Produced by Judith Boss
A HERO OF OUR TIME
By J. H. Wisdom & Marr Murray
Translated From The Russian Of 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 atleast nine European languages, is now for the first time placed beforethe general English Reader.
The work is of exceptional interest to the student of EnglishLiterature, written as it was under the profound influence of Byron andbeing itself a study of the Byronic type of character.
The Translators have taken especial care to preserve both the atmosphereof the story and the poetic beauty with which the Poet-novelist imbuedhis 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 halffilled with travelling-notes on Georgia; of these the greater part hasbeen lost, fortunately for you; but the portmanteau itself and the restof its contents have remained intact, fortunately for me.
As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was disappearing behind thesnow-clad ridge of the mountains. In order to accomplish the ascent ofMount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an Ossete, urged on the horsesindefatigably, singing zealously the while at the top of his voice.
What a glorious place that valley is! On every hand are inaccessiblemountains, steep, yellow slopes scored by water-channels, and reddishrocks draped with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane-trees.Yonder, at an immense height, is the golden fringe of the snow. Downbelow rolls the River Aragva, which, after bursting noisily forth fromthe dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an unnamed stream claspedin its embrace, stretches out like a thread of silver, its watersglistening like a snake with flashing scales.
Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we stopped at a dukhan. [1] Abouta score of Georgians and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisycrowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had halted for the night. Iwas obliged to hire oxen to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, asit was now autumn and the roads were slippery with ice. Besides, themountain is about two versts [2] in length.
There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and a few Ossetes. One ofthe latter shouldered my portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost withone voice, proceeded to help the oxen.
Following mine there came another cart, which I was surprised to seefour oxen pulling with the greatest ease, notwithstanding that itwas loaded to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking a little,silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was wearing a shaggy Circassian capand an officer's overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to be aboutfifty years of age. The swarthiness of his complexion showed thathis face had long been acquainted with Transcaucasian suns, and thepremature greyness of his moustache was out of keeping with his firmgait and robust appearance. I went up to him and saluted. He silentlyreturned 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 isbeing drawn without any difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattleare scarcely able to move mine, empty though it is, and with all thoseOssetes 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 oxenunderstand, though; and if you were to yoke as many as twenty they stillwouldn't budge so long as the Ossetes shouted in that way of theirs....Awful scoundrels! But what can you make of them? They love extortingmoney from people who happen to be travelling through here. The rogueshave been spoiled! You wait and see: they will get a tip out of you aswell 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," [3] he answered, assuming anair of dignity. "I was a sub-lieutenant when he came to the Line; andI was promoted twice, during his command, on account of actions againstthe mountaineers."
"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 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 daywithout any interval of twilight. Thanks, however, to the sheen of thesnow, we were able easily to distinguish the road, which still wentup the mountain-side, though not so steeply as before. I ordered theOssetes to put my portmanteau into the cart, and to replace the oxenby horses. Then for the last time I gazed down upon the valley; butthe thick mist which had gushed in billows from the gorges veiled itcompletely, and not a single sound now floated up to our ears frombelow. The Ossetes surrounded me clamorously and demanded tips; but thestaff-captain shouted so menacingly at them that they dispersed in amoment.
"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 wasstill, so still, indeed, that it was possible to follow the flight of agnat by the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed the gorge, deep andblack. Behind it and in front of us rose the dark-blue summits of themountains, all trenched with furrows and covered with layers of snow,and standing out against the pale horizon, which still retained the lastreflections 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 thanin our own north country. On both sides of the road bare, black rocksjutted out; here and there shrubs peeped forth from under the snow; butnot a single withered leaf stirred, and amid that dead sleep of natureit was cheering to hear the snorting of the three tired post-horses andthe irregular tinkling of the Russian bell. [4]
"We will have glorious weather to-morrow," I said.
The staff-captain answered not a word, but pointed with his finger to alofty 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 gentlecloud-currents were creeping, and on the summit rested one cloud of suchdense 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 ofthe huts surrounding it; the welcoming lights were twinkling before us,when suddenly a damp and chilly wind arose, the gorge rumbled, and adrizzling rain fell. I had scarcely time to throw my felt cloak roundme when down came the snow. I looked at the staff-captain with profoundrespect.
"We shall have to pass the night here," he said, vexation in his tone."There's no crossin
g the mountains in such a blizzard.--I say, havethere been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?" he inquired of the driver.
"No, sir," the Ossete answered; "but there are a great many threateningto fall--a great many."
Owing to the lack of a travellers' room in the Station, we were assigneda night's lodging in a smoky hut. I invited my fellow-traveller to drinka tumbler of tea with me, as I had brought my cast-iron teapot--my onlysolace during my travels in the Caucasus.
One side of the hut was stuck against the cliff, and three wet andslippery steps led up to the door. I groped my way in and stumbled upagainst a cow (with these people the cow-house supplies the place of aservant's room). I did not know which way to turn--sheep were bleatingon 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 wasable to find another opening by way of a door. And here a by no meansuninteresting picture was revealed. The wide hut, the roof of whichrested on two smoke-grimed pillars, was full of people. In the centre ofthe floor a small fire was crackling, and the smoke, driven back by thewind from an opening in the roof, was spreading around in so thick ashroud that for a long time I was unable to see about me. Seated by thefire were two old women, a number of children and a lank Georgian--allof them in tatters. There was no help for it! We took refuge by the fireand lighted our pipes; and soon the teapot was singing invitingly.
"Wretched people, these!" I said to the staff-captain, indicating ourdirty hosts, who were silently gazing at us in a kind of torpor.
"And an utterly stupid people too!" he replied. "Would you believeit, they are absolutely ignorant and incapable of the slightestcivilisation! Why even our Kabardians or Chechenes, robbers andragamuffins though they be, are regular dare-devils for all that.Whereas these others have no liking for arms, and you'll never see adecent 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 ina fortress, near Kamennyi Brod. [5] Do you know the place?"
"I have heard the name."
"I can tell you, my boy, we had quite enough of those dare-devilChechenes. At the present time, thank goodness, things are quieter; butin the old days you had only to put a hundred paces between you and therampart and wherever you went you would be sure to find a shaggy devillurking in wait for you. You had just to let your thoughts wander and atany moment a lasso would be round your neck or a bullet in the back ofyour head! Brave fellows, though!"...
"You used to have many an adventure, I dare say?" I said, spurred bycuriosity.
"Of course! Many a one."...
Hereupon he began to tug at his left moustache, let his head sink onto his breast, and became lost in thought. I had a very great mind toextract some little anecdote out of him--a desire natural to all whotravel and make notes.
Meanwhile, tea was ready. I took two travelling-tumblers out of myportmanteau, and, filling one of them, set it before the staff-captain.He sipped his tea and said, as if speaking to himself, "Yes, many aone!" This exclamation gave me great hopes. Your old Caucasian officerloves, I know, to talk and yarn a bit; he so rarely succeeds in gettinga chance to do so. It may be his fate to be quartered five years or sowith his company in some out-of-the-way place, and during the wholeof that time he will not hear "good morning" from a soul (because thesergeant says "good health"). And, indeed, he would have good causeto 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 circumstances like this that we involuntarily complain that sofew of our countrymen take notes.
"Would you care to put some rum in your tea?" I said to my companion. "Ihave 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 asub-lieutenant, some of us had a drop too much. That very night therewas an alarm, and out we went to the front, half seas over! We did catchit, 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 uscourt-martialled. That's just how things happen! You might easily spenda whole year without seeing a soul; but just go and have a drop andyou're a lost man!"
On hearing this I almost lost hope.
"Take the Circassians, now," he continued; "once let them drink theirfill of buza [6] at a wedding or a funeral, and out will come theirknives. On one occasion I had some difficulty in getting away with awhole skin, and yet it was at the house of a 'friendly' [7] prince,where I was a guest, that the affair happened."
"How was that?" I asked.
"Here, I'll tell you."...
He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began his story.
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