A Hero of Our Time (4 page)
Read A Hero of Our Time Online
Authors: Mikhail Lermontov
Tags: #Fiction, #Classics, #Historical, #Literary
Suggestions for Further Reading
Barratt, Andrew, and A. D. P. Briggs.
A Wicked Irony: The Rhetoric of Lermontov’s
A Hero of Our Time (Bristol Classics Press, Bristol, 1989).
A Wicked Irony: The Rhetoric of Lermontov’s
A Hero of Our Time (Bristol Classics Press, Bristol, 1989).
Eikhenbaum, Boris.
Lermontov: A Study in Literary-Historical Evaluation
(trans. Ray Parrott and Harry Weber, Ardis, Ann Arbor, 1981).
Lermontov: A Study in Literary-Historical Evaluation
(trans. Ray Parrott and Harry Weber, Ardis, Ann Arbor, 1981).
Freeborn, Richard. “
A Hero of Our Time
” in
The Rise of the Russian Novel
(Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1973).
A Hero of Our Time
” in
The Rise of the Russian Novel
(Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1973).
Garrard, John G.
Mikhail Lermontov
(Twayne Publishers, Boston, 1982).
Mikhail Lermontov
(Twayne Publishers, Boston, 1982).
Gifford, Henry.
The Hero of His Time; A Theme in Russian Literature
(Edward Arnold and Co., London, 1950).
The Hero of His Time; A Theme in Russian Literature
(Edward Arnold and Co., London, 1950).
Gilroy, Marie.
Lermontov’s Ironic Vision
(Birmingham Slavonic Monographs No. 19, published by the Department of Russian Language and Literature, University of Birmingham, 1989).
Lermontov’s Ironic Vision
(Birmingham Slavonic Monographs No. 19, published by the Department of Russian Language and Literature, University of Birmingham, 1989).
Kelly, Laurence.
Lermontov: Tragedy in the Caucasus
(Constable and Company, London, 1977).
Lermontov: Tragedy in the Caucasus
(Constable and Company, London, 1977).
Lavrin, Janko.
Lermontov
(Bowes and Bowes, London, 1959).
Lermontov
(Bowes and Bowes, London, 1959).
Lermontov, Mikhail Yurievich. “The Demon” in
Narrative Poems by Alexander Pushkin and by Mikhail Lermontov
(trans. Charles Johnston, Random House, New York, 1983).
Narrative Poems by Alexander Pushkin and by Mikhail Lermontov
(trans. Charles Johnston, Random House, New York, 1983).
Lermontov, Mikhail Yurievich. “The Novice” in
Narrative Poems by Alexander Pushkin and by Mikhail Lermontov
(trans. Charles Johnston, Random House, New York, 1983).
Narrative Poems by Alexander Pushkin and by Mikhail Lermontov
(trans. Charles Johnston, Random House, New York, 1983).
Mersereau, John.
Mikhail Lermontov
(Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale, 1962).
Mikhail Lermontov
(Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale, 1962).
Reid, Robert.
Lermontov’s
A Hero of Our Time (Bristol Classical Press, Bristol, 1997).
Lermontov’s
A Hero of Our Time (Bristol Classical Press, Bristol, 1997).
Foreword
A foreword is both the first and the last thing to a book: it serves either to explain the aims of the work, or to justify it and respond to its critics. But usually, the reader is not involved in moral purpose or journalistic offensives, and hence they don’t read forewords. This is a shame, especially for our country. Our audience is still so young and simple-hearted, it wouldn’t recognize a fable if there weren’t a moral at the end of the story. It doesn’t anticipate jokes, it doesn’t have a feel for irony; it is simply badly educated. It doesn’t yet know that overt abuse has neither a place in proper society, nor in a proper book; that the contemporary intellect has devised sharper weapons, almost invisible, but nonetheless deathly, which, under the clothing of flattery, deliver an irresistible and decisive blow. Our audience is like a provincial person, who overhears a conversation between two diplomats belonging to enemy sovereignties, and is left convinced that they are both betraying their governments for the sake of mutual, affectionate friendship.
Not long ago, several readers, and some journals even, succumbed to the misfortune of believing in the literal meanings of the words in this book. Some were awfully offended, in all seriousness, at the fact that they were presented with such an unprincipled person as the “hero of our time”; indeed, others very shrewdly observed that the author had painted his own portrait and the portraits of his acquaintances . . . That sorry, old ruse! But, apparently, Rus’
1
is a creature in whom everything is constantly being renewed except nonsense such as this. The most magical of our magical fairy tales can barely escape the reproach that it is an attempt at insulting certain people!
1
is a creature in whom everything is constantly being renewed except nonsense such as this. The most magical of our magical fairy tales can barely escape the reproach that it is an attempt at insulting certain people!
A Hero of Our Time,
my gracious sirs, is indeed a portrait, but not of one person: it is a portrait composed of the flaws of our whole generation in their fullest development. You will tell me that a person cannot be as nasty as this, but I’ll say to you that you have believed in the possible existences of every other tragic and romantic scoundrel, so why won’t you believe in the actuality of Pechorin? Since you have admired much more terrible and monstrous figments of imagination, why can’t you find mercy in yourselves for this character, just as a figment of imagination? Could it be that there is more truth to him, than you might like . . . ?
my gracious sirs, is indeed a portrait, but not of one person: it is a portrait composed of the flaws of our whole generation in their fullest development. You will tell me that a person cannot be as nasty as this, but I’ll say to you that you have believed in the possible existences of every other tragic and romantic scoundrel, so why won’t you believe in the actuality of Pechorin? Since you have admired much more terrible and monstrous figments of imagination, why can’t you find mercy in yourselves for this character, just as a figment of imagination? Could it be that there is more truth to him, than you might like . . . ?
Will you say that morality gains nothing from all of this? Forgive me. Enough people have been fed on sweets: their guts have rotted from them. What is needed is a bitter medicine, the pungent truth. But do not think now that the author of this book has had the proud impulse to remedy human flaws. God cure him of such audacity! It simply amused him to paint the contemporary person, one that he understands, and to his misfortune has come across too often.
PART ONE
I
BELA
I was traveling post from Tiflis. The entire load of my cart consisted of one valise of average size, half-filled with my travel notes about Georgia. The majority of these, luckily for you, were lost; but the valise with the rest of my things, luckily for me, remained intact.
The sun was just beginning to hide behind snowy peaks when I entered the Koyshaursky Valley. The Ossetian cart driver sang songs at full voice as he tirelessly urged the horses onward, so that we might succeed in climbing Koyshaursky Mountain before nightfall. What a glorious place, this valley! On every side there are unassailable mountains and reddish promontories, hung with green ivy and crowned with clumps of plane trees; there are yellow precipices, covered with the lines of gullies; and right up high: a gold fringe of snow. Below, the Aragva River, having gathered another nameless rivulet which noisily unearthed itself from a black and gloomy chasm, extends like a silver thread, glittering like a scaly snake.
We arrived at the foot of the Koyshaursky Mountain and stopped at a
dukhan.
1
Two dozen or so Georgians and other mountain dwellers were crowded noisily there. Nearby, a caravan of camels had stopped for a night’s shelter. I was supposed to hire some bullocks to drag my cart up this forsaken mountain, because it was autumn already, there was black ice, and this slope was about two
versts
2
in length.
dukhan.
1
Two dozen or so Georgians and other mountain dwellers were crowded noisily there. Nearby, a caravan of camels had stopped for a night’s shelter. I was supposed to hire some bullocks to drag my cart up this forsaken mountain, because it was autumn already, there was black ice, and this slope was about two
versts
2
in length.
There was nothing else to be done so I hired the six bullocks and a few Ossetians. One of them hoisted my valise onto his shoulders; the others started to prod the bullocks using their voices alone.
Behind my cart, another was being pulled by a foursome of bullocks as though it took no effort, even though it was full to the brim. This disparity surprised me. The owner walked behind his cart, smoking a little Kabardian pipe plated in silver. He wore an officer’s frock coat without epaulets and a shaggy Circassian hat. He seemed about fifty years old; the dark complexion of his face showed that it was long acquainted with the Transcaucasian sun, but the premature graying of his mustache didn’t correspond with his solid gait and bright appearance. I walked up to him and bowed; he silently returned the bow and pushed out an enormous cloud of smoke.
“It seems you and I will be traveling companions?”
He bowed again silently.
“Might you be going to Stavropol?”
“Yes, indeed . . . on official business.”
“Tell me, if you would, why is your heavy cart being pulled easily by four bullocks, when mine, which is empty, can barely be moved by six beasts with the help of these Ossetians?”
He smiled slyly and looked at me with emphasis.
“You have only recently arrived in the Caucasus, perhaps?”
“About a year ago,” I replied.
He smiled a second time.
“Well . . . what?”
“Yes! What awful rogues, these Asiatics! You think they’re urging those bullocks with what they’re saying? Devil knows what they’re crying out. The bulls, though, they understand them. You could yoke twenty to your cart even, and the bullocks still wouldn’t move as long as they cry out like that . . . Awful cheats! But what do you expect of them? . . . They love to make off with the money of passersby . . . the spoiled little swindlers! You’ll see, they have yet to ask you for vodka money. I know them, you see, and won’t have them lead me along!”
“And have you served here long?”
“I served here before under Alexei Petrovich,” he replied, assuming a dignified air. “When he arrived at the front I was a second lieutenant,” he added, “and under him I received two promotions for action against the mountain-dwellers.”
“And now, you are . . . ?”
“Now I consider myself to be in the battalion of the third line. And you, might I be so bold as to ask . . . ?”
I told him.
My conversation with the man ended, and we continued in silence one after the other. We found snow at the summit of the mountain. The sun set, and night followed day without interval, as is often the way in the south; but thanks to the tint of the snows we were easily able to make out the road, which continued up the mountain, though not as steeply as before. I gave orders to deposit my valise on the cart, exchange the bullocks for horses, and for the last time, I looked back down to see the valley. But a thick fog had covered it completely, having surged in waves up from the gorge, and not one sound from below could now fly up and reach our hearing. The Ossetians noisily clustered around me and requested something for vodka, but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they ran off instantly.
“What a people!” he said. “They can’t even name the word for bread in Russian, but they’ve learned to say ‘Officer, give us something for our vodka!’ I think even the Tatars are a better sort—at least they don’t drink . . .”
One
verst
remained to the station. It was quiet all around us, so quiet that you could follow the flight of a mosquito by its buzzing. The deep gorge to our left was growing black; beyond it, the dark-blue summit of the mountain faced us, pitted with creases, covered in layers of snow, and silhouetted against a pale band of sky above the horizon, which was conserving the last reflection of the sunset. Stars began to sparkle in the dark sky, and strangely it seemed to me that they were a great deal higher than they are in the north. Bare, black rocks stuck out on both sides of the road; in some places shrubs peeped out from under the snow, but not one dry leaf stirred. It was cheering to hear the snorting of a tired
troika
3
and the uneven rattling of a small Russian bell in the midst of this dead dream of nature.
verst
remained to the station. It was quiet all around us, so quiet that you could follow the flight of a mosquito by its buzzing. The deep gorge to our left was growing black; beyond it, the dark-blue summit of the mountain faced us, pitted with creases, covered in layers of snow, and silhouetted against a pale band of sky above the horizon, which was conserving the last reflection of the sunset. Stars began to sparkle in the dark sky, and strangely it seemed to me that they were a great deal higher than they are in the north. Bare, black rocks stuck out on both sides of the road; in some places shrubs peeped out from under the snow, but not one dry leaf stirred. It was cheering to hear the snorting of a tired
troika
3
and the uneven rattling of a small Russian bell in the midst of this dead dream of nature.
“Tomorrow will be glorious weather!” I said. The staff captain didn’t say a word and pointed his finger at the high mountain that was rising in front of us.
“What is it?”
“Gud Mountain.”
“And what is that?”
“See how it’s smoking.”
And it was true, Gud Mountain was smoking. Light little currents of cloud were creeping down its slopes, and a black storm cloud sat at its summit, so black that it looked like a blot on the dark sky.
We could just make out the posting house, the roofs of its surrounding
saklyas,
4
and their welcoming little fires twinkling at us, when suddenly a damp, cold wind blew in, a droning sound started in the gorge, and a drizzle began. I barely managed to throw on my felt cloak
5
as snow began to pour down. I looked over at the staff captain in deference . . .
saklyas,
4
and their welcoming little fires twinkling at us, when suddenly a damp, cold wind blew in, a droning sound started in the gorge, and a drizzle began. I barely managed to throw on my felt cloak
5
as snow began to pour down. I looked over at the staff captain in deference . . .
“We’ll have to spend the night here,” he said with vexation. “You’ll never get across the mountain in this sort of snow-storm. Well? Have there been any avalanches on the Krestovaya?” he asked the cart driver.
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