if you are an experienced observer, that this is a woman with a strong, decisive, cold character, believing in her own convictions, ready to sacrifice happiness to the rules, but not to rumors. If you had seen her in a moment of passion and excitement, you would have said something completely different - or, rather, you would not have known at all what to say.
For several minutes Pechorin and she sat opposite each other in silence, which was difficult for both. The fat gentleman, who on some occasion was a baron, took advantage of this period of time to explain in detail his family ties with the Prussian envoy. The princess, with various questions, very cleverly forced the baron to draw out his speech even more; Georges, fixing his eyes intently on Vera Dmitrevna, tried, but in vain, to guess her secret thoughts; he saw clearly that she was not at ease, preoccupied, agitated. Her eyes now dimmed, now shone, her lips now smiled, now pursed; his cheeks turned red and paled alternately: but what was the reason for this concern?.. Perhaps the domestic scene that happened before him, because the prince was clearly not in a good mood, perhaps the joy and embarrassment of resurrected or just awakening love for him, perhaps , an unpleasant feeling when meeting a person who knew some of the secrets of her life and heart, who had the right and, perhaps, was ready to reproach her...
Pechorin, not accustomed to interpreting women's views and feelings in his favor, settled on the last assumption... out of pride, he decided to show that, like her, he had forgotten the past and rejoiced at her happiness... But his words involuntarily sounded like offended pride; - when he spoke, the princess suddenly turned away from the baron... and he remained with his mouth open, preparing to pronounce the most important and convincing conclusion of his evidence.
“Princess,” said Georges... “excuse me, I have not yet congratulated you... on your princely title! I confess... I forgot my duty of politeness...
– I’ve gotten old, haven’t I? - Vera answered, tilting her head to her right shoulder.
- ABOUT! Are you joking! Do people grow old in happiness... on the contrary, you have gained weight, you...
“Of course, I’m very happy,” the princess interrupted him.
“This is a general rumor: many young girls envy you... however, you are so prudent that you could not help but make such a worthy choice... the whole world admires the courtesy, intelligence and talents of your husband... (the baron made an affirmative sign with his head) - the princess almost smiled, then suddenly annoyance appeared on her face.
– I will repay you with a compliment for a compliment, Monsieur Pechorin... you have also changed for the better.
- What should I do? Time is omnipotent... even our clothes, like ourselves, are subject to wonderful changes - you now wear a blond cap, instead of the tailcoat of a Moscow teenager or a student's frock coat, I wear a uniform with epaulettes... Probably because of this you have the good fortune to like me more than before... you are now so used to the shine!
The princess wanted to take revenge for the epigram:
- Wonderful! - she exclaimed: - you guessed right... and indeed, for us poor Muscovites, the guards uniform is a true curiosity!.. - she smiled mockingly, the baron laughed, - and Pechorin got furious at him.
“You have such a zealous ally, princess,” he said, “that I must admit defeated.” I am sure that at this sign the baron is ready to crush me with all his weight.
The Baron understood Russian poorly, although he was born in Russia; he laughed more than ever, thinking that this was a compliment applied to him and Vera Dmitrevna. – Pechorin shrugged; and the conversation stopped again. “Fortunately, the prince approached, importantly holding newspapers in his hand.
“This concerns you,” he said to his wife, “a new store was recently opened on Nevsky.” “I’ll show you,” he said, addressing the guests, “a St. Petersburg gift that I bought for my wife yesterday: everyone says that the earrings are the most fashionable, but my wife says that they are not, how will they be to your taste?”
He went into another room and brought a morocco box. The word wife, often repeated by the prince, somehow resonated rudely and unpleasantly in Pechorin’s ears; From the first word he recognized the prince as a simple-minded man, and now he was convinced that he was not even a secular man. The earrings passed from hand to hand, the baron uttered several drawn-out exclamations over them, after which Pechorin began to mechanically examine them.
“What do you think,” asked Prince Stepanovich, hiding in his tie and pulling out his starched collar with one hand, “guess how much I paid for them!”
The earrings at most cost 80 rubles, but 75 were paid for. Pechorin deliberately said 150. This puzzled the prince. He did not answer, ashamed to tell the truth, and sat down on the sofa, looking very unkindly at Pechorin. The conversation became a general exchange of city news, Moscow news: the prince, somewhat amused, announced very frankly that if it were not for the legal case, he would never have left Moscow and the English Club, adding that the local English Club was nothing compared to the Moscow one. Finally, Pechorin stood up, bowed and had already reached the door, when suddenly the princess jumped up from her seat and convincingly asked him not to forget to kiss dear Varenka a hundred times, a thousand times for her. Pechorin wanted to notice to her that he could not convey verbal kisses, but he had no time for jokes, and he bowed very importantly again. The princess smiled at him with that expressionless smile that spreads on the lips of a dancer finishing a pirouette.
With a bitter premonition, he left the room: having passed the hall, he turned around, the princess was standing in the doorway, motionless looking after him: noticing his movement, she disappeared.
“It’s strange,” thought Pechorin, getting into the sleigh, “there was a time when I read on her face all the movements of thought as unmistakably as my own manuscript, but now I don’t understand her, I don’t understand her at all.”

Until the age of 19, Pechorin lived in Moscow. From childhood, he dragged himself from one boarding school to another and finally crowned his wanderings by entering the university, according to the will of his wise mother. He became so wanderlust that if he had lived in Germany, he would have become a wandering student. But tell me, for God’s sake, what is the possibility in Russia for the ruler of 3 tons of souls and the nephew of 20 tons of Moscow aunts to become a tramp. So, all his travels were limited to trips with a crowd of scoundrels like him, 24 to Petrovsky, Sokolniki and Maryina Roshcha. You can imagine that they did not take notebooks and books with them, so as not to seem pedants. Pechorin's friends, whose number was, however, not very large, were all young people who met him in society, for even at that time students were almost the only gentlemen of Moscow beauties, who sighed involuntarily for their epaulettes and aiguillettes, not realizing that in In our century, these brilliant signs have lost their former meaning.
Pechorin and his comrades also appeared at all the festivities. Holding hands, they walked between the lines of carriages, to the great temptation of the police officers. Having met one of these young people, you could close your eyes and bet that the others would soon appear. In Moscow, where nicknames are still in fashion, they were nicknamed la bande joyeuse.25
The time for the exam was approaching for Pechorin: he had hardly attended lectures for a year and now intended to sacrifice several nights to science and catch up with his comrades in one leap: suddenly a circumstance appeared that prevented him from fulfilling this heroic intention. Pechorin’s mother, Tatyana Petrovna, had children’s evenings for her little daughter: these evenings attracted both adult young ladies and overripe maidens, greedy for any possible evenings. The children went to bed at 10 o'clock and were replaced on the floor by the older ones. Father and daughter R. often appeared at these evenings. They were old acquaintances of Tatyana Petrovna and even somewhat related to her. The daughter of this gentleman R* was then simply called Verochka. Georges, accustomed to seeing her often, did not find anything special in her, but she avoided his conversation. Once a large company gathered to go to the Simonov Monastery26 for the all-night vigil to pray, listen to the singers and take a walk. It was spring: we sat down in long lines, each harnessed to 6 horses, and set off from the Arbat in a merry caravan. The sun was setting towards the Sparrow Hills, and the evening was truly beautiful.
On some occasion, Georges had to sit next to Verochka, he was at first dissatisfied with this: her 17-year-old freshness and modesty seemed to him sure signs of coldness and an overly sugary heartfelt innocence: who among us at the age of 19 did not rush headlong after a fading coquette, whose words and looks are full of promises, and whose souls are like the painted tombs of the parable. Their appearance is a charming shine, but inside is death and dust.
Having already left the city, when the dissolved air of the evening refreshed the cheerful travelers, Georges began to talk with his neighbor. Her conversation was simple, lively and quite free. She was somewhat dreamy, but did not try to show it; on the contrary, she was ashamed of it as a weakness. Georges' judgments at that time were harsh, full of contradictions, although original, like the general judgments of young people brought up in Moscow and accustomed to developing their thoughts without outside coercion.27
Finally we arrived at the monastery. Before the all-night vigil they went to inspect the walls and cemetery; climbed onto the platform of the western tower, the same one from where in ancient times our ancestors followed the movements, and the last Novik revealed so late his name and his destiny28 and his exile name. Georges did not lag behind Verochka, because it would have been awkward to leave without finishing the conversation, and the conversation was of the kind that could continue indefinitely. It continued throughout the entire night vigil, except for those minutes when the wondrous choir of the monks and the voice of Father Victor plunged them into silent tenderness. But after these minutes, the heated imagination and feelings, excited by the sounds, provided new food for thoughts and words. After the all-night vigil we walked again and returned to the city in the same order, very late. Georges thought about this evening all the next day, then went to R-v to talk about it and convey his impressions to the one with whom he shared them. The visits were made more often and longer; due to the shortness of both houses, they could not attract any suspicion; So a whole month passed, and they were both convinced that they were madly in love with each other. In their years, when passion is pleasure, without an admixture of worries, fear and repentance, it is very easy to be convinced of everything. Georges had a rich aunt, who was also R-v's relative. The aunt invited both families to stay with her in the Moscow region for two weeks; her house was huge, large gardens, in a word, all the amenities. Frequent walks brought Georges and Verochka even closer; despite the crowd of madams and aunt's children, they somehow always found a way to be together: a very easy way, however, if they both wanted it.
Meanwhile, an exam was going on at the university. Georges did not show up there: of course, he did not receive a certificate, but he did not care about the future, and assured his mother that the exam had been postponed for another three weeks, and that he knew everything. Evening walks had the necessary consequence of an explanation, then an oath of allegiance, and finally, when the two-week period was over, it was necessary to return to Moscow. On the eve of the fateful day (it was in the evening), they stood together on the balcony, some invisible demon brought their lips and hands together in a silent squeeze, in a silent kiss!.. They were afraid of themselves, and although Georges early, with the help of his comrades, entered the seductive field debauchery... but the honor of an innocent girl was still sacred to him. The next day, getting into the carriages, they bowed as before, very politely, but Verochka blushed and her eyes sparkled.
Georges' deception was revealed as soon as they arrived in Moscow, Tatyana Petrovna's despair was terrible, her abuse was inexhaustible. Georges listened to everything with humility and silence like a stoic; but an invisible storm was gathering over him. The committee of uncles and aunts decided that he should be sent to St. Petersburg and sent to the Junkers school: they saw no other salvation for him. “There,” they said, “they will school him and teach him discipline.”
At this time, the Polish campaign opened, all the youth were in a hurry to be assigned to regiments, joining school was unprofitable for Georges, because cadets of the 2nd class were not supposed to go on a campaign. Almost on his knees, he begged his mother for permission to join the N... hussar regiment, stationed not far from Moscow. After much crying and groaning, he received her blessing, but the most difficult thing still remained for him to do: he had to announce this to Verochka. He was still so innocent in soul that he was afraid to kill her with unexpected news. However, she listened to him in silence and fixed a reproachful glance on him, not believing that any circumstances could force him to separate from her: the oath and promises reassured her.
A few days later, Georges came to R-vy to say goodbye completely. Verochka was very pale, he sat for a short time in the living room, and when he came out, she ran through other doors and met him in the hall. She herself grabbed his hand, squeezed it tightly and said in an uncertain voice: “I will never belong to another.” “Poor thing, she was trembling all over. These sensations were so new to her, she was so afraid of losing her friend, she was so confident in her own heart. Having pressed a hot kiss on her cold, virgin brow, Georges sat her down on a chair, ran headlong down the stairs and galloped home. In the evening, a footman from R. came to Tatyana Petrovna to ask for a bottle with some drops and alcohol, because, they say, the young lady was very unwell and was unconscious three times. This was a terrible blow for Georges; he did not sleep the whole night before he got into his carriage and went to the regiment.
Until now, dear readers, you have seen that the love of my heroes did not go beyond the general rules of all novels and all beginning love. But then later... Oh! Subsequently you will see and hear wonderful things.
Throughout the campaign, Pechorin distinguished himself, like any Russian officer, fought bravely, like any Russian soldier, was courteous to many gentlemen, but the minutes of the last parting and the sweet image of Verochka constantly disturbed his imagination. Wonderful thing! He left with the firm intention of forgetting her, but it turned out the opposite (which is almost always what happens in such cases). However, Pechorin had the most unhappy disposition: impressions, at first light, gradually etched themselves into his mind deeper and deeper, so that later this love acquired over his heart the right of limitation, the most sacred of all rights of humanity.
After the capture of Warsaw29 he was transferred to the guard, his mother and sister moved to live in St. Petersburg, Varenka brought him a bow from her dear Verochka, as she called her - nothing more than a bow. Pechorin was upset by this - he did not understand women then. Secret annoyance was one of the reasons why he began to trail Lizaveta Nikolaevna; rumors about this probably reached Verochka. A year and a half later he found out that she got married; two years later it was no longer Verochka who came to St. Petersburg, but Princess Ligovskaya and Prince Stepan Spep.
Here, it seems, we stopped in the previous chapter.

Three days after Pechorin visited the prince, Tatyana Petrovna invited several friends and relatives to dine. Stepan Stepanovich and his wife were, of course, among them.
Pechorin was sitting in his office and was about to get dressed to go out into the living room, when an artillery officer came up to him.
“Ah, Branitsky,” exclaimed Pechorin, “I am very glad that you stopped by at such an opportune time, you will certainly have lunch with us.” Imagine, our house is now full of young girls, and I am alone, given to them as a sacrifice, you know them all, do me a favor and stay for dinner!
“You ask so convincingly,” answered Branitsky, “as if you were anticipating a refusal.”
“No, you don’t dare refuse,” said Pechorin, he called the man and ordered him to let Branitsky’s sleigh go home.
I do not convey their further conversation, because it was incoherent and empty, like the conversations of all young people who have nothing to do. And really, tell me, what can young people talk about? The supply of news is soon depleted, prudence prevents one from entering politics, there is already too much talk about service in the service, and women in our barbaric age have lost half their former universal influence. Falling in love seems embarrassing, talking about it is ridiculous.
When several guests had arrived, Pechorin and Branitsky entered the living room. There they played whist on 3 tables. While the mothers were counting their trump cards, the daughters, sitting around a small table, were talking about the last ball, about new fashions. The officers approached them, Branitsky skillfully enlivened their small circle with casual chatter, Pechorin was distracted. He had long noticed that Branitsky was courting his sister and, without going into consideration of further investigations, did not bother his friend with observations, or his sister with indiscreet questions. It seemed very pleasant to Varenka that such a dexterous young man noticeably distinguished her from others, she who had not even left yet.
Little by little the guests arrived. Prince Ligovskoy and the princess were among the last to arrive. Varenka rushed towards her old friend, the princess kissed her with an air of patronage. Soon they sat down at the table.
The dining room was a luxuriously decorated room, hung with pictures in huge golden frames: their dark and ancient paintings were in sharp contrast with the decorations of the room, light, like everything that is in the latest taste. The characters in these paintings - some half-naked, others picturesquely wrapped in Greek robes or dressed in Spanish costumes, in wide-brimmed hats with feathers, with slit sleeves, puffy cuffs - thrown onto this canvas by the artist's hand in the most brilliant moments of their mythological or feudal life, they seemed to look sternly at the characters in this room, illuminated by a hundred candles, not thinking about the future, much less about the past, who had gathered for a sumptuous dinner not so much to enjoy the gifts of luxury, but some to satisfy the vanity of the mind, the vanity of wealth, others out of curiosity, out of decency, or for some other secret purpose. In the clothes of these people, sitting so decorously around a long table covered with silver and porcelain, as well as in their concepts, all centuries were mixed. In their clothes there was a combination of the deepest antiquity with the latest invention of a Parisian milliner, Greek hairstyles entwined with garlands of fake flowers, Gothic earrings, Jewish turbans, then hair upturned à la chinoise,30 boucles à la Sévigné,31 fluffy dresses like figs, sleeves , extremely wide or extremely narrow. Men have hairstyles à la jeune France, 32 à la russe, 33 à la moyen âge, 34 à la Titus, 35 smooth chins, mustaches, Spanish hair, sideburns and even beards; by the way, it would be nice to quote Pushkin’s verse here: “what a mixture of clothes and faces!” 36 The concepts of this society were such a confusion that I do not undertake to explain.
Pechorin had to sit diagonally opposite Princess Vera Dmitrevna, his neighbor on the left hand was some red-haired gentleman, hung with crosses, who went to their house only for dinner parties, while on Pechorin’s right side sat a lady of about 30, extremely fresh and youthful, in a crimson current,37 with feathers, and with a proud look, because she was reputed to be of unapproachable virtue. From this we see that Pechorin, as the owner, chose the worst place at the table.
Near Vera Dmitrevna sat on one side an old woman, dressed up like a doll, with gray eyebrows and black tufts, on the other a diplomat, long and pale, combed à la russe and speaking Russian worse than any Frenchman. After the 2nd course the conversation began to liven up.
“Since you have recently been in St. Petersburg,” the diplomat said to the princess, “you probably have not yet had time to taste and comprehend all the delights of life here.” These buildings, which at first glance only surprise you with how great everything is, will become priceless to you over time when you remember that our enlightenment has developed and grown here, and when you see that it coexists easily and pleasantly in them. Every Russian should love St. Petersburg: here everything that is best for Russian youth has gathered, as if on purpose, to offer a friendly hand to Europe. Moscow is only a magnificent monument, a magnificent and silent tomb of the past, here is life, here are our hopes...
This is how the thin diplomat, who had pretensions to be a great patriot, spoke so pompously and wisely. The prince smiled and answered absentmindedly:
“Maybe in time I will fall in love with St. Petersburg, but we women so easily give in to the habits of the heart and, unfortunately, think so little about general education and the glory of the state!” I love Moscow. The memory of such a happy time is associated with the memory of her! And here, here everything is so cold, so dead... Oh, this is not my opinion; This is the opinion of the local residents. – They say that once people enter the St. Petersburg outpost, they change completely.
She said these words, smiling at the diplomat and looking at Pechorin.
The diplomat became furious:
“What terrible slander about our dear city,” he exclaimed, “and all this is the old gossip Moscow, who, out of envy, slanders her young rival.”
At the word “old gossip,” the dressed-up old woman shook her head and almost choked on her asparagus.
“To resolve our dispute,” the diplomat continued, “choose a mediator, princess: for example, Grigory Alexandrovich, he listened very diligently to our conversation.” What do you think about this? Monsieur Pechorin, tell me honestly and don’t sacrifice me to politeness. Do you approve of my choice, princess?
“You chose a rather strict judge,” she answered.
“What can we do, our brother always sees his own benefits,” the diplomat objected with a self-satisfied smile. - Monsieur Pechorin, please decide.
“I’m very sorry,” said Pechorin, “that you were mistaken in your choice.” Of your entire argument, I only heard what the princess said.
The diplomat's face fell.
“However,” he said, “will you give preference to Moscow or St. Petersburg?”
“Moscow is my homeland,” answered Pechorin, trying to get rid of it.
“But which one?” the diplomat insisted stubbornly.
“I think,” Pechorin interrupted him, “that neither buildings, nor enlightenment, nor antiquity have an influence on happiness and cheerfulness.” And people change behind the St. Petersburg outpost and behind the Moscow barrier because if people didn’t change, it would be very boring.
“After such a decision, princess,” said the diplomat, “I cede my diplomatic title to Mr. Pechorin.” He avoided a decisive answer, like Talleyrand or Metternich.38
“Grigory Alexandrovich,” the princess objected, “is not carried away by passion or addiction, he follows only cold reason.”
“It’s true,” Pechorin answered, “I now began to weigh my words and calculate my actions, following the example of others.” When I was carried away by feeling and imagination, they laughed at me and took advantage of my simple-heartedness, but who hasn’t done stupid things in their life! And who didn’t repent! Now, out of honor, I am ready to sacrifice the purest, most airy love for 3 thousand souls with a distillery and for some count’s coat of arms on the carriage doors! We must take advantage of the opportunity, such things do not fall from the sky! Is not it? – This unexpected question was made to a lady in a raspberry beret.
Silent virtue awoke at this unexpected question, and the ostrich feathers fluttered on his beret. She could not answer immediately, because her innocent teeth were chewing a piece of hazel grouse with the most virtuous diligence: everyone was impatiently silently awaiting her answer. Finally she opened her mouth and said importantly:
– Does your question apply to me?
“If you allow it,” Pechorin answered.
– Would you like to share with me your role as mediator and judge?
– I would like to convey it to you completely.
- Oh, spare me!
At that moment she was served some kind of fatty dish, she put it on her plate and continued:
“Here, address yourself to the princess, she, I think, can judge much better about love and about the count or princely title.”
“I would like to hear your opinion,” said Pechorin, “and I decided to defeat your modesty with stubbornness.”
“You are not the first, and you will not succeed,” she said with a contemptuous smile. “Besides, I don’t have any opinion about love.”
- Have mercy! At your age, it is impossible for any woman to have any opinion about such an important subject.
Virtue is offended
“That is, I’m too old,” she exclaimed, blushing.
– On the contrary, I wanted to say that you are still so young.
- Thank God, I’m not a child anymore... your justification was very unfortunate.
- What to do! - I see that I have increased by one the countless number of unfortunates who are trying in vain to please you...
She turned away from him, and he almost laughed out loud.
-Who is this lady? – the red-haired gentleman with crosses asked him in a whisper.
“Baroness Shtral, 39,” answered Pechorin.
- Ah! – the red-haired gentleman did.
– You, of course, have heard a lot about her?
- No, sir, nothing formal.
“She killed two husbands,” Pechorin continued, “now she’s looking for a third, who will surely outlive her.”
- Wow! - said the red-haired gentleman and continued to eat the sauce studded with truffles.
Thus the conversation stopped, but the diplomat took the trouble to resume it.
“If you love art,” he said, turning to the princess, “then I can tell you very good news, Bryulov’s painting: “The Last Day of Pompeii” is coming to St. Petersburg.40 All of Italy shouted about it, the French scolded it. Now it is interesting to know which way the Russian public will lean, towards the side of true taste or towards the side of fashion.
The princess did not answer, she was absent-minded - her eyes wandered aimlessly along the walls of the room, and the word “picture” only made them stop at the image of some Spanish scene hanging opposite her. It was an old painting, rather mediocre, but gained value because its colors had faded and the varnish had cracked. It depicted three figures: an old and gray-haired man, sitting on velvet chairs, hugging a young woman with one hand, and holding a glass of wine in the other. He brought his rosy lips to the tender cheek of this woman and spilled wine on her dress. She, as if reluctantly obeying his rough caresses, leaned over the arm of the chair and leaned her elbows on his shoulder, turned to the side, pressing a finger to her lips and fixing her eyes on the half-open door, from behind which two bright eyes and a dagger sparkled in the darkness.
The princess looked at this picture with attention for several minutes and finally asked the diplomat to explain its contents.
The diplomat took out a lorgnette from behind his tie, squinted, pointed it in different directions at the dark canvas and concluded that it must be a copy of Rembrandt or Murille.
“However,” he added, “its owner should know better what it represents.”
“I don’t want to complicate Grigory Alexandrovich again by resolving issues,” said Vera Dmitrievna and again fixed her eyes on the picture.
“The plot is very simple,” said Pechorin, without waiting to be asked, “it depicts a woman who left and deceived her lover in order to more conveniently deceive a rich and stupid old man.” At this moment she seems to be begging something from him and keeping her lover’s fury with false promises. When she lures everything she wants with an artificial kiss, she herself will open the door and be a cold-blooded witness to the murder.
- Oh, this is terrible! - exclaimed the princess.
“Maybe I’m mistaken in giving such a meaning to this image,” Pechorin continued, “my interpretation is completely arbitrary.”
“Do you really think that such deceit can exist in the heart of a woman?”
“Princess,” Pechorin answered dryly, “before I was stupid to think that it was possible to understand a woman’s heart.” Recent incidents in my life have convinced me otherwise, and therefore I cannot decisively answer your question.
The princess blushed, the diplomat turned a searching gaze on her and began to draw something with a fork on the bottom of his plate. The lady in the raspberry beret was on tenterhooks, hearing such horrors, and tried to move her chair away from Pechorin, and the red-haired gentleman with the crosses smiled significantly and swallowed three truffles at once.
The rest of the dinner, the diplomat and Pechorin were silent, the princess started a conversation with the old woman, virtue was heatedly arguing about something with her neighbor on the right side, the red-haired gentleman was eating.
At dessert, when champagne was served, Pechorin, raising his glass, turned to the princess:
- Since I did not have the good fortune to be at your wedding, let me congratulate you now.
She looked at him in surprise and did not answer. Secret suffering was depicted on her face, so changeable - her hand, holding a glass of water, trembled... Pechorin saw all this, and something similar to repentance crept into his chest: why did he torture her? - for what purpose? - what benefit could this petty revenge bring him?.. - He could not give himself a detailed account of this.
Soon the chairs began to rustle: they got up from the table and went to the reception rooms... Footmen began to serve coffee on silver trays, some men who did not play whist - and among them Prince Stepan Step, went to Pechorin’s office to smoke pipes, and the princess, under the pretext that She developed curls and retired to Varenka’s room. She closed the doors behind her and threw herself into the wide armchairs; an inexplicable feeling constricted her chest, tears ran onto her eyelashes, began to drip more and more often onto her heated cheeks, and she cried, cried bitterly, until it occurred to her that with red eyes it would be awkward to appear in the living room. Then she got up, went to the mirror, dried her eyes, rubbed her temples with cologne and perfume, which stood in colored and faceted bottles on the toilet. From time to time she still sobbed, and her chest rose high, but these were the last waves, forgotten on the smooth sea by the passing hurricane.
What did she cry about, you ask, and I will ask you, what do women not cry about? Tears are their offensive and defensive weapon. Annoyance, joy, powerless hatred, powerless love have one expression among them: Vera Dmitrevna herself could not give an account of which of these feelings was the main reason for her tears. Pechorin's words deeply offended her; but strangely, she didn’t hate him for it. Perhaps, if his reproach had revealed regret for the past, a desire to please her again, she would have been able to respond to him with caustic ridicule and indifference, but it seemed that only his pride was offended, and not his heart - the weakest part of a man, like Achilles's heel, and for this reason it remained outside her shots in this battle. It seemed that Pechorin proudly challenged her hatred to make sure that it would be as short-lived as her love - and he achieved his goal. Her feelings were agitated, her thoughts were confused, the first impression was strong, and everything else depended on the first impression: he knew this and also knew that hatred itself was closer to love than indifference.
The princess was about to return to the living room, when suddenly the door creaked lightly and Varenka came up.
“I was looking for you, chère amie,” she exclaimed, “you seem to be unwell...
Vera Dmitrevna smiled languidly at her and said:
– I have a headache, it’s so hot there...
“I often looked at you at the table,” Varenka continued, “you were silent all the time, I was annoyed that I didn’t sit next to you, then maybe you weren’t so bored.”
“I wasn’t bored at all,” answered the princess, smiling bitterly, “Grigory Alexandrovich was very kind.”
- Listen, my angel, I don’t want you to call your brother Grigory Alexandrovich. Grigory Alexandrovich - this is so important: it’s as if you just met yesterday. Why not just call him Georges, as before, he is so kind.
- Oh, I didn’t notice this last dignity in him just now, he just said things to me that someone else would never forgive him for.
Vera Dmitrevna felt that she had let it slip, but she was reassured by the fact that Varenka, a flighty girl, would not pay attention to her last words or would soon forget them. Vera Dmitrevna, unfortunately for her, was one of those women who are usually more careful and modest than others, but in moments of passion they blurt out.
Straightening her curls in front of the mirror, she took Varenka’s arm, and both returned to the living room, and we will go to Pechorin’s office, where several young people had gathered and where Prince Stepan Stepanovich, with a cigarette in his teeth, tried in vain to interfere in their conversation. He did not know a single St. Petersburg actress, did not know the key to a single city intrigue and, like a visitor from another city, could not tell a single interesting news. Having married a young woman, he tried to appear young despite the false teeth and some wrinkles. Throughout his entire youth, this man was not addicted to anything - neither to women, nor to wine, nor to cards, nor to honors, and with all this, to please his comrades and friends, he got drunk very often, fell in love three times to please women who wanted to please him, he once lost 30 tons when it was fashionable to lose money, he killed his health in the service because his bosses were pleased with it. Being an egoist to the highest degree, he, however, was always known as a kind fellow, ready for all kinds of services, and he married because all his relatives wanted it. Now he sat opposite the fireplace, smoking a cigar and finishing his coffee, and listening attentively to the conversation of the two young men standing opposite him. One of them was an artillery officer Branitsky, the other a civilian. This latter was one of the characteristic persons of St. Petersburg society.
He was of decent height and so thin that his English-cut tailcoat hung on his shoulders like on a coat rack. A stiff satin tie propped up his angular chin. His mouth, devoid of lips, looked like a hole cut by a penknife in a cardboard mask, his cheeks, sunken and dark, were in places dotted with small dimples, traces of the devastating smallpox. His nose was straight, of equal thickness throughout its entire length, and the lower extremity seemed to be cut off, his eyes, gray and small, had a bold expression, his eyebrows were thick, his forehead was narrow and high, his hair was black and cut into a comb, because of his tie a beard peeked out à la St.-Simonienne.41
He knew everyone, served somewhere, went on errands, returned to receive ranks, was always in middle society and talked about his connections with the nobility, courted rich brides, submitted many projects, sold various shares, offered everyone subscriptions to different books, was acquainted with all the writers and journalists, took credit for many anonymous articles in magazines, published a brochure that no one read, was, according to him, overwhelmed with a lot of business and spent the whole morning on Nevsky Prospekt. To complete the portrait, I will say that his surname was Little Russian, although instead of Gorshenko he called himself Gorshenkov.42
- That you will never come to see me? - Branitsky told him.
“Believe me, I’m so busy,” answered Gorshenko, “tomorrow I myself have to report to the minister; - then you have to go to the committee, there’s a lot of work, you don’t know how to get rid of it; I still need to write an article for a magazine, then I need to dine with Prince N, at a ball somewhere every day, even today at Countess F. So be it, I’ll sacrifice this winter, and in the summer I’ll lock myself in my office again, surround myself with papers and I will only go to see old friends.
Branitsky smiled and, whistling an aria from Fenella, left.
The prince, who was mentally busy with his own business, thought that it would not be bad for him to meet a man who knew everyone and reported to the minister himself. He started a conversation with him about politics, about service, then about his business, which consisted of a lawsuit with the treasury over 20 tons of dessiatines of forest. Finally, the prince asked Gorshenka if he knew an official named Krasinsky, whose desk was dealing with his affairs.
“Yes, yes,” answered Gorshenko, “I know, I saw it, but he can’t do anything, address it to people who have more weight, I know these matters, they were often imposed on me, but I always refused.”
This answer puzzled Prince Stepan Stepanovich. It seemed to him that the entire committee of ministers was standing before him in the person of Gorshenka.
“Yes,” he said, “these things have become terribly difficult now.”
Pechorin, who heard the conversation and learned from the prince in which department his business was, promised to find Krasinsky and bring him to the prince.
Stepan Stepanovich, delighted with his kindness, shook his hand and invited him to come to his place whenever he had nothing to do.

The next day Pechorin was on duty, spent the night in the duty room and was relieved at 12 o'clock in the morning. Another hour passed while he changed clothes. When he arrived at the department where the official Krasinski served, he was told that this official had gone somewhere; Pechorin was given his address, and he went to Obukhov Bridge. Stopping at the gate of one huge house, he called the janitor and asked if the official Krasinski lived here.
“Please come to room 49,” was the answer.
-Where is the entrance?
- From the yard, sir. Number 49, and entrance from the yard! These terrible words cannot be understood by a person who has not spent at least half of his life searching for various officials. Number 49 is a gloomy and mysterious number, similar to the number 666 in the Apocalypse. You first make your way through a narrow and angular yard, through deep snow, or through liquid mud; tall pyramids of firewood threaten every minute to crush you with their fall, a heavy smell, acrid, disgusting, poisons your breath, dogs grumble at your appearance, pale faces, bearing terrible traces of poverty or debauchery, look out through the narrow windows of the lower floor. Finally, after many inquiries, you find the desired door, dark and narrow, like the door to purgatory; Having slipped on the threshold, you fly down two steps and fall with your feet into a puddle that has formed on the stone platform, then with an unsteady hand you feel the stairs and begin to climb up. Having ascended to the first floor and stopping on a quadrangular platform, you will see several doors around you, but alas, none of them have a number; you start knocking or ringing, and usually the cook comes out with a tallow candle, and from behind it comes the sound of children swearing or crying.
- Whom do you want?
– 49 number.
- There are no such people here, sir.
-Who lives here?
The answer is usually either some barbaric name, or: “What do you care, go higher!” The door slams shut. In all other doors the same scene is repeated in different forms, the higher you climb, the worse. A sophistic observer could conclude from this that a person, approaching the sky, is likened to a plant, which on the tops of the mountains loses its color and strength. After tormenting for about an hour, you finally find the desired number 49 or another equally mysterious one, and only if the janitor was not drunk and understood your question, if there were not two officials with the same name in this house, if you did not end up on another staircase, etc. D. Pechorin endured all this torment and finally, climbing to the 4th floor, knocked on the door; the cook came out, he asked the usual question, they answered him: “here.” He went up, took off his overcoat in the kitchen and wanted to go further, when suddenly the cook stopped him, saying that Mr. Krasinsky had not yet returned from the department. “I’ll wait,” he answered, and went up. The cook followed him and looked at him with an air of surprise. A white plume and a beautiful cavalry uniform were, apparently, an unusual phenomenon on the fourth floor. When Pechorin entered the living room, if you can call it that, a quadrangular room, decorated with a single table covered with oilcloth, in front of which stood an old sofa and three chairs, a short and neat old woman stood up from her seat and repeated the cook’s question.
– I’m looking for Mr. Krasinski, maybe I was mistaken...
“This is my son,” answered the old woman, “he will be here soon.”
“If you let me wait,” Pechorin continued.
“Do me a favor,” the old woman interrupted him and hastily pulled up a chair.
Pechorin sat down. Looking around the room and everything in it, he felt somehow awkward; if fate had unexpectedly thrown him into the palace of the Persian Shah, he would have been found sooner than now.
At first glance, the old woman could have been about 60 years old, although she was in fact younger, but early sorrows had hunched her figure and dried out her skin, which became similar in color to old parchment. Bluish veins were drawn across her transparent hands, her face was wrinkled, all her vital forces seemed to be concentrated in her small eyes alone, extraordinary goodwill and imperturbable calm shone in them. Pechorin, not knowing how to start a conversation, began to leaf through the book lying on the table; he was not thinking about the book at all, but the strange title attracted his attention: “The easiest way to always be rich and happy,” essay by N.P. Moscow, type. I. Glazunova, price 25 kopecks. A smile appeared on Pechorin’s face, this book, like an empty lottery ticket, was sharp image deceived dreams, unrealistic hopes, vain efforts to imagine sad reality in the best possible way. The old lady noticed his smile and said:
– I asked my son, after reading an advertisement in the newspapers, to get me this book, but there was nothing in it.
“I think,” Pechorin objected, “that no book can teach you to be happy.” Oh, if only happiness were a science! It's a different matter!
“Of course,” the old woman objected, “a drowning man grabs a sliver of wood; we have not always been in such a position as we are now.” My husband was a Polish nobleman, served in the Russian service; as a result of a long litigation, he lost most of his estate, and the remainder was plundered in last war, however, I hope everything will get better soon. “My son,” she continued with some pride, “now has a very good place and a good salary.
After a moment of silence she asked:
- You, of course, are visiting my son on some business? Maybe you’ll be bored waiting, so would you like to tell me, I’ll tell him.
“I was entrusted,” answered Pechorin, “by Prince Ligovskoy to ask your son to do a favor and come to him, the prince has a lawsuit that should now be considered in the table of Mr. Krasinsky.” I will ask you to give him the prince’s address. You will do me a great favor if you persuade your son to visit him even tomorrow evening, I will be there.
Having written the address, Pechorin bowed and went to the door. At that moment the door opened, and he suddenly encountered a tall man; they looked at each other, their eyes met, and each took a step back. Hostile feelings were depicted on both faces, surprise bound their lips, and finally Pechorin, in order to get out of this strange situation, said almost in a whisper:
- Dear Sir, remember that I did not know that you were Mr. Krasinski, otherwise I would not have had the good fortune to meet you here. Your mother will explain to you the reason for my visit.
They dispersed without bowing. Pechorin left. This random play of fate greatly disturbed him, because in Krasinski he recognized the very official whom he had almost run over a few days ago and with whom he had a history in the theater.
Meanwhile, Krasinski, no less amazed by this meeting, sat down opposite his mother on the chair, lowered his head on his hand and thought deeply. When his mother handed over Pechorin’s assignments to him, trying to explain how profitable it would be to take up the prince’s business, and began to be surprised that Pechorin did not explain himself, then Krasinsky suddenly jumped up from his seat, a bright thought illuminated his face, and exclaimed, striking his hand to the table: “Yes, I will go to this prince!” Then he began to walk around the room with measured steps, sometimes making incoherent exclamations. The old woman, apparently accustomed to such strange antics, looked at him without surprise. Finally, he sat down again, sighed and looked at his mother with such an air that he was just starting a conversation; she guessed it.
“Well, Stanislav,” she said, “will you get an award soon?” We don't have much money left.
“I don’t know,” he answered abruptly.
“You probably didn’t manage to please the head of the department,” she continued, “so what’s the harm that he’s raking in the heat with your hands; Your time will come, but in the meantime, if you don’t look for people, God won’t look for you.
A bitter feeling appeared on Stanislav’s beautiful face; he answered in a dull voice:
“Mother, you want me to sacrifice even my character for you, perhaps, after all the sacrifices that I have made for you, this will be a drop of water in the sea.”
She raised her eyes to him, full of tears, and silence reigned again. Stanislav began to leaf through the book and suddenly said, without taking his eyes off the paragraph where the nameless writer argued that friendship is the key to true happiness:
- Do you know, mother, who is this officer who was with us today?
- I don’t know, but what?
“My mortal enemy,” he answered.
The old woman’s face turned as pale as it could turn, she clasped her hands and exclaimed:
- My God, what does he want from you?
“He probably doesn’t wish me harm, but I have a strong reason to hate him.” When he sat here opposite you, shining with golden epaulettes, stroking his white plume, didn’t you feel, didn’t you guess at first glance that I must certainly hate him? Oh, believe me, we will meet him more than once on the road of life and we will not meet him as coldly as now. Yes, I will go to this prince, some secret premonition whispers to me so that I obey the instructions of fate.
All the efforts of the frightened mother to find out the reason for such deep hatred were in vain. Stanislav did not want to tell, as if he was afraid that the reason would seem too insignificant to her. Like all passionate and persistent people, carried away by one constant thought, he tried most of all to avoid the convictions of his mind that could distract him from his intended goal.
The next day he dressed as best as possible. The whole morning he diligently, perhaps for the first time in his life, examined the departmental dandies from head to toe, in order to learn how to tie a tie and remember how many buttons on a vest needed to be fastened; and donated a quarter to Fage, who shamelessly fluffed his soft and wavy curls into a stiff and clumsy crest; and when 7 o’clock in the evening struck, Krasinsky went to Morskaya, full of vague hopes and fears!..

Prince Ligovsky had guests, some of his relatives, when Krasinsky entered the footman's room.
- Does the prince accept? - he asked, hesitantly looking first at this or that footman.
“We’re not from here,” one of them answered, without even rising from his master’s fur coat.
- Could it be possible, my dear, to call the doorman?..
“He’ll probably come out on his own now,” was the answer, “but we can’t!”
Finally the doorman appeared.
- Is Prince Ligovskaya at home?
- Please, sir.
- Report that Krasinski has arrived - he knows me!
The doorman went into the living room and, going up to Stepan Stepanych, said to him quietly:
- Mr. Krasinski has arrived, sir; he says that you would like to know him.
– Which Krasinski? Why are you lying? – the prince exclaimed, squinting his eyes importantly.
Pechorin, listening to what was going on, hurried to help the confused doorman.
“This is the same official,” he said, “who has your case.” I stopped by to see him today.
- A! “I am very obliged,” answered Stepan Step.
He went to the office and ordered an official to go there.
We won't listen to their boring talk about complicated matter, but let's stay in the living room; two old women, some chamberlain and a young man of ordinary appearance were playing whist; Princess Vera and another young lady were sitting on a sofa near the fireplace, listening to Pechorin, who, moving his chairs to the fireplace, where the remains of coals sparkled, told them one of his adventures during the Polish campaign. When Stepan Stepanych left, he took an idle place in order to be closer to the princess.
“So, you were ordered to go with a platoon to this village,” said the young lady, whom Vera called cousin, continuing the interrupted conversation.
“And I, of course, set off, although the night was dark and rainy,” said Pechorin, “I was ordered to take away the master’s weapons, if found, and send him to the main apartment... I had just been promoted to cornet, and this It was my first business trip. By dawn we saw in front of us a village with a stone manor house; near the outskirts my hussars caught a man and dragged him to me. His testimony about the name of the master and the number of inhabitants agreed with my instructions.
– Does your gentleman have a wife or daughters? – I asked.
- Yes, sir captain.
– What are their names, the countess, your Ostrozhsky’s wife?
- Countess Rozha.
“She must be a beauty,” I thought, frowning.
- Well, are her daughters the same faces as their mother?
- No, sir, the eldest is called Amalia and the youngest is Evelina.
“This doesn’t prove anything yet,” I thought. The grimace tormented me, I continued asking:
- What, is Gr. Rozha herself an old woman?
- No, sir, she is only 33 years old.
- What a misfortune!
We entered the village and soon stopped at the castle gates.
I ordered the people to get down and, accompanied by a non-commissioned officer, entered the house. Everything was empty. After walking through several rooms, I was greeted by the Count himself, trembling and pale as a sheet. I announced my errand to him, of course he assured me that he had no weapons, gave me the keys to all his storerooms and, among other things, offered me breakfast. After the second glass of sherry, the count began to ask permission to introduce his wife and daughters to me.
“For mercy,” I answered, “what a ceremony.” “I must admit, I was afraid that this Face would spoil my appetite, but the Count insisted and, apparently, strongly hoped for the powerful influence of his Face. I was still refusing, when suddenly the door opened and a woman, tall, slender, in a black dress, came in. Imagine a Polish woman and a beautiful Polish woman at that moment how she wants to charm a Russian officer. It was Countess Rosalia or Rosa, in common people Rozha.
This random play on words seemed very funny to the two ladies. They laughed.
“I have a presentiment that you have fallen in love with this Rozha,” finally exclaimed the young lady whom Princess Vera called cousin.
“This would have happened,” answered Pechorin, “if I had not already loved another.”
- Wow! Consistency, said the young lady. – Do you know that people don’t boast about this virtue?
– In me this is not a virtue, but a chronic illness.
– You, however, were cured?
“At least I’m getting treatment,” answered Pechorin.
The princess quickly looked at him, and something akin to surprise and joy appeared on her face. Then suddenly she became sad. This rapid transition of feelings did not escape Pechorin’s attention, it changed the conversation, the anecdote remained unfinished and was soon forgotten among the cheerful and relaxed conversation. Finally, tea was served, and the prince came up, followed by Krasinsky, the prince recommended him to his wife and asked him to sit down. The eyes of the small circle turned to him, and silence reigned. If the prince had been a resident of St. Petersburg, he would have given him breakfast at 500 rubles; if he needed him, he would even invite him to a ball or a noisy reception to rub shoulders among various kinds of guests, but for no reason in the world would he simply introduce into his living room a stranger and in no way belonging to the highest circle; but the prince was brought up in Moscow, and Moscow is such a hospitable old lady. Out of politeness, the princess turned to Krasinski with some questions, he answered simply and briefly.
“We are very grateful,” she finally said, “to Mr. Pechorin for giving us the opportunity to meet you.”
At these words, Pechorin and Krasinsky involuntarily looked at each other and the latter answered quickly:
“I should be even more grateful to Mr. Pechorin than you for this invaluable service.”
A smile ran across Pechorin’s lips, which could be expressed in the following phrase: “Wow, our official indulges in compliments”; – whether Krasinski understood this smile or whether he himself was afraid of his courage, because this was probably his first compliment said to a woman so highly placed above him by society, I don’t know – but he blushed and continued in an uncertain voice:
- Believe me, princess, that I will never forget the pleasant minutes that you allowed me to spend in your company: - I ask you not to doubt: I will do everything that depends on me... and besides, your business is only confused - but completely right...
“Tell me,” the princess asked him with that sympathy that looks like ordinary politeness when they don’t know what to say. to a stranger, - tell me: you, I think, are terribly tormented by business... I imagine this boredom: from morning to evening, writing and reading long and incoherent papers... this is unbearable: - would you believe that my husband interprets and explains to me every day for a year thing, but I still don’t understand anything.
“What a kind and entertaining husband,” thought Pechorin...
- And why do you need it, princess? - said Krasinski, - your lot is fun, luxury, and ours is work and worries; it follows: if it weren’t for us, who would work?
Finally, this conversation was exhausted: Krasinsky stood up and bowed... When he left, the princess’s cousin noticed that he was not at all as awkward as one would expect from an official, and that he did not speak badly at all. The princess added: “et savez-vous, ma chère, qu'il est très bien!..”43 - With these words, Pechorin began to extol his dexterity and beauty to the point of impossibility: he assured that he had never seen such dark blue eyes on anyone official in the world, and assured that Krasinski, judging by his profound remarks, would certainly be a great statesman if he did not remain forever a titular adviser... “I will certainly find out,” he added very seriously, “if he has a university certificate!” »
He managed to make the two ladies laugh and turn the conversation to other subjects: despite the fact that the princess’s expression was deeply etched in his memory: it seemed to him a reproach, although accidental, but nevertheless caustic. “He himself had previously admired the noble beauty of Krasinski’s face, but when the woman who captivated all his thoughts and hopes paid special attention to this beauty... he realized that she had unwittingly made a murderous comparison for him, and it almost seemed to him that he had lost her for the second time.” forever. And from that moment on, I in turn hated Krasinski. It’s sad, but I must admit that the purest love is half mixed with pride.
Fascinated by external beauty and possessing a sharp and penetrating mind, Pechorin knew how to look at himself with impartiality and, as usual with people with a passionate imagination, exaggerated his shortcomings. Convinced from his own experience how difficult it is to fall in love with spiritual qualities alone, he became distrustful and learned to explain the attention or caresses of women as calculations or accidents. What would seem to another to be proof of the most tender love, he often disdained as deceptive signs, words spoken without intention, glances, smiles thrown to the wind, to the first who wants to catch them; another would have lost heart and given up the battlefield to his opponents... but the difficulty of the struggle captivates his stubborn character, and Pechorin gave himself his word of honor to remain a winner: following his system and armed with an unbearable outward composure and patience, he could destroy the crafty evasions of the most skillful coquette... He knew the axiom whether it's late or early weak characters they submit to the strong and adamant, following some law of nature, hitherto unexplained; one could probably say that he would achieve his goal... if passion, omnipotent passion did not destroy, like a storm, with one impulse, the high stage of his reason and efforts... But this is if, this terrible if, almost similar to the “if” of Archimedes, who promised to lift the globe, if given a point of emphasis.
A crowd of different thoughts besieged Pechorin’s mind, so that at the end of the evening he became distracted and silent; Prince Stepan Stepanich was telling a long story drawn from family traditions; the ladies yawned furtively.
- Why did you become so sad? – Vera Dmitrevna’s cousin finally asked Pechorin.
“I’m even ashamed to announce the reason,” answered Pechorin...
- However, well!..
- Envy!..
- Who do you envy?.. For example...
- Isn’t it for me? - said the prince, smiling subtly and not imagining the importance of this question: Pechorin immediately came to the thought that the princess had told her husband about their former love, repented of it as a childish delusion; if so, then everything was over between them, and Pechorin could quietly become an object of ridicule for the spouses, or a victim of an insidious conspiracy; I am surprised how this suspicion did not disturb him before, but I assure you that it came to his mind just now; he promised himself to try to find out whether Vera confessed to her husband, and meanwhile answered:
- No, prince; not you, although I could, and everyone should envy you... but I admit, I would like to have this Krasinsky’s happy gift - to please everyone at first sight...
“Believe me,” answered the princess, “whoever is quickly liked is soon forgotten.”
- My God! What in the world is not forgotten?.. And if you count momentary success as nothing, then where is happiness? You achieve lasting love, lasting fame, lasting wealth... lo and behold... death, illness, fire, flood, war, peace, a rival, a change in general opinion - and all your work is lost!.. And oblivion? – oblivion is equally inexorable to minutes and centuries. – If they asked me what I wanted: a minute of complete bliss or years of ambiguous happiness... I would sooner decide to concentrate all my feelings and passions on one divine moment and then suffer as much as I want, rather than stretch them out little by little and place them by numbers in the intervals boredom or sadness.
“I agree with you on everything, except that everything in the world is forgotten - there are things that are impossible to forget... especially sorrows,” said the princess.
Her sweet face took on a kind of half-cold, half-sad look, and something like a tear ran, shining, along her long eyelashes, like a drop of rain, forgotten by a storm on a birch leaf, tremblingly rolling along its edges, until a new gust of wind he will rush her off - God knows where.
Pechorin looked at her in surprise... but alas! He could not explain this strange attack of sadness in any way! He had been separated from her for so long: and since then he had not known a single detail of her life... it was even very likely that Vera’s feelings at that moment did not relate to him at all? – you never know how many admirers she might have had after he left for the army; Maybe one of them cheated on her - who knows!..
Who will explain, who will explain
Och's ambiguous language...
When he got up to leave, the princess asked him if the day after tomorrow he would be at the ball of Baroness R., her relative... “I’m annoyed that the baroness invited us so convincingly,” she added; “I hardly know the local community at all and I’m sure that I will be bored there...”
Pechorin replied that he had not been invited yet...
“Now I understand,” he thought, getting into the sleigh, “she wants to have a gentleman she knows at this ball... God grant that they don’t invite me: Liza Negurova will probably be there... Ah! My God, yes, it seems that he and Vera have known each other for a long time... Oh! But if she dares...
Here his sleigh stopped, and so did his thoughts. – Going into his office, he found an invitation card from the Baroness on the table.

Baroness R** was Russian, but married to the Courland baron, who somehow became terribly rich; she lived on Milionnaya in the very center of the highest circle. From 11 o'clock in the evening, the carriages, one after one, began to drive up to its brightly lit entrance: on both sides of the porch, passers-by crowded on the sidewalk, stopped by curiosity and the danger of being crushed. Among them was Krasinski: pressed against the wall, he looked with envy at the various gentlemen with stars and crosses, whom long lackeys carefully pulled out of the carriage, at the young people casually jumping out of the sleigh onto the granite steps, and many thoughts crowded into his head. “How am I worse than them? - he thought. – Do these faces, pale, emaciated, distorted by petty passions, really appeal to women who have the right and opportunity to choose? Money, money and money alone, what do they need beauty, intelligence and heart? Oh, I will certainly be rich, no matter what, and then I will force this society to give me due justice.”
Poor, innocent official! He did not know that for this society, in addition to a heap of gold, a name is needed, adorned with historical memories (whatever they may be), a name so familiar to the lackeys so that the doorman does not distort it, and so that if it is pronounced, what -an important lady, legislator and judge of drawing rooms, would ask - which one is it? Is he related to Prince V, or Count K? So, Krasinski stood at the entrance, wrapped in an overcoat. The carriage arrived; A lady got out of it: in the glare of the lanterns, the diamonds sparkled brightly between her curls, and behind her a man in a bear fur coat got out of the carriage. It was Prince Ligovskaya and the princess; Krasinski hastily leaned out of the crowd of onlookers, took off his hat and bowed respectfully, as if he were an acquaintance, but alas! He was not noticed or not recognized, which is even more likely. And in fact, the woman who saw him only once and was ready to stand before the formidable court of the best society, and the elderly husband following his pretty wife to the ball, really, had no time for the crowd of curious onlookers freezing at the entrance, but Krasinsky attributed it to pride and deliberate neglect is an extremely simple and accidental thing, and from that moment a secret hostility towards the princess arose in his suspicious heart. “Okay,” he thought, walking away, “there will be a holiday on our street,” a pathetic saying of petty hatred.
Meanwhile, music was already thundering in the hall, and the ball was beginning to liven up; here was everything that is best in St. Petersburg: two envoys, with their overseas retinue, made up of people who spoke very good French (which, however, is not at all surprising) and therefore aroused deep interest in our beauties, several generals and statesmen , - an English lord traveling out of economy44 and therefore not considering it necessary to speak or look, but his wife, a noble lady belonging to the class of blue stockings45 and once a formidable persecutor of Byron, spoke for four and looked into four eyes, if you count the glasses of the double lorgnette, in which there was no less expressiveness than in her own eyes; there were five or six of our home-grown diplomats, who had traveled at their own expense no further than Revel and who sharply asserted that Russia is a completely European state, and that they know it inside and out, because they have been several times to Tsarskoe Selo and even to Pargolovo. They looked proudly from behind their starched ties at the military youth, apparently so carelessly and thoughtlessly devoted to pleasure: they were sure that these people, dressed in a uniform embroidered with gold, were incapable of anything except the mechanical pursuits of service. Here you might also meet several young and pink youths, military men with toupees, civilians, combed à la russe,46 modest like the confidantes of the classical tragedy, recently presented high society some noble relative: without having time to meet for the most part ladies, and afraid, when inviting a stranger to a quadrille or mazurka, to meet one of those icy, terrible glances that make your heart turn over, like a sick person at the sight of a black potion, they surrounded the brilliant quadrilles in a timid crowd of spectators and ate ice cream - they ate ice cream terribly. – Exclusively dancing gentlemen could be divided into two categories; some conscientiously spared neither their legs nor their tongues, danced tirelessly, sat on the edge of the chair, turning their faces to their lady, smiled and cast significant glances at every word - in short, fulfilled their duty in the best possible way - others, middle-aged people, officials, honored veterans of society, with an important posture and a proud expression on their faces, slid carelessly along the parquet floor, as if out of mercy or condescension towards the hostess; and they spoke only to the lady of their vis-á-vis,47 when they met her, making a figure.
But ladies... Oh! The ladies were the true adornment of this ball, as of all possible balls!.. How many sparkling eyes and diamonds, how many pink lips and pink ribbons... wonders of nature, and wonders of a fashionable shop... magical little legs and wonderfully narrow shoes, white marble shoulders and the best French whitewash , sonorous phrases borrowed from a fashionable novel, diamonds rented from a shop... I don’t know, but in my mind, a woman at a ball with her outfit forms something whole, inseparable, special; a woman at a ball is not at all the same as a woman in her office; judging the soul and mind of a woman by dancing a mazurka with her is the same as judging the opinion and feelings of a journalist by reading one of his articles.
At the door leading from the hall to the living room, sat two mature maidens, armed with lorgnettes and talking with two or three young men - not dancing. One of them was Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The crimson dress gave her pale features a little more life, and in general she was dressed to her liking. Hoping for this advantage, she responded rather coldly to Pechorin’s polite bow when he approached her. (It should be noted, by the way, that a poorly dressed lady is usually much more kind and condescending - this, however, does not mean at all that they should dress poorly.) Pechorin stood next to Liz Nikolaevna, waiting for her to start a conversation, and absentmindedly looked at the dancers. Several minutes passed in this way, and finally she was forced to break the seal of silence from her lips.
- Why don’t you dance? – she asked him.
– I always and everywhere follow your example.
- Maybe from today.
- Well, better late than never. Is not it?
- Sometimes it's too late.
- My God! What a tragic expression!
Lizaveta Nikolaevna was almost offended, but tried to smile and answered:
– For some time now I have ceased to be surprised by your behavior. For others it would seem very daring, for me it is very natural. Oh, I know you very well now.
“Is it possible to find out who explained my character to you so skillfully?”
“Oh, it’s a secret,” she said, looking at him intently and pressing her fan to her lips.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear with feigned tenderness:
“You already trusted me with one secret of your heart a long time ago—is the other more important than the first?”
She blushed, despite her inability to blush, but not from shame, not from memory, not from annoyance; - an involuntary pleasure, a secret hope to lure a fickle admirer again, to get married, or at least to take revenge over time in her own, feminine way, flashed through her soul. Women never give up such hopes when some opportunity to achieve a goal presents itself, and such pleasures when the goal is achieved.
Immediately taking on a serious, sad look, she answered deliberately:
“You remind me of things I want to forget.”
– But haven’t you forgotten yet? - he said tenderly.
- Oh, don’t continue, I won’t believe anything anymore, you gave me such a lesson...
- I?
I was more surprised by this than by the five exclamation marks placed side by side. Then Pechorin thought about it.
“Yes,” he said, “now I begin to understand; someone slandered me in front of you, I have so many enemies and especially friends, now I understand why the other day, when I came to see you, it was in the morning, and I know that you had guests, but they didn’t receive me; Oh, of course, I myself will not seek such an insult again.
“But you don’t know what’s the reason for this,” said Lizaveta Nikolaevna hastily, “I received a letter from an unknown person, in which...
“In which they praise me and interpret my actions for the best,” Pechorin answered, smiling bitterly, “oh, I can guess who did this service for me, but I ask you, believe, believe everything that is written there, as you do.” believed until this moment.
He laughed and wanted to move away.
– But what if I don’t believe? - Lizaveta Nikolaevna exclaimed in fright.
“It’s in vain, it’s always more profitable to believe the bad than the good... one against twenty, what...” he did not finish the sentence, his eyes turned to the other door of the hall, where there was a slight movement, Lizaveta Nikolaevna’s eyes fearfully turned in the same direction.
Through the crowd, Princess Ligovskaya was approaching the living room, followed by Prince Stepan Step.
She was dressed with taste, only strict fashion trendsetters could have noticed with importance that she was wearing too many diamonds. She moved slowly through the crowd that casually moved in front of her. Not a single greeting kept her on the path, and a hundred curious eyes, looking the unfamiliar beauty from head to toe, brought color to her tender cheeks - her eyes were covered with some kind of electric moisture, her chest rose unevenly, and one could guess from the expression on her face, that a painful moment had come for her. She looked like an unknown speaker ascending the steps of the pulpit for the first time... Her success in fashionable society depended on this ball... an inopportunely sewn bow, a misplaced flower could ruin her future forever... And really, can a woman hope for success, can our dandies like her if at first glance they say: elle a l' air bourgeois48 - this expression, so inopportunely crept into our purely noble society, however, has a terrible power over minds - and takes away all rights from beauty and courtesy:
Taste, father, excellent manner.49
When the princess drew level with Pechorin, she barely responded with a slight bow of her head and a fleeting smile to his bow - he wanted to say something, but she turned away; her eyes ran restlessly around, trying to open at least one more Familiar face... and fell on Lizaveta Nikolaevna... Having recognized each other, the rivals very affectionately exchanged greetings... Then someone else leaned out from the crowd of men and with a joyful look began to ask Vera when she came from Moscow and so on... - She gradually became friendlier, so it’s possible I can almost bet that if she met 99 acquaintances here, the ninety-ninth would remain in the happy conviction that he had won her heart with one glance.
As soon as the princess and the prince walked into the living room, Lizaveta Nikolaevna immediately turned to Pechorin to resume the interrupted conversation - but he was so pale, so motionless that she became afraid.
“The appearance of this lady,” she finally told him, “made a very strange impression on you!.. Have you known her for a long time?”
- Since childhood! - answered Pechorin.
– I also knew her once... who is she married to?
Pechorin said.
- How! - Could this gentleman who followed her so humbly be her husband?.. If I had met them on the street, I would have taken him for a lackey. “I think she makes of him whatever she wants.”
- At least everything that can be made from it!..
- However, she is happy...
“Didn’t you notice how many diamonds she has on her?”
- Wealth is not happiness!..
- Still, it is closer to him than poverty: - there is nothing more tasteless than to be satisfied with your lot in a modest hut... over a cup of sinful porridge.
-Who is telling you about poverty? Everywhere you have to be able to choose the middle...
“I wish you a husband who would think so.”
He went out. The quadrille ended, the music fell silent: in the wide hall there was a mixed chatter of thin and thick voices, the shuffling of boots and shoes; - groups formed. - The ladies went to other rooms to get some fresh air and retell their comments to each other; a few gentlemen followed them, not noticing that they were superfluous, and that they were trying to get rid of them; – the princess came into the hall and sat down next to Negurova. They renewed their old acquaintance, and an insignificant conversation ensued between them.

The novel “Princess Ligovskaya” (some literary scholars define the genre of the work as a story) was begun by M.Yu. Lermontov in 1836 and remained unfinished (a total of nine chapters were written).

The story centers on the life of St. Petersburg society in the 1830s.

Most of the heroes are metropolitan aristocrats, so the depiction of dinner parties, theaters, and balls in the novel is given a significant place. However, “Princess Ligovskaya” cannot in any way be attributed to the secular stories that were published one after another at that time, and primarily because the author does not at all admire the life of high society, but rather treats what is depicted with irony.

One of the plot lines of the novel, associated with the official Krasinski, tells the story of the fate of the “little man” - a theme that had already appeared in Gogol’s work (the story “Notes of a Madman” was first published in 1835, the original idea of ​​“The Overcoat” dates back to around this time). .

The novel is largely autobiographical. Behind the relationship between Pechorin and Liza Negurova, it is easy to see Lermontov’s youthful love for E.A. Sushkova, and the poet’s relationship with V.A. Lopukhina was embodied in the second storyline of the novel - “Pechorin - Princess Ligovskaya”.

Important Information Lermontov learned about the life and morals of St. Petersburg officials from conversations with his close friend S.A. Raevsky (1808-1876), who served in the Department of State Property.

The main character's name is Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin, like the hero of the story written later brilliant novel. However, Pechorin from “Princess Ligovskaya” (Georges) differs from his famous namesake. First, he is younger, which may explain much of this difference. Secondly, as a person he is much smaller, although he has already comprehended many of the laws that govern the life of secular society.

Georges Pechorin's appearance is not very attractive, and he looks like Lermontov:
“...He was short in stature, broad in the shoulders and generally awkward...
His face is dark, irregular, but full of expressiveness...”

At the very beginning of the novel, an event occurs that can be called significant, although at first glance it seems very ordinary.

So, “in 1833, December 21st at 4 o’clock in the afternoon” in the center of St. Petersburg, the young official Krasinsky was hit by a sleigh drawn by a bay trotter. The official was not injured, but his soul was filled with bitterness, because the rich officer rushed off without even asking whether the man who fell under the sleigh was alive or dead.

Krasinski understands that everything is to blame for his poverty, that it is precisely because of the lack of funds that he must endure a lot and give up a lot. He will be forced to endure this insult too.

Meanwhile, the officer, having arrived home, immediately forgets about what happened, because such an event is completely insignificant for him.

Lermontov describes in detail the hero’s richly and originally furnished office, introduces us to his sweet sixteen-year-old sister, and here, in the first chapter, we learn that Georges has a secret of his heart and this secret is connected with a young woman who is already married.

In the evening Georges goes to Alexandrinsky Theater, where he meets many familiar people from his circle. During the intermission over tea, he talks about the recent incident as very funny, calls the injured official a dandy, and makes fun of his poor clothes. And it must happen that this same official ends up nearby and hears the whole conversation.

Everything turns upside down in Krasinsky’s soul, he provokes a quarrel with Pechorin, tries to explain something, to awaken the conscience of the rich rake. However, they are too different people and understand life too differently. Georges, as befits a young man of his circle, immediately proposes a duel: he is not used to soul-saving conversations. The young official, who is the only support for his mother, cannot afford to risk his life, which is what he is trying to explain to his interlocutor:

“What, finally, do you want from me? - Pechorin said impatiently.
- I wanted to make you repent.
“You seem to have forgotten that I didn’t start the quarrel.”
- Is it really a joke to run over a person? It’s fun!
- I promise you to flog my coachman...
- Oh, you will drive me out of patience!..
- Well? Then we will shoot!..”

It is very difficult for the young metropolitan aristocrat, the darling of fate, the “lord three thousand souls and nephew of twenty thousand Moscow aunts” to go beyond the circle outlined by his life: a well-fed person poorly understands someone who is not very well-fed. However, Krasinski’s excitement does not leave Georges indifferent: “Pechorin looked after him with regret.”

In the third chapter, the author introduces us to another heroine of the novel - the overripe girl Negurova. Georges once, in the language of the 19th century, dragged after her, but now he simply ridicules her. For a secular society, such behavior is quite common.

“A year and a half ago, Pechorin was still a fairly new person in the world: in order to support himself, he needed to acquire what some call secular fame, that is, to be known as a person who could do evil whenever he wanted; For some time he searched in vain for a pedestal, by standing on which he could force the crowd to look at him; becoming the lover of a famous beauty would be too difficult for a beginner, and he would not dare to compromise a young and innocent girl, and therefore chose Lizaveta Nikolaevna as his instrument, who was neither one nor the other. What should I do? In our poor society, the phrase: he ruined so many reputations means almost: he won so many battles.”

In further chapters we meet Vera, now Princess Ligovskaya, the wife of an elderly and uninteresting man, and, moreover, not a Petersburger, but a Muscovite, that is, almost a provincial. Vera connected with Georges youthful love, which he has not forgotten. Because, “Pechorin had the most unhappy disposition: impressions, at first light, gradually cut into his mind deeper and deeper, so that later this love acquired over his heart the right of limitation, the most sacred of all rights of humanity.”

Georges wants to know how Vera treats him now, but, to his bewilderment, he cannot “read” anything on her face.

In order to be able to visit the Ligovskys’ house more often, Georges undertakes to help the prince in a long-standing legal battle. The prince, who just recently arrived in St. Petersburg and knows almost no one here, is sincerely grateful.

By some whim of fate, the official “whose desk is sorting out” the affairs of Prince Ligovsky turns out to be Krasinsky, the same “dandy” who was shot down by Pechorin’s sleigh and with whom he had a “history” that almost ended in a duel.

Looking for his apartment, Georges finds himself in a house where very poor people have found shelter, and in contrast to the luxury of his own life, everything surprises him: the dirty courtyard, the dark staircases, the unpleasant odors reigning here, and finally the living room in Krasinski’s apartment , “if you can call it that, a quadrangular room, decorated with a single table covered with oilcloth, in front of which stood a sofa and three chairs...”

However, people living in poverty also have intelligence and self-esteem, which is initially difficult for Pechorin to accept, because he has seen little except rich living rooms, theaters and restaurants. In addition, as we remember, he has a very unattractive appearance and simply cannot help but envy Krasinski, who “was tall, blond and surprisingly good-looking; large, languid blue eyes, a regular nose, similar to the nose of Apollo Belvedere, a Greek oval face and lovely hair, curled by nature...”

A new meeting with Georges, whom the poor official calls his mortal enemy, makes a great impression on him. But Krasinsky believes that someday he will be able to repay Pechorin for the humiliation he experienced.

Pechorin, in turn, also unkindly watches Krasinsky when he comes to the Ligovskys’ house at the prince’s request. The young official produces good impression at the princess and her guest, which cannot but irritate Georges, who is worried about his unattractive appearance.

However, most of all Pechorin’s thoughts are occupied with Vera. He really wants to get some confirmation that she suffered in separation, that her old feelings for him remained in her soul. But both of them, alas, were brought up in a society where people almost never say what they think, and, on the contrary, willingly say what they do not think. Sincerity and spontaneity seem completely out of place in the world. Therefore, our hero is constantly trying to unravel what is actually hidden behind certain words of his secular acquaintances.

The action of the last of the written chapters, the ninth, takes place at the ball of a wealthy baroness, a relative of Vera Ligovskaya. Pechorin, having met Liza Negurova, tries to conduct small talk consisting of barbs and hints, however, when he sees Vera, he falls silent:

“As soon as the princess and the prince walked into the living room, Lizaveta Nikolaevna immediately turned to Pechorin to resume the interrupted conversation - but he was so pale, so motionless that she became afraid.
“The appearance of this lady,” she finally said to him, “made a very strange impression on you!.. have you known her for a long time?”
- Since childhood! - answered Pechorin.”

“And here is my hero,
In a moment that is evil for him,
Reader, we will now leave,
For a long time... forever."

The answers to these questions may be different, but one thing is absolutely clear: the society to which Pechorin belongs by birth does not meet the needs of a thinking person and his future life will be full of conflicts with high society.

Reviews

Thank you, dear Vera, for your interesting research. I read “Princess Ligovskaya” a long time ago. Now I'll definitely re-read it. Especially after I read Zhukova’s comments. She speaks harshly about Lermontov, throwing him off his pedestal! I think that in “Princess” Lermontov spoke about himself, but in “Hero” this is already an image of enormous generalizing power! Sincerely,