He was of average height, slender and thin. Test on the novel "A Hero of Our Time"

1) In Kobe we parted ways with Maxim Maksimych; I went by mail, and he, due to the heavy luggage, could not follow me.

3) God willing, no worse than them



6) And for sure, the road is dangerous; to the right, piles of snow hung above our heads, seemingly ready to fall into the gorge at the first gust of wind; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some places fell under our feet, in others it turned into ice from the action of the sun's rays and night frosts, so we had difficulty making our way; horses fell; to the left there was a deep chasm where a stream rolled, now hiding under the icy crust, now jumping with foam over the black stones

1) In Kobe we parted ways with Maxim Maksimych; I went by mail, and he, due to the heavy luggage, could not follow me.

[...]; [ ...], a [ ... ].

2) Our fortress stood on a high place, and the view from the rampart was beautiful; on one side, a wide clearing, pockmarked by several beams, ended in a forest that stretched all the way to the ridge of the mountains; here and there auls were smoking on it, herds were walking; on the other, a small river ran, and adjacent to it were dense bushes that covered siliceous hills that connected with the main chain of the Caucasus.

[ ... ], And [ ... ]; [ ... ], (which...); [...], [...]; [ ... ], and [ ... ], (which...).

3) God willing, no worse than them
we’ll get there: it’s not the first time for us,” and he was right: we definitely might not get there,
however, we still got there, and if all the people had reasoned more, then
They would be convinced that life is not worth caring so much about...

“P” - a: [...], however [...], and (if b (...), then...), (what...), (so that...).

4) I stopped at a hotel where all travelers stop and where, meanwhile, there is no one to order the pheasant to be fried and the cabbage soup to be cooked, because the three invalids to whom it is entrusted are so stupid or so drunk that no sense can be achieved from them.

[ ... ], (where..) and (where...), for [ ... ], (which...), [so...], (that...).

5) He was of average height; his slender, slender figure and broad shoulders proved a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life and climate changes, not defeated either by the debauchery of metropolitan life or by spiritual storms; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only by the bottom two buttons, made it possible to see his dazzlingly clean linen, revealing the habits of a decent man; his stained gloves seemed deliberately tailored to his small aristocratic hand, and when he took off one glove, I was surprised at the thinness of his pale fingers.

[...]; [...]; [...]; [...], and (when...), then (...).

6) And for sure, the road is dangerous; to the right, piles of snow hung above our heads, seemingly ready to fall into the gorge at the first gust of wind; the narrow road was partly covered with snow, which in some places fell under our feet, in others it turned into ice from the action of the sun's rays and night frosts, so we had difficulty making our way; horses fell; to the left a deep chasm yawned, where a stream rolled, now hiding under the icy crust, now jumping with foam over the black stones.

[...]; [...]; [ ... ], (which...), [so... ]; [ ...], [ ... ], (Where...).

7) - Here comes the Krestovaya! - the staff captain told me when we drove down to the Devil’s Valley, pointing to a hill covered with a shroud of snow; on its top there was a black stone cross, and a barely noticeable road led past it, which one drives along only when the side one is covered with snow; our cab drivers announced that there had been no landslides yet, and, saving their horses, they drove us around.

P! - and when); [ ... ], and [ ... ], (which...), (when...); [ ... ], (what...), and [ ... ].

• The smallest pictorial or expressive artistic detail is a micro-image and almost always forms part of a larger image.

Artistic detail

• External(draws the external, objective existence of people, their appearance and habitat, divided into portraits, things, landscapes)

Artistic detail

• portrait

Portrait

• Portrait - description

• (the description is based on physiology, not personality psychology)

• Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,

• Fearing jealous judgments,

• There was a pedant in his clothes

• And what we called dandy.

• He's at least three o'clock

• He spent in front of the mirrors

• And he came out of the restroom

• Like windy Venus,

• When, wearing a man's outfit,

• The goddess goes to a masquerade.

• Always modest, always obedient,

• Always cheerful like the morning,

• How a poet's life is simple-minded,

• How sweet is love's kiss;

• Eyes like the sky are blue,

• Smile, flaxen curls,

• Movements, voice, light frame,

• Everything in Olga... but any novel

• Take it and find it right

• Her portrait...

• So, she was called Tatyana.

• Not your sister's beauty,

• Nor the freshness of her ruddy

• She wouldn't attract anyone's attention.

He was of average height; his slender, thin figure and broad shoulders proved a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only by the bottom two buttons, made it possible to see his dazzlingly clean linen, revealing the habits of a decent man; his stained gloves seemed deliberately tailored to his small aristocratic hand, and when he took off one glove, I was surprised at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not wave his arms - a sure sign of some secretiveness of character. At first glance at his face, I would not have given him more than twenty-three years, although after that I was ready to give him thirty. There was something childish in his smile. His skin had a kind of feminine tenderness; blond hair, naturally curly, outlined his pale, noble forehead, on which, only after long observation, one could notice traces of wrinkles. Despite the light color of his hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black To complete the portrait , I will say that he had a slightly upturned nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness and brown eyes; I must say a few more words about the eyes. First of all, they didn't laugh when he laughed! Because of their half-lowered eyelashes, they shone with some kind of phosphorescent sheen.

“There is a kind of people known by the name: so-so people, neither this nor that; neither in the city of Bogdan, nor in the village of Selifan, according to the proverb. In appearance, he was a prominent man; His facial features were not devoid of pleasantness, but this pleasantness seemed to have too much sugar in it; in his techniques and turns there was something ingratiating favor and acquaintance. He smiled enticingly, was blond, with blue eyes.”

• “In the chaise sat a gentleman, not handsome, but not bad-looking either, neither too fat nor too thin; I can’t say that I’m old, but I can’t say that I’m too young.”

Interior

• Interior as a means of characterization

• Will I portray the truth in the picture?

• Secluded office

• Where is the mod pupil exemplary

• Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

• Everything for a plentiful whim

• London trades scrupulously

• And on the Baltic waves

• They bring us for timber and lard,

• Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

• Having chosen a useful trade,

• Invents for fun

• For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

• Everything decorated the office

• Philosopher at eighteen years old.

• Everything was simple: oak floor

• Two wardrobes, a table, a down sofa,

• Not a speck of ink anywhere.

• Onegin opened the cabinets:

• In one I found an expense notebook,

• In another there is a whole line of liqueurs,

• Jugs of apple water

• And the eighth year calendar...

• And a table with a dim lamp,

• And a pile of books, and under the window

• Carpeted bed

• And the view through the window through the moonlight,

• And this pale half-light,

• And Lord Byron's portrait,

• And a post with a cast iron doll

• Under a hat with a cloudy brow,

• With hands clenched in a cross.

Having opened this door, he finally found himself in the light and was amazed at the chaos that appeared. It seemed as if the floors were being washed in the house and all the furniture had been piled here for a while. On one table there was even a broken chair, and next to it a clock with a stopped pendulum, to which the spider had already attached its web. There was also a cabinet leaning sideways against the wall with antique silver, decanters and Chinese porcelain. On the bureau, lined with mother-of-pearl mosaic, which had already fallen out in places and left behind only yellow grooves filled with glue, lay a lot of all sorts of things: a bunch of finely written papers, covered with a green marble press with an egg on top, some kind of old book bound in leather with a red a sawn-off lemon, all dried up, the height of no more than a hazelnut, a broken armchair, a glass with some liquid and three flies, covered with a letter, a piece of sealing wax, a piece of a rag picked up somewhere, two feathers, stained with ink, dried out, as if consumption, a toothpick, completely yellowed, with which the owner, perhaps, picked his teeth even before the French invasion of Moscow.

Now I have to draw his portrait. He was of average height; his slender, slender figure and broad shoulders proved a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life and climate changes, not defeated either by the debauchery of metropolitan life or by spiritual storms; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only with the two lower buttons, allowed one to see his dazzlingly clean linen, revealing the habits of a decent man; his stained gloves seemed deliberately tailored to his small aristocratic hand, and when he took off one glove, I was surprised at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not wave his arms - a sure sign of some secretiveness of character... There was something childish in his smile. His skin had a certain feminine tenderness; his blond hair, naturally curly, so picturesquely outlined his pale, noble forehead, on which, only after long observation, one could notice traces of wrinkles crossing one another, probably visible much more clearly in moments of anger or mental anxiety. Despite the light color of his hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black - a sign of the breed in a person, just like the black mane and black tail of a white horse; to complete the portrait, I will say that he had a slightly upturned nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness and brown eyes; I must say a few more words about the eyes.

Exercise 256. Compare the editions of poetic passages by A.S. Pushkina, M.Yu. Lermontova, N.A. Nekrasova. Explain the preference of some adjectives over others, taking into account their classification as qualitative or relative, their use in a literal or figurative meaning, the peculiarities of their sound and expressive properties.

I. 1. The moon makes its way through the sad mists.

1. The moon makes its way through the wavy fogs.

2. He rides across the field on a quiet horse.

2. ...on the right horse.

3. An elderly magician is walking.

3. ...an inspired magician.

4. And Oleg drove up to the proud old man.

4. ...to the wise old man...

5. I will no longer set foot in your well-deserved stirrup.

5. ...gilded stirrup.

6. And their curls are white, like the morning snow over the dilapidated head of the mound.

6. ...over the glorious head of the mound.

7. The islands were covered with dense green gardens.

7. The islands were covered with her dark green gardens.

8. And their cold greeting was bitter.

8. ...their unbrotherly greetings.

9. Are you pleased with him, divine (crowned) (choosy) artist?

9. Are you satisfied with it, discerning artist? (P.)

II. 1. A green leaf (young) broke away from its native branch and rolled off into the steppe, driven by a cold (merciless) storm.

1. An oak leaf tore itself from its native branch and rolled off into the steppe, driven by a fierce storm.

2. And my roots are washed by the submissive (obedient) sea.

2. And my roots are washed by the cold sea.

3. Why now the unnecessary chorus of sobs, praises and tears...

3. ...empty praise, unnecessary chorus...

4. His free wonderful gift.

4. His free bold gift.

5. The prey of jealousy is mute.

5. The prey of jealousy is deaf.

6. Why did he give his hand to the godless slanderers?

6. ...to insignificant slanderers?

7. His last moments were poisoned by the insidious whispers of contemptuous (insensitive) ignoramuses. And he died with a deep thirst for vengeance...

7. ...Insidious whispers of mocking ignoramuses. And he died with a vain thirst for vengeance. (L.)

III. 1. Skinny! Gray long mustache, high white cap with a band of red cloth.

1. Skinny! Like winter hares, all white, and a white hat...

2. Hoc with a hump, long gray mustache. And - different eyes: one healthy one - glows. And the left one is dull, matte...

2. Hoc beak, like a hawk, long gray mustache. And different eyes. One healthy one glows, and the left one is cloudy, cloudy, like a tin penny!

3. If it weren’t for the (princely) (Chernyshevs) blood flowing into you, I would have remained silent.

3. If it weren’t for valiant blood flowing into you, I would have remained silent.

4. My relatives were sternly silent, the farewell was silent... The old man stood up indignantly, gloomy shadows walked along his compressed lips, along the wrinkles of his brow...

Pechorin is the main character of the novel by M.Yu. Lermontov "Hero of Our Time". One of the most famous characters in Russian classics, whose name has become a household name. The article provides information about the character from the work, a quotation description.

Full name

Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin.

His name was... Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. He was a nice guy

Age

Once, in the fall, a transport with provisions arrived; there was an officer in the transport, a young man of about twenty-five

Relation to other characters

Pechorin treated almost everyone around him with disdain. The only exceptions are , whom Pechorin considered his equal, and female characters who aroused some feelings in him.

Pechorin's appearance

A young man of about twenty-five. A striking feature is the eyes that never laugh.

He was of average height; his slender, thin figure and broad shoulders proved a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of a nomad; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only by the bottom two buttons, made it possible to see his dazzlingly clean linen, revealing the habits of a decent man; his stained gloves seemed deliberately tailored to his small aristocratic hand, and when he took off one glove, I was surprised at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not wave his arms - a sure sign of some secretiveness of character. When he sat down on the bench, his straight waist bent, as if he didn’t have a single bone in his back; the position of his whole body depicted some kind of nervous weakness: he sat like Balzac’s thirty-year-old coquette sits. At first glance at his face, I would not have given him more than twenty-three years, although after that I was ready to give him thirty. There was something childish in his smile. His skin had a certain feminine tenderness; his blond hair, naturally curly, so picturesquely outlined his pale, noble forehead, on which, only after long observation, one could notice traces of wrinkles. Despite the light color of his hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black - a sign of the breed in a person, just like the black mane and black tail of a white horse. He had a slightly upturned nose, dazzling white teeth and brown eyes; I must say a few more words about the eyes.
First of all, they didn't laugh when he laughed! This is a sign of either an evil disposition or deep, constant sadness. Because of the half-lowered eyelashes, they shone with some kind of phosphorescent shine. It was the shine of steel, dazzling, but cold; his gaze - short, but penetrating and heavy, left the unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and could have seemed impudent if he had not been so indifferently calm. In general, he was very handsome and had one of those original faces that are especially popular with secular women.

Social status

An officer exiled to the Caucasus for some bad story, possibly a duel.

Once, in the fall, a transport with provisions arrived; there was an officer in the transport

I explained to them that I was an officer, I was going to an active detachment for official business.

And what do I care about human joys and misfortunes, me, a traveling officer?

I said your name... She knew it. It seems your story has caused a lot of noise there...

At the same time, a wealthy aristocrat from St. Petersburg.

strong build... not defeated by the debauchery of metropolitan life

and besides, I have lackeys and money!

they looked at me with tender curiosity: the St. Petersburg cut of the frock coat misled them

I noticed to her that she must have met you in St. Petersburg, somewhere in the world...

empty travel stroller; its easy movement, convenient design and smart appearance had some kind of foreign imprint.

Further fate

Died while returning from Persia.

I recently learned that Pechorin died while returning from Persia.

Pechorin's personality

To say that Pechorin is an unusual person is to say nothing. It combines intelligence, knowledge of people, extreme honesty towards oneself and the inability to find a purpose in life and low morality. Because of these qualities, he constantly finds himself in tragic situations. His diary amazes with the sincerity of his assessment of his actions and desires.

Pechorin about himself

He speaks of himself as an unhappy person who cannot escape boredom.

I have an unhappy character; Whether my upbringing made me this way, whether God created me this way, I don’t know; I only know that if I am the cause of the misfortune of others, then I myself am no less unhappy; Of course, this is little consolation for them - only the fact is that it is so. In my early youth, from the moment I left the care of my relatives, I began to madly enjoy all the pleasures that could be obtained for money, and of course, these pleasures disgusted me. Then I set out into the big world, and soon I also got tired of society; I fell in love with society beauties and was loved - but their love only irritated my imagination and pride, and my heart remained empty... I began to read, study - I was also tired of science; I saw that neither fame nor happiness depended on them at all, because the happiest people are ignorant, and fame is luck, and to achieve it, you just need to be clever. Then I became bored... Soon they transferred me to the Caucasus: this is the happiest time of my life. I hoped that boredom did not live under Chechen bullets - in vain: after a month I got so used to their buzzing and the proximity of death that, really, I paid more attention to mosquitoes - and I became more bored than before, because I had lost almost my last hope . When I saw Bela in my house, when for the first time, holding her on my knees, I kissed her black curls, I, a fool, thought that she was an angel sent to me by compassionate fate... I was wrong again: the love of a savage is little better than the love of a noble lady; the ignorance and simple-heartedness of one are just as annoying as the coquetry of the other. If you want, I still love her, I am grateful to her for a few rather sweet minutes, I would give my life for her, but I’m bored with her... Am I a fool or a villain, I don’t know; but it is true that I am also very worthy of pity, perhaps more than she: my soul is spoiled by light, my imagination is restless, my heart is insatiable; Everything is not enough for me: I get used to sadness just as easily as to pleasure, and my life becomes emptier day by day; I have only one remedy left: travel. As soon as possible, I will go - just not to Europe, God forbid! - I’ll go to America, to Arabia, to India - maybe I’ll die somewhere on the road! At least I am sure that this last consolation will not soon be exhausted by storms and bad roads.”

About my upbringing

Pechorin blames his behavior on improper upbringing in childhood, non-recognition of his true virtuous principles.

Yes, this has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were anticipated - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of guile: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy, - other children were cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them - they put me lower. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in a struggle with myself and the world; Fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they didn’t believe me: I began to deceive; Having learned well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others were happy without art, freely enjoying the benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is treated with the barrel of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away - while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased its halves; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I read her epitaph to you. To many, all epitaphs seem funny, but not to me, especially when I remember what lies underneath them. However, I do not ask you to share my opinion: if my prank seems funny to you, please laugh: I warn you that this will not upset me in the least.

About passion and pleasure

Pechorin often philosophizes, in particular, about the motives of actions, passions and true values.

But there is immense pleasure in possessing a young, barely blossoming soul! She is like a flower whose best fragrance evaporates towards the first ray of the sun; you need to pick it up at this moment and, after breathing it to your heart’s content, throw it on the road: maybe someone will pick it up! I feel this insatiable greed within me, devouring everything that comes my way; I look at the sufferings and joys of others only in relation to myself, as food that supports my spiritual strength. I myself am no longer capable of going mad under the influence of passion; My ambition was suppressed by circumstances, but it manifested itself in a different form, for ambition is nothing more than a thirst for power, and my first pleasure is to subordinate to my will everything that surrounds me; to arouse feelings of love, devotion and fear - isn’t this the first sign and the greatest triumph of power? To be the cause of suffering and joy for someone, without having any positive right to do so - isn’t this the sweetest food of our pride? What is happiness? Intense pride. If I considered myself better, more powerful than everyone else in the world, I would be happy; if everyone loved me, I would find endless sources of love in myself. Evil begets evil; the first suffering gives the concept of pleasure in tormenting another; the idea of ​​evil cannot enter a person’s head without him wanting to apply it to reality: ideas are organic creatures, someone said: their birth already gives them a form, and this form is an action; the one in whose head more ideas were born acts more than others; because of this, a genius chained to an official desk must die or go crazy, just as a man with a powerful physique, with a sedentary life and modest behavior, dies of an apoplexy. Passions are nothing more than ideas in their first development: they belong to the youth of the heart, and he is a fool who thinks to worry about them all his life: many calm rivers begin with noisy waterfalls, but not one jumps and foams all the way to the sea. But this calmness is often a sign of great, although hidden strength; the fullness and depth of feelings and thoughts does not allow frantic impulses; the soul, suffering and enjoying, gives itself a strict account of everything and is convinced that it should be so; she knows that without thunderstorms the constant heat of the sun will dry her out; she is imbued with her own life - she cherishes and punishes herself like a beloved child. Only in this highest state of self-knowledge can a person appreciate God's justice.

About fatal destiny

Pechorin knows that he brings misfortune to people. He even considers himself an executioner:

I run through my entire past in my memory and involuntarily ask myself: why did I live? for what purpose was I born?.. And, it’s true, it existed, and, it’s true, I had a high purpose, because I feel immense powers in my soul... But I didn’t guess this purpose, I was carried away by the lures of empty and ungrateful passions; I came out of their crucible hard and cold as iron, but I lost forever the ardor of noble aspirations - the best light of life. And since then, how many times have I played the role of an ax in the hands of fate! Like an instrument of execution, I fell on the heads of the doomed victims, often without malice, always without regret... My love did not bring happiness to anyone, because I did not sacrifice anything for those I loved: I loved for myself, for my own pleasure: I only satisfied a strange need of the heart, greedily absorbing their feelings, their joys and sufferings - and could never get enough. Thus, a person tormented by hunger falls asleep exhausted and sees before him luxurious dishes and sparkling wines; he devours with delight the aerial gifts of the imagination, and it seems easier to him; but as soon as I woke up, the dream disappeared... what remained was double hunger and despair!

I felt sad. And why did fate throw me into the peaceful circle of honest smugglers? Like a stone thrown into a smooth spring, I disturbed their calm and, like a stone, I almost sank to the bottom myself!

About women

Pechorin does not pass over women, their logic and feelings, with an unflattering side. It becomes clear that he avoids women with a strong character to please his weaknesses, because such women are not able to forgive him for his indifference and spiritual stinginess, to understand and love him.

What should I do? I have a presentiment... When meeting a woman, I always unmistakably guessed whether she would love me or not....

What a woman won’t do to upset her rival! I remember one fell in love with me because I loved the other. There is nothing more paradoxical than the female mind; It is difficult to convince women of anything; they must be brought to the point where they convince themselves; the order of evidence with which they destroy their warnings is very original; in order to learn their dialectics, you need to overturn in your mind all the school rules of logic.

I must admit that I definitely don’t like women with character: is it any of their business! , maybe if I had met her five years later, we would have parted differently...

About the fear of getting married

At the same time, Pechorin honestly admits to himself that he is afraid to get married. He even finds the reason for this - as a child, a fortune teller predicted his death from his evil wife

I sometimes despise myself... isn't that why I despise others?.. I have become incapable of noble impulses; I'm afraid to seem funny to myself. If someone else were in my place, he would have offered the princess son coeur et sa fortune; but the word marry has some kind of magical power over me: no matter how passionately I love a woman, if she only lets me feel that I should marry her, forgive love! my heart turns to stone, and nothing will warm it up again. I am ready for all sacrifices except this one; Twenty times I will put my life, even my honor, on the line... but I will not sell my freedom. Why do I value her so much? What’s in it for me?.. where am I preparing myself? What do I expect from the future?.. Really, absolutely nothing. This is some kind of innate fear, an inexplicable premonition... After all, there are people who are unconsciously afraid of spiders, cockroaches, mice... Should I admit it?.. When I was still a child, one old woman wondered about me to my mother; she predicted my death from an evil wife; this struck me deeply then; An insurmountable aversion to marriage was born in my soul... Meanwhile, something tells me that her prediction will come true; at least I will try to make it come true as late as possible.

About enemies

Pechorin is not afraid of enemies and even rejoices when they exist.

I am glad; I love enemies, although not in a Christian way. They amuse me, they stir my blood. To be always on the alert, to catch every glance, the meaning of every word, to guess intentions, to destroy conspiracies, to pretend to be deceived, and suddenly with one push to overturn the entire huge and laborious edifice of their cunning and plans - this is what I call life.

about friendship

According to Pechorin himself, he cannot be friends:

I am incapable of friendship: of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although often neither of them admits this to himself; I cannot be a slave, and in this case commanding is tedious work, because at the same time I must deceive; and besides, I have lackeys and money!

About inferior people

Pechorin speaks poorly of disabled people, seeing in them an inferiority of soul.

But what to do? I am often prone to prejudice... I admit, I have a strong prejudice against all the blind, crooked, deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, etc. I noticed that there is always some strange relationship between a person’s appearance and his soul: as if with the loss of a member the soul loses some kind of feeling.

About fatalism

It is difficult to say for sure whether Pechorin believes in fate. Most likely he doesn’t believe it and even argued about it with. However, that same evening he decided to try his luck and almost died. Pechorin is passionate and ready to say goodbye to life, he tests himself for strength. His determination and steadfastness even in the face of mortal danger is amazing.

I like to doubt everything: this disposition of mind does not interfere with the decisiveness of my character - on the contrary, as for me, I always move forward more boldly when I do not know what awaits me. After all, nothing worse can happen than death—and you can’t escape death!

After all this, how can one not become a fatalist? But who knows for sure whether he is convinced of something or not?.. and how often do we mistake for a belief a deception of feelings or a blunder of reason!..

At that moment a strange thought flashed through my head: like Vulich, I decided to tempt fate.

The shot rang out right next to my ear, the bullet tore off my epaulette

About death

Pechorin is not afraid of death. According to the hero, he has already seen and experienced everything possible in this life in dreams and daydreams, and now he wanders aimlessly, having spent the best qualities of his soul on fantasies.

Well? die like that die! the loss to the world is small; and I’m pretty bored myself. I am like a man yawning at a ball who does not go to bed only because his carriage is not yet there. But the carriage is ready... goodbye!..

And maybe I will die tomorrow!.. and there will not be a single creature left on earth who would understand me completely. Some consider me worse, others better than I really am... Some will say: he was a kind fellow, others - a scoundrel. Both will be false. After this, is life worth the trouble? but you live out of curiosity: you expect something new... It’s funny and annoying!

Pechorin has a passion for driving fast

Despite all the internal contradictions and oddities of character, Pechorin is able to truly enjoy nature and the power of the elements; he, like M.Yu. Lermontov is in love with mountain landscapes and seeks salvation from his restless mind in them

Returning home, I sat on horseback and galloped off into the steppe; I love to ride a hot horse through the tall grass, against the desert wind; I greedily swallow the fragrant air and direct my gaze into the blue distance, trying to catch the foggy outlines of objects that are becoming clearer and clearer every minute. Whatever grief lies on the heart, whatever anxiety torments the thought, everything will dissipate in a minute; the soul will become light, the fatigue of the body will overcome the anxiety of the mind. There is no female gaze that I would not forget at the sight of curly mountains illuminated by the southern sun, at the sight of the blue sky or listening to the sound of a stream falling from cliff to cliff.

I drove them away: I had no time for them, I began to share the concern of the good staff captain.

Less than ten minutes had passed when the one we were expecting appeared at the end of the square. He walked with Colonel N..., who, having brought him to the hotel, said goodbye to him and turned to the fortress. I immediately sent the disabled man for Maxim Maksimych.

His lackey came out to meet Pechorin and reported that they were about to start pawning, handed him a box of cigars and, having received several orders, went to work. His master, lighting a cigar, yawned twice and sat down on a bench on the other side of the gate. Now I have to draw his portrait.

He was of average height; his slender, slender figure and broad shoulders proved a strong build, capable of enduring all the difficulties of nomadic life and climate changes, not defeated either by the debauchery of metropolitan life or by spiritual storms; his dusty velvet frock coat, fastened only by the bottom two buttons, made it possible to see his dazzlingly clean linen, revealing the habits of a decent man; his stained gloves seemed deliberately tailored to his small aristocratic hand, and when he took off one glove, I was surprised at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait was careless and lazy, but I noticed that he did not wave his arms - a sure sign of some secretiveness of character. However, these are my own comments, based on my own observations, and I do not at all want to force you to believe in them blindly. When he sat down on the bench, his straight waist bent, as if he didn’t have a single bone in his back; the position of his whole body depicted some kind of nervous weakness: he sat as Balzac’s thirty-year-old coquette sits on her downy chairs after a tiring ball. At first glance at his face, I would not have given him more than twenty-three years, although after that I was ready to give him thirty. There was something childish in his smile. His skin had a certain feminine tenderness; his blond hair, naturally curly, so picturesquely outlined his pale, noble forehead, on which, only after long observation, one could notice traces of wrinkles that crossed one another and were probably visible much more clearly in moments of anger or mental anxiety. Despite the light color of his hair, his mustache and eyebrows were black - a sign of the breed in a person, just like the black mane and black tail of a white horse. To complete the portrait, I will say that he had a slightly upturned nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness and brown eyes; I must say a few more words about the eyes.

First of all, they didn't laugh when he laughed! – Have you ever noticed such strangeness in some people?.. This is a sign of either an evil disposition or deep, constant sadness. Because of the half-lowered eyelashes, they shone with some kind of phosphorescent shine, so to speak. It was not a reflection of the heat of the soul or the playing imagination: it was a shine, like the shine of smooth steel, dazzling, but cold; his gaze - short, but penetrating and heavy, left an unpleasant impression of an indiscreet question and could have seemed impudent if he had not been so indifferently calm. All these remarks came to my mind, perhaps only because I knew some details of his life, and perhaps to another person he would have made a completely different impression; but since you will not hear about it from anyone except me, you must inevitably be content with this image. I will say in conclusion that he was generally very good-looking and had one of those original faces that