A Hero of Our Time
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M. Y. Lermontov >> A Hero of Our Time
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14 A HERO OF OUR TIME
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF M. Y. LERMONTOV
By J. H. WISDOM & MARR MURRAY
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 travelling-
notes on Georgia; of these the greater part has
been lost, fortunately for you; but the port-
manteau 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 heavily-
laden 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 I'm in the third battalion of the Line.
And you yourself?"
I told him.
With this the conversation ended, and we con-
tinued 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 dis-
tinguish the road, which still went up the moun-
tain-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 clamor-
ously and demanded tips; but the staff-captain
shouted so menacingly at them that they dis-
persed in a moment.
"What a people they are!" he said. "They
don't 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 reflec-
tions 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?"
"Don't 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
Station, we were assigned a night's lodging in a
smoky hut. I invited my fellow-traveller to
drink a tumbler of tea with me, as I had brought
my cast-iron teapot -- my only solace during my
travels in the Caucasus.
One side of the hut was stuck against the cliff,
and three wet and slippery steps led up to the
door. I groped my way in and stumbled up
against a cow (with these people the cow-house
supplies the place of a servant's room). I did not
know which way to turn -- sheep were bleating
on the one hand and a dog growling on the other.
Fortunately, however, I perceived on one side a
faint glimmer of light, and by its aid I was able
to find another opening by way of a door. And
here a by no means uninteresting picture was
revealed. The wide hut, the roof of which
rested on two smoke-grimed pillars, was full of
people. In the centre of the floor a small fire was
crackling, and the smoke, driven back by the wind
from an opening in the roof, was spreading
around in so thick a shroud that for a long time I
was unable to see about me. Seated by the fire
were two old women, a number of children and a
lank Georgian -- all of them in tatters. There
was no help for it! We took refuge by the fire
and lighted our pipes; and soon the teapot was
singing invitingly.
"Wretched people, these!" I said to the
staff-captain, indicating our dirty hosts, who were
silently gazing at us in a kind of torpor.
"And an utterly stupid people too!" he
replied. "Would you believe it, they are
absolutely ignorant and incapable of the slightest
civilisation! Why even our Kabardians or
Chechenes, robbers and ragamuffins though they
be, are regular dare-devils for all that. Whereas
these others have no liking for arms, and you'll
never see a decent dagger on one of them!
Ossetes all over!"
"You have been a long time in the Chechenes'
country?"
"Yes, I was quartered there for about ten
years along with my company in a fortress,
near Kamennyi Brod.[1] Do you know the
place?"
[1] Rocky Ford.
"I have heard the name."
"I can tell you, my boy, we had quite enough
of those dare-devil Chechenes. At the present
time, thank goodness, things are quieter; but in
the old days you had only to put a hundred
paces between you and the rampart and wherever
you went you would be sure to find a shaggy devil
lurking in wait for you. You had just to let your
thoughts wander and at any moment a lasso
would be round your neck or a bullet in the back
of your head! Brave fellows, though!" . . .
"You used to have many an adventure, I
dare say?" I said, spurred by curiosity.
"Of course! Many a one." . . .
Hereupon he began to tug at his left moustache,
let his head sink on to his breast, and became lost
in thought. I had a very great mind to extract
some little anecdote out of him -- a desire natural
to all who travel and make notes.
Meanwhile, tea was ready. I took two travel-
ling-tumblers out of my portmanteau, and,
filling one of them, set it before the staff-captain.
He sipped his tea and said, as if speaking to
himself, "Yes, many a one!" This exclamation
gave me great hopes. Your old Caucasian officer
loves, I know, to talk and yarn a bit; he so
rarely succeeds in getting a chance to do so. It
may be his fate to be quartered five years or so
with his company in some out-of-the-way place,
and during the whole of that time he will not
hear "good morning" from a soul (because the
sergeant says "good health"). And, indeed, he
would have good cause to wax loquacious --
with a wild and interesting people all around
him, danger to be faced every day, and many a
marvellous incident happening. It is in circum-
stances like this that we involuntarily complain
that so few of our countrymen take notes.
"Would you care to put some rum in your
tea?" I said to my companion. "I have some
white rum with me -- from Tiflis; and the
weather is cold now."
"No, thank you, sir; I don't drink."
"Really?"
"Just so. I have sworn off drinking. Once,
you know, when I was a sub-lieutenant, some of
us had a drop too much. That very night there
was an alarm, and out we went to the front,
half seas over! We did catch it, I can tell you,
when Aleksei Petrovich came to hear about us!
Heaven save us, what a rage he was in! He was
within an ace of having us court-martialled.
That's just how things happen! You might
easily spend a whole year without seeing a soul;
but just go and have a drop and you're a lost
man!"
On hearing this I almost lost hope.
"Take the Circassians, now," he continued;
"once let them drink their fill of buza[1] at a
wedding or a funeral, and out will come their
knives. On one occasion I had some difficulty in
getting away with a whole skin, and yet it was at
the house of a 'friendly'[2] prince, where I was
a guest, that the affair happened."
[1] A kind of beer made from millet.
[2] i.e. acknowledging Russian supremacy.
"How was that?" I asked.
"Here, I'll tell you." . . .
He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began
his story.
CHAPTER II
"YOU see, sir," said the staff-captain, "I
was quartered, at the time, with a com-
pany in a fortress beyond the Terek -- getting on
for five years ago now. One autumn day, a
transport arrived with provisions, in charge of
an officer, a young man of about twenty-five.
He reported himself to me in full uniform, and
announced that he had been ordered to remain
in the fortress with me. He was so very elegant,
his complexion so nice and white, his uniform so
brand new, that I immediately guessed that he
had not been long with our army in the Caucasus.
"'I suppose you have been transferred from
Russia?' I asked.
"'Exactly, captain,' he answered.
"I took him by the hand and said:
"'I'm delighted to see you -- delighted! It
will be a bit dull for you . . . but there, we will
live together like a couple of friends. But, please,
call me simply "Maksim Maksimych"; and, tell
me, what is this full uniform for? Just wear your
forage-cap whenever you come to me!'
"Quarters were assigned to him and he settled
down in the fortress."
"What was his name?" I asked Maksim
Maksimych.
"His name was Grigori Aleksandrovich Pe-
chorin. He was a splendid fellow, I can assure
you, but a little peculiar. Why, to give you an
instance, one time he would stay out hunting
the whole day, in the rain and cold; the others
would all be frozen through and tired out, but he
wouldn't mind either cold or fatigue. Then,
another time, he would be sitting in his own
room, and, if there was a breath of wind, he would
declare that he had caught cold; if the shutters
rattled against the window he would start and
turn pale: yet I myself have seen him attack a
boar single-handed. Often enough you couldn't
drag a word out of him for hours together; but
then, on the other hand, sometimes, when he
started telling stories, you would split your sides
with laughing. Yes, sir, a very eccentric man;
and he must have been wealthy too. What a
lot of expensive trinkets he had!" . . .
"Did he stay there long with you?" I went
on to ask.
"Yes, about a year. And, for that very reason,
it was a memorable year to me. He gave me a
great deal of trouble -- but there, let bygones be
bygones! . . . You see, it is true enough, there
are people like that, fated from birth to have all
sorts of strange things happening to them!"
"Strange?" I exclaimed, with an air of
curiosity, as I poured out some tea.
CHAPTER III
"WELL, then, I'll tell you," said Maksim
Maksimych. "About six versts from the
fortress there lived a certain 'friendly' prince.
His son, a brat of about fifteen, was accustomed
to ride over to visit us. Not a day passed but
he would come, now for one thing, now for
another. And, indeed, Grigori Aleksandrovich
and I spoiled him. What a dare-devil the boy
was! Up to anything, picking up a cap at full
gallop, or bringing things down with his gun!
He had one bad quality; he was terribly greedy
for money. Once, for the fun of the thing,
Grigori Aleksandrovich promised to give him a
ducat if he would steal the best he-goat from his
father's herd for him; and, what do you think?
The very next night he came lugging it in by the
horns! At times we used to take it into our heads
to tease him, and then his eyes would become
bloodshot and his hand would fly to his dagger
immediately.
"'You'll be losing your life if you are not
careful, Azamat,' I would say to him. 'That hot
head of yours will get you into trouble.'
"On one occasion, the old prince himself
came to invite us to the wedding of his eldest
daughter; and, as we were guest-friends with
him, it was impossible to decline, Tartar though
he was. We set off. In the village we were met
by a number of dogs, all barking loudly. The
women, when they saw us coming, hid them-
selves, but those whose faces we were able to
get a view of were far from being beauties.
"'I had a much better opinion of the Cir-
cassian women,' remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich.
"'Wait a bit!' I answered, with a smile; I
had my own views on the subject.
"A number of people had already gathered at
the prince's hut. It is the custom of the Asiatics,
you know, to invite all and sundry to a wedding.
We were received with every mark of honour
and conducted to the guest-chamber. All the
same, I did not forget quietly to mark where
our horses were put, in case anything unforeseen
should happen."
"How are weddings celebrated amongst
them?" I asked the staff-captain.
"Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the
Mullah reads them something out of the Koran;
then gifts are bestowed upon the young couple
and all their relations; the next thing is eating
and drinking of buza, then the dance on horse-
back; and there is always some ragamuffin,
bedaubed with grease, bestriding a wretched,
lame jade, and grimacing, buffooning, and making
the worshipful company laugh. Finally, when
darkness falls, they proceed to hold what we
should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A poor,
old greybeard strums on a three-stringed in-
strument -- I forget what they call it, but
anyhow, it is something in the nature of our
balalaika.[1] The girls and young children set
themselves in two ranks, one opposite the other,
and clap their hands and sing. Then a girl and
a man come out into the centre and begin to
chant verses to each other -- whatever comes into
their heads -- and the rest join in as a chorus.
Pechorin and I sat in the place of honour. All
at once up came our host's youngest daughter,
a girl of about sixteen, and chanted to Pechorin
-- how shall I put it? -- something in the nature
of a compliment." . . .
[1] A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar.
"What was it she sang -- do you remember?"
"It went like this, I fancy: 'Handsome, they
say, are our young horsemen, and the tunics they
wear are garnished with silver; but handsomer still
is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his
tunic is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst
them he stands, but in gardens of ours such trees
will grow not nor bloom!'
"Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand
to his forehead and heart, and asked me to
answer her. I know their language well, and I
translated his reply.
"When she had left us I whispered to Grigori
Aleksandrovich:
"'Well, now, what do you think of her?'
"'Charming!' he replied. 'What is her
name?'
"'Her name is Bela,' I answered.
"And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her
figure was tall and slender, her eyes black as those
of a mountain chamois, and they fairly looked
into your soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept
his gaze fixed upon her, and she, for her part, stole
glances at him often enough from under her
lashes. Pechorin, however, was not the only
one who was admiring the pretty princess;
another pair of eyes, fixed and fiery, were gazing
at her from the corner of the room. I took
a good look at their owner, and recognised my
old acquaintance Kazbich, who, you must know,
was neither exactly 'friendly' nor yet the other
thing. He was an object of much suspicion,
although he had never actually been caught at
any knavery. He used to bring rams to our
fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never
would haggle; whatever he demanded at first
you had to give. He would have his throat cut
rather than come down in price. He had the
reputation of being fond of roaming on the far
side of the Kuban with the Abreks; and, to tell
the truth, he had a regular thief's visage. A
little, wizened, broad-shouldered fellow he was --
but smart, I can tell you, smart as the very
devil! His tunic was always worn out and
patched, but his weapons were mounted in silver.
His horse was renowned throughout Kabardia --
and, indeed, a better one it would be impossible
to imagine! Not without good reason did all
the other horsemen envy Kazbich, and on more
than one occasion they had attempted to steal
the horse, but they had never succeeded. I
seem to see the animal before me now -- black as
coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes as fine
as Bela's! How strong he was too! He would
gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! And
he was well trained besides -- he would trot
behind his master like a dog, and actually knew
his voice! Kazbich never used to tether him
either -- just the very horse for a robber! . . .
"On that evening Kazbich was more sullen
than ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a
coat of mail under his tunic. 'He hasn't got
that coat of mail on for nothing,' I thought.
'He has some plot in his head, I'll be bound!'
"It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I
went out into the air to cool myself. Night had
fallen upon the mountains, and a mist was
beginning to creep along the gorges.
"It occurred to me to pop in under the shed
where our horses were standing, to see whether
they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never
any harm to take precautions. My horse was
a splendid one too, and more than one Kabardian
had already cast fond glances at it, repeating at
the same time: 'Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.'[1]
[1] "Good -- very good."
"I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard
voices, one of which I immediately recognised.
It was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our
host's son. The other person spoke less and in a
quieter tone.
"'What are they discussing there?' I won-
dered. 'Surely it can't be my horse!' I
squatted down beside the fence and proceeded
to play the eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a
single word. At times the noise of songs and the
buzz of voices, escaping from the hut, drowned
the conversation which I was finding interesting.
"'That's a splendid horse of yours,' Azamat
was saying. 'If I were master of a house of my
own and had a stud of three hundred mares, I
would give half of it for your galloper,
Kazbich!'
"'Aha! Kazbich!' I said to myself, and I
called to mind the coat of mail.
"'Yes,' replied Kazbich, after an interval of
silence. 'There is not such another to be found
in all Kabardia. Once -- it was on the other side
of the Terek -- I had ridden with the Abreks to
seize the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we
scattered in different directions. Four Cossacks
dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries
of the giaours behind me, and in front of me
there was a dense forest. I crouched down in the
saddle, committed myself to Allah, and, for
the first time in my life, insulted my horse with
a blow of the whip. Like a bird, he plunged
among the branches; the sharp thorns tore my
clothing, the dead boughs of the cork-elms struck
against my face! My horse leaped over tree-
trunks and burst his way through bushes with his
chest! It would have been better for me to
have abandoned him at the outskirts of the
forest and concealed myself in it afoot, but it
was a pity to part with him -- and the Prophet
rewarded me. A few bullets whistled over my
head. I could now hear the Cossacks, who had
dismounted, running upon my tracks. Suddenly
a deep gully opened before me. My galloper
took thought -- and leaped. His hind hoofs
slipped back off the opposite bank, and he re-
mained hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped
the bridle and threw myself into the hollow,
thereby saving my horse, which jumped out.
The Cossacks saw the whole scene, only not one
of them got down to search for me, thinking
probably that I had mortally injured myself;
and I heard them rushing to catch my horse. My
heart bled within me. I crept along the hollow
through the thick grass -- then I looked around:
it was the end of the forest. A few Cossacks were
riding out from it on to the clearing, and there
was my Karagyoz[1] galloping straight towards
them. With a shout they all dashed forward.
For a long, long time they pursued him, and one
of them, in particular, was once or twice almost
successful in throwing a lasso over his neck.
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