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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