Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Impressions of Russian Literature - III
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in nature, greatness and frigidity in the hero’s soul. It
was the Prometheus of the newer time, chained to the
rocks of the Caucasus. It was courage, modesty, thirst
for pleasure, feeling of superiority, bound up in
banishment, tortured by the eagle’s beak of a world-weary
passion for scepticism.[1] How I loved and admired this
book, the first which I understood as a grown-up man!
How I sympathized with the poor Tscherkesserine
Bela, with the passionate and morbid Viera, and with
the little Princess Mary, all those women who love
the hard and proud Petchórin; and, in the next place,
with the good old Captain Maxim Maximitch, whose
admiring attachment Petchorin rewards with corresponding
coldness! And in the preface to the book, the
admirable poem contributed by Marmier, which is so
descriptive of Lermontof.
“Je te rends grâces, O Seigneur!
Du tableau varié d’un monde plein de charmes,
Du feu des passions et du vide du cœur,
Du poison des baisers, de l’âcreté des larmes,
De la haine qui tue et de 1’amour qui ment,
De nos rêves trompeurs perdus dans les espaces,
De tout, enfin, Mon Dieu! Puisé-je seulement
Ne pas longtemps te rendre grâces!”
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