, 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 romantic provincial 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 composition. 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 frequently 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