THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE

The preface is the first and at the same time the last thing in any book. It serves either to explain the purpose of the work or to defend the author from his critics. Ordinarily, however, readers are concerned with neither the moral nor the journalistic attacks on the author – as a result they don’t read prefaces. Well, that’s too bad, especially in our country. Our public is still so immature and simple-hearted that it doesn’t understand a fable unless it finds the moral at the end. It fails to grasp a joke or sense an irony – it simply hasn’t been brought up properly. It’s as yet unaware that obvious violent abuse has no place in respectable society and respectable books, that education nowadays has worked out a sharper, almost invisible, but nevertheless deadly weapon, which behind the curtain of flattery cuts with a stab against which there is no defense. Our public is like the person from the sticks who, overhearing a conversation between two diplomats belonging to hostile courts, becomes convinced that each is being false to his government for the sake of a tender mutual friendship.

This book recently had the misfortune of being taken literally by some readers and even some reviewers. Some were seriously shocked at being given a man as amoral as the Hero of Our Time for a model. Others delicately hinted that the author had drawn portraits of himself and his acquaintances… What an old, weak joke! But apparently Russia is made up so that however she may progress in every other respect, she is unable to get rid of foolish ideas like this. With us the most fantastic of fairy tales has hardly a chance of escaping criticism as an attempt to hurt our feelings!

A Hero of Our Time, my dear readers, is indeed a portrait, but not of one man. It is a portrait built up of all our generation’s vices in full bloom. you will again tell me that a human being cannot be so wicked, and I will reply that if you can believe in the existence of all the villains of tragedy and romance, why wouldn’t believe that there was a Pechorin? if you could admire far more terrifying and repulsive types, why aren’t you more merciful to this character, even if it is fictitious? Isn’t it because there’s more truth in it than you might wish?

You say that morality will gain nothing by it. Excuse me. People have been fed so much candy they are sick to their stomachs. Now bitter medicine and acid truths are needed. But don’t ever think that the author of this book was ever ambitious enough to dream about reforming human vices. May God preserve him from such foolishness! It simply amused him to picture the modern man as he sees him and as he so often – to his own and your own misfortune – has found him to be. It’s enough that the disease has been diagnosed – how to cure it only the Lord knows!

PART I

I
BELA

I was traveling along the military road back from Tiflis. the only luggage in the little cart was one small suitcase half full of travel notes about Georgia. Fortunately for you most of them have been lost since then, though luckily for me the case and the rest of the things in it have survived.

The sun was already slipping behind a snowcapped ridge when I drove into Koishaur Valley. The Ossetian coachman, singing at the top of his voice, tirelessly urged his horses on in order to reach the summit of Koishaur Mountain before nightfall.

What a glorious spot this valley is! All around it tower awesome mountains, reddish crags draped with hanging ivy and crowned with clusters of plane trees, yellow cliffs grooved by torrents, with a gilded fringe of snow high above, while down below the Aragva River embraces a nameless stream that noisily bursts forth from a black, gloom-filled gorge and then stretches in a silvery ribbon into the distance, its surface shimmering like the scaly back of a snake.

On reaching the foot of the Koishaur Mountain we stopped outside a tavern where some twenty Georgians and mountaineers made up a noisy assembly. Nearby a camel caravan had halted for the night. I saw I would need oxen to haul my carriage to the top of the confounded mountain, for it was already fall and a thin layer of ice covered the ground, and the climb was a mile and a half long.

So I had no choice but to rent six oxen and several Ossetians. One of them lifted up my suitcase and the others started helping the oxen along – though they did little more than shout.

Behind my carriage came another pulled by four oxen with no visible effort, though the vehicle was piled high with baggage. This rather surprised me. In the wake of the carriage walked its owner, puffing at a small silver-inlaid Kabardian pipe. He was wearing an officer’s coat without epaulets and a shaggy Circassian cap. He looked about fifty, his tan face showed a long relationship with the Caucasian sun, and his prematurely gray mustache did not match his firm step and vigorous appearance. I went up to him and bowed. He silently returned my greeting, blowing out an enormous cloud of smoke.

“I guess we’re fellow travelers?”

He bowed again, but did not say a word.

“I suppose you’re going to Stavropol?”

“Yes, sir, I am… with some government baggage.” “Will you please explain to me how it is that four oxen easily manage to pull your heavy carriage while six animals can barely haul my empty one with the help of all these Ossetians?”

He smiled wisely, casting a glance at me as if to size me up.

“I bet you haven’t been long in the Caucasus?”

“About a year,” I replied.

He smiled again.

“Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason, sir. They’re awful goodfor-nothings, these Asiatics! you don’t think their yelling helps much, do you? You can’t tell what the hell they’re saying. But the oxen understand them all right. Hitch up twenty of the animals if you want to and they won’t budge as soon as those fellows begin yelling in their own language. . . Terrific cheats, they are. But what can you do about them? They do like to skin the traveler. Spoiled, they are, the robbers!… you’ll see they’ll make you tip them too. I know them by now, they won’t fool me!”

“Have you served long in these parts?”

“Yes, ever since General Aleksey Yermolov was here,” he replied, drawing himself up. “when he arrived at the line i was a second lieutenant, and under him was promoted twice for service against the guerrillas.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m in the third line battalion. And you, may I ask?”

I told him.

This brought the conversation to an end and we walked along side by side in silence. On top of the mountain we ran into snow. The sun set and night followed day without any interval in between as is usual in the South. Thanks to the glistening snow, however, we could easily pick out the road which still continued to climb, though less steeply than before. I gave orders to put my suitcase in the carriage and replace the oxen with horses, and turned to look back at the valley down below for the last time, but a thick mist that rolled in waves from the gorges blanketed it completely and not a sound reached us from its depths. The Ossetians loudly pestered me, demanding money for vodka. But the captain shouted at them so fiercely that they went away in a second.

“You see what they’re like!” he grumbled. “They don’t know enough Russian to ask for a piece of bread, but they’ve learned to beg for tips: ‘Officer, give me money for vodka!’ Even the Tatars are better – at least, they don’t drink alcohol….”

About a mile remained to the stage coach station. It was quiet all around, so quiet that you could trace the flight of a mosquito by its buzz. A deep gorge yawned black to the left. Beyond it and ahead of us the dark blue mountain peaks wrinkled with gorges and gullies and topped by layers of snow loomed against the pale horizon that still retained the last glimmer of twilight. Stars began to twinkle in the dark sky, and, strangely enough, it seemed that they were far higher here than in our northern sky in Russia. On both sides of the road naked black boulders jutted up from the ground, and here and there some shrubs peeped from under the snow. Not a single dead leaf rustled, and it was pleasant to hear in the midst of this lifeless sleepiness of nature the snorting of the tired stage coach horses and the uneven tinkling of the Russian carriage bells.

“Tomorrow will be a fine day,” I observed, but the captain did not reply. Instead he pointed to a tall mountain rising directly ahead of us.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Mount Gud.”

“Yes?”

“See how it smokes?”

Indeed, Mount Gud was smoking. Light wisps of mist crept along its sides while a black cloud rested on the summit, so black that it stood out as a blotch even against the dark sky.

We could already make out the stage coach station and the roofs of the huts around it, and welcoming lights were dancing ahead when the gusts of cold raw wind came whistling down the gorge and it began to drizzle. Barely had I thrown a felt cape over my shoulders than the snow came. I looked at the captain with respect now…

“We’ll have to stay here overnight,” he said, annoyed. “You can’t get through the hills in a blizzard like this. Seen any avalanches on Cross Mountain?” he asked a coachman.

“No, sir,” the Ossetian replied. “But there’s a lot just waiting to come down.”

As there was no room for travelers at the inn, we were given a place to stay in a smoky hut. I invited my fellow traveler to join me for tea, since I had with me a cast-iron tea-kettle – my sole comfort on my Caucasian travels.

The hut was built against a cliff. Three wet, slippery steps led up to the door. I groped my way in and stumbled upon a cow, for these people have a cow shed for an entry room. I couldn’t figure out where to go. On one side sheep were bleating and on the other a dog growled. Fortunately a glimmer of light showed through the gloom and guided me to another opening that looked like a door. Here a rather interesting scene confronted me: the spacious hut with a roof supported by two smoke-blackened posts was full of people. A fire built on the bare earth crackled in the middle, and the smoke, forced back by the wind through the opening in the roof, hung so thick that it took some time before I could see anything around me. By the fire sat two old women, a swarm of children and a lean Georgian man, all of them dressed in rags. There was nothing to do but to make ourselves comfortable by the fire and light up our pipes, and soon the tea-kettle was singing happily.

“Pitiable creatures!” I observed to the captain, nodding toward our grimy hosts who stared at us silently with something like stupid shock.

“A dull-witted people,” he replied. “Believe me, they can’t do anything, nor can they learn anything either. Our Kabardians or Chechens might be bums and tramps, but at least they’re brave fighters. However, these guys take no interest in weapons or war: you won’t find a decent knife on a single one of them. But what can you expect from Ossetians!”

“Were you long in the Chechen region?”

“Quite a while – ten years stationed at a fort with a company, out by the Stone Ford. You know the place?”

“Heard of it.”

“Yes, sir, we had enough of those gangs – now, thank God, things are quieter, but there was a time when you didn’t dare go out a hundred paces beyond the rampart without some hairy devil stalking you, ready to put a noose around your neck or a bullet through the back of your head the minute he caught you napping. But they were brave men anyway.”

“You must have had a whole lot of adventures?” I asked, with burning curiosity.

“Aye, many indeed…”

He began to pull at the left tip of his mustache, his head drooped, and he sank into deep thought. I very badly wanted to get some sort of tale out of him – a desire that is natural to anyone who travels about taking notes. In the meantime the tea came to the boil. I dug out two travelers’ glasses from my suitcase, poured out tea and placed one before the captain. He took a sip and muttered as if to himself: “Yes, many indeed!” The exclamation raised my hopes, for I knew that Caucasian old-timers like to talk and tell a story: they seldom have a chance to do so, for a man may be stationed a full five years with a company somewhere in the back woods without anyone to greet him with a “Hello” (his sergeant always says, “Good morning, sir.”) And there is so much to talk about: the wild, strange people all around, the constant dangers, and the remarkable adventures – one can’t help thinking it sad that we write down so little of it.

“Like to add a little rum?” I asked. “I have some white rum from Tiflis, it’ll warm you up in this cold.”

“No, thanks, I don’t drink.”

“How come?”

“Well… swore off the stuff. Once when I was still a second lieutenant we went on a brief spree, you know how it is, and that very night there was an alert. So we showed up before the ranks a little bit high, and there was hell to pay when old Yermolov found out. Lord preserve me from seeing a man as furious as he was. We escaped being court-martialed by a whisker. That’s the way it is: sometimes you spend a whole year without seeing anyone, and if you get drunk you’ve had it.”

On hearing this I nearly lost hope.

“Take even the Circassians,” he went on, “as soon as they drink their fill of booza at a wedding or a funeral the knife fight begins. Once i barely managed to escape alive although I was the guest of a neutral prince.”

“How did it happen?”

“Well,” he filled and lit his pipe, took a long pull on it, and began the story, “you see, I was stationed at the time at a fort beyond the Terek with a company – that was nearly five years back. Once in the fall a supply convoy came up, and with it an officer, a young man of about twenty-five. he reported to me in full dress uniform and announced that he had been ordered to join me at the fort. He was so slim and white, and so fashionably dressed up that I could tell at once that he was a newcomer to the Caucasus. ‘You must’ve been transferred here from Russia?’ I asked him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. I took his hand and said: ‘Glad to have you here, very glad. It’ll be a bit dull for you… but we’ll get along real good, I’m sure, us two. Just call me Maksim Maksimich, if you like, and, another thing – please don’t bother wearing full dress uniform. Just come around in your service cap.’ he was shown his quarters and he settled down in the fort.”

“What was his name?” I asked Maksim Maksimich.

“Grigoriy Aleksandrovich Pechorin. A fine man he was, I assure you, though a bit odd. For instance, he would spend days on end hunting in rain or cold – everybody else would be chilled and exhausted, but not he. Yet sometimes a mere draft in his room would be enough for him to declare he had caught cold – a banging shutter might make him jump and turn pale, yet I myself saw him go at a wild boar single-handed. Sometimes you couldn’t get a word out of him for hours on end, but when he occasionally did start telling stories you’d split your sides laughing… Yes, sir, a most odd sort of young man he was, and, apparently, rich too, judging by the load of expensive trinkets he had.”

“How long was he with you?” I asked.

“Just about a year. But it was a year I won’t forget. He caused me plenty of trouble, God forgive him! – though that’s not what I remember about him. But after all, there are people who, when they are born, the big book of life has it already written down that all sorts of amazing things will happen to them!”

“Amazing things?” I exclaimed eagerly as I poured him some more tea.

“I’ll tell you the story. Some four miles from the fort there lives a loyal prince. His son, a boy of about fifteen, got into the habit of riding over to see us. Not a day passed that he didn’t come for one reason or another. Grigoriy Aleksandrovich and I really spoiled him. What a daredevil he was, good at everything: he could pick up a cap from the ground at full gallop, and he was a crack shot. But there was one bad thing about him: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once for a joke Pechorin promised him a gold coin if he stole the best goat from his father’s herd, and what do you think? The very next night he dragged the animal in by the horns. Sometimes, if we just tried teasing him, he would flare up and reach for his dagger. ‘You’ll come to a bad end, Azamat,’ I would tell him.

‘Yaman¹. You won’t keep your skull on your shoulders!’

“Once the old prince himself came over to invite us to a wedding. He was giving away his elder daughter and since we were kunaks² there was no way to say no, of course, Tatar or not. So we went. A pack of barking dogs met us in the village. On seeing us the women hid themselves – the faces we did catch a glimpse of were far from pretty. ‘I had a much better opinion of Circassian women,’ Grigoriy Aleksandrovich said to me. ‘You wait a while,’ I replied, smiling. I had something up my sleeve.

“There was quite a crowd assembled in the prince’s house. It’s the custom among those Asiatics, you know, to invite to their weddings everyone they happen to meet. We were welcomed with all the honors due to us and shown to the best room. Before going in, though, I took care to remember where they put our horses – just in case, you know.”

“How do they celebrate weddings?” I asked the captain.

“Oh, in the usual way. First the mullah reads them something from the Koran, then presents are given to the newlyweds and all their relatives. They eat, and drink booza, until finally the horsemanship display begins, and there is always some kind of filthy clown dressed in rags riding a mangy lame nag playing the fool to amuse the company.

Later, when it grows dark, what we would call a ball begins in the best room. Some miserable old man strums away on a three-stringed… can’t remember what they call it… something like our balalaika. The girls and young men line up in two rows facing each other, clap their hands and sing. Then one of the girls and a man step into the center and begin to chant verses to each other, improvising as they go, while the rest pick up the refrain. Pechorin and I occupied the place of honor, and as we sat there the host’s younger daughter, a girl of sixteen or so, came up to him and sang to him… what should I call it… a sort of compliment.”

“You don’t remember what she sang by any chance?”