nes away, however invitingly the shady
groves allure, however brightly shines the peaceful sun. The livelong
day he paces the sandy shore, hearkens to the monotonous murmur of the
onrushing waves, and gazes into the misty distance: lo! yonder, upon
the pale line dividing the blue deep from the grey clouds, is there not
glancing the longed-for sail, at first like the wing of a seagull, but
little by little severing itself from the foam of the billows and, with
even course, drawing nigh to the desert harbour?

APPENDIX

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

(By the Author)

THE preface to a book serves the double purpose of prologue and
epilogue. It affords the author an opportunity of explaining the object
of the work, or of vindicating himself and replying to his critics. As a
rule, however, the reader is concerned neither with the moral purpose
of the book nor with the attacks of the Reviewers, and so the preface
remains unread. Nevertheless, this is a pity, especially with us
Russians! The public of this country is so youthful, not to say
simple-minded, that it cannot understand the meaning of a fable unless
the moral is set forth at the end. Unable to see a joke, insensible to
irony, it has, in a word, been badly brought up. It has not yet learned
that in a decent book, as in decent society, open invective can have no
place; that our present-day civilisation has invented a keener weapon,
none the less deadly for being almost invisible, which, under the cloak
of flattery, strikes with sure and irresistible effect. The Russian
public is like a simple-minded person from the country who, chancing to
overhear a conversation between two diplomatists belonging to hostile
courts, comes away with the conviction that each of them has been
deceiving his Government in the interest of a most affectionate private
friendship.

The unfortunate effects of an over-literal acceptation of words by
certain readers and even Reviewers have recently been manifested in
regard to the present book. Many of its readers have been dreadfully,
and in all seriousness, shocked to find such an immoral man as Pechorin
set before them as an example. Others have observed, with much
acumen, that the author has painted his own portrait and those of
his acquaintances!... What a stale and wretched jest! But Russia, it
appears, has been constituted in such a way that absurdities of this
kind will never be eradicated. It is doubtful whether, in this co