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A Hero of Our Time (Penguin Classics) - Softcover

Lermontov, Mikhail

 
9780143105633: A Hero of Our Time (Penguin Classics)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0143105639 ISBN 13: 9780143105633
Verlag: Penguin Classics, 2009

Inhaltsangabe

A masterpiece of Russian prose, Mikhail Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time is translated with an introduction and notes by Natasha Randall, and a foreword by Neil LaBute, author of reasons to be pretty, in Penguin Modern Classics.

The first major Russian novel, A Hero of Our Time was both lauded and reviled on publication. Its Byronic hero, twenty-five-year-old Pechorin, is a beautiful and magnetic but nihilistic young army officer, bored by life and indifferent to his many sexual conquests. In five linked episodes, Lermontov builds up a portrait of a man caught in and expressing the sickness of his times. Chronicling his unforgettable adventures in the Caucasus involving brigands, smugglers, soldiers, rivals, and lovers, this classic tale of alienation influenced Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Anton Chekhov, holding up a mirror not only to Lermontov's time but also to our own.

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41) was a Russian Romantic writer and poet. As a young man Lermontov was an officer in the guards, and was sent to fight in the Caucasus after insulting the Tsar. His dramatic life ended after being shot down in a duel.

Ifyou enjoyed A Hero of Our Time, you might like Andrei Bely's Petersburg, also available in Penguin Clasics.

'One of the most vivid and persuasive portraits of the male ego ever put down on paper'
Neil LaBute, from the Foreword

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841) was a Russian Romantic writer and poet. As a young man Lermontov was an officer in the guards, and was sent to fight in the Caucasus after insulting the tsar. His dramatic life ended after being shot down in a duel.

Natasha Randall has published translations of Yevgeny Zamyatin's We (shortlisted for the 2008 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize) and Osip Mandelstam's poetry as well as the work of contemporary writers Arkady Dragomoshchenko, Alexander Skidan, and Olga Zondberg. A frequent contributor to the Los Angeles Times, she lives in London.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I

BELA

I was traveling post from Tiflis. My cart's entire load consisted of one small valise, which was half filled with travel notes about Georgia. Of these, the greater part, fortunately for you, have been lost, and the valise containing my remaining possessions, fortunately for me, is intact.

The sun was already beginning to drop behind the snowy ridge when I rode into the Koyshaur Valley. The driver, an Ossetian, drove the horses tirelessly in order to make it up Koyshaur Mountain by nightfall, singing songs at the top of his voice. A glorious spot, this valley! On every side of the mountain are impregnable reddish cliffs hung with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane trees, yellow precipices scoured by running water, and there, high up, a golden fringe of snows, while below, the Aragva, having embraced another nameless stream gushing noisily from a black, mist-filled gorge, has stretched out like a silver thread and shimmers like a snake with scales.

When we reached the foot of Koyshaur, we stopped at an inn. Here, crowded noisily around, were a score of Georgians and mountaineers; close by, a caravan of camels had halted for the night. I was obliged to hire oxen to drag my cart up this accursed mountain because it was already autumn and the roads were icy--and this mountain was nearly two versts long.

There was nothing to be done for it: I hired six oxen and several Ossetians. One of them hoisted my valise on his shoulders, the others began helping the oxen with their shouts--and nothing more.

Behind my cart, a team of four oxen was pulling another with the greatest ease, despite the fact that it was piled high, to the very top. This circumstance amazed me. Walking behind the cart was its owner, who was smoking a small Kabardian pipe set in silver. He was wearing an officer's overcoat without epaulets and a shaggy Circassian hat. He seemed to be about fifty; his swarthy complexion showed that he was long familiar with the Caucasian sun, and his prematurely gray whiskers were not in keeping with his firm step and robust countenance. I walked over to him and bowed in greeting; he returned my bow without speaking and released a huge puff of smoke.

"You and I are fellow travelers, it seems."

He again bowed, without speaking.

"You must be on your way to Stavropol."

"Exactly so...with government property."

"Tell me, please, why is it that four oxen are pulling your heavy cart easily, while six beasts can scarcely budge my empty one, even with the help of these Ossetians?"

He smiled slyly and gave me a significant look.

"You doubtless have not been in the Caucasus long."

"About a year," I replied.

He smiled a second time.

"But what is the matter?"

"What's the matter! Horrible brutes, these Asiatics! You think they're helping by shouting? The devil only knows what they're shouting! The oxen understand them; you could harness up a score of them and still, if they shouted in their way, the oxen would never budge. Horrible swindlers! But what can you expect from them?... They enjoy fleecing the travelers who pass through. The rogues have been spoiled! You'll see, they're going to get a tip from you as well. Oh, I know them, they can't fool me."

"Have you served here long?"

"Yes, I served here under Alexei Petrovich," [Ermolov] he replied, assuming a dignified air. "When he arrived at the frontier, I was a second lieutenant," he added, "and under him I received two promotions for actions against the mountaineers."

"And now you are...?"

"Now I'm counted with the Third Frontier Battalion. And you, may I be so bold as to ask?"

I told him.

At this the conversation ended, and we continued to walk in silence, side by side. At the mountain's summit we found snow. The sun set and night followed day without interval, as usually happens in the South; however, thanks to the reflection off the snow, we could easily distinguish the road, which was still going uphill, although no longer as steeply. I ordered my valise placed on the cart and the oxen exchanged for horses, and for the last time I looked back down on the valley--but a thick mist, which surged in waves from the gorges, had covered it completely, and not a single sound reached our hearing from there. The Ossetians had gathered volubly around me and were demanding tips; but the staff captain shouted at them so menacingly that they scattered instantly.

"You see, what a nation," he said. "They can't say 'bread' in Russian, but they've learned 'Officer, give me a tip!' To my mind, the Tatars are better than this; at least they don't drink."

It was another verst or so to the station. All around it was quiet, so quiet that from the buzzing of a gnat you could follow its flight. On the left lay a deep black gorge; and beyond it and in front of us dark blue mountain peaks, furrowed with creases and covered in layers of snow, were outlined against the pale skyline, which was still clinging to the sunset's last reflection. In the darkening sky, stars began to flicker, and oddly, they seemed much higher than in our North. On either side of the road jutted bare black rocks; here and there I caught glimpses of shrubs under the snow, but not a single dry leaf rustled, and it was cheering to hear, amid this lifeless dream of nature, the snorting of the weary post troika and the uneven tinkle of the little Russian bell.

"Tomorrow will be glorious weather," I said. The captain said not a word in reply but pointed to the tall mountain rising directly across from us.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Mount Gud."

"Well and what of it?"

"Look at how it's smoking."

And indeed, Mount Gud was smoking; down its sides slid light streaks of clouds, and on its peak lay a black cloud, so black it looked like a blot on the dark sky.

We had already made out the post station, as well as the roofs of the huts surrounding it, and before us twinkled welcoming lights, while we smelled the damp, cold wind, heard the gorge's rumble, and felt the fine rain. Scarcely had I managed to throw my felt cloak on when the snow began coming down. I looked with awe at the captain.

"We're going to have to bed down here," he said with annoyance. "In a blizzard like this you aren't going to cross the mountains. What do you say? Have there been avalanches on the Mountain of the Cross?" he asked the driver.

"No, there haven't, sir," replied the Ossetian driver, "but there's a lot hanging, a lot."

For lack of a room at the station for those passing through, we were given lodging in a smoky hut. I invited my companion to have a glass of tea with me, for I had brought along an iron teakettle--my sole indulgence on my travels through the Caucasus.

One side of the hut was built into a cliff; three slippery, wet steps led to its door. Groping my way in, I bumped into a cow (the cowshed with these people takes the place of the servant's room). I didn't know where to turn: sheep were bleating here; a dog was growling there. Fortunately, a dim light glowed at one side and helped me to find another doorlike opening. Here a fairly entertaining picture was revealed: the large hut, whose roof rested on two smoke-blackened posts, was full of people. In the middle flickered a fire that had been laid on the bare earth, and the smoke, pushed back by the wind from the opening in the roof, was spread around in such a thick shroud that for a long time I could not get my bearings. By the fire...

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Verlag
Penguin Classics
Erscheinungsdatum
2009
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0143105639
ISBN 13 
9780143105633
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
208
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