A Hero of Our Time [24]
effects of life in the Capital and the tempests of the soul. His velvet overcoat, which was covered with dust, was fastened by the two lower buttons only, and exposed to view linen of dazzling whiteness, which proved that he had the habits of a gentleman. His gloves, soiled by travel, seemed as though made ex- pressly for his small, aristocratic hand, and when he took one glove off I was astonished at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was care- less and indolent, but I noticed that he did not swing his arms -- a sure sign of a certain secretive- ness of character. These remarks, however, are the result of my own observations, and I have not the least desire to make you blindly believe in them. 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 observa- tion that traces could be noticed of wrinkles, intersecting each other: probably they showed up more distinctly in moments of anger or mental disturbance. Notwithstanding the light colour of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows were black -- a sign of breeding in a man, just as a black mane and a black tail in a white horse. To complete the portrait, I will add that he had a slightly turned-up nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness, and brown eyes -- I must say a few words more about his eyes.
In the first place, they never laughed when he laughed. Have you not happened, yourself, to notice the same peculiarity in certain people? . . . It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep and constant grief. From behind his half- lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind of phosphorescent gleam -- if I may so express my- self -- which was not the reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance -- brief, but piercing and heavy -- left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil.
It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance would have produced an entirely different im- pression upon another; but, as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have to rest content, nolens volens, with the descrip- tion I have given. In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance which are particularly pleasing to women.
The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the shaft-bow;[1] and the manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with the announcement that everything was ready, but still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was apparently by no means in a hurry for the road.
[1] The duga.
I went up to him.
"If you care to wait a little longer," I said, "you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend."
"Oh, exactly!" he answered quickly. "They told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?"
I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking. . . He was about to throw
In the first place, they never laughed when he laughed. Have you not happened, yourself, to notice the same peculiarity in certain people? . . . It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep and constant grief. From behind his half- lowered eyelashes they shone with a kind of phosphorescent gleam -- if I may so express my- self -- which was not the reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful fancy, but a glitter like to that of smooth steel, blinding but cold. His glance -- brief, but piercing and heavy -- left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and might have seemed insolent had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil.
It may be that all these remarks came into my mind only after I had known some details of his life, and it may be, too, that his appearance would have produced an entirely different im- pression upon another; but, as you will not hear of him from anyone except myself, you will have to rest content, nolens volens, with the descrip- tion I have given. In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, he was a very good-looking man, and had one of those original types of countenance which are particularly pleasing to women.
The horses were already put to; now and then the bell jingled on the shaft-bow;[1] and the manservant had twice gone up to Pechorin with the announcement that everything was ready, but still there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych. Fortunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he gazed at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was apparently by no means in a hurry for the road.
[1] The duga.
I went up to him.
"If you care to wait a little longer," I said, "you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend."
"Oh, exactly!" he answered quickly. "They told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?"
I looked in the direction of the square and there I descried Maksim Maksimych running as hard as he could. In a few moments he was beside us. He was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was rolling in large drops from his face; wet tufts of grey hair, escaping from under his cap, were glued to his forehead; his knees were shaking. . . He was about to throw