I have inserted in this book only those portions of the diary which refer to Pechorin’s sojourn in the Caucasus. There still remains in my hands a thick writing-book in which he tells the story of his whole life. Some time or other that, too, will present itself before the tribunal of the world, but, for many and weighty reasons, I do not venture to take such a responsibility upon myself now.
Possibly some readers would like to know my own opinion of Pechorin’s character. My answer is: the title of this book. “But that is malicious irony!” they will say... I know not.
BOOK III THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM PECHORIN’S DIARY
TAMAN
TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being drowned.
I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired troika [21] at the gate of the only stone-built house that stood at the entrance to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing the jingle of the bell, cried out, sleepily, in his barbarous voice, “Who goes there?” An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough [22] came out. I explained that I was an officer bound for the active-service detachment on Government business, and I proceeded to demand official quarters. The headborough conducted us round the town. Whatever hut we drove up to we found to be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I began to lose my temper.
“Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!” I cried; “to the devil himself, so long as there’s a place to put up at!”
“There is one other lodging,” answered the headborough, scratching his head. “Only you won’t like it, sir. It is uncanny!”