A HERO OF OUR TIME
M. Y. LERMONTOV
FOREWORD
THIS novel, known as one of the masterpieces of
Russian Literature, under the title "A Hero
of our Time," and already translated into at least
nine European languages, is now for the first time
placed before the general English Reader.
The work is of exceptional interest to the
student of English Literature, written as it was
under the profound influence of Byron and being
itself a study of the Byronic type of character.
The Translators have taken especial care to
preserve both the atmosphere of the story and the
poetic beauty with which the Poet-novelist imbued
his pages.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
BOOK I. BELA
BOOK II. MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH
FOREWORD TO EXTRACTS FROM PECHORIN'S DIARY
BOOK III. TAMAN
BOOK IV. THE FATALIST
BOOK V. PRINCESS MARY
APPENDIX. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
BOOK I BELA
THE HEART OF A RUSSIAN
CHAPTER I
I was travelling post from Tiflis.
All the luggage I had in my cart consisted of
one small portmanteau half filled with travellingnotes on Georgia; of these the greater part has
been lost, fortunately for you; but the portmanteau itself and the rest of its contents have
remained intact, fortunately for me.
As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was
disappearing behind the snow-clad ridge of the
mountains. In order to accomplish the ascent
of Mount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an
Ossete, urged on the horses indefatigably, singing
zealously the while at the top of his voice.
What a glorious place that valley is! On every
hand are inaccessible mountains, steep, yellow
slopes scored by water-channels, and reddish
rocks draped with green ivy and crowned with
clusters of plane-trees. Yonder, at an immense
height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Down
below rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting
noisily forth from the dark and misty depths of
the gorge, with an unnamed stream clasped in its
embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its
waters glistening like a snake with flashing
scales.
Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we
stopped at a dukhan.[1] About a score of Georgians
and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy
crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had
halted for the night. I was obliged to hire oxen
to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as
it was now autumn and the roads were slippery
with ice. Besides, the mountain is about two
versts[2] in length.
[1] A retail shop and tavern combined.
[2] A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet.
There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and
a few Ossetes. One of the latter shouldered my
portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with
one voice, proceeded to help the oxen.
Following mine there came another cart, which
I was surprised to see four oxen pulling with the
greatest ease, notwithstanding that it was loaded
to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking
a little, silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was
wearing a shaggy Circassian cap and an officer's
overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to
be about fifty years of age. The swarthiness of
his complexion showed that his face had long
been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and
the premature greyness of his moustache was
out of keeping with his firm gait and robust
appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He
silently returned my greeting and emitted an
immense cloud of smoke.
"We are fellow-travellers, it appears."
Again he bowed silently.
"I suppose you are going to Stavropol?"
"Yes, sir, exactly -- with Government things."
"Can you tell me how it is that that heavilyladen cart of yours is being drawn without any
difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattle are
scarcely able to move mine, empty though it is,
and with all those Ossetes helping?"
He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning
glance.
"You have not been in the Caucasus long, I
should say?"
"About a year," I answered.
He smiled a second time.
"Well?"
"Just so, sir," he answered. "They're terrible
beasts, these Asiatics! You think that all that
shouting means that they are helping the oxen?
Why, the devil alone can make out what it is
they do shout. The oxen understand, though;
and if you were to yoke as many as twenty they
still wouldn't budge so long as the Ossetes
shouted in that way of theirs. . . . Awful
scoundrels! But what can you make of them?
They love extorting money from people who
happen to be travelling through here. The
rogues have been spoiled! You wait and see:
they will get a tip out of you as well as their hire.
I know them of old, they can't get round
me!"
"You have been serving here a long time?"
"Yes, I was here under Aleksei Petrovich,"[1]
he answered, assuming an air of dignity. "I was
a sub-lieutenant when he came to the Line; and
I was promoted twice, during his command, on
account of actions against the mountaineers."
[1] Ermolov, i.e. General Ermolov. Russians have three
names -- Christian name, patronymic and surname. They are
addressed by the first two only. The surname of Maksim
Maksimych (colloquial for Maksimovich) is not mentioned.
"And now --?"
"Now in the third battalion of the Line.
And you yourself?"
I told him.
With this the conversation ended, and we continued to walk in silence, side by side. On the
summit of the mountain we found snow. The
sun set, and -- as usually is the case in the south -night followed upon the day without any
interval of twilight. Thanks, however, to the
sheen of the snow, we were able easily to distinguish the road, which still went up the mountain-side, though not so steeply as before. I
ordered the Ossetes to put my portmanteau into
the cart, and to replace the oxen by horses. Then
for the last time I gazed down upon the valley;
but the thick mist which had gushed in billows
from the gorges veiled it completely, and not a
single sound now floated up to our ears from
below. The Ossetes surrounded me clamorously and demanded tips; but the staff-captain
shouted so menacingly at them that they dispersed in a moment.
"What a people they are!" he said. "They
even know the Russian for 'bread,but they
have mastered the phrase 'Officer, give us a tip!In my opinion, the very Tartars are better,
they are no drunkards, anyhow." . . .
We were now within a verst or so of the
Station. Around us all was still, so still, indeed,
that it was possible to follow the flight of a gnat
by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed
the gorge, deep and black. Behind it and in
front of us rose the dark-blue summits of the
mountains, all trenched with furrows and covered
with layers of snow, and standing out against the
pale horizon, which still retained the last reflections of the evening glow. The stars twinkled
out in the dark sky, and in some strange way it
seemed to me that they were much higher than
in our own north country. On both sides of the
road bare, black rocks jutted out; here and there
shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; but
not a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that
dead sleep of nature it was cheering to hear the
snorting of the three tired post-horses and the
irregular tinkling of the Russian bell.[1]
[1] The bell on the duga, a wooden arch joining the
shafts of a Russian conveyance over the horse's neck.
"We will have glorious weather to-morrow,"
I said.
The staff-captain answered not a word, but
pointed with his finger to a lofty mountain which
rose directly opposite us.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Mount Gut."
"Well, what then?"
"you see how it is smoking?"
True enough, smoke was rising from Mount
Gut. Over its sides gentle cloud-currents were
creeping, and on the summit rested one cloud of
such dense blackness that it appeared like a blot
upon the dark sky.
By this time we were able to make out the Post
Station and the roofs of the huts surrounding it;
the welcoming lights were twinkling before us,
when suddenly a damp and chilly wind arose, the
gorge rumbled, and a drizzling rain fell. I had
scarcely time to throw my felt cloak round me
when down came the snow. I looked at the
staff-captain with profound respect.
"We shall have to pass the night here," he
said, vexation in his tone. "There's no crossing
the mountains in such a blizzard. -- I say, have
there been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?"
he inquired of the driver.
"No, sir," the Ossete answered; "but there
are a great many threatening to fall -- a great
many."
Owing to the lack of a travellers' room in the
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