An Absolutely Delusional Reading and Review of Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov
I started reading Hero of Our Time two days after starting Interview with the Vampire. As such, I was reading them alongside each other, and indeed finished them only a day apart. The day I finished Hero of Our Time I began my third rewatch of the AMC television adaption of Interview with the Vampire, and soon after began reading The Vampire Lestat.
This may have influenced my reading of this Russian classic. Or maybe it’s just me. I relish in seeing bisexuals in empty corners.
This is all to say, Grigori Aleksandrovich Pechorin is a bit Lestat-coded. Plainly speaking, I had a great lot of fun interpreting Pechorin as kind of a combination disaster/evil bisexual.
But let’s get the review out of the way before I get to the titular delusion.
What this book is most famous for is 1) Pechorin, a satirical depiction of a superfluous/Byronic hero, and 2) stunning descriptions of the Caucasus. On the latter, this is absolutely where the book stands out. Lermontov’s spirit and adoration of this region is immortalised in the way he describes natural scenery. I could write in detail about how skilled Lermontov is with simile, or I could give some examples and that would be enough:
On the left yawned a deep chasm, through which rolled a torrent, now hiding beneath a crust of ice, now leaping and foaming over the black rocks.
p.45
--
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.
p.9
--
In the west the moon was growing pale, and was just on the point of plunging into the black clouds which were hanging over the distant summits like the shreds of a torn curtain.
p.41
The book is, however, truly a product of its time (and country). Lermontov seems to have a checklist of ethnicities to be racist against, to the point that it was almost (almost) comical. Female characters are, of course, rather shallow despite having immense potential. This is all to be expected of a novel of its time (ha), but it does nobody any good dismissing or avoiding these criticisms. They should be included in the discussion.
Book III is also rather weak, especially compared to the extremely solid IV that proceeds it. Speaking of which, Book IV is probably the strongest in regards to thematic work and its connection and framing of the other vignettes, while Book V is the best for its character work.
Pechorin is absolutely enthralling as a character, and has become one of my favourite characters I have ever read. Unlikable yet fascinating, cruel yet sympathetic--reading from Pechorin’s perspective disgusts and intrigues. He manipulates and lies and is devoid of morality, and I could not get enough of watching him ruin friendship after friendship from a near-manic obsession with his own ego.
You read page after page of his heartless treatment of others and his cold personal philosophy, and then get glimpses into the reality--he is callous, yes, but inside he is just a hurt child who is lashing out, who in fact deeply craves connection and goodness, but has come to expect none of it and has fallen into cruelty out of a kind of self-protective shell of despair.
A confession of surprising honesty slips out when speaking to Princess Mary, and suddenly this character who exists mostly to satirise a certain genre of literary protagonist is given a depth and melancholy, though while also exhibiting characteristic self-absorbedness:
“...All have read upon my countenance the marks of bad qualities, which were not existent; but they were assumed to exist—and they were born. I was modest—I was accused of slyness: I grew secretive. I profoundly felt both good and evil—no one caressed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive. I was gloomy—other children merry and talkative; I felt myself higher than they—I was rated lower: I grew envious. I was prepared to love the whole world—no one understood me: I learned to hate. My colourless youth flowed by in conflict with myself and the world; fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth—I was not believed: I began to deceive…”
p.164
At the emotional climax of the book, Pechorin has, essentially, a full mental breakdown after realising the depth of how he has fucked everything up by manipulating the heartbreak of the people around him for his own amusement. For a moment, again, we glimpse at Pechorin’s true character:
I was left on the steppe, alone; I had lost my last hope. I endeavoured to walk—my legs sank under me; exhausted by the anxieties of the day and by sleeplessness, I fell upon the wet grass and burst out crying like a child.
For a long time I lay motionless and wept bitterly, without attempting to restrain my tears and sobs. I thought my breast would burst. All my firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; my soul grew powerless, my reason silent, and, if anyone had seen me at that moment, he would have turned aside with contempt.
pp.218-219
And then, immediately, he sweeps it away. He dismisses it all as illogical, and puts his reaction down to a lack of sleep. It’s an utterly unbelievable conclusion--this man just gave up on perhaps the only woman he has ever loved and killed his friend, on the same day.
Finally, Maksim Maksimych is another highlight, a representation of Pechorin’s needless destruction of the people around him. Maksimych is yet another precious relationship for Pechorin to toss aside. Maksimych is a sort of adoptive father figure to Pechorin, who cares deeply for Pechorin and his wife Bela. He cares so deeply he carries Pechorin’s journals for years after they’ve parted, and speaks of (and eventually to) him with the devotion of an old friend. Maksimych is so taken by Pechorin’s charismatic illusion that it takes multiple incidents of Pechorin spurning him for him to comprehend Pechorin’s true character. Maksimych’s arc made Books I and II two of my favourite parts of the novel.
My Delusion: A Bisexual Reading of Pechorin
I am a perfect dandy.
p.142
Pechorin’s fit of obsession with Princess Mary originates in an earlier, close friendship with another man. Pechorin’s quest for Mary’s love begins of envy over his friend Grushnitski, who has begun semi-successfully courting Mary for the same thing.
The reality of this arc is, of course, the ever-present depiction of women as property in literature; as a prize to be won. Lermontov is generous in Pechorin’s love interests in that they are given a brief glimpse into being humans rather than MacGuffins when Pechorin’s true callousness is exposed and their hearts are broken. I suspect this has more to do with mid-19th century ideals of gentlemanliness stemming from Medieval ideals of chivalry, rather than an actual view of women as the same species as men, deserving of the same depth of character. I write this paragraph to get it out of the way: I know what I am about to propose is insane and not what the book is depicting at all.
But it’s 2025. We’ve all at least skimmed the Wikipedia page for La mort de l’auteur. This is the “I have a Fine Arts degree” way of saying: “Let me have my delusions.” Or, in fandom terms: this is my fanon Pechorin.
I’ll warm up with the description of Pechorin by our narrator, who describes him as rather feminine in aspects. Appearance, of course, has nothing in relation to sexuality, but it is a trope to describe bisexual characters with aspects of androgyny. As such, here is a section of the narrator of Book I describing Pechorin’s appearance:
When he was in the act of seating himself on the bench his upright figure bent as if there was not a single bone in his back. The attitude of his whole body was expressive of a certain nervous weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one of Balzac’s thirty-year-old coquettes resting in her downy arm-chair after a fatiguing ball. From my first glance at his face I should not have supposed his age to be more than twenty-three, though afterwards I should have put it down as thirty. His smile had something of a child-like quality. His skin possessed a kind of feminine delicacy. His fair hair, naturally curly, most picturesquely outlined his pale and noble brow, on which it was only after lengthy observation that traces could be noticed of wrinkles, intersecting each other: probably they showed up more distinctly in moments of anger or mental disturbance.
p.72
Now that we’re warmed up, let’s get into the meat of this: Pechorin’s relationship with Grushnitski. To be clear, it’s quite simple to understand Book V as a bisexual love story. All we have to do is read that Pechorin is not envious of Grushnitski for having Mary’s attentions--he is envious of Mary for having Grushnitski’s.
Pechorin’s breakdown on the steppe is over losing both Grushnitski and Vera. Throughout Book V Pechorin pleases over having Vera and Grushnitski’s attentions, but his inner monologue describes a detachment from them. His inner monologue and his reactions also betray, however, a deep care for Vera.
Vera is the only woman Pechorin has ever loved. What if we read between the lines, and discover a similar affection for Grushnitski?
Grushnitski is not introduced in the most affable terms, of course, yet Pechorin laves paragraph upon paragraph upon him describing him. Pechorin has an obsession with Grushnitski. Grushnitski occupies his every thought while he is in Pyatigorsk, and later Kislovodsk. It is described as a mutual dislike.
Let’s take Pechorin as a biased narrator; his writings and his inner monologue swayed by a deep repression--this is, of course, part of his character. Pechorin has repressed every moral and good part of himself. Why not sexuality?
We view the story of Pechorin and Grushnitski through the lens of Pechorin’s journal writings. Let’s take this lens, and interpret it as repressed desire. In the age of enemies to lovers, I feel I don’t need to explain how the obsession of attraction can be confused for disgust.
In the AMC adaptation of Interview with the Vampire, Louis tells his story twice--once in 1973, and again in 2022. In 1973, Louis talks for hours describing Lestat with utter disgust. Yet it is still hours of talk revolving around Lestat, and the truth of it all, revealed in 2022, is that it is obsession--Louis’ disgust for Lestat in fact reveals that he is and has never stopped being deeply in love with Lestat.
So Pechorin writes his journals describing his disdain for Grushnitski. But Pechorin is obsessive about Grushnitski. He writes little of society and scenery and really anyone else except Grushnitski. And then, when Grushnitski begins flirting with an actual Princess, Pechorin is struck, lacerated with envy.
Pechorin is, to be clear, envious of Grushnitski receiving the attention of a Princess, and refuses to let his disliked ‘friend’ have that. But that is what Pechorin writes, through his own biases and perspective which have been established as stemming from repression.
I would like to add that this interpretation of Pechorin’s feelings for Grushnitski is not just because I am projecting or having a “fun headcanon.” I volunteer that this interpretation in fact adds an even deeper tragedy to the final duel, wherein Pechorin’s murder of Grushnitski is set in stone by Pechorin’s repression and betrayal of his own true self.
And hey, I’m not alone in this delusion--there are seven Pechorin/Grushnitski fanfictions on Archive of our Own! Two of them are even in English!
I gave A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov, translated by J.H. Wisdom and Marr Murray 3.5 stars out of 5.
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