{"product_id":"a-hero-of-our-time-isbn-9780679413271","title":"A Hero of Our Time","description":"\u003cb\u003eA stunning collector’s hardcover edition of Mikhail Lermontov’s classic of Russian literature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn its adventurous happenings—its abductions, duels, and sexual intrigues—\u003ci\u003eA Hero of Our Time\u003c\/i\u003e looks backward to the tales of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, so beloved by Russian society in the 1820s and ’30s. In the character of its protagonist, Pechorin—the archetypal Russian antihero—Lermontov’s novel looks forward to the subsequent glories of a Russian literature that it helped, in great measure, to make possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis edition includes a Translator’s Foreword by Vladimir Nabokov, who translated the novel in collaboration with his son, Dmitri Nabokov.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryman's Library pursues the highest production standards, printing on acid-free cream-colored paper, with full-cloth cases with two-color foil stamping, decorative endpapers, silk ribbon markers, European-style half-round spines, and a jacket. Everyman’s Library Classics include an introduction, a select bibliography, and a chronology of the author's life and times.“In [\u003ci\u003eA Hero of Our Time\u003c\/i\u003e], Lermontov managed to create a fictional person whose romantic dash to cynicism, tiger-like suppleness and eagle eye, hot blood and cool head, tenderness and taciturnity, elegance and brutality, delicacy of perception and harsh passion to dominate, ruthlessness and awareness of it, are of lasting appeal to readers of all countries and centuries.”—from the Translator’s Foreword by Vladimir Nabokov\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Lermontov’s] technique is surprisingly sophisticated, given the late development of the novel in Russian literature. Lermontov does not only dislocate chronology to achieve [his] result; in equally brilliant fashion he reinforces the effect by employing different contemporary literary genres…to create, in the end, a unified whole.”—from the Introduction by T. J. BinyonMIKHAIL LERMONTOV was born in Moscow in 1814. Influential as a poet, novelist, and visual artist, Lermontov died in 1941 at the age of 26. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVLADIMIR NABOKOV was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1899. After studying French and Russian literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, he launched his literary career in Berlin and Paris. In 1940 he moved to the United States, here he achieved renown as a novelist, poet, critic, and translator. \u003ci\u003eLolita, \u003c\/i\u003earguably his most famous novel, was first published, by the Olympia Press, Paris, on September 15, 1955, and became a controversial success. Nabokov died in Montreux Switzerland in 1977.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBELA\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You and I are fellow travelers, it seems.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe again bowed, without speaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You must be on your way to Stavropol.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Exactly so...with government property.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiled slyly and gave me a significant look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You doubtless have not been in the Caucasus long.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"About a year,\" I replied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiled a second time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But what is the matter?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Have you served here long?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And now you are...?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Now I'm counted with the Third Frontier Battalion. And you, may I be  so bold as to ask?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What is that?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mount Gud.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well and what of it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Look at how it's smoking.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, there haven't, sir,\" replied the Ossetian driver, \"but there's a  lot hanging, a lot.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne 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  sat two old women, numerous children, and one lean Georgian, all in  rags. We had no choice, so we took shelter by the fire and lit our  pipes, and soon the kettle began to hiss sociably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A pathetic lot!\" I said to the captain, indicating our filthy hosts,  who were looking at us silently, in a kind of stupor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A very stupid nation,\" he replied. \"Would you believe it? They don't  know how to do anything, they're incapable of any kind of education!  At least our Kabardians or Chechens, brigands though they are, and  paupers, are daring devils, whereas these haven't even a mind for  weaponry. You won't see a proper dagger on a one of them. Ossetians  for certain!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And were you in Chechnya very long?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, I was stationed ten years at a fort there with my company, near  Stone Ford. Do you know it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I've heard tell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You know, friend, we got good and tired of these cutthroats;  nowadays, thank heavens, it's quieted down, but it used to be, you'd  go a hundred paces beyond the rampart, and some raggedy devil would  be sitting somewhere keeping watch: a moment's heedlessness and watch  out--it's either a lasso around your neck or a bullet in the back of  the head. Brave lads they are!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You must have had your share of adventures,\" I said, prompted by curiosity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That I have!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this he began to finger his left mustache, hung his head, and  became pensive. I had a terrible urge to drag some little tale out of  him--a desire characteristic of all traveling, note-taking men.  Meanwhile, the tea was brewed; I took two field cups out of my  valise, poured one, and placed it in front of him. He took a sip and  said, as if to himself, \"Yes, that I have!\" This exclamation gave me  great hopes. I know, the old Caucasians, they love to talk, to tell a  story; so rarely do they get the chance. A man might be stationed a  good five years somewhere in the back of beyond with his company, and  for five whole years no one would say how do you do (because a  sergeant major says good day). But there was plenty to talk about:  surrounded by a savage, curious nation, in danger every day, there  can be marvelous incidents, and you can't help but regret that our  people write down so little.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wouldn't you like a drop of rum?\" I said to my companion. \"I have  white from Tiflis; it's cold now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, sir, I thank you, but I don't drink.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Is that so?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, it is. I made myself an oath. Back when I was a second  lieutenant, once, you know, we'd had a drop too much among ourselves,  and that night they gave the alarm; so we went out on parade tipsy,  and did we ever catch it when Alexei Petrovich found out: God forbid  how angry he got! Nearly turned us over for trial. One thing's for  certain, spend a whole year when you don't see a soul, and if you've  got vodka there, too--you're a goner.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHearing this, I almost lost hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"At least the Circassians, you see,\" he continued, \"when they drink  too much young wine at a wedding or a funeral, that's when the knives  come out. Once I had a narrow escape, and I was the guest of a  friendly prince.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How did it happen?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well\"--he filled his pipe, drew on it, and began his tale--\"you see,  it was like this. I was stationed at the time in a fort beyond the  Terek with my company--this is nearly five years hence. One day, in  the autumn, a convoy arrived with supplies, and traveling with the  convoy was an officer, a young man of about twenty-five. He reported  to me in full uniform and announced he'd been ordered to remain with  me at the fort. He was very thin and very fair, and he was wearing a  uniform so new I guessed right away he was only recently with us in  the Caucasus. 'I suppose,' I asked him, 'you were transferred here  from Russia?' 'Precisely so, sir,' he answered. I clasped his hand  and said, 'Very pleased to meet you, very pleased. You'll find it a  little dull, but I think you and I can get along like friends. And  please, just call me Maxim Maximich, and please--what's the point of  this full uniform? Always wear your uniform cap when you come to see  me, that will do.' He was taken to his quarters, and he got settled  at the fort.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What was his name?\" I asked Maxim Maximich.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"His name...was Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. Splendid fellow he  was, I'll be so bold as to assure you; only a little odd. For  instance, in the rain and cold, an entire day hunting, you see,  anyone would get chilled and tired--but he was just fine. But another  time he'd be sitting in his room, there'd be a whiff of wind, and  he'd assure me he was going to catch cold; a shutter would rattle and  he'd tremble and turn pale; but as I'm a witness he went out for wild  boar all alone; there'd be times you couldn't get a word out of him  for hours on end, and other times he'd start telling stories so that  your belly was like to burst from laughter. Yes indeed, he had great  eccentricities, and he was probably a rich man. He had so many  different precious trinkets!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did he stay with you long?\" I asked again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, nearly a year. And that's a year I'll surely remember; he caused  me a lot of trouble, but that's not what I'll remember him for! You  see, there are, truly, people the likes of whom are fated to have all  kinds of unusual things happen to them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Unusual?\" I exclaimed with a look of curiosity as I poured him some more tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Look, I'll tell you a story. About six versts from the fort lived  this one friendly prince. His precious son, a boy of about fifteen,  fell into the habit of riding over to see us. Every day he might come  for one thing or another; and Grigory Alexandrovich and I certainly  indulged him. What a daredevil he was, clever at anything: picking up  a hat at a full gallop, firing a rifle. One thing about him wasn't so  good: he had a terrible weakness for money. Once, for a joke, Grigory  Alexandrovich swore he'd give him a gold piece if he'd steal the best  goat from his father's herd. And what do you think? The next night he  dragged it in by the horn. But sometimes, if we got a notion to tease  him, his eyes would get all bloodshot and he'd put his hand right on  his dagger. 'Hey, Azamat, it'll cost you your head,' I would tell  him. 'It'll be yaman for your noggin!'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One day the old prince himself came to invite us to a wedding. He  was marrying off his oldest daughter, and I was his kunak, so you  know we couldn't refuse him, even if he was a Tatar. We set out. At  the village a lot of dogs met us with a loud howling. The women saw  us and hid; those whose faces we did manage to see were no beauties.  'I had a much better opinion of Circassian women,' Grigory  Alexandrovich told me. 'Just you wait,' I replied, chuckling. I had  something of my own in mind.","brand":"Everyman's Library","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301016916197,"sku":"NP9780679413271","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780679413271.jpg?v=1767720520","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-hero-of-our-time-isbn-9780679413271","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}