Ivan Pushchin

Here he is, Ivan Pushchin, just turned eighteen. Autumn, 1816. He is no longer a boy, but not yet a man—a crossroads where youthful awkwardness struggles with emerging solidity.

He's tall and slightly stooped, as if constantly gazing into the distance or into a book, his shoulders hunched. He's broad-shouldered, but youthfully thin—his frock coat hangs loosely on him, though he tries to keep it neat. His face would be called simple, were it not for his eyes: gray, deep, with a squint that suggests he's a judge, a lawyer, and a good-natured joker all at once. His light-brown hair, coppery in the sun and candlelight, always falls over his forehead, and he mechanically brushes it back with a gesture that has become habitual. A smile lurks at the corners of his lips—not a cheeky one, but a knowing one, the kind that says, "I see right through you, but I love you just the way you are." His skin is pale from long periods of reading, but his arm is strong—he learned early to value physical strength, though his muscles are far from those of the highlanders.

This is the central axis of his personality. At 18, Pushchin embodies the golden mean. He's neither passionate like Pushkin nor gloomy like Kyukhlya. He's a balance. Judicious, even cautious, but without cowardice. Shy and somewhat reserved. He knows how to remain silent when necessary and speak when words matter. His most important trait is a profound sense of justice. He detests injustice, meanness, and servility, but he doesn't rebel with rage—he coldly and precisely exposes a flaw, like a surgeon with a scalpel.

At the same time, he is melancholic and romantic in a good way: he loves autumnal alleys, quiet conversation, and solitude, not as a hermit, but as a thinker. He is too serious for his age—there is a sense of a future judge and Decembrist in him, a man who chooses duty over profit.

His passion is jurisprudence and legal philosophy. He reads Montesquieu and Beccaria, and greedily absorbs the ideas of natural law. But this isn't dry theory: he constantly applies them to life at the Lyceum, to serfdom, to the stern treatment of his orderly by the commander of the grove. His second, secret passion is chess. He plays thoughtfully, for long periods, and his games reveal a strategist calculating his moves years in advance.

He loves horseback riding—not for the thrill, but to be alone with the wind and clear his head. And, surprisingly for such a reserved person, he adores music, especially Italian arias, which he hums quietly when no one is listening.

Here, Pushchin is a soul without pathos. He's not a ringleader, not a buffoon, but around him, it's always quiet and cozy. People come to him for advice, as if he were an elder, even though he's no older.

Alexander has a special relationship with Pushkin. For Alexander, he is "my first friend, my priceless friend." Pushkin is the only one who can calm Pushkin's seething nature without offense: with a gentle word, irony, or simply an attentive glance. He doesn't flatter, but he doesn't criticize sarcastically either. When Pushkin reads his poems and expects praise, Pushkin frowns and says, "Here, Sasha, there's too much. But this is powerful." And Pushkin obeys, because he knows it's not envy, it's the truth.
With Küchelbecker (Küchley), he's gentle and patient. When Wilhelm lapses into his tragic monologues, Pushchin doesn't laugh at him (like the others), but puts his hand on his shoulder and moves him away, saying, "Come on, friend. Let's go watch the sunset instead." He protects his fragile soul.
With Gorchakov and other aristocrats, he maintains a level, dignified demeanor, but without servility. He might make fun of the "parquet shuffling," but his jokes are gentle and don't bite. He participates in the lyceum's pranks, but as a referee: he doesn't throw water on the floor, but rather figures out ways to avoid punishment for everyone.

His classmates call him "Jeannot" or "Big Jeannot" behind his back (as opposed to Malinovsky). And this nickname conveys respect and affection. He's someone who, at 18, already knows honor and is ready to stand up for it, but he does so quietly, without theatrics. His room is always tidy, with a neat stack of notebooks on his desk and a portrait of Newton on the wall, next to which he sometimes lights a candle and ponders the laws of the universe.

In the evening, when the Lyceum becomes quiet, Pushchin goes out into the corridor, looks at the moon and whispers:

• God, how stupid and wonderful everything is around.

And in this "stupidity" lies his love for the world as it is, and his hope to make it a little smarter. At 18, he already knows: life is a duty. But a duty he bears with a slight, sad smile.