some tea? If you only knew what worries are troubling me!’
“‘I know everything,’ I said, having walked up to the bed.
“‘All the better: I don’t have it in me to recount it.’
“‘Ensign, sir, you have committed a misdemeanor, for which I too may have to answer . . .’
“‘Come, come! What is the matter? It would seem that we have long split everything in half.’
“‘How could you make such jokes? Your sword, if you please!’
“‘Mitka, my sword!’
“Mitka brought the sword. Having fulfilled my duty, I sat down on his bed and said: ‘Listen Grigory Alexandrovich, admit that it was a bad thing you did.’
“‘What was a bad thing?’
“‘That you took Bela . . . And as for that rogue Azamat! . . . Come on, admit it,’ I said.
“‘And what if I like her?’
“Well, what would you have liked me to reply to that? . . . I was at a dead end. However, after a certain length of silence I said to him that if her father started to ask for her, then he’d have to give her back!
“‘Totally unnecessary!’
“‘And if he finds out she’s here?’
“‘How will he find out?’
“I was again faced with a dead-end.
“‘Listen, Maxim Maximych!’ said Pechorin, lifting himself up a little. ‘You’re a kind fellow, so consider: if we return the savage’s daughter to him, he will murder her or sell her. The deed is done, and there’s no need to ruin things further—leave her with me, and you can keep my sword . . .’
“‘Well, show her to me,’ I said.
“‘She is behind that door. But just now, I myself tried in vain to see her—she is sitting in the corner, wrapped in a shawl. She isn’t talking, isn’t looking up—as frightened as a wild chamois. I’ve engaged our lady-innkeeper; she knows Tatar, she will take care of her and will train her to accept the thought that she is mine, because she isn’t going to belong to anyone except me,’ he added, banging his fist on the table. And I agreed to that too . . . What else could I do? There are people with whom one must absolutely agree.”
“And then?” I asked Maxim Maximych. “Did he really train her to be his or did she wither away in her unwillingness, out of longing for her motherland?”
“For pity’s sake, why would she long for her motherland? The same hills are visible from the fortress as from the aul —these savages need nothing more than that. And furthermore, every day Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something: for the first few days, she silently and proudly pushed the presents away, which were then passed to the lady-innkeeper, exciting her eloquence. Ah, presents! What a woman will do for some colorful rag! . . . But I digress . . . For a long time Pechorin tussled with her; and in the meantime he learned Tatar, and she started to understand our language. Bit by bit she became accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively, from the side. Still pining, she sang her songs under her breath, so that, sometimes, I also became sad when I listened to her from the adjacent room. I will never forget one scene: I walked past and looked through the window; Bela was sitting on the stove-bench, her head hanging down onto her chest, and Grigory Alexandrovich stood in front of her.
“‘Listen, my peri, ’ 26 he was saying, ‘you know that sooner or later you will have to be mine, why do you torture me so? Is it that you love some Chechen? If that is so, then I’ll send you home now.’ She shuddered just noticeably and shook her head. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘am I completely hateful to you?’ She exhaled. ‘Or does your faith prohibit you from loving me?’ She paled and said nothing. ‘Trust me. Allah is the same for every tribe, and if he allows me to love you, why would he forbid you to requite me with the same?’ She looked at him in the face intently, as if she were struck with this new thought; her eyes expressed mistrust and a desire to be convinced. What eyes! They sparkled as though
“‘I know everything,’ I said, having walked up to the bed.
“‘All the better: I don’t have it in me to recount it.’
“‘Ensign, sir, you have committed a misdemeanor, for which I too may have to answer . . .’
“‘Come, come! What is the matter? It would seem that we have long split everything in half.’
“‘How could you make such jokes? Your sword, if you please!’
“‘Mitka, my sword!’
“Mitka brought the sword. Having fulfilled my duty, I sat down on his bed and said: ‘Listen Grigory Alexandrovich, admit that it was a bad thing you did.’
“‘What was a bad thing?’
“‘That you took Bela . . . And as for that rogue Azamat! . . . Come on, admit it,’ I said.
“‘And what if I like her?’
“Well, what would you have liked me to reply to that? . . . I was at a dead end. However, after a certain length of silence I said to him that if her father started to ask for her, then he’d have to give her back!
“‘Totally unnecessary!’
“‘And if he finds out she’s here?’
“‘How will he find out?’
“I was again faced with a dead-end.
“‘Listen, Maxim Maximych!’ said Pechorin, lifting himself up a little. ‘You’re a kind fellow, so consider: if we return the savage’s daughter to him, he will murder her or sell her. The deed is done, and there’s no need to ruin things further—leave her with me, and you can keep my sword . . .’
“‘Well, show her to me,’ I said.
“‘She is behind that door. But just now, I myself tried in vain to see her—she is sitting in the corner, wrapped in a shawl. She isn’t talking, isn’t looking up—as frightened as a wild chamois. I’ve engaged our lady-innkeeper; she knows Tatar, she will take care of her and will train her to accept the thought that she is mine, because she isn’t going to belong to anyone except me,’ he added, banging his fist on the table. And I agreed to that too . . . What else could I do? There are people with whom one must absolutely agree.”
“And then?” I asked Maxim Maximych. “Did he really train her to be his or did she wither away in her unwillingness, out of longing for her motherland?”
“For pity’s sake, why would she long for her motherland? The same hills are visible from the fortress as from the aul —these savages need nothing more than that. And furthermore, every day Grigory Alexandrovich gave her something: for the first few days, she silently and proudly pushed the presents away, which were then passed to the lady-innkeeper, exciting her eloquence. Ah, presents! What a woman will do for some colorful rag! . . . But I digress . . . For a long time Pechorin tussled with her; and in the meantime he learned Tatar, and she started to understand our language. Bit by bit she became accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively, from the side. Still pining, she sang her songs under her breath, so that, sometimes, I also became sad when I listened to her from the adjacent room. I will never forget one scene: I walked past and looked through the window; Bela was sitting on the stove-bench, her head hanging down onto her chest, and Grigory Alexandrovich stood in front of her.
“‘Listen, my peri, ’ 26 he was saying, ‘you know that sooner or later you will have to be mine, why do you torture me so? Is it that you love some Chechen? If that is so, then I’ll send you home now.’ She shuddered just noticeably and shook her head. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘am I completely hateful to you?’ She exhaled. ‘Or does your faith prohibit you from loving me?’ She paled and said nothing. ‘Trust me. Allah is the same for every tribe, and if he allows me to love you, why would he forbid you to requite me with the same?’ She looked at him in the face intently, as if she were struck with this new thought; her eyes expressed mistrust and a desire to be convinced. What eyes! They sparkled as though
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