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A Hero of Our Time-Part20_M.Y.Lermontov(1814-1841)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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soldier. He has also the soldier's cross of St.

George. He is well built, swarthy and black-



haired. To look at him, you might say he was

a man of twenty-five, although he is scarcely



twenty-one. He tosses his head when he speaks,

and keeps continually twirling his moustache



with his left hand, his right hand being occupied

with the crutch on which he leans. He speaks



rapidly and affectedly; he is one of those people

who have a high-sounding phrase ready for every



occasion in life, who remain untouched by simple

beauty, and who drape themselves majestically



in extraordinary sentiments, exalted passions

and exceptional sufferings. To produce an effect



is their delight; they have an almost insensate

fondness for romanticprovincial ladies. When



old age approaches they become either peaceful

landed-gentry or drunkards -- sometimes both.



Frequently they have many good qualities, but

they have not a grain of poetry in their com-



position. Grushnitski's passion was declamation.

He would deluge you with words so soon as the



conversation went beyond the sphere of ordinary

ideas. I have never been able to dispute with him.



He neither answers your questions nor listens to

you. So soon as you stop, he begins a lengthy



tirade, which has the appearance of being in some

sort connected with what you have been saying,



but which is, in fact, only a continuation of his

own harangue.



He is witty enough; his epigrams are fre-

quently amusing, but never malicious, nor to the



point. He slays nobody with a single word; he

has no knowledge of men and of their foibles,



because all his life he has been interested in

nobody but himself. His aim is to make himself



the hero of a novel. He has so often endeavoured

to convince others that he is a being created not



for this world and doomed to certain mysterious

sufferings, that he has almost convinced himself



that such he is in reality. Hence the pride with

which he wears his thick soldier's cloak. I have



seen through him, and he dislikes me for that

reason, although to outward appearance we are



on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitski is looked

upon as a man of distinguished courage. I



have seen him in action. He waves his sabre,

shouts, and hurls himself forward with his eyes



shut. That is not what I should call Russian

courage! . . .



I reciprocate Grushnitski's dislike. I feel

that some time or other we shall come into



collision upon a narrow road, and that one of us

will fare badly.



His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result

of his romantic fanaticism. I am convinced



that on the eve of his departure from his paternal

village he said with an air of gloom to some pretty



neighbour that he was going away, not so much

for the simple purpose of serving in the army as of



seeking death, because . . . and hereupon, I am

sure, he covered his eyes with his hand and



continued thus, "No, you -- or thou -- must not

know! Your pure soul would shudder! And



what would be the good? What am I to

you? Could you understand me?" . . . and



so on.

He has himself told me that the motive which



induced him to enter the K---- regiment must

remain an everlasting secret between him and



Heaven.

However, in moments when he casts aside the



tragic mantle, Grushnitski is charming and

entertaining enough. I am always interested



to see him with women -- it is then that he puts




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