Free A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov Page A

love me.’
    “‘Really, my dear, you couldn’t have thought up anything worse!’
    “She started to cry and then, proudly raised her head, wiped away her tears, and continued:
    “‘If he doesn’t love me, then who is preventing him from sending me home? I am not forcing him. But if it continues this way, then I’ll go off myself: I am not his slave—I am the daughter of a prince!’
    “I started to try to assure her.
    “‘Listen Bela, he can’t sit here forever as if he were sewn to your skirts. He is a young man, and loves to chase wild things—he goes off, but he’ll come back. And if you’re going to pine, then he’ll soon tire of it.’
    “‘True, true!’ she replied. “I’ll be cheerful.’
    “And with a loud laugh, she took up her tambourine, started to sing, dance, and bounce around me. Only this didn’t last long, and again she fell down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.
    “What was I to do with her? I have never interacted much with women, you know. I was thinking and thinking about what might comfort her and couldn’t think of a thing. We were both silent for a time . . . A very unpleasant situation!
    “Finally I said to her: ‘Why don’t we go for a walk along the ramparts? The weather is glorious!’ This was September. And really, the day was marvelous, bright and it wasn’t hot. All the mountains were visible, as if laid out on a platter. We went and walked along the fortress ramparts, back and forth, in silence. Finally she sat on some grass, and I sat next to her. But really, it’s funny to look back and think about how I ran around after her, like some sort of nanny.
    “Our fortress stood at a high point, and the view from the ramparts was excellent. On one side, there was a wide glade, pitted with several gullies, finishing at a forest that stretched to the peak of the mountain. Here and there, auls were sending up smoke, herds were ranging. A rivulet ran on the other side, flanked by the thick shrubbery, which covered the stony ridges connecting to the central chain of the Caucasus. We sat on the corner of a bastion, so we could see everything on either side. And then I saw: someone emerging from the forest on a gray horse, getting closer and closer, and finally stopping on the other side of the stream, about a hundred sazhens 33 from us, and twirling his horse, like a madman. What an extraordinary thing!
    “‘Look there, Bela,’ I said, ‘you have young eyes, who is this dzhigit —and who is he here to entertain?’
    “She looked over and cried out, ‘It’s Kazbich!’
    “‘Ach, that scamp! What—has he come to laugh at us?’ I’m peering down and she’s right, it’s Kazbich: that’s his swarthy snout, ragged and dirty, as always.
    “‘That’s my father’s horse,’ said Bela, grabbing my hand. She was shaking like a leaf and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Aha!’ I thought, ‘that roguish blood hasn’t quieted down in you either, my darling!’
    “‘Come over here,’ I said to the sentry. ‘Train your rifle, and help this clever man off his horse—and you’ll get a silver ruble for it!’
    “‘Yes, Your Honor. But he isn’t standing still!’
    “‘Make him move!’ I said, laughing . . .
    “‘Hello there, kind sir!’ shouted the sentry, waving at him. ‘Slow down, why are you twirling like a spinning top?’
    “Kazbich actually stopped and started to listen attentively—he probably thought that someone was initiating negotiations with him—not at all!
    “My grenadier took aim . . . Batz! . . . Missed. As soon as the gunpowder flared at the barrel, Kazbich nudged his horse and it leapt to the side. He came up a little in his stirrups and cried something in his own language, threatening us with his whip—and that was the last we saw of him.
    “‘Shame on you!’ I said to the sentry.
    “‘Your Honor! He’s gone off to die,’ he replied. ‘Those damned people don’t die instantly.’
    “A quarter of an hour later,